Awakening in Slumber

Running late and eating dinner while driving is one risky task navigating the streets of Los Angeles. Throw in a phone call and asking for directions made it AAA’s #1 cause for a car accident. So I considered myself very very lucky, as I made it there without being late.

It was dark and quiet, not to the point of silence, but quiet. As in everyone was trying hard not to be loud, keeping their voices down. Whispers of uninteresting conversations breezed by my ear as I shuffled in. Pews and pews of folding chairs were lined up in the middle of the auditorium. Many sat in the front rows while I proceeded to the back, the very back, against the wall back. My co-worker was there tending to some electrical board.

“Just in time, we’re about to start.” He called out to me, “go take a seat.”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll just hang out here.” I asked.

“Sure,” he said hesitantly, “I don’t see why not. Just get out of our way.”

“Oh sorry.” I realized standing in front of them.

Apparently, he was with the sound-board engineer. I stood listening in on some apparent problem with some foreign interference in the “stage right” speaker. My co-worker filled me in on what that meant.

“So it’s my left.” I said.

“Yeah, everything is about who ever is on stage.”

“Their left is our right.”

“Yep. We’re just lackeys.” He continued on, “There’s also up-stage and down-stage…”

Theater was an interesting world. This was my first time being exposed to it from a technician’s point of view. Not saying I’ve performed on stage, no not even close. If it were anything, I would have just be an audience participant in the rare case I found myself in a theater… other than a movie theater. So this was really interesting for someone who sits behind a computer all day.

He went on talking about what volts and watts meant and how they tied into the power capacity. But at this point I had already tuned out wondering why I was actually here.

Other people that stood around back appeared to be technicians too. Talking about the night’s program they kept passing printouts around. A strange sense of anxiety and excitement radiated form them. The aura pushed me to the far corner of the auditorium as I tried my best not to get in anyone’s way. My co-worker had already gone back to the sound-board. He had good ears because I was starting to hear what he had been noticing. Almost like the speaker was picking up a radio station. Impressive. Especially since he was suppose to be the lighting guy.

Then a female voice let out the cue, “Okay, let’s start.”

A spot light flashed on to a curtain off to the left. Then a thundering voice came on the speakers as a heavy-set figure emerged, welcoming the audience. Draped in blue from his cap down to his jeans, I luckily outsmarted my ignorance and ruled out that he was gang affiliated. His allegiance was to another following.

I couldn’t help but to watch the audience. Their eyes fixated on the orator. Every word seemingly striking a chord I had yet to string. That would have been me. Actually, it was suppose to be me. I am supposed to be sitting there getting my eyes and ears bombarded. A religion was being preached in the undertones of this gathering. An old religion to many, but a renewed one to me, one that I knew well, one that I had left so long ago.

As the man in blue finished his introductions, he presented the first speaker. She was mad, angry, at some establishment of coincidence. An issue that was a result of several solutions aimed at solving a separate matter. I wanted to say it was idiotic. I wanted to say it was trite. This was how the world is and this was how it worked. But as I stood there and listened to the venting, I realized. I had played this game for too long. Been in this world did wrong. Succumbed to the fact that there was nothing I can do to change it. Better yet, why even change it when I can use what I know and reap the benefits I see others do. That’s what we were taught to do, be opportunists. That’s what I have been doing. And these are the people, people like me quell. Yet, they still fight. Maybe they even know as much as I know, or even more, and still they protest.

The next speaker was more eloquent, more harmonic. His ranting was about a lost love. It was geared at tugging on an issue we could all relate to. I moved in closer. Coming closer to the stage area while still hugging close to the wall. The message was unclear to me. Maybe he was just venting, because what else can you do? You loved. You lost. You recover. That’s how things work. Though it was done as a ballad. So it wasn’t so bad to listen to.

Just then my vision was obstructed. You’d imagine standing you’d have a clear view, but I happened. She came up next to her friend and stood in my way. I waited to see if she’d noticed what she was doing, but nothing. Good thing it was a song. I really didn’t need to see the singer, just needed to hear.

She giggled at something her friend said. Then if it were natural to throw one’s head back giggling, she arched herself back and looked at me.

“Hello,” she said.

Wide eyed, I responded, “Hi.”

I turn my gaze back on to the stage. Not because I now have an unobstructed view, but I wanted to act like I wasn’t uncomfortable as she continued to stare at me like that. Not sure how long it lasted, but eventually she turned back to her friend. As the opportunist I am, I took that moment to find another place.

“How are you liking it so far?” My co-worker asks as I head back.

“Interesting.”

“Ha ha. Not like the world of ones and zeros and logic.”

“Nope. A far cry from the corporate world.”

The singer finishes his last song and is met with applause. The man in blue returns to the front. Several announcements are made about local events around the area. None seem interesting so I turn back to my co-worker.

“Ever find out what was wrong with the speaker?”

“No. But check this out.”

I lean back to look at what he was doing.

“If I turn on this light,” he flicks a switch. “We get interference.”

Some radio station announcement comes in as a feint hum through the speaker. The audience is completely unaware. He flicks the light off and back on. The man in blue gives us an annoyed look. We both start laughing.

“How is a light causing that?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out the past hour.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Keep the light off of course.”

I turn to look at the stage, “Is that going to be a problem?”

“Nope. We got plenty of lights. I made sure of that. I think that light is overkill anyways.”

I nod as if I knew what he meant.

“Now get out of the way. Next act is coming on.”

There were a lot more people now standing around. This was just like my old church. Every latecomer feels that standing is a form a penance for being late. Makes you wonder why they just don’t have kneelers for the late attendees.

I decide on a seat this time, the very last row. There was no one but me in the row. This was it. I am committed to this now. I am now an audience member. The next group to enter the stage area was a comedic group, an improvisation group, named after some gelatinous paste I dislike in Asian cuisine. Soybeans, mashed up and presented in cubes supposedly makes for better presentation was hopefully nothing like these people who took on its name.

Actually, they weren’t like their culinary doppelganger – bland, soft, and disgusting. They were pretty funny. I know, not something tasting funny is a good thing, but for them it was. They called out for member participation. Sitting in the back, I didn’t think I was going to be heard, so I blurted out words to help add to the audience commotion.

“And what is your favorite pizza topping?” The man with the buzzed hair and glasses asked.

“Mushrooms,” I said in a tone easily overshadowed by the screams.

“Mushrooms!” the girl at the end of my row yelled out.

“Mushrooms it is!”

I look over to see the same person that obstructed my view earlier sitting there. A haunting image as to why this person is making my first time here difficult. I’m just glad I’m not being pulled onto stage. When she glanced over, I shot my focus back up to the stage, grinning and acting totally comfortable with myself.

The stage routine goes on using the bits provided the audience. For a team that has to be compared to such shows as “Who’s Line Is It Anyways” they did a good job. I felt myself laughing at times where I quickly hid it, hoping not to give any sign that I was succumbing to the ideologies of this gathering.

Once the act ended and the next one came on. I sat and thought about it. Was the message really that bad? Or was I just scared to take up the ideas once again? Put myself out there and let the wolves try and pull apart what they can. Damn t, why am I such a coward. I couldn’t even tell that crazy girl to get the hell out of my way. If I take up this belief once again I need to be stronger than that. There are many things you can do with that belief. Some use it to rage and protest others to repair and console and obviously others use it just to entertain. They all use it as fuel to just keep up the fight. And the rest of us infidels try our hardest to stop it, actively and passively. That is because deep inside, we are just scared. Scared of those that are creative. They are the ones that lead us all to change, with words and ideas. Presenting a possible level of instability against the solid world of now. That was simply it, the religion of creativity.

As the collection box was passed among the participants, I decided to join, and pulled out two dollars.

“So what do you think?” My co-worker asks after the show.

“I like it.”

“So you want to help me out here?”

“I guess,” I tried to put it delicately, “but maybe not with all this lighting or sound stuff.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t want to think too much.” I thought about it some more. “And I so don’t want to screw up the show. Give me mundane stuff to do. Like I’ll help pack up these chairs and take down the lights.”

“Umm… okay,” he shrugged. “You’re going to her about that.”

