Three stories, short and true. / And misc writing, apparently.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

Rough draft of a NaNo excerpt. Ignore the name substitution things. Haven't worked that out yet.

It's a dark night. Dark is always more absolute in the country but there's the sky to sparkle and dazzle out there. In a city it's all dim and dingy. No sky. Just darkness and pockets of sulky light like cigarette burns on a quilt top, exposing the pale batting beneath the colorful patches.

There's nothing beneath the city. Nothing on the earth that interests me tonight. All I want is to see the stars, spangled and arrayed before me like an endless panoply of noble figures on progress from one grand celestial palace to another.

I feel trapped by all this concrete and wire. By the cars and the slumping houses, dusty with dirt blown along the streets, unstopped by trees or bluff. The grid cares not for grime or natural variance. Heh.
Clearly I'm grim tonight. Which isn't going to bode well for the chores ahead. Things done with a heavy heart only add to the weight carried around already. Cliche but true. Damn it.

I pick up the pace to the river where my friends are waiting. I know what the rough plan is but I also know nothing goes according to plan with us. That's like drawing a map of a land you've never seen and expecting what you find to conform to whatever whimsy you put to the paper before your arrival.

We are not forgiving folk in our meanderings. Some nights we pick up trash. Some nights we educate random passersby on their various prejudices. Some nights we just walk, silent and shuffling along, enjoying the sense of moving in tandem with many others. Some nights we sit and exchange sips from bottles and snips of story.

What we do not do is add to the crazy of this place. We don't howl or scream. We don't throw bicycles in the river (why is that a thing?) or shoes up onto the power lines. We don't harass people or intimidate or raise our voices.

One of our other friends, who doesn't walk with us at night, works at the library and she calls us the "Clean Sweep Crew". Says our wanderings refresh the city at night. We take up the bad energy and brush it away, clean off the bits of hate and ash. Buff it up on our shirt sleeves and let it fly around all shiny again.

She ought to be a novelist with sentiments like that. Or a poet, maybe. Writing the stories instead of curating them. Maybe she'll get around to it some day when our wandering is done. If it ends.

The road takes a steep turn down to the river. For a moment the downtown is laid out like a glittering mimicry of the stars above, all glittering in haphazard patterns and then down the street goes, close and dark, trees overhanging the sidewalk and cars huddled against the curb like broken-spirited dogs waiting for their masters.

Grim and grimmer. Sheesh.

The blocks go past quickly, going downhill. I can still do hills so long as they are down. It's the up that slows me to a snail's crawl and sends my breath laboring through my lungs. Bad knees and arthritis. They suck. I start jogging just a little, a bit of masochism as much as an eagerness to get to the river front and use the bathrooms, if the park attendant left them unlocked as usual. If not, I'll be holding it for awhile.

But my friends are up ahead and there's a Pepsi waiting for me. Can't go on without my sweetest addiction, you know. It's a great motivator.

I can hear their voices echoing across the parking lot. They can probably hear my footsteps now. As always, my heart lifts and my spirits soar just a little to hear Key's bass rumbling laughter and Gain's witty sarcasm. Even when I can't make out the words I know Key is wryly amused and Gain is just a little more cynical but just as entertained. They're probably talking about politics. Key thinks there's hope, very faint hope. Gain doesn't. I agree with Gain but hope Key is right. Na is there tonight, her raised voice is all command and comedy. The boys must have lured her out with promises of helping her wind her yarn or something after.

There are other voices that I don't recognize as easily. Probably Tu and Ri. Die and Caw. Some others. I know them all, but those first three are the most prominent to me. And if I don't matter quite so much to them, they are the foundations of my world right now.

"There she is," Gain calls, and jogs up to me, tossing me a cold can of Pepsi and slinging his arm around my shoulders. It's a bit of a stretch since only Tur and Key are taller than I am and Gain is the most petite and slender of all the men. But he manages it and I put the can not holding the Pepsi around his waist.

"Got held up," I report, cracking the can open one-handed and taking a swallow. "Sorry about that."

"You're here. We're here. Let's go." Key replies with a smile and a ruffle of my hair with his long-fingered hands. "We'll roam for awhile tonight. Slowly so you can keep up," he adds with laugh at my expense.

I grin and hand Gain my Pepsi then hustle over to the park's bathrooms, which are, thank god, not locked. Two minutes later and I'm catching up to the group as they wander down the sidewalk along the water. Die and Caw are picking up litter. Na's holding the bag. Tu and Key have nets and are skimming things from the top of the water while someone else holds the bag for them to deposit their findings in.

Gain hands me my drink back and goes over to see what Key's just pulled out of the water. Na gives Caw the bag and comes over to me with a new one she hands it to me and starts picking things out of the grass. Gum wrappers, soda cans, cigarette butts. We're thorough.

