c a t e s b u r y ______________________
Short Stories
_______________________________________________________________ There are three types of humans and I wonder which you are. There’s regular humans--petty, self absorbed, TV-watching web-surfers. Excuse me, web-browsers. There’s subhumans--the bad ones. The rapists, the hurters of children, the people who blow themselves and innocent others up. Ruiners of lives. When you hear about someone doing something so horrible you cannot fathom it--that’s a subhuman. If you’re religious, you might think of them as demons. I’m not religious but I'm part of a superstitious lot. We call these subhuman creatures the others [unknown]. The last type of human is a rarity and frankly, I don’t think you fit the bill. Then again, you’ve read this far...so you tell me and I’ll take your word for it, one way or the other. The last type of human isn’t human at all. To be regular human you must be human inside and out. Make sense? The others [unknown] are only human on the outside. Monsters on the inside. But this last type is more than human. Human on the outside, so much more on the inside. Better. I would say divine, but again, that’s invoking a religious term. Angelic? Nah. But these are the only terms coming close to describing what I mean. Perhaps we could settle on saintly? What do I mean by this? We know the saintly ones when we hear of them and when we encounter them. Sadly, we almost never encounter them. What am I? Maybe you wonder, maybe you expect me to say I’m a saintly one. Or you don’t care, thinking it’s vain of me to think you would care. Fair enough. So forget about me. I’m asking about you. There’s a lot of speculation about choice and free will in the lives of humans. My opinion--it’s not vanity to think you care, but logic...you’re the one still reading, ergo you do care--is we can never change until we die. So if you’re a regular human then bonny for you. If you’re an other [unknown]--burn in Hell (sorry I keep returning to religious references!). And if you’re a saint...why are you wasting time reading this? You should be out doing some good for the world. # I’ll tell you a story and you can consider it a cautionary tale, if you like. Or even a call to arms. There was a crew of bikers who rode the hot highways from Southern California up to Oregon and all the way up Washington State to the border of Canada. Back and forth they rode their route, ceaselessly patrolling the plains, towns, mountains and hills. They were all saints looking for the others [unknown], and when they found the monsters, the saints beat them to death. They found many monsters and there was much wicked blood spilled along the sides of those roads, but no one ever cried for the others, [unknown]. The only tears shed were for the victims of those beasts--murdered parents, tortured kids, brutalized elders. Age was never a barrier for an other, [unknown]. That’s one reason why their crimes are so unfathomable to the rest of us. And why the saints never showed any mercy. The gang called themselves the World of Justice. They rode valiantly, on one form of transport or another, for over ninety years before the law shut them down for good. But you can never put down justice for good. # Little Diablo served his measly two year sentence in the Vacaville prison and on the day he was released he went to his family and they held a lavish party (lavish for their income). Balloons, cake, grilled t-bones, and crab legs for everyone. Even live music played by his cousin’s alt-rock band, the Dalis. There were no drinks served, at least none with alcohol. No one in the family drank anymore, not after the murder of Diablo’s sister. To cope with the loss, all had turned fervently to Christ and begged God to punish the killer wherever he might be hiding. Diablo knew, naturally, that while Christ knew exactly where his sister’s killer was, it would be up to a man to hunt him down. Christ was no man, but only half. What Diablo didn’t know was he, too, was only half human--so to speak. The outside half, slim twenty-two year old with long black bangs and a voice as soft as cotton. Nothing unusual. But inside he was a saint and during his time in prison he’d met others like him. One of significance was Shaky Purret, a 6’7”, 280-pound oak of a man, and a former member of the defunct World of Justice, as indicated by one of his many forearm tattoos. The ink formed the unsettling image of winged Nemesis atop a Harley, her mouth wide open, brandishing a flaming sword. # Contrary to predicable short story lines, Shaky and Little Diablo were not cellmates in prison. Shaky was neither mentor nor confidante to our protagonist. In fact, the men only spoke twice, and the first time was in the dining area. No, there was no brawl in which Shaky saved Diablo from getting a shiv in the back, no confrontations of any kind. Prison is much tamer in real life than it is in the movies, and only the rare riot makes it up the AP grapevine to headline. But sometimes a saint can tell another saint by something in the eyes. Not a magic spark or anything like that, but just a look that says I’m a good person; I’m more than a person. Look at me and see that what I really am is more than a regular human, and I don’t mean contrasted against the scum in this jail...I mean compare me to the lady who rang up your groceries--before you were incarcerated. See me and compare me against your high school history professor, if you can remember them, or against the preacher who baptized you so many years ago, the one who always sort of made you nervous. See that there is no predictability to who’s a saint and who’s not. It is all random, and yes, there are such things as coincidences. And Shaky meeting Diablo was nothing but a coincidence, but it was a life-altering one. “Is anyone sitting here,” Diablo said, holding his food tray. It was his first week in jail, so while he no longer asked it as a question, he did still mutter the words, politeness having not yet been driven fully from him. Shaky said nothing but motioned with his head. Sit, it’s a free country. Except in here. They ate in silence and no one else sat at their table. Usually no one ever did sit near Shaky, not even the one other former member of the World of Justice, who intentionally avoided his friend in order to not draw attention to either. It may be said, however, that if either of the men were ever in a bind, the other would appear as if from smoke, ready to defend his endangered friend to the death. The only group Diablo had ever been a member of was a book club. And that Columbia Records music club, back before the dawn of the digital download. Unlike Shaky, he’d lived a fairly uneventful life, had never dreamed of killing anyone, be it an innocent person or a monster. In terms of bloodshed, he was a virgin, though that was not what his police record stated. A spitting image of a gang banger from Oakland, Diablo was arrested in a library and charged with the robbery/shooting of a Thai liquor store clerk and sentenced to five years, to be paroled in two. Two years off his life for a crime he didn’t commit, though video surveillance insisted the contrary. He’d seen the tape in the courtroom. Thought he was watching a doppelganger. Even his blessed mother was temporarily swayed by the damning footage, until she remembered her son had been at home on the night of the shooting. A mother’s testimony for her son held little water, especially when she did not speak the language of the jury. “Your name is Noel Fernandez,” Shaky said, peppering his mashed potatoes. “I read about’chu in the Reporter.” “And?” Shaky looked up from his unappetizing meal. “You don’t act like a criminal.” “I’m not, I’m innocent.” “No, I didn’t think so.” Diablo put down his spoon and fork and glared at the behemoth across the table. “What does that mean? What do you want?” “Why, what’ve ya got to offer? I’m straight and we’re both locked up, so I’d say you got nothing I want, kiddie.” “Then leave me alone.” Diablo took his tray and stood to leave. “Siddown, fish, you’re drawin’ attention. You don’t get up in the middle of chow.” Diablo looked around, and several inmates were watching