My co-worker flags down the organizer of the show. If it weren’t for his swift hands she’d flown right on by. She stops and turns to us with a smile. I recognized her even without her face being upside down. I want to believe I showed no levels of discomfort, but all that equated to was me standing there in awkward silence. She simply took the initiative and introduced herself.

“Hi, my name is Traci.”

The old gray bear’s foot twitches in his sleep. Right about now, I imagine a huge grin appearing deep in his slumber.

Sleep

“It is time,” echoed the low deep voice, every word emotionless.

The muse didn’t react. He sat motionless on the rock overlooking the green valley. It was late afternoon, sun still well above the horizon. For winter, it was a warm day, even with last week’s chill. Today had turned. Once again, the weather that is Southern California returned. Warm rays radiated the copper wrinkled skin of the muse. His eyes were closed. One leg dangled off the rock, while the other cradled in his interlocked hands. He was soaking up the generosity of their star.

The large gray mass had already begun moving.

Each step was slow and tiresome. Each step crushed what little wild life lying under.

“I’m right behind you,” said the muse, eyes closed still motionless.

It wasn’t that the muse was ignoring the large bear. He was simply giving it a head start. Utilizing all the time he had as possible. That was his specialty, efficiency.

Spinning around, he popped up from the rock, at full attention, imitating a soldier. His walking cane shouldered like a rifle. With an adjustment of his cowboy hat, he strode up to the bear.

The muse wore the guise of an old man. He felt it very befitting as he skipped around twirling his cane. Old to many, but full of spirit, this was how he wanted to be seen and this was how he wanted to inspire. Visually, he looked in the seventies. Using the human way of measuring, he was really ten centuries old. However, in his, he was just a sprite – full of spunk and full of ideas of making the complex overly mundane. The bear often ridiculed the muse for over simplifying things. But of course, that would be precisely the muse’s point all the time.

“You’re making things more complex than they should be. It’s simple…”

That was the reasoning to almost everything. It annoyed the bear.

“Why not enjoy the weather a bit more?” asked the muse skipping.

“No,” the bear huffed, heaving as he continued up the path.

“We haven’t seen the sun for a week.”

“It will be there tomorrow.”

“You won’t be.”

“I need rest.”

“From what? All we did was talk,” the muse pushed on.

All he got for an answer was the bear’s enormous lumpy backside, swaying as it trudged up the path. While most grizzly bears were brown, this particular one was gray. The white strands of age made him look silver in certain light. Most creatures, including the occasional human, stood in bewilderment whenever they crossed paths with the beast. Of course, it has been said that humans stood more in fright as the bear weighed in at eight hundred pounds and occupied the space of most large trucks. Actually, there was no real substance for the fear. The bear admired the world of mankind and if it were not for the muse, he wouldn’t have known a thing.

“All we ever do is talk old man.”

The muse smiled walking on, “I guess we do. I like talking.”

“Yes you do.”

“It’s the simplest form of communication. Besides, you can’t read.”

As true as that was, the bear wished the muse knew when to be quiet. His voice could be heard half a mile away when the bear hunted. That resulted in a new vegan diet of nuts and berries whenever he came around. And on some nightly visits, the bear had to keep him outside and let him talk about the stars as the bear slept. The muse was an endless supply of tales. Then again, he wouldn’t be a good muse if he could just turn himself off at anytime. The lore of a muse is that he or she should always be welcomed.

“I have always wondered…” started the bear.

“Wondered? I’m finally getting through to you old furry friend!”

The bear waited for the laughter to stop saving most of his breath for their hike.

“What do muses dream of?”

The words stung the old man. He wasn’t sure if the question was an insult or some rhetorical conversation opener. The mere thought invalidated his existence.

“Dream? Are you sure know what that is?”

“Yes.”

The old man words barely formed, “Why… my friend, would you ask me that?”

“Curiosity. You provide dreams, why can’t you dream?”

Laughing, figuring it was a misunderstanding in semantics, the muse answered, “You mean inspiration. I provide inspiration.”

“No. I mean dreams.”

“Inspiration.”

“Without a dream there would be no inspiration to come out of it.”

The old man’s face gave a strange puzzled face. Even he noted the expression. Muses hardly were puzzled all they did was talk, sing, or dance, all to inspire. Being puzzled never came across in his line of work.

“That’s an odd way to think of things.”

“What do you dream?”

Again. The question felt unnatural.

“A generous man never wants anything in return, that’s a contradiction to the term. If he gives out food, he doesn’t want food in return. Gives out money, obviously he doesn’t need money. A muse is the same thing, right?” his thoughts went on.

“I don’t know,” the words were flat. “I guess I never know exactly what you creatures go through. Day in and day out, you do the same old thing. Wake up, do what ever it is your kind expects you to do, eat, then back to the same thing, eat again, then sleep.

Then I come around and something changes. You do something your kind either scoffs at or praise. Smiling or frowning, you go back to the same old thing. Sleeping, eating, working, eating, then sleep. There are other things you creatures do. They range differently among the species. Interactions with one another, humans say love, animals say nurturing, I just say reproducing. It’s as simple as that. Something I lump into working, something your kind expects you to do.”

Trees were crowding the path now. The warm sunlight flickered through the movement of leaves. The pressed on in silence, question still fresh on their minds.

Mulling over his thoughts, the muse went through his generalization of the animal kingdom. There was something in there he was curious about. Something that drove all creatures. It was simple and it was found beyond just that of the animals.

“Maybe there is.”

For once the bear turned to the muse, still not losing one lazy stride.

“If I could dream, I’d imagine I’d dream of… cooking.”

“Cooking?” the bear stopped in his tracks.

“Yeah…” the muse looked beyond the clearing ahead. There was something there besides the bear’s cave. It was a picture of him doing what he’s seen others doing. “Yeah, cooking.”

Images of himself making culinary delights for people raced through his head. All would be laughing and smiling as they devoured his food. The praise and thanks he would get. The feeling gave him a warm feeling in his stomach.

“You are still generous dreaming for yourself,” the bear admired, turning toward his cave.

“I guess. I’d called self-conscious, if you break it all down.”

The bear rolled his eyes as he left the muse behind.

“What do you dream of?” asked the muse.

“Salmon,” roared the bear.

The muse was thrilled. “Salmon! Ha. I wetted your appetite.”

“Rivers full of them.”

“Ah yes. So full, you wouldn’t even have to move to catch them. Just open your mouth and let them hop right on in!”

Grizzly bears don’t laugh, but with a huff, this one did.

“That’s called prosperity. Where you hardly lift a finger to get fed.”

“Then it is prosperity I  dream of.”

Coming to a clearing

“Well, prosperity will come in its due time. Maybe after even after you wake.”

River fulls. That would be a good dream. All the others will be there as well, even the little one. Every one of them, not knowing what to do in the flurry of salmon that jumped around, all they had to do was open their jaw whenever they were hungry. The times will be great once again. The rivers may be emptying up now, but if we dream hard enough, we’ll make those rivers flow again. Flow full of salmon.

“Sleep well old friend,” the bear entered his cave.

The muse rooted himself outside, like he did every winter. “And you, dream and dream well. Tell me more stories when you awake.”

The old bear found his smooth slab of rock inside. Curled. And went to dream.

Catching Up

It’s been awhile since we hung out. How have you been?

Good? I hope so. But you do seem a bit colder today. Actually, alot colder as I think about it. Don’t tell me you have that Seasonal Affective Disorder. I still don’t believe that could be a medical diagnoses, attitude varying on the seasons. That just seems absurd. I think it’s probably tied to some traumatic experience you may of had in the winter. Don’t you think?

Anyways, you were much warmer in Hawai’i. What’s up with that? I know the people there are nicer and stuff, but you find kind people here in L.A. It just all depends on who you hang out with you know.

So what is it?

Even in Thailand you were much warmer than this. And THAT was in the winter time too.

Is it because we’re messy? Kinda dump crap all over the place.

I’m sorry, but that happens everywhere. Not just here. Okay. Fine. We do drill for oil but that’s underneath of you. But that’s it. Can’t imagine that we disturbed you that bad. We Californians know how important you are. We do our best to keep you clean. That garbage patch of plastic wasn’t me.

Really.

Okay, maybe, I did have something to do with it. I was dumb back then. I know better now.