I hold the bag one-handed while I drink my Pepsi and then help her pick up once I've finished the drink and added the empty container to the bag. We wander along the river front and up main street still picking up litter and adding the bags to the trash cans on every street corner when they're about 3/4's full. Gotta leave plenty of room to tie the bags and make 'em fit in the container so they won't rip when they come out. City clean up guys are fussy about that.

We slow down as we trudge back up the hill, out of consideration for Na's once broken and forever aching foot, Key's horrible knees, and my arthritis. The others dance about, skipping in and out of alleys and scouring them of debris before joining us back on the sidewalks.

Back and forth we wander, zig-zagging up the side of the hill away from the river. We stop at one of the Kwik-Trip gas stations for a midnight lunch of cheddarwursts and Slim Jims for Gain, Key, and I. Na refuses the junk food but indulges in a bagel and a jumbo cinnamon and vanilla coffee. Caw and Die take turns biting off mouthfuls of a gigantic burrito. Tu and Ri feed each other pieces of blueberry muffin.

Then it's back out into the night, somehow a little colder and darker. But we're ready for it and refueled for the fight.

By the time we're up the hill we're all flushed and glowing with good company and exercise. Tu and Ri have disappeared somewhere, probably having sloppy sex up against a tree somewhere. Die and Caw and fluttering around Na like baby birds begging to be pushed out of the nest with their excited chatter and wildly flapping arms.

Key, Gain, and I bring up the rear. Gain found a soda machine in front of a closed corner store and got me another Pepsi. It's so cold my fingertips burn and tingle.

Key and Gain are discussing something quietly, one or the other of them reaching out to steady me if I wobble too much, trying to take too-long swallows of soda until my head tips back and I teeter.

We're all watching Na. Any second she'll shoo off the fluttery ones and we'll be alone. Dam and Ar and some of the others who don't hang out with us often have peeled off down their own streets, caroling and rustling their bags as they fill the last ones with litter and leave them for the garbage men in the morning. Their noise is a muted, fading music in the background.

And I realize this feels like a holiday. A joyful occasion; a gathering of friends and family, a sharing of food and drink. Na probably thinks of it as a ritual, being a priestess. A gathering and focusing of energy and purpose. Then the grounding and releasing of what remains once the purpose is accomplished.

It's both of those things and something more, I think. But my Pepsi is gone and I over think. It's my thing. Na obsesses, Gain broods, Key contemplates, and I over-think.

The streetlights are going out and the sun is peaking over the horizon, with its wash of peach and pink going before it.

Caw and Die part our group with a screech and flutter, dancing off into the dwindling dark towards their home further up the way. The four of us head for Na's house, stripping off outer layers - three outer laters in Na's case, none in mine - and hanging up coats and jackets and scarves.

Being bundle free, I go ahead into the kitchen to wash my hands and face first. I start Na's coffee pot and pull out four bowls for cereal and start making toast. By the time the others have washed up and joined me, Na redressing in fresh layers, there's toast and a collection of cereals for everyone. Na has more coffee and toast. Key and Gain jockey for first go at the sugary cereals and I make a bowl of instant oatmeal.

We're nearly silent now, except for the click of coffee cups on the table and spoons against bowls and the shuffle of Key and Gain's scuffle.

Other people sleeping in the house are starting to wake and the upstairs rumbles with footsteps and kids complaining loudly about the hour.

By the time Na's husband and mother head off for work and Na's kids are off to school, we've gotten everyone, us and the kids at least, breakfasted and cleaned up the kitchen. Gain and I fall asleep on various couches, him on the three-season porch and me carving out part of the living room couch that the dogs haven't claimed.

Key and Na sit up in the kitchen chatting and prepping the dishwasher as I drowse against the Australian Shepherd's heaving side. Everything is warm and cozy. We'll nap briefly then get up and go about our days, napping again in the evening before we meet again tonight.

If I'm late because of work or if Na can't come because one of her kids has a headache, well there will be someone waiting and someone new to meet. We'll do our rounds and Gain, Key, and I will come back here to nest, helping Na with the laundry or walking the dogs or going to the drug store for cough syrup and Tylenol.

It's a good life. A quiet life. Steady and reliable. It's all in one piece. Hopefully.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

Rough draft of a NaNo excerpt.

My life is made up of quiet nights. Dark falls and the day is erased. Things that happen become inconsequential, meaningless. A new order falls into place.

Laying in the dark, waiting, it's well past my bed time and I've been in bed for awhile. But I'm not asleep. I can't sleep until I know. Is tonight going to be a good night or a bad night?

There've been two good nights in a row and that's almost unheard of lately. So I'm tensed and ready for a bad night. But so, so desperately, wildly hopeful for a good night that I almost cry.

