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Screw it, I'm in. This week is hectic as hell but I'll smash some words out for the glory of the Thunderdome.
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Aug 22, 2012 21:55
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HBO better serialize this. *Forgot to mention that I am a middle class, male, mixed race, straight Australian. Special Forces: The Case Of Nia'Tufus Head 1490 words “Ah! Wasps!”, I hate wasps but I would say that as an ice breaker whenever I got a new client. It never worked, but then I never gave in either. I can be clever and determined when I need to, which is handy given what I do. I do get the brain farts a fair bit though but everyone has their own little quirks I suppose. I once met a man who fell in love with his canoe. Compared to that I'm only retarded. Outside my little papaya clad office space in downtown South Tarawa, Kiribati stood a little plaque. “Special Forces”. That's the name of my business. The only private investigation firm in all of Micronesia. I had something of an international reputation. Below the name of my business were two more, smaller, plaques. “Betsy Toaneki”. That's me. Below that was, “Tooth-Brush”. She's my partner. I don't know too much about Tooth-Brush other than that's not her real name. I gave her that name on account of me not knowing anything about her. It's a strange cycle but I've learned not to question it too much. Me and Tooth-Brush had just finished a case involving pearl divers and German nudists and we were about to have a little nap when I got a knock on the door. It was pissing down outside so I rushed to open it and this tall, bald fella walked on in like he owned the place. His soggy, Hawaiian shirt dripped all over my flax rug like he just didn't give a drat about mites. He was also wearing a long skirt but not like in a gay way but more of a manly Fijian way. I mean he could be gay as well I suppose, I don't judge. Except when it involves German nudists. Or canoe fuckers. He didn't introduce himself, instead he gave me the old, “So, like, I wouldn't normally talk with you but the government is all, you know, must work with the retarded peoples and stuff”, he said with the hand signals and all, “so, this is why I'm talking to you now. OK?”. To which I was all like, “OK”, which is pretty much all that needed to be said at that moment. Then he went on a bit more. “I'm Professor Opona, I work for the University of the South Pacific, School of Anthropology. Have you ever heard of a Chief Nia'Tufu?”. “Well I feel bad for saying this but I've never met him. Is he nice?”. “He's dead”. “Aw, that's really sad but I don't do murders, you should call the police”. He sighed at me, I don't like being sighed at. “He died two hundred years ago”. Bloody idiot, I thought. “People don't live that long silly so there's that little mystery solved. That would be $100 thanks”. Another sigh. “His head's been stolen”. I had myself a little laugh. “Oh well, you see stolen heads just so happens to be our specialty”. “Really?” “Oh yeah, heads get stolen all the time around these parts. It's bloody ridiculous when you think about it. Yeah, we'll take the case for you”. I went to give him a high five but I was just left dangling in the wind. Idiot. He seemed not quite there like he was off with the ancestors or something. Then he came up with this, “We?”. Poor bugger hadn't noticed then. I nodded in the direction of a heap of brightly coloured cloth and bone hunched up in the far corner and playing that box game I don't get. “Autistic. Doesn't speak, a real clever bugger that one mind you”, I tell him. “She's a bit mental at times but I try not to hold that against her”. That seemed to satisfy him and then the deal was done. Then I got bit by a loving wasp and we left to go to the University. Tooth-Brush brought along her boyfriend person. I'm pretty sure he is actually a woman dressed as man. I'm also certain that he comes from Papua New Guinea and is also a schizophrenic cannibal. Doesn't speak either but knows how to sign to Tooth-Brush. Sometimes I think they are discussing how best to eat me, I haven't woken up to any missing limbs yet so I try not to think about it too much. I don't know his name either so I named