Trust me. I’m sure we’re going to do something about that.

I mean, I can’t speak for everyone. But I’m sure there aren’t many cough-outs out there. There are mover and shakers that will get it done. Believe me, I happen to have met them. They’re good people.

I do my part. The very little I can do, Ill do. No if and’s or butt’s. Just know we’re still learning about things.

This watch?

Yeah. It is made out of plastic and all, but I’m keeping it. Not throwing it away. Just gonna replace the battery if it dies. No. Don’t believe me?

Okay, yeah. IF it gets smashed I’ll probably throw it away.

But California recycles. Told you we’re watching your back. Reduced our dependancy on petroleum and all. Maybe not enough, but it’s a step in the right direction. We’re re-conditioning ourselves for decades of excess. It’s not easy. Shoot. We’re pumping more and more people out every year. It’s hard to keep educating everyone.

I tell you what.

I’ll keep spreading the word once I get back to shore. Just do me favor.

Give me one wave.

Doesn’t have to be that big. I can’t ride the big ones anyway. Waist high maybe? Too much? Okay okay. Knee high then.

That one?

Sweet.

Hey, wait a minute.

Oh that’s gross.

What the hell is this?

There’s trash in the wave.

Oh very funny Mr. Pacific. You want me to paddle through this? I could catch something serious in there. I didn’t bring my earplugs.

Yeah yeah, I get it.

Look it’s Venice Beach, I don’t live here.

Wardens of Warfare

He stayed under the corpses of his fallen friends. Blood was cold now. It still oozed out onto him. It was both nerve racking and chilling. But he kept from shivering, not showing one breath . The enemy was around. They were just off near the fountain. He cracked open his eyes. Through the dangling limbs he could barely make out who it was. Just sets of feet, about four of them, around a kneeling figure just out of sight, he assumed was one of his. He heard them tormenting him. He heard him beg for life. He heard them take turns hitting him. And then he heard them let him go.

From what he could make out, the kneeling figure sprang up and ran.

Feet sprinting as hard as they could.

Unfortunately, it was heading to him.

The sensation of panic shot through his limbs.

As he thought about getting up and joining his fleeing comrade, a shot rang out. He heard the bullet whip overhead, off into the clearing it went. It had missed its target. Or so he thought.

Another body soon joined the pile. Fresh warm blood soaked down into his clothes. He could barely see through the rain of blood. The bullet had severed an artery on his comrade’s neck. He wished he could cover his ears from the panicked screams. He wished they would just put him out of his misery. But they all just stood around him. Laughing. Watching the last remnants of life empty.

His heart was beating hard. Anger, frustration, and fear were tightly bound in his chest. Held down by the logic of the situation. He knew it would be waste of his life to do anything. The whole thing was a trap.

The platoon policed the town, canvassing each building in search of the enemy. Residents were told to stay indoors. Jailed in their own cities. Daily cell checks were routine. Door to door they went. Polite knocking followed with a casual look over. They were always met with hateful gazes. But this was what they were really checking, for any changes. That would signal a more thorough check. And that came a few days ago. Animosity replaced by a simple greeting. Unfinished body language. Escaping eye contact. All of it led to documents in the kitchen. As they arrested the couple, a shot rang out injuring one of his. Gunfire rang out. He sprayed the adjacent room with his automatic. A cry signified a hit. Cautiously entering his beating heart sank. The child was no more than twelve. Shattered knee meant there was not too much time left. The blood was engulfing his boots already. Though withdrawn from the child, that blood was much warmer compared to what flowed through his. An empty shell casing hit the ground as his only merciful act of the day was done. The deafening screams from the parents will haunt him forever as they left with no prisoners. Just a cryptic meeting point and an example to the rest of the prisoners.

He imagined the enemy should be just as direct. They were all stuck in this war. Everyone should be allowed a quick death. But this enemy was different. They disobey the rules. They were vile. They used their unexperienced soldiers as bait. All to lure him into a chase dividing the platoon, sending them into disarray as the elite units moved in on them.

Now his men are being hunted around town while he’s cowering under what’s left of his squad.

The stench of the dead was all around him.

The men stand around, talking quietly, most likely smoking.

The town was quiet. No more gun shots.

His leg was falling asleep under the weight.

He imagined this would be the worse way to go. Dying slowly under his own burden. Irony of dying because he was playing dead.

The footsteps start back up again. This time, the steps went away.

He kept on listening as hard as he could. Until the only thing audible were the crickets and cicada starting up their nighttime ballad. He opened his eyes. It was getting dark. This was his best chance to leave. Get out of the city. They no longer control it.

Pulling himself out of the pile of death, he massaged his leg. The foray of prickly pins didn’t stop for five minutes while he rubbed his leg back to life.

There was no one around.

He began to crawl, but he stopped himself.

A weapon may come in useful in the woods. There was one in the pile. Reaching back he grabbed it by the barrel a pulled it out. A loud pop, a clear twip pass his ear, followed by a crack against a rock. The rifle had snagged. He gritted his teeth as if it helped quiet the sound somehow. He looked around. Nothing moved. He best hurry he thought. Dislodging the rifle, he slung it over his shoulder and began to make his way toward the woods. He cursed under his breath every time he knocked over a pile of rocks. His eyes were set on the woods. His escape from this forsaken war.

Inch by inch he went. Crawling over debris which was once a building, someone’s home. The air strikes did this. Not him.

Then he froze. A rifle appeared just ahead of him. It scanned for him.

He made too much noise.

He’s been figured out, but obviously the darkness of night was on his side. But his hands betrayed him. They shook. The very hands that have taken so many innocent lives were always calm against his victims. The town had every right to hate them. Him.

Now he was facing someone level set. Another armed soldier. One that was trained to kill soldiers like himself, as he was suppose to do.

He kept moving forward.

Teeth gritted he tried to remember his training.

Flank.

It was working, the enemy wasn’t able to see him over the mound. Still scanning off to the distance behind him.

He couldn’t believe the tears flowing form his eyes.

It was going to be alright. Another easy kill. The enemy wouldn’t be able to turn the gun on him fast enough.

He checked his rifle, pulled it under his body.

In an instant, he knelt up and opened fire on the enemy rifle while a body collided right underneath of him. He lost grip of his rifle as his windpipe collapsed under thick hard knuckles. Falling back all he felt were the same knuckles against his face. This was retribution. Every knock on his head flashed the faces, of men, of women, of children. They all appeared as the light following each punch faded. Until finally, he felt no more. His body was numb. The soldier sat above him staring down, a monster far stronger than himself. Wetness from his face dripped onto him. A final baptism.

His eyes pleaded, “The war driven me to do those things. Forgive me for the wrong I’ve done to your people.”

The response was clear.

The tears and anger from the soldiers eye said it all.

“Never.”

Bishops of Battle

Six hours have passed and he was still stuck in the hole. Half of his platoon was taken out by the initial strike. Unprepared, most fell without even time to reach for their weapons. While others, like himself, who were fortunate enough to be near the back door, escaped. A mere result of chance let him be alive at this moment. But was it a better fate? Being killed in such quick fashion compared to being hunted, fearing, and knowing the inevitable? He wasn’t sure. They could have ended the battle then and there, if only they stood and fought. But it just took one person to run for it to feel right.

Contorting his body, he took a peek out of the whole.

A flash, a piercing sound of metal against rock, followed by the sound of the rifle.

They are not taking prisoners.

He turned his bead back up to the sky, back flush against the damp soil. Holding his rifle close against his chest he felt his heart racing. There was laughter off in the distance.

The shot was the only gunfire for the past half hour. Tears poured from his eyes. Not only was he stuck in this predicament, the enemy was having fun with his life. He wondered if his comrades shared the same fate. They had split off, but the distant pops told him they saw battle. Whether or not they survived was unknown. Gritting his teeth he continuously kicked the ground with his heel. What can only be described as crying snuck out of his mouth.