I can't sleep from the adrenaline rampaging through my body, making every muscle tense and quivery like the neighbor's dog gets when it sees a squirrel or a rabbit.

Every time a car goes by, I tense even further. My ears ache from straining to catch the first sounds of a familiar tire tread, for the slowing down and turning of rubber from asphalt to gravel. The crunch of stone and the slam of a door that heralds the moment of truth.

Is this going to be a good night or a bad night?

And here it comes, that familiar engine roaring towards my house, my crib, towards my mother and I. Too fast. It's coming too fast and my stomach sinks. I wet myself and feel tears trickle down my face. The breaks squeal as the truck turns from the road into our driveway, sending lights running across my walls. A warning flare.

The truck door creaks open, the hinges never get oiled. There's a thud on the gravel and loud swearing.

It's going to be a bad night. I start crying in earnest now. And my mother ghosts past the door, giving me a frantic frown and flapping her hands like broken-necked birds.

"Shush, baby, shush. No tears."

Then she's gone, down the hall and opening the door. The truck door slams mightily and I hear her breath catch in her throat.

"Honey, are you okay?" My mom calls softly, barely audible over his swearing.

"Shut up, you dumb whore. You want the whole trailer park up? You want them all to know I fell out of my god damn truck? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry, honey," she says, a quaver in her voice. I know that sound.

I wail once, because I can't help it, as the front door is thrown open so hard it rattles the trailer. Then I shove my fist in my mouth and wait.

"God damn it, woman, you woke the baby. Now the little brat is going to be crying all night long."

"If you'd lower your voice, honey, she'll drop right off again."

A sharp crack, her sharp cry, and a heavy thud followed by a slow slide. She's crying and a picture has fallen off my wall. Mother Goose is face down on the floor, her eyes hidden from what's going to happen next.

More thuds and sharp cries. Until the thudding is like drum beats or rain hitting the window. Slaps and cracks of thunder and soft sobs growing into wild screams.

And all his shouting won't stop the maelstrom he's unleashing on her. She can't stop doing something she wasn't doing in the first place. But he doesn't care because he's so angry. So angry at everything he can't control.

Even then, I understood that. The monsters are scary to me because they are in control. They're even scarier because they think they have to be in control but aren't. They don't control anything. They're weak and pathetic and stupid. Except when they find someone weaker. That's why being weak is bad. As a toddler, as a young child, I knew that.

But it didn't help me that night or any other that followed. Because what can a kid in a crib do when her mother's being beaten to a pulp by her father?

Crying makes him hit harder. Silence makes him yell louder. There isn't anything to do except wait. Wait and be afraid.

Eventually the storm of slaps and kicks and punches stops and the screaming subsides.

"God damn it, woman, you're bleeding all over the fucking floor." Another thud as he kicks her, making her vomit on the floor. "You're disgusting. I don't know how I ever married a worthless piece of trash like you. Clean this up. Right fucking now."

Another thud from another kick.

"My bed better be made and there better be breakfast on the fucking table in six hours, bitch. You hear me? I will break your fucking neck otherwise. And clean up that fucking brat's mess. I can smell her shit and piss from here. What the fuck is wrong with you? Leaving your baby a disgusting mess just like you? What kind of mother are you? Huh? What kind of mother are you?"

The yelling starts again and she just moans. A few more thuds and slaps. Then he lets her body drop to the floor.

Heavy footsteps come towards my room. A shadow fills the doorway. A foul smell; part sweat, part blood, and something I know is poison but is actually alcohol; rolls through my room filling the shadows with menace and the light with pain.

"It's okay, little baby," he croons, coming closer. Stepping on and crushing Mother Goose's picture.

"God damn it!" He yells, kicking the picture and making a dent in the wall where it hits. "This place is always a fucking mess!"

He's so close and so angry, the heat of it boils off of him in waves, scalding my skin. His voice rings against my ears, stabbing needles into my head. And I cry.

"God damn it! God damn it all! Shut up, shut up, shut up!" A dark hand comes down on my head, slapping me and pressing me into the crib mattress, stealing my air and cutting off my cries.

At last, everything goes dark and quiet.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

I keep coming here to write and my brain is full of static.
The words I want to put down taste like ash on my tongue.
Buzzing in my brain isn't enough to wipe out the images.
Just enough to jumble them and skew with jagged lines.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

They came for us because we let them. Too preoccupied with our Wiis and gadgets and lying to our Second Life spouses about how much we loathed our IRL spouses and preferred the sweet whispered words of cyber fantasies; we never had a chance. We didn't care, anyway. Too many other things to worry about. Miley Cyrus. Robin Thicke. Who will be the next American Idol? What will Kim Kardashian wear at her wedding? These were pressing matters. Too important, too all-consuming for us to spare attention to the slow assimilation we were being gently herded towards.