him. He sat down. “How did you know my name?” “You’re not a good lis’ner. I told’chu I read the paper. But I believe you when you say you didn’t shoot that guy.” “Why do you believe that?” Shaky sighed, scanning the open room to see who was still paying attention to them. No one seemed to be, which only meant nothing. “Most people think they’re smarter than everyone else, which is impossible. Someone’s got to be dumb. An’ actually it’s most people’s dumb. They’ve built up this...society ‘round ‘em, let people govern ‘em. Let people supposedly protect ‘em. They even let people sit in judgment of them and of those who’ve wronged them. And what usually happens is, the ones appointed to do all these things--the governing, policing, the judging--they’re the assholes doin’ the wronging. Right? “But people are dumb. They have faith. Why believe in society when you see it don’t work? But they live by their rules even when the rules punish the innocent and protect the guilty. People are dumb.” “So what are you? You’re in jail.” “So are you. Because people are dumb. You’re in jail for supposedly shootin’ a clerk? An’ even though you’re innocent, suppose you weren’t. Suppose you’d really blasted that guy. You’ll be on the street in a couple years. Reformed? Shit. Does prison reform anyone ever?” Shaky shook his head. Diablo pointed his fork at the man. “What about you? Are you innocent, too?” “That depends on your definition. I killed a lot of so-called people. But they weren’t really people, an’ they all had it comin’. Each of them got what they deserved, at a minimum.” “You’re a what, you’re saying you’re a vigilante?” Shaky bared his teeth but didn’t raise his gravelly voice. “Don’t ever say that word as if it was a bad thing.” “But you admit to killing people. No one has that right.” Shakey’s eyes widened. “Says who? Society? The law? Law applies to regulars. Everyone else lives by another code. The criminals live by the code o’ animals. They do whatever they want, whenever they want, with no regret an’ sure as shit no concern for you, me, or anybody else. In fact they’re worse than animals. Not too many animals kill for sport an’ even fewer torture their victims. Only way to fight these--others--is to have a code greater than theirs. An’ the fortitude to break the code of the regulars, even if it means riskin’ bein’ in here.” “What code is that then? What ‘greater’ code?” “The code o’ justice, what we called it,” Shaky answered, taking a drink of diet soda. “Simple ‘nuff. Ever heard of Hammurabi? Don’t matter what it’s called. Is what you do with it. We used it to track down an’ slaughter those who escaped the quote-unquote justice o’ the regulars.” “You keep saying we...” “World o’ Justice, bro. Maybe you heard of us. I’m goin’ to be in here a long stretch yet. But you--maybe when your time’s up, you can work on bringin’ things back.” “I’m not doing anything to get in trouble again.” “Oh piss and moan! Grow a pair, squirt. Find the bastard that really shot that store clerk. Then follow the code. It’s in your heart,” Shaky said, leaning closer to whisper in Diablo’s ear. “And with some help from an ol’ friend o’ mine, you can even find the man who done your sister. When you find him--bet you’ll know what to do.” # Diablo broke the beer bottle against the side of the brick wall, turning it into a weapon, turning the jagged edged glass in his hand back and forth, twisting it to show the man what was coming his way, like it or not. The victim shook his head frantically but could say nothing, could only grunt like a pig through the thick silvery duct tape. Diablo wasn’t like the others; he didn’t waste time on words. Driving the bottle into the man’s abdomen, he twisted until he couldn’t any more because the blood made the bottle too slippery to grip. Screaming through the tape, the victim stared in disbelief at the glass sticking out of him. Diablo took a step back and kicked the bottle in further, once. Again. The man’s hands were cuffed behind his back. Nothing he could do but cry. Diablo wasn’t concerned about that, though he did wince once at the gore...but he made himself look. If he was going to be doing this sort of thing from now on, he needed to get desensitized to it. He looked in the victim’s eyes. Why was he thinking of him as a victim? The man had murdered two kids for no reason, not that there was ever a reason to hurt children. But two random kids, taken off the street and...and nothing. Diablo cleared his head. He knew what the man did; he couldn’t stand to think about it. The children were in Heaven and this bound thing sweating and bleeding on the floor now at his feet--this subhuman, no this other was only starting his entrance into Hell. Diablo was the gatekeeper, and the author of the revised code of justice. He dug out his lighter. # “You’re getting good at this, man,” said Star, smoking a cigarette and thumbing through a guitar magazine. “Shaky sure knows how to pick ‘em. Like you’ve been doing it for years.” “Feels like it,” Diablo said, frowning. “This is only my fourth one.” “Fourth one. What’d this fucker do?” “Hit and run over an old lady. Cops caught him a few blocks away, crashed into a parked car, high on meth. He was making the stuff while he was driving.” Star put down the magazine and stood up. “Shake and bake, huh? Yeah, they never know what the fuck they’re doing. It’s almost a valid excuse. I mean, the shit they do--they’re out of their heads when they do it. It’s the ones that are stone-cold sober that get me. The ones who hunt and kill and think nothing of it.” He walked toward the man tied to the heavy metal chair and stooped to inspect something. “See this? Gang tattoo.” Using his cigarette, he pointed to the man’s arm. Then he put the cigarette out on it. “Get out of the way, man, I’m gonna finish him off now. This asshole’s not even worth torturing.” Raising his Beretta, Diablo fired twice, point blank, into the other’s skull. # Cruising their bikes down Interstate 5, the crew only stopped to rest once outside of the college town of Corvallis. They’d been riding for about three hours and had two to go to reach their destination. It wasn’t a place, but a person. It was always a person. Norm Cadwell had just been released on bail after shooting his entire family and torching the house. Fleeing to Canada, the idiot hadn’t even made it out of Oregon before deciding to stop and make a phone call to his mother, who turned him in to the police after suspecting he was “up to something, and with Norm something usually means nasty.” How right momma was. “Want anything from the store, Juan?” Diablo asked. “No, dude, but I gotta piss like nobody’s business. My teeth been floating for an hour.” Putting the cap back on his tank, Juan stowed his helmet and lit a smoke. “Hey dumbass, you’re smoking by a fuel pump. That’s hazardous to my health,” Star said. Juan was unimpressed. “You’re hanging with the wrong crowd then, fart knocker.” “Fart knocker.” Putting his keys in his pocket, Star followed Diablo into the convenience store. “Try not to blow everybody up while we’re gone, dumbass!” Juan shrugged, leaning against one of the pumps to watch a topless coup pull up, driven by a gorgeous blond. “He-llooo.” “Please,” said the blond, opening her purse. # Inside, Star and Diablo took their purchases to the cashier--sticks of jerky and cups of coffee. “Pack of Benson and Hedges,” Star said. “And one of those Penthouses.” He looked at Diablo. “What?” “I didn’t say anything. I like Buttman better myself, but they don’t sell that here.” Star shook his head. “Buttman.” Exiting, they both stopped cold in their tracks. Dropping their coffees, they bolted for the fuel pump where Juan stood leaning into a convertible car strangling a blond woman. “Juan!” Diablo shouted. “No names!” Star reprimanded. Reaching their friend, they saw that they were too late to stop him. Releasing the woman from his clutches, Juan turned to face them as she fell aside and across her passenger seat, lifeless. “What the fuck? You killed her!” “Jesus, we gotta get out of here, man.” Star got onto his bike and started it up. “Are you crazy? We can’t leave; we’ll be guilty, too,” Diablo said, pacing. “Why did