Being back home wasn’t a bad idea right now. Hard knuckles dislodging teeth is more comforting then this. At least then he knew when it was coming. All it took was the fragrance of alcohol set the night. It wouldn’t take too long before the force found his mother. The monster thrived on the sense of power. Fueling that appetite with the screams and the crying. And that led to him, always led to him. A defiant little child, eyes tearing with rage, clenched knuckles, and standing by the kicked in door. He was ready. Ready to sacrifice himself. His emasculation for another man’s empowerment. It was worth it as he was told. This was how he will learn to be strong. And the old man may have been right. All the kids in the neighborhood couldn’t fight as well as he did. Didn’t know where to swing. They swung aimlessly at the head. But not him, not how he was taught. The most painful places besides the genitals was the sternum, the kidneys, and even the throat. Those were the places he’d hit first before taking them down, unleashing hell on the poor child. He wanted learn how to enjoy the aftermath of bludgeoned and beaten faces as the old man did. But he never felt like a man. Just a child who cried after nearly beating another child half to death.

Those were the demons he fought. The only weapon he found was in spirituality. And it was shear irony that led him into arms, into battle – for religion. Yet he still feels like a child under the sadistic tyranny of his pursuers.

How many are there?

Is anyone coming to help him?

Are they soon going to flank his position?

The hole was an impact crater. Too large to be from a grenade. It was most likely from an airstrike or a sachel charge. Whatever it was, it was just deep enough for cover. There must have been a building that stood here before. Concrete could be seen among the rubble. He wondered if this would be his grave.

Another shot rang out landing somewhere near him.

He flinched. They were taunting him to come out.

The sun was coming down. Under the dark of night he may be able to get away. But who knows in these times of warfare. All they needed was a simple flare to expose him in this clearing. The next cover was still hundred of yards away.

As the sun set and sounds of the wilderness awoke. Crickets started playing their instruments followed closely by the droning of the cicadas. As noisy as the insects were, they couldn’t replace the loneliness he felt in the hole. Completely isolated from anyone he knew, let alone any friendlies. Even a citizen of the once prosperous would do. Didn’t have to be a favorable one. Just someone that wasn’t out to kill him.

The shifting of rocks alerted him.

Someone was moving in.

It was dark enough for an advance.

They were making their move.

He rolled onto his stomach. He felt fear empty out into his pants. His hands were shaking. His ears only distinguished one person. They were sending someone for him. The noises were spaced apart as if every sound was a mistake.

Without even revealing any part of his head, he propped up his rifle along one edge of the hole. The noise stopped abruptly. The barrel of rifle barely over the hole. He held the rifle at arms length, cradling the end with the palm of his hand. The tears started flowing again. Biting down as hard he could, he tried to suppress the crying that leaked out. He swayed the rifle as if he was scanning the area. There was no movement when he did that. But whenever he stopped, he could hear the rustling start up again.

If he were to run, this would be the best time. He found a few rocks and propped the rifle up. He shifted his body to the other side of the whole and waited.

The sounds came closer. Whoever it was, was being much more careful now. Being so close now, it was critical. He placed his hands against the ground. He looked outward over to a building. It would be quite a sprint to get there. But it was his only choice. He surveyed the battle ridden ground. The obstacles would be a problem. A twisted ankle would be the least of his worries. He imagined if it did happen, he’d have to run through it. It can’t stop him. He wanted to live.

A foreign smell passed through his nose.

This was it.

A soldier sprang forth in front of him. Shots rang out from his automatic. The rifle sitting propped up on the rock shattered to pieces. Startled, he sprang from the hole and ran with all his might, colliding unexpectedly into the other soldier. They both tumbled to the ground. The soldier threw his arms wildly about as his fist found the soldier’s adam’s apple. Choking, holding his throat, the soldier was powerless as the toughened knuckles rained down on the soldiers face. Every punch crushed his skull against the hard rock underneath of him. Until a final muffled crunch told him the soldier’s vertebrae was severed. Their eyes locked for one last time. Like all the other times it tried to relay a message to the foreign body.

“Forgive me,” it told the soldier. “I’ve killed many. Your’s was in battle, this was truly a necessity. Please, this time I have a reason.”

The response was clear.

Pupils closing, the soul of the soldier passed on and whispered on the way out.

“Never.”

The Holiday Spirit

“Fucker!”

Eddie drove up next to the car that just cut him off.

“Was that necessary? Seriously you dip shit! We’re all stuck here because of drivers like you! Stupid piece of…”

Words go unheard in the traffic mess heading to the mall. Even if the driver could read lips, the excess window tint made it impossible. Eddie’s lane started to move. His little but throaty Civic bellowed as he punched the gas.

“See dumb fuck! You should have stayed in your lane. Ha ha ha.”

While everyone was trying to turn into the first garage entrance, Eddie’s lane led the traffic down to the other entrances. Although there was still some congestion getting in, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the other which overflowed out to the main street. Relieved, Eddie decided to take the very last entryway, because, as young and energetic as he was, he didn’t mind the extra walk. And sure enough, it was logical thinking for him, and the other drivers stuck waiting.

“What in hell?”

Eddie stared unbelieving at the parking grid lock.

“Everyone had the same fucking idea? You’re shittin me.”

Banging his head against the top of his steering wheel was all he could do.

“Fucking fuck fuck. Why…”

The whole situation could have been avoided if he did what millions of Americans had done, shopped early. Now he finds himself as another holiday statistic. Something to add on top of road rage.

Thirty minutes went by and the parking situation was taken care of.

“Finally. They better fucking validate my parking.”

Streams of people were flowing up and down the escalators in droves. Groups were packed against the elevators incessantly pressing the buttons as if that made it go faster. Aimless people emptied out to the parking area like lost fish prey upon by metal sharks on wheels.

It was time for Eddie to dive into the shopping madness. He checks his wallet. Pulls it from his back pocket putting it into the front. Cell phone is nicely tucked away in his jacket pocket. Zipping up, he joins the crowd.

The Grove attracts most middle to upper class shoppers. However, judging from the variety of stores and its outside environment, it’s not the most ideal place for general shopping. Malls would better this place. But with the restaurants, novelty fountain, and scenery, it appears families are the main demographic. And that wasn’t Eddie’s profile at all. He was stopping by to get to the Apple Store. Electronics for a present. That was going to be the best gift ever. Of course, that is, if he could actually get the item.

In an effort to help stimulate buying, the company issued out a limited edition music player made only available for a limited time. For most, it was just another music player. For an avid collector of Beatles memorabilia, the item would make for one great gift. Especially for the price it was being offered at, just under twenty dollars.

“No fucking way.”

There was a line leading outside from the store.

“Is this for the player?” Eddie asks the people at the end.

“I think so,” one person answers unconvincingly.

“Yep. This is the end of the line buddy,” pipes up an older man. “You better get in before they run out.”

“Run out?”

“Yeah, the other store ran out of them this morning. That’s why I’m here.”

“Really.”

“Appears half the buyers are turning around and reselling them on eBay for half a grand.”

A few heads turned as the older man finished. Eddie couldn’t figure out if the action was an acknowledgment of interest or an admission of guilt. Either way, he quickly stepped in line before a few others did the same.

Movement in the line was slow. Even slower than the traffic getting into the mall. By the hour’s end, Eddie made it inside the store. Within thirty minutes he makes it to the counter.

“About fucking time.”

“Merry Christmas to you too,” the cashier responded.

Eddie was in no mood.

“I’ll take two of those music players.”

“One per customer.”

“Bullshit.”

“New policy sir. We had to change it when we heard about the other store and besides, this is the last one.”

“Shit. I’ll take it!”

The line behind Eddie erupts in disappointment. People threw their hands in the air. Others stormed out. Some still stayed in line hoping the information they received was incorrect or had just mistaken the line for normal purchases. Seeing the foul moods of everyone, Eddie finally realizes how lucky he is.

“Gift wrap?” asks the cashier.

Upon convincing himself, Eddie answer. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”

Within minutes the player is wrapped and the transaction is complete.

“Happy holidays,” waved the cashier.

“You too,” replied Eddie, adding an extra “and Merry Christmas.”

With all the envious eyes on him, Eddie couldn’t contain his grin. He did feel bad for the others who waited for disappointment. But the feeling of narrowly avoiding that felt overwhelmed the feeling of guilt. He got what he was looking for. And now he could get to the holiday party and deliver one of the best gifts. Or could he?