Like lumbering cows, confused sheep. Like animals we stumbled dumbly onwards, before the shepherd's crook and to the lee of the dogs snapping at our heels. Oh we were herded by pros. None of us could break ranks. Those of us on the edges, who could see the teeth and shapes of the beasts that goaded us onward, they tried to free themselves. They tried to warn the rest of us, bleeting their fear and suspicion as loudly as they could over the dog's fierce barks and the shepherd's soothing calls.

But we were distracted by our Nintendo 3DS, our iPods, our voice-activated lawnmowers. We went uncaring to our fates. We were shorn. Fleeced. We were left stranded and naked with nothing for warmth and no awareness of where our toys and gadgets had gone. We stared at each other with bleak eyes and exchanged mournful baas.

And as the butcher came towards us, over the hill, reeking of blood and offal, we waited to see what would happen next. We felt the dread growing thick and viscous in our bellies. And we wondered who would fall first. We wondered which of us would shed the sheepskin and emerge a wolf and do battle with the butcher.

But that wondering only lasted a few minutes because the butcher began singing a catchy commercial jingle. Something about remote-control power tools. And we were entranced.

[Reginald Ret]

They came for us because we let them. Too preoccupied with our Wiis and gadgets and lying to our Second Life spouses about how much we loathed our IRL spouses and preferred the sweet whispered words of cyber fantasies; we never had a chance. We didn't care, anyway. Too many other things to worry about. Miley Cyrus. Robin Thicke. Who will be the next American Idol? What will Kim Kardashian wear at her wedding? These were pressing matters. Too important, too all-consuming for us to spare attention to the slow assimilation we were being gently herded towards.

Like lumbering cows, confused sheep. Like animals we stumbled dumbly onwards, before the shepherd's crook and to the lee of the dogs snapping at our heels. Oh we were herded by pros. None of us could break ranks. Those of us on the edges, who could see the teeth and shapes of the beasts that goaded us onward, they tried to free themselves. They tried to warn the rest of us, bleeting their fear and suspicion as loudly as they could over the dog's fierce barks and the shepherd's soothing calls.

But we were distracted by our Nintendo 3DS, our iPods, our voice-activated lawnmowers. We went uncaring to our fates. We were shorn. Fleeced. We were left stranded and naked with nothing for warmth and no awareness of where our toys and gadgets had gone. We stared at each other with bleak eyes and exchanged mournful baas.

And as the butcher came towards us, over the hill, reeking of blood and offal, we waited to see what would happen next. We felt the dread growing thick and viscous in our bellies. And we wondered who would fall first. We wondered which of us would shed the sheepskin and emerge a wolf and do battle with the butcher.

But that wondering only lasted a few minutes because the butcher began singing a catchy commercial jingle. Something about remote-control power tools. And we were entranced.

I like.
Haunting.
remote control power tools a drone reference?

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

They came for us because we let them. Too preoccupied with our Wiis and gadgets and lying to our Second Life spouses about how much we loathed our IRL spouses and preferred the sweet whispered words of cyber fantasies; we never had a chance. We didn't care, anyway. Too many other things to worry about. Miley Cyrus. Robin Thicke. Who will be the next American Idol? What will Kim Kardashian wear at her wedding? These were pressing matters. Too important, too all-consuming for us to spare attention to the slow assimilation we were being gently herded towards.

Like lumbering cows, confused sheep. Like animals we stumbled dumbly onwards, before the shepherd's crook and to the lee of the dogs snapping at our heels. Oh we were herded by pros. None of us could break ranks. Those of us on the edges, who could see the teeth and shapes of the beasts that goaded us onward, they tried to free themselves. They tried to warn the rest of us, bleeting their fear and suspicion as loudly as they could over the dog's fierce barks and the shepherd's soothing calls.

But we were distracted by our Nintendo 3DS, our iPods, our voice-activated lawnmowers. We went uncaring to our fates. We were shorn. Fleeced. We were left stranded and naked with nothing for warmth and no awareness of where our toys and gadgets had gone. We stared at each other with bleak eyes and exchanged mournful baas.

And as the butcher came towards us, over the hill, reeking of blood and offal, we waited to see what would happen next. We felt the dread growing thick and viscous in our bellies. And we wondered who would fall first. We wondered which of us would shed the sheepskin and emerge a wolf and do battle with the butcher.

But that wondering only lasted a few minutes because the butcher began singing a catchy commercial jingle. Something about remote-control power tools. And we were entranced.

I like.
Haunting.
remote control power tools a drone reference?

Thanks. Yup!

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

I was going to write but I ended up doing my taxes instead. WOO! I made 10k all year. O.O