you do that?” “You don’t recognize that bitch?” Juan said, pointing at the corpse in the car. “That’s Mindy Monahan. I just saw her on the news two days ago.” Already in the background, far away but not so far, Diablo could hear the pitch of sirens. “Who?” “She’s a baby killer. She killed this little baby she was babysitting, then took off with the parents’ credit cards and jewels. And see this car? It’s brand new! There’s not even a license plate yet.” “Baby killer? What the hell is she doing out in broad daylight?” “Who’s going to expect it? She’s probably on the run. Was on the run.” “We gotta split, man,” Star said. “I’m out.” Juan nodded. “He’s right, we can’t stick around.” He threw on his helmet. “I’ll have to piss later.” # “Randolf? You can’t come here. Why are you here?” “I just wanted to see the kids. Don’t be a bitch, just let me see them, it’s been almost a month.” “Stop it, leave now.” “Before what? You’re not gonna do anything but let me see my kids, now where are there? Nick? Tommy? Hey, boys!” “Stop it, I said get out of here. You can’t just walk in here, it’s not your house anymore and I have a restraining order...” “Get out of my way.” He pushed his ex, Tammy, to the floor and tromped into the living room, tracking dirt and knocking over a coat rack. His two little sons, who were watching a Disney DVD, rose from the sofa to walk toward him, hesitantly. “Dad?” “Boys, get away from him. You’re drunk! I’m calling the police,” Tammy said, her voice shaking. He swirled around wearing a sick stubbly grin. “Go ahead, we’ll be gone by the time the fuzz get here. Do they still call ‘em the fuzz?” He tasseled his oldest boy’s hair. “The fuzz, the fuzz! Come on, Nicky, Tommy, let’s go for a ride with Daddy.” Tammy blocked the door, damned if she’d let her former husband abduct their children. But she knew if he was willing to barge in, he’d be willing to put up a fight. She gripped a lamp from the hallway table, jerking the cord from the wall as he approached the exit, the kids’ tiny hands in his. “Let them go. You’re not taking them.” “Look at you! You’re right, I’m not taking them. I’m just borrowing them, right, guys? Daddy’s just gonna take you to the mall for milk shakes.” “Can we stop by the video game store?” Nicky asked. “Sure, it’s payday, I got money to burn. See, Tam, they want to go. So step aside before I put you aside.” Letting go of his sons’ hands, Randolf clenched his fists. That was when he heard the bikes pull up. Turning to look behind her out the door, Tammy saw her older cousin, Star, and two other riders pull their cycles into the gravel lot, parking next to Randolf’s Mustang. Star--his birth name was Tony--ran to her door and, seeing what looked like a showdown between his favorite cousin and her jerk ex, he stopped before knocking. “Puff-Puff? Everything okay?” “No, get your ass in here! Randolf’s trying to take the boys!” Star’s eyes widened and he called to his young friends, who were off their bikes and appeared to be arguing. “Guys, we got a problem here!” “Another one?” Diablo asked. “Ay Dios mio, what a day.” # The video recording of the murder at Gas and Gone was so grainy, the camera set at such a poor angle, the police would not have recognized Diablo, Star, or Juan if they did the Macarena on the front steps. But none of the three knew that. They assumed they were being hunted like dogs until they saw the evening news, watching from Tammy’s living room sofa, her boys playing a board game on the floor. Tammy brought in a tray of coffees. “You’re an angel, Puff Puff.” She smiled. “No, that’s you, cuz. You guys want sugar or cream? I forgot to bring them.” Juan reached to take a cup. “No, thanks, though. Black is how I take it. Like my sense of humor.” Star looked at him. “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.” “I must, I hang around you.” Diablo and Tammy laughed, their eyes catching a minute. He looked away first and caught her boys staring blankly at him. Tommy, the youngest, got up and crawled into his lap. # “I want you to stop doing this, Noel. It’s getting too dangerous. You have a good life with us, don’t you?” Diablo nodded. Tammy was the only person besides his blood relatives who called him by his real name, the only one beside his Brothers in Justice who knew what he did in his free time. They’d warned him it was a mistake to tell her, but neither Star nor Juan even had girlfriends much less wives and two growing kids. Or responsibilities other than their self-appointed task of cleaning the scum from the streets. They didn’t understand what it meant to be in a relationship with a woman you trusted. “We’re growing. We’ve got a goal of one hundred members and we’re almost there. Once we hit our goal, I’ll tell the guys it’s time for me to retire. Understand, the World usually asks at least a five year commitment. I’ve only been doing it for three.” She sat up in the bed and switched on the lamp. “There wouldn’t be a World of Justice if it weren’t for you.” He laughed. “It’s been around a lot longer than me, girl. They were doing this on horses back in the day.” “I’m a woman, not a girl, and you said yourself the whole group was disbanded until you rebuilt it from scratch.” Diablo shrank. “I found a few of the old members. Your cousin...” “And talked them into doing something they’d given up.” “The others, [unknown], haven’t given up. They never give up, do they?” She frowned, thinking of her ex-husband. Two months after he’d broken in and tried to take the kids, he’d made a second attempt late at night, not realizing Diablo had moved in with her (he kept his bike parked in the back yard). It was the last attempt Randolf made to break the restraining order against him. The World of Justice had made certain. # Juan took the news better than Star, which was unexpected. “We’re a three. The only time a three breaks up is when one of them dies,” Juan stated, peeling the label from a beer. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough of that? We still have a ride to do tonight.” “What do you care? It’s your last.” Diablo gently took the bottle from his friend’s hand. “I don’t want it to be your last. You’re acting like one of them.” “Don’t ever compare me like that again. The others--“ “Make excuses,” Diablo said. “Just like you’re doing now.” Star nodding to Juan, silently agreeing. Then he set down his Pepsi and walked away into the night. # “I’m so proud of you, Tom.” “Thanks, Dad,” Tom said, his graduation gown shimmering under the porch light. “It’s all because of you. You’re been an inspiration.” “Ha! Me? Okay, this sentimental stuff’s getting to me now. Go on, have a good time. Just try to be back before the sun comes up, okay?” “Hey, that’s Nicky, he’s the all-nighter.” Diablo shook his head ruefully. “Yeah, that he is. But be safe. And turn on the living room light once when you come home, so I’ll know you’re back.” “I know the drill. Love you.” Diablo watched his adopted son put his cap back on, the tassel falling over one eye. Tom walked quickly across the yard and hopped into his friend Jack’s Ford truck. Jack waved as he pulled out, and Diablo stood on the porch and watched them drive off to whatever wild party awaited them. They say you don’t worry as much about your boys as you do your girls. Diablo and Tammy only had the boys. # The midday sun roasted the men and women in black gathered together to mourn the loss of Thomas Nostros, aged seventeen. Star and Juan were there, but stood off from each other and away from Diablo and Tammy, who couldn’t stop crying. Through tear-blurred eyes, Diablo glanced up to see his former brothers nod imperceptibly in unison. He knew they knew, though he’d not disclosed the details of Tommy’s death. They knew because of who they were, because they stayed well-informed despite their long ago retirement from the World. They’d read the papers, knew the name of the other, and were ready to act. Gripping Tammy’s shoulder lightly, he looked down at her unending grieving. She looked up. Saw him nodding back to his friends. Digging her nails into his palm, she gritted her teeth and nodded, too. This time she wanted in. # Shaky had only spoken to Diablo twice in that Vacaville