Everyone knew the item was selling out the first day. What if that would have been his fate. People would understand. He wasn’t a Beatles fan. Only associated the music to older people like his parents. Five hundred dollars could come in handy. Christmas was still a week away. This was only for the annual Christmas party with his closest friends. He could sit out of it for once. Keeping this little gem of a gift inside his car.

The ride was painfully long. Images of past year’s parties went through his head. Everyone’s smiling faces and heart felt wishes. His stomach growled as he thought of the food. From the heavy eggnog to the turkey and even sometimes honey baked ham, they all sounded good right now. Not even being the best fan of ham, he imagined he could enjoy a slice right now. The car couldn’t go any faster as in his decision. It was just a thing, a toy. No one needed it. No one was expecting it. Would he succumb to the holiday spirit?

“Fine. Fucking fine!” Eddie decided.

Arriving at the house, he had to remind himself to ditch the vulgarity. There would be kids around. No one’s a kid anymore.

“Hey! Eddie.” His friend answers the door.

“Yo. Merry Christmas.”

“We can start now, Eddie’s here,” his friend yells back inside. “Come on in. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

“We definitely should. You’re number one my friend. We picked your number for you. Oh, is this for the white elephant?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Let’s just put that over here with the others. Okay. Go ahead, pick…”

Being first in a white elephant gift exchange is always awful. No matter what, either you get a good present stolen from you or you get a realy awful one no one wants. In Eddie’s case, getting a toothbrush meant he got the latter. He sat in the corner looking at the toothbrush while everyone jeered on. Maybe everything was worth it. Seeing Joanne’s face light up when she opened his present. Seeing how everyone kept stealing the present form one another. And especially how everyone knew how much the present was worth and how crazy he was to have put it in the exchange.

“Fucking holidays my ass.”

Chess in the Park

I sat and waited. It was the second move of the game. I had opened differently this time around. Queen’s knight out first, just to to be a little less predictable. But why is it taking so long to counter my move? Was this a way of boosting my confidence? Giving it some thought as to make me feel better when I lose? I lose all the time, especially when I play against God.

“Oh, is it my turn?”

“Come on, stop messing with me. Make a move already.”

“I will. I’m giving it some thought.”

“It’s the second move of the game.”

“Every move is critical. You know that. Besides, what’s your rush?”

“I don’t know… a bit impatient today, I guess.”

“Relax. Talk to me.”

I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out. It was a little technique to clear my mind. Not like there was a lot on it. It was just nothing in life really prepares you for moments like this. Maybe death, but at that point, you can’t really prepare. And these moments just always spring up on me, unplanned and unexpected.

“How’s the house search going?” The question snaps me back surreality.

“Uh…” I find the most intelligent words I can think of, “like crap.”

“Oh? I’d imagine the prices are quite attractive.”

“They are, but…”

“But?”

“The prices just keep going down.”

“Don’t you want them to go down?”

“I do, but…” I knew what he was getting at, but I was used to sticking my foo tin my mouth. “But not when I buy.”

“Sounds a little greedy.”

“Maybe. But I think it’s greed that started the whole mess.”

“So you’re going to combat it with even more greed.”

“I guess.”

“Serves them right, huh?”

“I suppose.”

I sit uneasy in my seat. My feet begins to bounce, as it always does when I’m nervous. Staring at my shoes I try to alleviate things with unrelated facts I think would impress him.

“I liked this one place in Toluca Lake. There’s a Catholic Church right at the corner.”

“Oh?”

“Yea. It’s huge. Probably fit over a thousand people in there. And it’s tall, really tall. I saw it a block away towering over the trees and houses. All brown and curvy up top with the cross. Colors contrast well with the trees and the pavement.”

If it were normal behavior to slap oneself, I’d do so just then. My nervous ramblings always ends up not making sense.

“Saint Charles.”

“Who?”

“Saint Charles is the name of the chruch.”

“Yes. Yes it is. I’m going to stop by there for midnight mass.”

“Wonderful, it’ll be good to see you in church.”

And we were back to square one again. Silence. At least my foot had stopped its involuntary movements. I stared at the chess pieces. They were cheap plastic pieces with rough enough edges to cut anyone careless. The damage could be seen on the worn board we played on. Anyone new to the game wouldn’t be able to make heads or tails as to what color box their piece was in. I felt a little embarassed that this was the only set I had. You’d think if I played this game more than once I’d go out and get a better set, but I never did. It was strange but then again, so was I.

Here I am in a situation that everyone would die (or have to) to be in and yet I’m just sitting here playing chess with nothing interesting to say and most of all, nothing interesting to ask. Well, I knew there was that one ultimate question to ask. But was it appropriate? Did I really want to know? Was I going to get exactly what we’ve already theorized?

“So you should ask the other question.”

Clairvoyance is quite startling, especially when you’re just the subject.

“Ummm… the other one. Right.”

I stared off to the side. Obviously, it was okay to ask.

So I asked, “Why do you ask me stuff? I mean, you’re uber-knowing omni-powerful and stuff.”

“Good question. You wanted to talk. If all I did was to give you answers all you would be doing is listening.”

“Ah,” that makes sense. I did want to talk.

“And yes, that other question is inappropriate to ask. Though I would understand why people would ask it.”

“You understand?”

“A simple search for knowledge. Reasonable.”

“Why is it inappropriate?”

“As we touched upon earlier, it’s greed. Most thirst for powerful is greed or leads to greed.”

“How?”

“You haven’t noticed it in society? Secret recipes, insider trading, nuclear power, all that comes at a cost. Imagine how much someone priceless the answer would be?”

I nod.

“It’s okay though, you are built with greed built into you. In a way, it helps you survive and find happiness. Finding answers are in your natural blueprints. It just bring out different levels of greed depending on the question.”

“So you’re saying it’s okay to ask you about things?”

“The questions you think are inappropriate? Of course they’re okay.”

I sit back on the bench. My hands are at the edge of the table. My back straightens out. My head gives a curious slant. My questions are okay to ask. I was thinking they were greedy, totally selfish. Not like I can do anything with the answer. The opportunities had passed. I was just curious in a truly truly self satisfying way. And while the whole world would ask questions as to solve its problems, I decided to ask the ones to help solve mine.

“Okay.”

“Ask away.”

“Corner of Wilshire and Westwood….”

“Last week? Yes.”

That felt good.

“The flight back to DC last year, you know…”

“Definitely.”

Awesome.

“When I was getting some green onions at Ralphs…”

“Her? Well, she would have been interested in you, but your jokes need some work.”

This was great.

“The really funny, spunky girl?”

“Ha. Now she you better work really hard for…”

I am feeling better about myself already.

Dropping the Ball

JP picked up his favorite plastic ball. It was plastic and flimsy, but it was his. He wiped it clean enough to see a bit of his reflection in the ball. Apparently, it had rolled under the bed into the corner last night. His new owner was a bit too young to realize that adoration wasn’t measured by how hard you held a stuffed animal. JP decided to save the ball from sheer annihilation by tossing it away as he and the other stuffed animals went under a wave of cotton pajamas.

It was morning now and the others had come down off the bed. JP showed his friends the ball which was still intact. Puppydog and Polarbear did their little dance. This was their way of rejoicing, hopping from side to side in unison. Though, JP never really understood it. He just stood there blinking. They were all odd stuffed animals, but these too were unique, simple to say the least. Just from judging their names, you can tell they were simple. Though it was still a mystery on how JP Bear got his name. A bit simple, yet he doesn’t even know where the “JP” came from. Maybe it was from his creator. He’d imagine it was from a great explorer named Jeanne-Pierre or a famous admiral named John Paul. Whatever it may be, he shuttered to think it just stood for “Just Plain”.

He shook his head from the thought and looked back to the two still bouncing back and forth in their dance. JP held up his ball. A perfect sphere, well, almost. There was a hole on one side. But it still bounced and bounced well if it didn’t land on the whole.

The puppy nodded excitedly.

It was time to play ball. JP held the ball up to polar bear, who of course nodded.

That was Polarbear for you, always nodding. Basically, that’s all he could do. Whatever maker he had must have imagined that polar bears had no neck. Polarbear’s body was simply one fat mass that only got gradually skinnier as it went up. That gave him no room for a neck to turn left and right. So of course, he just nods. Yet, he nods at everything. Even when he shouldn’t be nodding, he still does. He could nod at things he didn’t even understand. And together with puppy’s absentmindedness they could make one big mess that JP usually had to clean up. But they were his friends and who else could he play ball with.