him Crocodile. Out at the university Professor Opona introduced me and Tooth-Brush to this teary eyed old grandmother type woman who we learned was Miss Nia'Tufu, descendant of the great chief, while Crocodile had a good sniff about. Nia'Tufu seemed a little confused but I pretended not to notice. Then she let this one drop, “It's not very often I see, well, someone like you dear”. So I gave her some of this, “My nanna would often say that in the old days I would be called spirit-touched, and I would work as a shaman to help the people with my abilities. She also said that retarded was just another word for gifted”. “Really, well that was nice of her”. “Maybe, but she was full of poo poo. I've got Downs Syndrome not piano fingers. Did you notice I got the Downs?” “Well, I had a hunch”. “Yeah, well I wouldn't worry too much about it. Its not contagious or anything”. Saying that seemed to put their minds at rest. I think its always important to talk about our problems as to make them less mysterious. She was still a bit sad so I broke the awkwardness with this little number, “So wheres this headless bloke then?”. That got her. We go out into the back offices and I see this dead bloke hanging up in a case. He was wearing coconut armor and was carrying an old shark tooth sword but the silly bugger was missing his head. You could tell he didn't die yesterday. I let out a little 'tut tut tut' like I was some used boat salesman. “Difficult when they've been gone this long”. I gave the base a gentle kick. “But can you figure it out?”, she asked me. I illuminated upon the situation given all the available evidence, “Grave robbers”. “But who?” “English I reckon, they're always nickin' heads”. “But for what reason?”. “Oh poo poo knows. Bloody barbarians that mob”. I looked around the room. “Alright, where's the nearest power point? I need to plug in me Tooth-Brush”. “I'm sorry?”, asked poor old Opona. “The electricity helps us with our shamanic powers. It's why we're called 'Special Forces', cause we have special abilities”. “Of course, I knew that. Over there dear, by the fan”. Miss Nia'Tufu pointed to the other-side of the room. I plugged her in and away we went. With her making all the connections and me reading the feelings of everything. Then the visions played. We're by the coast. Tooth-Brush is playing with some rocks and probing the odd crab or two. I see the chief in his coconut armor and swinging his shark tooth sword like a maniac. Those things are dangerous you know. Then these other people turn up, real fat buggers too. They were wearing flax skirts and t-shirts. T-shirts with Tongan Fat Pride written on them. They cut off the chiefs head and handed it to a Union Jack with all these numbers written on it. Then we came to. “British Museum. Collection number 5578898c. Taken by Tongan head hunters working for the English. I've got the repatriation forms back in the office, I'll fax em through to you later”, I told the grieving Nia'Tufu. “Oh my thank you dear, thank you. But did you say Tongan head hunters?”. I turned my attention to Opona. “Are you Fijian, or Tongan?”, Duhn duhn derrrrr. Opona became dumbstruck at this. “I needed the money dammit, they were going to close this school down. So I stole the head and hired you idiots so the case would never be solved. Don't you retards understand, the world needs anthropology”. The professor then pulled out his trusty decapitating knife and went to stab me up. But luckily for me Crocodile leaped on Opona and after some screams had herself some tucker. “I knew it”, I shouted and pointed to Tooth-Brush to tease her some. “You're in love with a can-ni-bal, you're in love with a can-ni-bal”. Tooth-Brush just stared at me and then joined her boyfriend. That was just another case for us. Tomorrow, who knows what will happen but I will probably invite Crocodile along for the ride anyway. In fact, I think I might have enough room for one more plaque.
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Aug 23, 2012 01:41
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Did I make it in time? I'm in.
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Aug 23, 2012 01:54
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Yer good. And that's it for entries. Let's see some submissions.