prison. The second time was in the yard, both men sitting, watching a basketball game under a cloudy sky. “Getting short, huh?” Diablo grunted. “Two weeks.” Shaky spit and rested his elbows on his knees. “That’s gotta be a good feeling. I’ll never know it.” Diablo said nothing, waiting. “You get out, I want you to look up someone--Tony Nostros. He goes by Star. Got a cute cousin named Tammy. Last I knew he lived in San Jose. He’ll be your belly button into the World.” Diablo watched a player scramble for the ball, knocking a smaller man down. The smaller man jumped up, his hand bleeding from scrapes, his sweat-drenched face contorted. The two teams grouped quickly and faced off, shouting and accusing. Nonsense. Diablo rubbed his temples. “And what am I supposed to say to this guy?” With a groan, Shaky stood his large self up, turned his back to the impending violence on the concrete courtyard. “Just tell him you’ve been readin’ too much bad news in the funny papers,” he said, the California sun blazing through the clouds behind his head, forming a halo around his noggin. “Tell him it’s a shame nobody’s doin’ anything about it. A crying shame.” _______________________________________________________________ Özgür Karagöz had no sense of humor about the assignment. His first job with the magazine and they were sending him overseas to cover a ridiculous "Fire God" story. It was insulting and he resented his editor--but he couldn't say no, not if he wanted to keep his new job. Yanking out the background paper from his carry on, he looked over the information for the third time. It read like a rejected comic script. Annoyed, he crumpled the paper, leaned back, and waited to land. He needed a cigarette and felt guilty. A year after his oath to Allah and he was still addicted. A minor sin--but did God differentiate? * * * Taking a deep breath to let out a frosty sigh, Özgür deplaned, tentatively stepping off the stairs onto cold pavement. He looked around the bleak Oklahoma airport, immediately missing Turkey. He wondered if he should look a different job when he got back. Yeni Zaman was a sensationalist rag, focusing on supernatural stories and unexplained mysteries around the globe; its frenetic editor, Mister Tozlu, picked Özgür to do a follow-up piece on the mythical fire creature of the Midwest. Tozlu's instructions: fly over, interview the old witnesses, visit the alleged sites… and smudge the truth, as needed. But write an entertaining story. Özgür was a journalism graduate of the University of Hawaii. He felt the assignment was beneath him, plus he wasn’t ready to leave his country again so soon; he'd only been back five months. During his years at college, he'd been homesick the whole time, longing for the sense of oneness missing in America but existent in his homogenous homeland. The feeling was deeply enhanced by the pervasive familiarity of Islam, and when he’d returned home from school, the ancient city of Istanbul had greeted him like a lost son. She had been calling to him from half a world away, the faint songs of the muezzin drifting listlessly over the currents, beckoning him to return to his roots. The only thing calling him in the States was cash. He spoke fluent English, had a valid passport; thus was given the assignment. And though he'd enjoyed the beaches of Waikiki--drinking virgin Mai Tai’s and chatting up bronzed surfer girls with delectably placed tribal tattoos--now he was in Oklahoma City. As far away from surfer girls as a man could get. He stood still, listening for what he knew he would not hear--the call to prayer emanating from the minaret-mounted speaker of some nearby mosque, the lyrical Arabic words, as familiar as a lullaby, which always quickened his blood. Here in the plains, he heard only the blowing winter wind. Enough melancholy; he was here to do a job and it would probably not be his last trip to the States. All the weird things in the world always seemed to happen in * * * His first stop was Keota, a three hour drive east by rental car. He collected his bags, picked a sedan, made the drive. Checking into a room at the "Motel 9," Özgür called his first contact, Daniel Whitewing. The man on the other end confirmed their interview time, answering in clipped baritone, "Tomorrow at noon. I’ll be here." That night, sitting on the frozen sidewalk outside his room, Özgür smoked a Camel and reviewed the now uncrumpled background paper again. Snow drifted lazily down onto his thick black hair as he read the names: Melinda Smith, Buster Conklin, Dan Whitewing. Whitewing was supposed to be last, but the others altered their pre-arranged meeting times. No one minds inconveniencing the foreigner, he thought. He reviewed their stories from previous articles, articles twenty years old! Each had allegedly encountered a being of supernatural or extraterrestrial origins. The stories varied wildly. According to Conklin, the thing was an ageless warrior from another world, able to transform into gas and travel across the galaxy. After these details, his story got strange. The creature had disobeyed an order, to take civilian lives in a time of war. It fled to the stars, following the legends of its ancient king. Conklin asserted both beings had been on Earth for many centuries. "Allah, Allah," Özgür said. "What trash." He dreaded interviewing these schizophrenic people. Smith's story was equally odd. The being was not an E.T. but a primordial "fire god," a spawn of Satan sent to herald the Time of the End. Özgür snubbed out his cigarette. He could not read the account again. And as for Whitewing’s story, it was the vaguest of all. The three reporters who had interviewed him all declared him insane. * * * Özgür pulled his rental into the driveway of Whitewing’s trailer home. Rapping on the flimsy door, he heard that tenebrous voice again. "Come on in." The Turk greeted the man he'd traveled across the Atlantic to see--a lanky old-timer with wood-toned complexion and gunmetal hair. A full-blood Cherokee. Özgür had met several people from other cultures, but never a real live "Indian." They exchanged courtesies; Whitewing sat down on his ratty sofa, leaving his guest to choose a seat for himself. Moving aside last month’s newspapers, Özgür picked a dilapidated recliner, which leaned precariously to the left, making his view of the old man slanted. He took out his Camels and a small recorder. "You have an ashtray; do you mind if I smoke?" The old man shrugged but said nothing. After a stretched minute, he answered, "Sure, why not?" "Thank you. It's a small sin; I cannot quite quit." "I'm in no position to judge," Whitewing said, tapping the square bulge in his shirt pocket. Özgür gave a slight smile. "Do you mind if I record this conversation? It’s easier than writing everything." Another awkward pause before the man said, "Why not? Go for it." "Okay. This is an interview with Daniel Whitewing of Keota, Oklahoma. January second, two thousand and eight. Sir, how did you meet this… fire god?" "Out camping. But… fire god?" Whitewing said slowly. "I don’t know that’s what he was. That’s Smith’s story. Hell, I don’t think he knew what he was. He wasn’t a man. Wasn’t a god, least that’s what he said. Maybe he lied." "So he spoke to you?" "Oh yeah! Huh. I remember my grandmother, she was scared to death. He spoke Cherokee to her, you know that? But he's not a god. I thought of him as more a stranger in a strange land, like that book. You know? Heinlein?" "No, I’m not sure. Did he tell you anything about himself. His name?" "Yes. Thought you knew all this, man? He said his name was Ah-tesh." "Ates?" No, Özgür hadn’t known that. It wasn't in any of the articles he'd read. Ates--a Turkish word. His editor must have known… "You know what that means?" he asked the old man. "It’s the Turkish word for flame." Whitewing nodded, as if he certainly did know that and was waiting for Özgür to catch up. "Well," he said, "that about sums it up. That’s how he appeared, right there in the middle of our damn camp fire. Grandma threw a piece of bread at him. He had big eyes, you know? Huge. I read this British SAS survival guide once; I read a lot. It was talking about eyes. It said if you can see