It was a simple game. JP would kick the ball over, the puppy would punch it with his nose, and polar bear would bounce it off his stomach back to JP. They could do this for hours; a great way to pass time while they wait for their owner to come home. However, today’s game will be problematic from the start.

The doorbell downstairs rings.

Three of them stop and look toward the open door. Their ears sharpen and listen to the muffled conversations below.

A small exchange of small talk was all they could make out.

Then there was a scream. It was more a scream of joy than anguish, though the next word brought anguish upon the three.

“Brett!”

The three turn to each other, wide-eyed, fearing.

It was Baby Brett. A once innocent toddler when he was his little cradle. The puppy had made the mistake of getting a close sniff of him, which lead to him getting twirled around by the ears for hours. Luckily there weren’t any damages to his ears. When the polar bear tried to help, he found his face inside the mouth of the toddler. His face took a whole day to dry off form the slobber, but it took weeks to get the smell off of him. The two were still obviously scarred by the moment. JP didn’t need an encounter to know Baby Brett meant trouble. That’s because, Brett could walk now. And by judging the sounds they were hearing, a slow slap of a hand on hard wood followed by a solid thud of a leg, meant Baby Brett had learned to climb stairs.

The three scurried under the bed.

Slowly the pounding and thud grew louder. The sounds served as a countdown. If stuffed animals could sweat, the puddle of water would surely give them away as they huddled behind the foot of the bed. Then JP realized it. He didn’t have his ball. It was out there in the middle of the room. As soon as he thought of running out, Brett stuck his head in the room.

“Aaaayy?” Brett asked in his own language. “Hnnnn.”

Brett wobbled in and scanned the room. It was obvious that Brett wanted to play with the animals. He walked over to the desk. On tippy toes he couldn’t find them. So he staggered over to the bed. Walking was so much fun, yet so painful when he messes up. If he only realized what he was looking for could be found if he simply went back to crawling. But not today, he’s flawless walking around the room.

“Ayayayarrg” argued Brett as he tried to tell himself the animals usually stay on the bed.

Then it hit him, “Blacheeet.”

Brett stuck his down and looked under the bed, nothing. Well, to Brett of course, as the three were hanging upside down in the springs of the box frame.

“Wanawaaaa,” Brett said disappointedly.

He starts making his way out of the room, but something catches his eye, a little shiny red ball. What an interesting looking object Brett thought as he tried to voice it with a “Ooonit.”

The three had jumped down and watched. Horrified, JP could do nothing but watch Brett pick it up. He brought the ball up to his face and tried to take a bite of it. It tasted horrible. With a flick of the arm, he threw it. It hit the floor hard, bounced up against the wall, and back at Brett’s face. What was this? The object was amazing. Brett tried it again. This time it bounced higher. Then another throw. Even more bounces. Soon the ball was bouncing all over the place. From sloppy throws to erratic bounces, the ball was going all over the place. It didn’t take long for the ball to find that one place; no, not under the bed, but under Brett’s feet. With a loud crunch the once ecstatic baby found himself silently looking down at a flattened ball. JP’s heart sank as Brett picked up the ball and studied it. But something across the hallway got his attention and just like that, Brett dropped everything and went to cause mayhem somewhere else.

The puppy looked over at the polar bear, who nodded. So he over to JP and patted him on the back. It was doing no good. JP was devastated. He was slumped over on the bed post shaking his head. His favorite toy was destroyed by that monster. But JP decided not to give up on it. Broken toy or not, it was his. He was not going to leave it.

They could still see Brett. He was sitting on a bed watching television in the other room. At least something’s got him occupied from rampaging around the house. But the ball is still in plain sight. The puppy nudges JP to look toward the door. There was nothing there but the puppy’s watch. JP shook his head, Brett wouldn’t want to play with that. Then it hit him. They could hide behind the door and push it toward the ball. Whether or not this was what the puppy was insisting on didn’t matter, JP had a plan.

With two of them behind the door pushing and one keeping an eye on Brett through the crack of the door, they could move toward the ball. The puppy and JP started to push slowly, very slowly. Periodically they’d look over to the polar bear, who responded with a nod. JP wasn’t sure if it was wise to have him there. Was he nodding saying it was ok or nodding to say Brett notices them? But it didn’t matter the ball was the closest it was going to be. It was right there, just five inches away. JP looked the puppy over. His arms and legs were just about three inches. JP looked at his arms, then at his feet. If there was going to be any chance, it would be up to JP. His legs appear to be the longest. With his face flat against the door and his arms holding on to what he can on the door, he reaches out with his feet. His feet blindly tap everywhere but on the ball. He was still an inch away. And for little stuffed animals, that might as well be a meter. Still JP tried with all his might to stretch out and retrieve his toy. And still to no avail. The puppy stood and watched. A little idea flickered in his head. He tapped on JP only to get waved off as he was intent on his task. So he looked over to the polar bear, who nodded. With a small shrug, the puppy decides to hop on out to the flatten ball and pushes it under JP’s feet. Once JP’s feet finally touches the ball, the puppy hops back behind the door. And just like that JP’s face lights up. He’s got the ball. Picking it up, he turns around to see his two friends dancing. JP decides to join in with his little dance. Hopping back and forth he tries to imitate them. But it’s tough not understanding what he’s doing so, he opens his eyes to see how the dance steps work.

That’s funny, JP thoughts wonder. He doesn’t remember the dance including a running part. JP sits there watching the polar bear and puppy exit down the hall.

“Saaaaa peeee”, Brett’s voice thunders right above of JP. “Baya?”

Screaming would be the natural response at this moment, but fortunately, JP’s first natural born reaction is to run. And running he does well. He runs down the hall to the others.

JP could hear Brett’s cackle of laughter ring out like a battle horn behind him as he makes it into the other room. Bret’s slow thundering footsteps following suit.

In the room, he sees the polar bear and puppy making their way up to a dresser via a stack of books. Good idea he’d imagine. There’s a lot of things to hide behind in his owner’s brother’s room. Within no time, JP makes his way up to the top along with the other. Frantically they look for hiding places. JP sees a small lap and takes the lamp shade. Seeing the polar bear is helpless picking up things with his stubby little arms he put s the lamp shade on his head. It makes for a pretty decent disguise if you can overlook his belly and feet protruding from the base. There was no time for details. JP looks over to the puppy who has decided to try and hide under the lamps plug. JP let’s out a sigh, but the thundering steps are right outside the room. Next to the trembling puppy was a cigar box of crayons, just big enough to fit JP. So he dives in knocking out most of the crayons and flipping the cover close.

A child’s laughter never sounded so scary.

The puppy’s shivering could be heard rattling the loose crayons.

Within seconds, JP could hear Brett’s giggling come closer and closer. It was obvious he’s trying to sneak up on them. He could only imagine how the puppy must feel being completely exposed.

“Jaaaa peeet!” Brett flips open the cigar box fetching JP by his little red sweater.

JP’s still holding tightly onto his flatten ball staring down at his friends who are hiding in clear daylight. Perplexed, he starts wiggling and squirming pointing at the others. The puppy only pulls the plug over his eyes as JP points at him. What did Brett have in store for him? JP was not going to find out. He decides to slip out of his thick red sweater to escape.

With a little plop, JP lands on the ground as Brett stares at the empty sweater. This was JP moment to make a break for it. Back out the door he makes his way to their room. This was no good. He could hide under the bed. No time, Brett was right behind him. He goes through the room with the television. At least there’s a connecting door there. JP imagined he could just lose Brett by running in circles. Into the room, back out the other door back out to the hallway he went. He could hear Brett giggling, stopping, and checking under the bed inside that room. Perfect.

The polar bear and puppy had come down, joining JP in the main hallway. There’s one room left, the oldest sibling’s room. They all make a break for it, JP and the puppy hopping down the hall while the polar bear wobbles. Within minutes they can hear Brett back out in the hallway and clearly he sees them as they hear him call out, “Baaaya!”

And the thundering stomping ensues.

The oldest brother’s room is by far the largest. Spoiled by his parents, he had the most toys of the family. It was as if he needed the room to keep all the toys. They were scattered everywhere. This was the first time the three were in the room. Silent and awestruck, they were quickly reminded of there peril they were in when Brett steps right up behind them.

“Baaaya,” Brett roars holding back his excitement.

Again, the three bolt. They clamor over numerous toys. All of which are no help, except for one. JP’s seen one of these. They go really fast. And since it seems Brett is only after him, he motion to the others to man the controls. The puppy looked a bit unsure, but with a solid nod from the polar bear, he decides to head over where JP had pointed. In seconds Brett was upon them and as JP had figured, he was after the one stuffed animal he hadn’t tormented. JP hopped on the car and motioned to the puppy to pull the trigger. Obviously, the puppy hadn’t seen a controller before. The trigger was right in front of him yet he was lost on how to operate it. This meant certain doom. Brett was reaching down to JP. He waved his arms frantically for the puppy to start the remote. Like a slow motion movie, the puppy just looks at the trigger then at the polar bear. And of course, the polar bear came through and nodded.

In an instant, JP shot like a rocket. He could barely hold onto the car and his ball at the same time. To make things worse, the car zig-zag’ed violently back and forth. Then it shot up through, not one, but two loops and over a ramp to the other side of the track. JP could barely get his bearings. He surely had lost Brett on this electric car track. No way he’s fast enough to keep up. But then again, he didn’t have to. The car made one quick bank turn and headed straight back at Bret who was clapping happily.

JP dove and rolled. Tumbling and turning he was one clumsy bowling ball heading straight for and successfully knocking down his two friends.

They all got up. Brett was sanding above of them. There looked to be a hint of care in his eyes as they all came to. But once they got up, the maniacal grin came back on the child’s face and the incomprehensible words began spilling out.

“BAIYA!”

It was hopeless. Looking around, they were cornered. There was no where to run. The three of them held on to each other tightly. The puppy regretted glancing over at the polar bear, because, of course, he nodded. And what that meant for the puppy, was that he was going to try to stand up to the monster, the towering drooling monster. Containing his fear he turns and faces Brett. His eyes squinted, giving the meanest look a stuffed animal could give. Which isn’t much of course as Brett picks him up and puts him aside. The polar bear then steps in the way. Brett give him a sideways glance as the polar bear nods. So he picks him up as well and places him next to the puppy.

Now it was just Brett and JP. He couldn’t imagine what Brett was going to do with him. Drown him in saliva, yank off and arm, he couldn’t take it anymore. He closed his eyes and awaited his fate.

“Baaaya,” the word sends a chill down JP’s back.

Brett then reaches down and picks up the flatten red ball. He examines it closely like he’s looking for something. With just a slight turn, he finds it, the small hole in the ball. Then with a quick puff, the ball inflates back to its original size. Brett drops the ball.

“Baaaya!”

JP Bear opens his eyes and ears to the sound of his, once again, favorite, red, bouncing, ball.

Crimson Draft

I lay there, frozen, on my bed, on my side. My right ear pressing against the pillow. My legs slightly bent under the sheets. My arms pulled under my chin. My eyes are closed. My mouth is clenched shut. Everything about me was dead calm. But I can still hear the frantic breathing coming from my nose. Short and abrupt puffs. Enough to get air but quiet enough to be unheard. All I wanted to do was to appear dead.

My blanket didn’t stop moving. It glided over my skin. Stroking every hair that stood up on my arm. Slow and steady. The blanket unveiled me a quarter of the way now. The air was cold. I could no longer pretend to be dead. My body began trembling. Maybe I can look asleep.

I try hard. I pray hard. Hoping that this is just a dream. But the blanket is still moving. More than halfway off. I can smell the urine soaked sheets. It’s tepid and damp. Fifteen years old and I’m still a child.

The edge of the blanket made it’s way over my shorts and down my legs. It said goodbye to my thighs, then my knees, to my calves, and finally to my feet. All before sliding down the side of my bed. My ears suddenly become sensitive. I listen to the rubbing of carpet and cloth. I listen to the blanket moving across the room. I listen to the closet door open. I listen as it enters. I hear nothing. Not even a sound outside. Maybe even nature knew how unnatural this night was. And it too wanted to be left alone. I knew it wasn’t the case for me. I knew what was to happen next. And right on cue, I hear it. A feint sound. I wanted to mistaken it as the wind. But it wanted to be heard. So it called out again. Ever slightly louder. Up to the point that it knew. It knew I heard it calling my name. All it had to do was whisper…

“Piece of crap!” I cry out to myself.

Reading the piece over and over again, I just can’t help but think this is going nowhere. There’s just no way I’m telling this story the way I want it.

“I can’t do horror. Look at this.”

I reread the passages.

“This sounds like an opening to a case of child abuse, not supernatural.”

I grip hands full of hair.

“What do you think Ryo-Ohki?”

She’s hardly any help as she sits there staring blankly at me holding her little stuffed animal. She never seems to part with that thing. It’s a flimsy little TY Beanie Baby of a puppy who’s probably long due for a wash.

“I should just stick to what I’m writing best.”

I stare up at the ceiling now. Hands still clenched. The tugging hair follicles almost feels like a head massage. I imagine what it is exactly that I do best. Nothing comes to mind. The term is too subjective though. I’m not even quite sure if anything I do is good or even if it should be. All of this is an exercise so I can tell that one story.

Cars rumble on by outside, from small passenger cars, to large tractor trailers, and on occasion loud Harley’s. San Fernando Boulevard is such a busy street by the afternoon. It makes for a rather difficult brainstorming session. I usually don’t mind noise. Actually, I prefer noise over silence. Not monotonous sounds from mechanical parts, but sounds from people. Whether it were songs or conversations, I needed it around when I imagined. Their voices fueled my imagination.

“People need people, that’s the premise, right?” I ask Rho-Ohki, but of course she sits there with her big smile. “That’s always my thing.”

I stare back down at what I’ve been writing.

“This story is about a boy and a ghost.”

My mouth starts chewing on something imaginary as it so often does when I play video games. It’s like the thought processes always have strings attached to them. Analysis is tied to the mouth while creative imagination is tied to the sinuses. It’s both good and bad when a creative idea breaks through. Good for the excitement of the revealation, but bad for the relentless running noise that follows. I eye the tissue box next to the laptop. No used tissues so far. This story is definitely not going well.

“Well, to keep with the theme, there’s the mother. He needs her for help and unknowing to him, she needs him for the medication.”

I scratch my head and slowly shake my head.

“Yeah, it’s a messed up story. Basically, they are both being haunted and she sends him to the shrink, telling him to be strong. While she’s taking the prescription to block out the hauntings herself.”

I shrug.

“Yeah, it’s a messed up story. She basically scars his life by commiting suicide. Just wanted to see if I’m capable of telling a dark story.”

I sit with my elbows on the table gazing into the computer screen. My finger hovers over the delete button. I sit unsure of starting over or starting in a different direction.

“Not sure if first person works well here either.”

I rock back and forth in the metal chair. The back bridge supports remind me how sore my back is from the gym a few days ago. Luckily there’s a cushion to make the writing session bearable. I grab the remote and turn on the television. The sounds from it will be an artificial substitution.

An old comedy was on, a really stupid one, or should I say a really “dumb” one. My mind races from a scene from a John Carpenter flick to a scene with Jim Carrey spiking his friend’s drink with an extra-strength laxative. I pause to watch the whole scene. I laugh at the part when he nonchalantly tips the cup forcing his friend to finish the drink. I shake my head and go back to thinking about the scene in the room. It’s cold. It’s dark. My character is lying there cold, shaking both from the cold and from fear. But now, he’s Jim Carrey and he’s got that absurd look on his face.

“This is not going to work.”

I turn off the television. That was the problem with it. It pulls me in. Writing in the coffee shop is much different than writing at home. The noise around the shop were uninteresting conversations that you can just filter out. Not the noise that comes from the television. Whether it’s news, a feature, or even an informercial, it’s goal was to get your attention. And it did it well.

My iPod stares at me. But I know better than to turn it on. The same can be said for music as for television. However, these were songs I personally choose. My favorite music was in that little player. Not only that, people have a way of associating an event or a situation to a song. Probably why it becomes your favorite song in the first place. It’s probably even more distracting than the television at this point. So I decide to push it away. Out of sight, out of mind.