the whites above or below a person’s irises--like a person who is getting ready to attack you--then the person is really angry. Which is obvious, if he’s getting ready to attack you. But it’s a signal to watch for." "Okay." "But if you can see the whites above and below the irises, that person is a psychopath. And that’s what Ah-tesh’s eyes were like. He came walking out of that fire, man... I didn’t reckon him to be a psycho, but he's something. Something different." Mrs. Whitewing--Özgür presumed it was Mrs. Whitewing, since no introductions were made--chimed in from the bedroom, "I thought he just looked scared." Turning his head towards the woman’s voice, Whitewing bellowed, "I’m telling this story! Hey, we have company. Can you get us some beers? You want a beer?" "No, thank you. I don’t drink alcohol." A diminutive woman of indeterminate age came out, passing between the men to enter the kitchen area. Her face was a rain cloud; the scent of fake strawberries drifted off her stringy charcoal hair. Ignoring her, Whitewing continued, "So I thought to myself, his eyes look like, like he felt his life was in hazard. Not scared, but aware of a danger. But he saw there was no danger, not from me or Rebecca...," he nodded towards the kitchen. "And not from Grandma, rest her soul. That was when he spoke to her." Özgür's chair protested as he leaned forward. "What did he say?" "I don’t know. I don’t speak Cherokee. Grandma would never tell us, not even when we tried to get her buzzed on cough syrup." He retched up a laugh. "She woke up meaner’n a bull the next day." Rebecca handed Özgür a glass of tap water. "Thanks." "Water," Whitewing started, a queer look in his eyes. "Did I tell you the most haunting scene of kindness I ever witnessed?" Özgür stopped drinking. "No…" "In Vietnam. It was about water. We were out in this village and these people, they were poor as they come. Didn’t have a pot to piss in, no clean water to drink. One of them was acting funny, talking real fast to one of his buddies. The buddy, he took off running and one of my buddies--well, he wasn’t really my buddy, but we were in the same platoon--he got nervous about the guy’s intentions. So he shot him in the back." Whitewing paused to reach into his denim shirt pocket. He took out a pack of Pall Mall's. "Mind if I borrow your lighter? Thanks. "So, that man getting shot like that... it started a big ruckus. The villagers surrounded us. One of them, a young guy, he spoke English. He told us the guy was just running off to get a bucket. Was going to ask if we’d share some of our water supply. Instead, he got shot for his troubles." Özgür set down his glass, looked at his recorder. "Well, we tried to help him. Do first aid on him. But the shots went through his lungs, his guts. He died." The old Cherokee took a long drag. "We gave up all our canteens. All our water. Our little act of kindness. "He shouldn't have run off like that. We would’ve all shared, if we'd know that's what he wanted. I think so. I don’t know, hard to tell, it’s been a long time. Memories get distorted. Sometimes, we like to think of ourselves as being better people than we really are. But I don’t fault the guy that did the shooting. Wasn’t intentional, just covering our asses. I don’t think he’ll go to hell for it. Do you?" Özgür sat silently, wondering if the trip was a complete waste. "Nothing to do with what we’re talking about," Whitewing said. "Nothing to do with anything. I was walking around the block the other day, day after Christmas. All the full trash cans, all the lights still up and the plastic snowmen, the inflatable Santa Clauses and the damn wire reindeer. We don’t have much around here, but we are rich compared to those villagers. Millions we spent on that war… could’ve just bought them some fresh water." The old man's eyes were watery as he looked at the recorder. He blew a smoke ring at it. "What's a sin is the way we horse-screwed that place." Özgür stared at the man dumbfounded. The others were right, he thought with a sinking feeling. He'd flown eighteen hours to see a rambling nut. Rebecca confirmed it. "Don’t listen to him," she said. "He was not in Vietnam, never. He just didn’t take his pills this morning." She put her hand on Whitewing's shoulder. "And he don't ever walk around the block." Özgür stood, grabbed his recorder. "Thank you, Mr. Whitewing, I think I’ve got what I need..." "Hey, hey, no, you don’t. I know what you’re thinking. ‘Damn crazy Indian.’ Look, I went off on a tangent there. I’m not crazy. You want to talk about fire gods, we can talk about that, too." Özgür’s finger was on the OFF button. "No, it's fine, I’ve got all I need..." Whitewing leaned forward, smoke drifting from his nostrils. "You want to meet him?" "What?" "You want to meet Ah-tesh? I know where he lives, just a few miles from here. I never told the other reporters. He’s in a retirement home these days; goes by Larry. Larry Guinness." "Like the beer?" "I don’t know," Whitewing said with a shrug. "I drink Coors. Who can afford Guinness?" Özgür took the details and thanked them both. On his way out, he paused to look at a small crimson carpet on the kitchen floor. "Is that a Turkish carpet?" Rebecca glanced down at the worn red rug. "That thing? No, that was his grandmother's. It's Cherokee." "Really? The pattern… it looks just like a Turkish design." Whitewing coughed and lit another cigarette. "Well, no such thing as a coincidence." * * * Özgür arrived the next day at the Silver Lands Retirement Village in Broken Arrow. The meticulously maintained grounds, the expansive and lavish lobby--all suggested Larry Guinness had retired in moderate style. A radiant blond greeted Özgür in a hand-made sweater, embroidered wire reindeer leaping across her chest. "Mornin’," she said nicely. "I’m "Hi, I’m here to see Larry Guinness." Nice Nancy’s disposition did a quick flip. "Are you a reporter?" "No. I’m a relative." She stared doubtfully. "Okay, what the hell. He likes visitors. Who don’t?" The alleged extraterrestrial/fire god thing was lounging outside in a fine maroon robe, quite relaxed and playing chess with another elderly gentleman. The other man was in similar dress, but his robe was the color of sand dunes, his skin a rich olive. Neither looked particularly intimidating; both looked as if they might've just rolled out of bed. They glanced up from their game as Nancy and Özgür approached. "Larry, Bob, y’all are gonna catch cold out here!" she admonished. "Larry, this gentleman is here to see you. Says he’s a relative?" Larry stared a bit, pulled down his large eyeglasses, their photosensitive lenses darkened by the bright sky. Revealed was a pair of the most striking cobalt eyes Özgür had ever seen. The intensity of the man’s disconcerting gaze was like a physical force; Özgür reeled back. The old man smiled and stood, robed arms outstretched magnanimously. "Özgür! Hosgeldiniz, nasilsin?" The reporter was stunned. Ates was a Turkish word, but he’d not expected to be greeted in his own language. Or called him by his name. Feeling naive, Özgür realized Whitewing must have called ahead and told the man to expect a visitor. Maybe the whole thing was a ruse. "Hosbulduk," Özgür replied. Nice to be here. "Larry Guinness, I didn't know you knew a foreign language!" Nancy said before rebuking her charges for not having enough sense to come out of the cold. Turning smartly on her heel to walk back inside, her pleasing figure attracted Larry’s chess partner, who followed her hungrily with his eyes. He stood and stretched as Larry was about to speak. "Enough!" the olive-skinned man said. "Speak English! Or Arabic, at least! Something civilized…" Özgür was startled by the forcefulness of the man’s voice, but Larry laughed disarmingly. "Don’t mind my rude friend. Bob has an ego problem, doesn’t like to feel left out. So, Mister Black Eye--," Larry said, amused to see Özgür wince at the literal translation of his last name, "would you like some tea?" * * * Nancy brought out another tray of steaming Earl Grey, imported from London. This followed a half hour of the most incredulous conversation Özgür had ever held, and reluctantly, he had to admit to himself he was