I sigh.

Sunday’s are suppose to be relaxing. I’m sitting in my shorts even though I could still feel the cold air trying to make it inside the house. I figure my long sleeve shirt and ankle high socks would provide enough warmth. The feeling of the cold air on my thighs is actually stimulating. But this mix-match of clothing will have to come to an end. It was time. There’s no way to concentrate here at home. If I this story were to ever get beyond a draft, I needed to get out of the house.

“I can’t stand it in here any more.”

I save my story I titled Crimson and close my laptop.

“Going to step out for a bit.”

Ryo-Ohki just stares at me while I go change. Her little stuffed animal’s head tilted as if it were puzzled.

I wonder sometimes if she thinks I’m crazy.

Turning the Corner

Ten long hard years of Dave’s life dedicated to the company. All of it washed down the drain as the company downsized. The feeling of betrayal was fresh on his mind as he stood there. His mind barely grasping what was directly in front of him.

“Sir?”

Dave stared blankly at the assortment of items on the ice cream truck.

“Would you like to purchase something?” The driver leaned over, one hand above the window. “Perhaps a bottle of water?”

Empty. That’s all Dave felt. But the sound of water felt right.

“Water,” Dave mumbled, then numbly answered, “Yes.”

“You sure look like you need it.” The driver flipped open a misty hatch and pulls out a water bottle. “You must be burning up in that suit. It’s over 90 degrees out here.”

The suit. Dave’s badge of honor for years of climbing that corporate ladder. Starting off under the harsh environment of newly grads, all fighting for recognition in the consulting industry. Under the brutal schedule of twelve hour shifts, Dave emerged as manager within a year; no more tedious paperwork, no scrutinizing reviews, and most of all, no more biting his tongue when bad decisions are made. This time he was the one making decisions and people would listen. He definitely dressed for the part. His first suit was bought at a custom made shop around his apartment corner. Made from the finest Italian wool in the latest trends, it was ceremonial stage of life. That was alost a decade ago. The suit he was wearing today was just another clone. Its conception much less ceremonious than the first. Yet, it’s still instilled with all his pride. But today, all it held was his sweat.

“Wait. No.”Dave interjected.

Dave was at an ice cream truck after all. True it was hot and more than likely, water was the better choice. However, he wandered over here looking for ice cream. That’s how he worked. When there’s a goal set, he lines them up and knocks them down. Nothing stands in his way.

“I came here for some ice cream.”

“Are you sure?” asked the driver.

“Yes.”

The driver scratched his forehead pushing back his paper cap, “You look like you can use some water.”

“No. I can use some ice cream,” Dave continued nodding further convincing himself.

“I can see sweat rings coming through your suit.”

Dave lifted his arms noticing it for the first time. Of course, he shook it off and went on eyeing the menu – giant ice cream sandwiches, rocket popsicles, three flavor snow cones, chocolate eclairs. Nothing was quite processing in his mind. All he saw were reports, charts, staff meetings, and pay stubs. Yet he still stood there not listening to the driver.

Life was dealing him a horrible hand. He followed the rules. He never crossed the line. And most of all he never lost control. That is, control over the situation, not control of his temper. It was that temperamental attitude of his that kept people in check. Backed by his position, he was not one to be pushed around. Not by an ice cream truck driver either.

“I’ll give it to you for half the price,” the driver shook the water bottle in front of Dave.

“I do not want any water.” Dave emphasized every word with animosity.

“Suit yourself,” the driver tosses the water back don the billowing hatch. “So, what will it be?”

“Excuse me, mister?” asks a little boy who apparently had been waiting there for some time. “May I order?”

The kid seemed polite at least, Dave thought. But politeness doesn’t get you far in this cruel world. Dave imagined he was going to teach the kid that the world wasn’t all too fair.

“You can order after I have ordered.”

“But I know what I want,” the kid pleaded.

“Seriously sir,” the driver went on. “Why don’t you let him order first.”

“Hey. I was here first.”

“I know that, this will only take a sec. Hey kid, what do you want?” The driver spoke over Dave.

“No.” Dave blocked the transaction. “Don’t bend the rules here.”

“Look, whatever day you’re having, don’t spread it to others.”

“You don’t even know what kind of day I’m having.”

“I don’t care, sir. My day is about putting smiles on their little faces.”

“You sit here and sell ice cream to little kids, while I sift through hundreds of solutions to make this economy possible. Millions… billions of dollars are passing through my finger tips. All to pay the giant companies that pay the people who work for them who pass it down to their children who eventually give it to you. For what? Ice cream. Ice cream! A little frozen treat that’s probably doing them more harm than good for that five minutes of pure gluttony. Happiness? Is that what you think you’re selling? I think not. But what ever you think you sell, I make it happen.”

The driver was speechless.

“So the least thing you can do is allow me a little time to make my selection.”

Dave’s face was flush and that one little vein on the top right of his forehead was throbbing. The look is so fierce, even the driver felt scared to provoke him. Though, it was more due to fear of a lunatic.

“You smell like my dad’s socks,” said the kid kid pinching his nose.

Dave gave him a reproachful look, “That is not a polite way to talk.”

“Are you going to order now?” The kid asks looking up at dave. His eyes squinting out the afternoon sun.

“Yes. I think I am ready.” Dave turns back to the dumbstruck driver. “I’ll have the orange creamsicle.”

The driver takes a disappointing breath and flips open a diferent hatch. He reaches down and tosses the creamsicle on the little metal counter not once removing his eyes from Dave.

“A dollar twenty five.”

Dave produces a credit card only to be greeted by the driver’s look saying “You’ve got to ne kidding me.”

“What? You don’t have a credit card machine?”

“This is an ice cream truck!”

“It’s the twenty first century! How can you do business without a credit card machine?”

“Because I sell ice cream for a dollar twenty five you creep!”

It would make for one strange scene to see an ice cream truck driver fighting a business man in the parking lot. Of course, the classic colors would be adorned on the public favorites. Uniformed white for the driver and black suited Dave. Thankfully this battle was willfully averted by the generous little kid.

“Mister,” the kid tugs on Dave jacket. “I have a dollar twenty five for you.”

Dave looks down at the kid who’s hand is outstretched with the money.

“Please don’t fight.”

Dave suddenly feels embaraased and looks around for something to say.

“We weren’t going to fight… I mean, we were fighting, arguing.” the driver smiled wiping the sweat on his forehead. His eyes glanced at Dave to respond.

“No,” Dave straightened his jacket. “We’re not. And thank you. Thank you very much.”

The stress in the air was cut. Maybe Dave needed to just let the anger out. He was a ticking stress bomb after all from the time they let him go. He’s been wandering around all afternoon looking for something to vent on. Unfortunately, it was on this humble ice cream truck driver. Feeling abashed from the altercation, Dave steps aside.

“Why don’t you order first.”

The kid beamed up at Dave. His innocence breathes new life into Dave attitude. A little five minutes of happiness is all they really need. He was like that once. Long before this corporate world had taken him in. Ambition and pride turned him into what he was today. He looked at the driver who still kept an eye on him. How he would have liked to apologized for what had just happened. How he would have taken back what he said about the driver’s job. It was quite prententious for him to think that their jobs had a ranking. For Dave, he choose this path as much as the driver choose his. Both knew what the job entailed. Dave imagined the driver must have known he would have to deal with the likes of Dave. Yet, he’d trade all of that for his job. Recession-proof, because everyone wants ice cream.

“Thank you mister!” The kid turns and runs, giggling as he tries to stay balanced.

Dave watches him for a while. Running down the block and around the corner. It was time for Dave to change. Jobless and bitter was no way to live. There was no reason to be bitter anymore. The worse is over. As the saying goes, once you hit bottom, you can only go up.

The driver’s smile becomes unnatural and mechanical as Dave approaches. Dave couldn’t bare to look at the driver. He puts the money up on the counter. The money that the kid given him. The kid who he would not let go first.

“I’m sorry,” the driver says.

“Oh. No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” Dave pokes his head around looking every which way but at the driver.

“No, sir. I mean, I’m sorry. The kid took the last orange creamsicle.”