beginning to doubt his skepticism. Near the end of that second pot, he caught himself no longer thinking of his subject as Larry Guinness. And by the third pot, Özgür's disbelief was utterly suspended. The man was no man at all. "You’ve arranged a false identity to protect yourself from reporters?" "From assassins," Ates said. Özgür nodded, dumbly; he was entranced by Ates’s rock-steady stare. Whitewing was right. The eyes--they never narrowed and you could see the whites around the top and bottom of their winter-blue irises. And something else. Just around the corners, the whites changed gradually, darkened to a profound navy hue deeper than the waters of the Marianas Trench. Nazar Boncugu, Özgür thought. Evil Eyes. Evil Eyes were a common talisman in Near Eastern countries; their name was derived not from being evil, but because they warded evil off. Özgür had heard the story of those odd eyes moments earlier. "I took the form of the first person I saw," Ates said. "An Ottoman peasant, camping outside the vanquished city of Constantinople. The peasant saw me come from the middle of his camp fire, yelled to his fellows, 'Atese bak!' Look at the flame! I copied his physical attributes--including, unfortunately, the horrified, wide-eyed stare. The only part of this body that's original is the eye color itself. It was from him, also, that I acquired my nickname, Ates… which I'm quite fond of." Özgür shook his head. "In Conklin’s original interview, he mentioned another being like you. A king? Is there another one of you somewhere?" Ates raised his brows and nodded melancholically. "I am recalling the boring history lectures from my youth. The Fire King, that is what his subjects called him. And the Builder. His ego was epic, legendary. Out of control. Always demanding structures be erected to commemorate him. He was a cruel tyrant; many died under his rule." "What happened?" "What always happens. There was a coup, he was ousted. He fled before they could kill or imprison him. At the time in our history, we knew of only five populated planets, including our own. This was several hundreds of thousands of years ago when he fled." "So he didn't come here?" "Hold on," Ates said. "I'm getting to it. It wasn’t until many thousands of years after that I fled, too--to here. We called it the Blue Eye. What we knew of this place was more detailed than what we knew of the other planets, and it was the closest, besides the Red Eye. We knew nothing of that place except that it was also inhabited by intelligent life." Özgür fought to grasp his meaning. "Are you talking about Mars?" "Mars, yes. It was inhabited. Didn't you know that?" "I'm finding out I don't know as much as I thought," the reporter said. "There have always been conspiracy theories, but NASA has never found any true signs of intelligent life there. They did find a face, though, or what looked like a face. And some hills shaped like pyramids. And I think some steps, formed by gushing water... " "Forget NASA," Ates snorted. "The only organization that’s ever rivaled this place's Catholic Church for sheer sneakiness is those spooks with their dark mission. Don’t believe a word you hear from their mouths." Bob smiled slyly at his friend’s minor tantrum, but said nothing to counter it. Ates continued, "Touchy subject. Your people shouldn’t be treated like mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed shit. Trust me, there was life on Mars and it’s no big secret." "How are you so sure?" "How do you think?" he asked, staring pointedly before sliding his glasses back on. "I’ve been there. I came to Earth in the 1400’s, but I stopped by Mars, too. Of course, when I got there, things had changed. The place had been lifeless a long, long, long time. But the evidence was there. Underground, in the caves, mostly." He glanced at his chess partner. Özgür grimaced. "It’s hard to believe there could be life there." Ates chuckled. "You believe the rest of my story, but not this? Forget it, I’m afraid I’m getting tired, Özgür. It is old folks’ nap time. Don’t let this body deceive you. I’m much, much older than I look. Since I took on this damn form, I’ve been learning to feel the passing of time as you do--by the number of wrinkles on my face, my hands. By the pain in my joints and by how often I have to go pee or take naps. Every generation or so, I refresh. Done it so many times I’ve lost count. But this is the last." He licked his lips, cracked his knobby knuckles. "I was immortal once. Now, at last, I am human, after all. Would you like any more tea before you go?" Özgür didn’t want the conversation to end so soon. "Tabii. I am Turk." Ates grinned. "I’m not, obviously. But it was your Ottoman ancestors that introduced me to this addictive stuff," he said, gesturing to the tea tray. "Mehmet II himself got me hooked in… 1453?" Ates looked across at his friend, who shrugged. "How would I know?" Bob mused, stroking a purring, gray feline who had appeared from nowhere. "When did you come to America?" "The 50’s. 1953. No, sorry. 1963. Sorry, my memory of those years is particularly fuzzy. I did a lot of drugs." "Really?" "Why not? Tea’s not the only thing the Ottomans got me addicted to. I loved opium in those days. By the time I got to the States, it was pills, LSD, pot. I didn’t imagine any of it could harm me. Really, these bodies… they can’t take anything. I don’t know how you tolerate them." "No choice. But why do you not change back into whatever you were originally?" "The government would track and kill me. Or try to. Besides, I don’t have enough energy to get home. I’m spent. But it is fine; I’ll die here in this old age house. A retired element warrior from a distant planet. A ‘fire god’ at rest. It is all too common." "Why Oklahoma?" "Fire doesn’t like water. Istanbul is surrounded by water--the Marmara, the Bosphorus, the Black Sea. I only landed there in the first place because I was looking for something. But here! This place is as far from water as you’re going to get. Far away from those pretty surfer girls, eh?" Özgür winced again. The mind reading trick had been freaking him out the whole conversation. "Plus," Ates continued, "here is roughly the same latitude as Turkey. It was easier for me to travel that path in my gas form. I don’t exactly fly commercial." "One more question--about the Fire King. Whatever happened to him? Did he really come here? Did he… have anything to do with Mars?" Hearing this, Bob, who’d been silent the better part of the conversation, closed his black eyes. Picking the cat off his lap, he placed it gently on the grass and immediately, the small predator raced off. After several seconds, he stared at the reporter with something between melancholy and malice; his wizened face was impossible to read. "You are perceptive, young Karagöz. Reporter’s instincts. Fire King? Hmmpff. I am reduced these days to calling myself Bob Murphy, though I’ve had dozens of identities on your grim world. Viracocha. Quetzalcoatl, Osiris. Osiris was my favorite. Those were the days, boy. Days of incomparable golden glory. The monuments they built, the sheer effort of will. You’ve seen them? You’ve seen how they worshipped me?" "The pyramids?" "Limestone wonders, still standing but so far from this place. I miss them. Mighty Khufu, pointing towards the stars." He opened his wet eyes, looked at Ates. "Pointing towards home." The Fire King paused then, the vise grip of memory slackening. Coffee-brown tears flowed freely down his bronzed face and Özgür felt a wave of inexplicable fear, knowing he did not want the man--the thing--to say any more. "You want to know about Mars?" the King asked, pursing his trembling lips. "I was a different person then, Karagöz. To use the term loosely." Ates removed his glasses again to gaze across the round table at his weathered friend, his expression a mix of empathy and remorse, his Evil Eyes shining like polar auroras. The cat returned to "Bob," a tiny, dead bluebird gripped in its fangs. She dropped the bloody offering at her master’s slippered feet and rubbed against his leg with affection. It was then Özgür noticed the tiny carpet under those feet, the crimson design the same as he'd seen in Whitewing's trailer. The retiree looked away absently, lost in his world of fathomless guilt. "Despair is the greatest sin," he said, "for those with no hope of redemption. But who is free of sin, eh? Not you, boy. Not your friend, the crazy Indian." "I--" "He didn’t tell you, he was the one that shot the Vietnamese man. And then his platoon shot all the witnesses, too. Sin. Sin is everywhere. Sin is universal! Whitewing, you, me, him," he said, pointing accusingly at Ates. "Look at us, a pack of aliens, no matter where we go! And each as foreign to this place as the Martians would be if they landed here today. All of us despised, feared. Sometimes for nothing; sometimes for good reason. But we are all guilty things, as guilty as ghosts." "Tell me what happened." "The Martians rejected me," he said through lightly-clenched teeth. "Such a haughty people, too proud! Impossible to bend. Incapable and unwilling to erect even a single, acceptable pyramid to honor me with." His fingers fluttered near his mouth and he bit his rust-colored thumb nail. "There was no controlling my temper in those days. I set--" Özgür waited, not wanted to hear. "I set their atmosphere on fire." The Fire King took a sip of tea, which should have been cold from sitting so long. Özgür watched as steam rose from within the cup. "Naturally," he continued, "this killed them all instantly. Well, almost instantly." He leaned closer to Özgür, who kicked his feet and pushed his chair backwards, losing his balance and tumbling to the ground. But the King, smoke drifting out of his nostrils from some internal source, had made no threatening move, but merely reached across the table and shut off the recorder, the button melting slightly under his scorching touch. _____________________________________________________________ One advantage to being dead was this--Amber always got a fabulous day’s rest. Dreams were rare; once or twice a year, max. Emotions were rarer still, a few times a decade on average. For some vamps, perhaps only a few times a century, though this is not as common as it once was for the simple reason that there are fewer and fewer dead who can last longer than a couple hundred years. It’s a sad state of affairs, really; the dead aren’t what they used to be. But there are always exceptions, and Amber was one. In fact, she was exceptional in many ways. For example, if dreams are rare and emotions rarer still, how uncommon it must be for the two to cross, for a dead to have an emotional dream. And yet this was exactly what happened, once. For those such as her, who have survived more than five centuries, emotional experiences become fewer and further in between to the point of being almost extinct things, for they cannot flourish in an icy heart and so whither and fade as time erodes them. This happened almost to Amber; she was no exception in that sense. But she couldn’t know she’d have one final surge, one last opportunity to rescue the final tenacious scraps of humanity clinging to her aorta. She could never have expected that she would crawl into her dank cavern at sunrise, slip into her ritual comatose state, and instead of finding vacant bliss, find instead a man, a hairy man of uncommon attributes and muscle borne not from hours lifting weights but honest labor. Well, more or less. In any case, a man able—somehow--to infiltrate her vacant subconscious. So there he was, in her dream… and her body reacted, her skin prickled. Her face flushed with warmth she might not have recognized in a waking state, as it had been so long. She could not feel her hand, couldn’t see her fingers softly touch her own abdomen. If someone had awakened her at that moment (and lived to tell about it) she would not have believed them if they told her she’d been squirming in her slumber. Who could evoke such an unusual reaction so deep within her? It was impossible, and yet it was happening. She perceived him in her mind’s eye, and found she did not know him. Would not have recognized him if she passed him in the street some misty late night on one of her increasingly infrequent hunts for food. Yet he knew her, knew her right there in the Biblical sense of the word, in that singular dream on that sunny day (sunny outside the cave, that is). His hands were not smooth at all as they alternately caressed and squeezed each pliant square inch of her skin which, though dead, was really feeling more alive than ever. Timidly—shockingly, as she’d murdered a thousand men--she asked him his name and he told her it was Seabass. She wished she hadn’t asked. _______________________________________________________________
The Box
The narrative of a young Afghani who discovers a buried secret
while watching NATO soldiers test-fire weapons.
Published in FICTION INTERNATIONAL
Hindu Kush, Kabul, inverted
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World of Justice
Sin is Universal
A Turkish reporter is sent to Oklahoma
to interview an alleged "Fire God."
Amber
A jaded female vampire dreams of love--one last time...
I started this story during a workshop in college, while reviewing another person's vampire short.
The Chronicles of Ray:
Ray, in 55 Words
Ray was born and lived in a brick box in Hell’s Kitchen, where he and his heroin-selling mommy baked like three-cheese pizzas in the summer. His youth was wreckage, but he turned the tables in his adulthood, bringing carnage to the streets for years. The day he blew out of town, there was joyful weeping.
Ray and the Prostitute, as told in one long sentence
It wasn’t the French hooker’s fault and Ray would never for an instant blame her, the poor pretty thing, for the violent altercation he knew was coming, and coming soon, in the form of one stern German madam with platinum hair pulled severely back from her strong, robotic face and her two waxy, leather-jacketed goons (though the simple act of putting your arms through a leather jacket magically transforms any humble sort of bloke into an insta-goon) and perhaps from a third knife-wielding henchman waiting in the wings behind the thick curtain or up in the dirty stairwell from which, unsuspectingly, Ray had willingly but unwittingly climbed down into this red-dark room of inequity, overpriced sex, and terrible cocktails which were served in pairs, one being for the customer and one for the girl, hers being, naturally watered down and perhaps containing no alcohol at all since, in any case, the stable was generally kept medicated via other methods, i.e. heavy narcotics.
How to Press Your Luck, starring Ray
Ray kept talking his shit and I couldn't take it anymore and I got up and pushed Ray with all my might but he did not budge, being a tub. He just laughed and clasped his fingers onto my shoulder and I thought he was going to try and crush it but he only smiled at me with all the mirth of a Santa to his elves. I pulled off a move taught to me by Mr. Miagi at the movies, then I poked Ray in the belly and said we needed to talk. Sometimes that expression carries a weight or gravitas but when a guy like me uses it against an ex-con, no one ends up intimidated and someone ends up sounding stupid and that is exactly what happened. But the Mexicans gave me credit for having balls and when it was over and I was riding the elevator down from the top of the reactor, Willy caught up with me and explained to me that I’d just come closer to death or injury than any of the guys had been all week. Willy was a cousin of Ray, and Willy told me why Ray was an ex-con. He used to live in an apartment that had one slot to park in per tenant. Someone used to park in the slot assigned to Ray and Ray gave the guy a warning but the guy didn’t stop. So, Ray taped the guy up to a chair and threw him in the pool and then stood there and watched the guy sink to the bottom and drown. Willy told me I should not have pushed Ray. But, he said, since I was still alive, it would be okay, probably, and that turned out to be the case. And now when any of the Mexicans get razzed by Ray, who is big on talking shit, they just look at me and wonder if they could get away with it, too. And Ray laughs and claps me on the back and we all know no one is stupid enough to push him again.
An Account, in Dialect, of a Horrific Incident Involving Ray
Yes, Saw, I seen dee ‘ole ting. Ray bounce off dee sedan! Flew back, landed ‘ard - dere. But ‘e could no lay still. ‘Ad to move, despite dee pain. Caws comin’ fawst! Ray leap up, he swoon. Dizzy, you know? But there were, I heard, others, unknown to this world but to God they were known. They were and they were cast out with Lucifer, yes, they were cast down to someplace below. And I wondered, what place, below rock and dirt, could be much farther from God than this place where my Bear and me wandered with teeth and sharp blades two feet long? Yes, what place, I did not have any fear of it, for it could be as well as this place where I spent all my life without friend or a father at home. So, another appeared from behind a tree and I said, “Where are you from?” but it had no concern for my questions. It had not remorse and no qualms about not answering a young boy of not yet fourteen years (but armed with a blade whose edge, sharpened against a stone, could’ve rid me of a few of these damned things). _______________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________________
Remember Ray
I look at my scars again--one from the cigarette, one from a Swiss Army knife. I’m spending too much time looking at them, thinking about Ray. But it’s hard to forget.
We were both sitting in the bed of his Ford, drinking. I was so drunk, when I tried to hop out to go pee in the woods, I fell and my knee landed right on a broken beer bottle. Just kept bleeding and wouldn’t stop, so I asked Ray to press my cigarette into the wound, to cauterize it. Like Rambo. He said I was crazy; he couldn’t do it. So I lit up and did it myself, held the burning end to my flesh for as long as I could stand it. Didn’t work; just made it worse.
I smile at that memory and swing my feet on the bed like a school girl. I see my ankle scar, the slash.
Ray and I’d gone jogging, trying to get in shape. One of my floppy laces had gotten snagged on a fallen tree branch and I’d tripped. I’d kicked, trying to get free, but just ended up more tangled. Ray had taken his knife out, he’d told me to hold still while he sawed the lace. But I’d started kicking when I thought he was done. Got a deep slash to show for it; Ray used to keep that blade sharp as a razor.
I shake my head at the past. What a couple we were! I still love him; he was such a gentle man. Not a violent bone in his body.
Remember Ray, alternate version
Faye looked at her scars again--one from the cigarette, one from Ray’s razor-sharp Swiss Army knife. She’d been spending too much time looking at those old wounds, thinking about her husband. He was a hard man to forget.
She remembered the time, almost twenty years ago, when they had been sitting and drinking in the bed of his Ford, parked out by Turtle Pond. No one else around, just them out in the woods. Faye had needed to pee so she’d hopped down but, drunk as she was, she’d sprawled flat on the ground, her knee landing on a broken beer bottle. The glass hadn’t stuck but the wound had kept bleeding and bleeding, so she had asked Ray to light up a cigarette and press it into the wound to cauterize it. He’d looked at her like she was crazy; said he couldn’t do it. So Faye had lit up and done it herself but her scheme didn’t work, only made the bleeding worse and left her with a lifetime scar.
She smiled at that old memory, unconsciously swung her slippered feet over the bed’s edge like a school girl. She saw the hint of a slash on her ankle, remembered the time, this one about fifteen years earlier, when she and Ray had gone jogging, again out by Turtle Pond, the two of them trying to get in shape. One of her poorly-tied floppy laces had gotten snagged on a fallen tree branch and she’d tripped and started kicking wildly at the branch to try and free herself. She’d only succeeded in getting herself more tangled, so Ray pulled out his small knife and sawed at the lace. Faye couldn’t wait, she’d started kicking again, and slashed her ankle across his blade.
She smiled again, but the smile faded and she just shook her head at the past; what else could she do? They’d made a great couple and she still loved him, thought about him each day. He’d never harmed a fly, hadn’t a violent bone in his body.
*Learn more about what happens to Ray in "Slaves to the Vein," my in-progess graphic novel, located at www.wordpress.catesbury.com!
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Others, Unknown
A young boy and his dog encounter
malevolent creatures living in the woods behind them.
Cold Stream, South Dakota, inverted
I was filled with life, running and slashing through the woods behind my home with my black dog running beside me. He was panting, dry tongue hanging from his smiling mouth. Excited, we tore past the trees and came to the stream by the hill and the rocks and the fish smelled so fishy. My Bear loved it more than me, but I loved it too. He was barking and I looked over and saw what before I’d not seen -- was a band of things lurking and staring at me and from what I could see, they had tools and sticks ready to get me. I, with my black machete held high, gave a yell to frighten them. Foolishly, I thought it might make some impact, yet they stood and they stared and I reconsidered our position in these woods. We were far from home, yet we were not alone. Surely some others could hear?
Then, I thought, what others are out here? My Bear and me, we are alone. We came out to get away from the rest and so here we are, but with others, unknown. And these others - they came, one first stepped until he was before me, not far (maybe 20 feet), and he put out his hand. I didn’t back away, no; I was wondering, too. For, you see, these were not normal men, no, nor beasts of the wild. They weren’t ghosts and they were never dead to this world, yet I knew they weren’t born. Were they from someplace I’d only read about when I was sitting with Mom? With our grandma, my brother and me and my Mom, we went Sundays to hear about Jesus and God and the angels…but these were not, surely, from there.
I looked and was outnumbered thirty-to-one, if not more. Not including my dog, who just sat there, I reckoned my odds to be poor should I fight, should I run, should I stay for tea, well, I just stood there and before me, they lost their shy nature and came to face us. In the distant field, past the trees, I could see the sun getting lower and dim, dim enough to watch without squinting. I could almost smell cooking from home and my stomach was yelling at me, but my friends, I could tell, would have food, so I walked towards the hand that still reached out... (cont.)
You can see the future from here, oil on canvas
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Turkish Firebrand
Sort of a true, Turkish version of "My Big Fat Greek Wedding."
Published in National University's literary journal, The Gnu
The Mosque Experience
Another true account from my past,
this time of my attending mosque with my crazy In-Laws
(an alternate version of this story is used in my novel, The Crimson Web of War)
Each year, my wife takes an 8,000 mile trip to spend a month with her family in
Come Friday, the men had to make their ways to their local mosques and the men in my wife's family were no exception. We were staying with my wife’s parents, and, before getting married, she’d convinced them that I, too, was a faithful Muslim, a convert. Hell, I even had a certificate and everything. Naturally, the medical question of whether I was circumcised had to be addressed by the family doctor first, but I had planned ahead and had taken care of that when I was a baby, so everything was kosher, ha ha.
So, now it was Friday, and it was time to put my money where my mouth was. I started out on the right foot by waking up late. Downstairs, I could hear Baba yelling upstairs to Inci to get me ready and get me outside. Bekliyoruz! We’re waiting!
And if Baba wasn’t enough, another, more distance voice was singing: Allahu Akbar! ... (cont.)
If Life is a Prison...
A film star sentences himself to a year in his homemade prison.
This story is published in the National University literary journal, The Gnu
Conspiracy of the Day
Comic strip featuring the wisdom of
retired military sergeant Quinn Waktout (also featured at
www.conspiracyoftheday.wordpress.com
Copyright 2010, Matt Cates
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