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Aug 23, 2012 01:57
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I just learned I have to leave town and go to a place with no internet until early next week. So here's my submission. I am a straight white cis male from Canada. I am praying this story is not offensive to the groups it portrays. areyoucontagious and I apparently picked the same city and similar noir plot tropes. Dammit. Gin and Blood Word count: 2,044 (no time to cut it more--I deserve whatever punishment I get for going over) My Ouma used to say that if a man wanted to kill himself with drink, it was going to happen. She knew what she was talking about, because that was how Oupa died. One winter morning on a cliff in Saldanha he stood looking out over the Atlantic with a shotgun pressed against his temple and nothing on but Ouma’s shift and her black Sunday pumps. But he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger without that litre of rum in his veins, so she was technically right. “Right again, Ouma,” I muttered. And furthering Ouma's wisdom, it appeared it didn’t matter if the drinking man in question was born a woman. “What’d you say?” asked Lorelei. She couldn’t stop crying, but she kept reapplying her makeup anyway. Her man’s body hung from a belt in the closet, and smelled like enough Amarula to make me gag. She didn’t wait for an answer, just started going into her sob story for the 100th time. She swore he wasn’t the type to off himself. Their last contact had been when he had texted her earlier in the day to say that he had just rounded up enough money for the down payment on new breasts. She was going to go from a hormone enhanced A-cup to a silicone C-cup. And he was going to get exclusive access to those sweet anties when they tied the knot a couple of weeks after the surgery. She had a nice looking De Beers that she twisted on her finger. But, alas poor Romeo, he is already dead. That was actually the sap’s name—I had to admit it took a lot of balls to go from Dolores to Romeo. That gave me a little idea: “What about him? Had he had any work done?” “He had hormones too, and we were going to save up for him to get surgery.” “Did you save up for the boob job?” “I think he got the money from Loaner Jane—do you think she came after him?” She grabbed on to my arm and looked up at me with those big brown eyes. Broads—they were all the same. She squeezed my bicep. “You’ll help us won’t you?” “He’s beyond helping, sweetheart. But I’ll help you.” I gave her my card. GARRETT DELILLE PRIVATE DICK “Come by my office tomorrow with the retainer.” I freed my arm and tipped my hat to her. “And you should call the cops now.” “The cops! But you know how they treat us!” “I know honey, but they’ll treat you even worse if you don’t call them. And you’re not getting rid of this body by yourself.” I turned the doorknob and looked back at her: “But don’t tell them I was here.” “Why?” “I’m… not popular with them.” That was an understatement, I thought as I trotted down the stairs of their third floor walkup. Ex-cop, ex-woman, and proud Coloured—that was three strikes for the Joburg PD, as Oupa used to say I headed for Simply Blue. The docs tell me that booze and testosterone don’t mix, and I usually follow their advice until the late afternoon. Simply Blue changes from a nice local into a throbbing dance scene most nights, so I like to bend my elbow and get out before that happens. I’m not what you’d call social, but the bar is not just my source of liquor, it’s also my source of work. You don’t become the premier LGBT private eye in Joburg without getting out a bit. I was drinking J&B and chasing it with Castle Lager when trouble sidled up to me at the bar. He was long and lean and moved like a dancer. His coal black skin shimmered in the soft lights. “Buy me a drink?” I was signaling for the bartender before he finished the question. His name was Devide. I lit his cigarettes with my zippo. I showed him my card, and he seemed impressed. I’d got to know him with my ears within a couple hours. I wanted to get him back to my place so I could get to know him with the rest of my body. “So how come I’ve never seen you around here before?” I asked. “Maybe you just haven’t been looking hard enough.” “I would’ve noticed a beulah like you before.” “You’re trying to flatter me.” “Is it working?” He ignored my question and took another sip of his cocktail. “Actually,” he said, “work keeps me pretty busy. My boss is a real slave driver.” He paused and took another sip. “But it’s worth it. The crazy poo poo I see…” “Who’s your boss?” “Loaner Jane.” If he noticed I was choking, he didn’t let on. “You should have seen the crazy little guy that came in this morning. Borrowed up to the hilt, and was talking poo poo to her the whole time. Can you believe it?” I could believe Romeo was dumb, yeah. Loaner Jane used to be Swingin’ Stan Slaughter—a serious contender for the national heavyweight title. After a decent career, he took the money he’d managed to keep out of his manager’s hands and bought himself an operation. After that, she still had enough money to set herself up as a loan shark, catering to our previously underserved community. She would loan to cis types and straights too, of course, but apparently they’re even uptight about who they get their beatings from. She was one of the most glamorous and fearsome people I had ever set eyes on, and word was that she also had a love of gin that made her a little unpredictable. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think that she might forcibly hang Romeo with his shirts, but why on the same day he borrowed? “How much did he take?” “Four hundred grand.” I let out a low whistle. 400,000 Rand was going to buy a lot more than a down payment on a new chest. “What was he going to do with it?” “That was the weird thing. He counted out about 75 thou, and then locked the rest in a cheap box and asked if we’d hold it for him—why would he do that?” “Because the sneaky little poo poo wanted to see where her safe was” I blurted out without thinking. loving whiskey. “Ha! You and Jane are both smarter than me. She went into a back room and stuck the box under some cushions and told him it was safe. Nobody knows where she keeps her real money, not even me.” But I was willing to bet that Romeo had snuck right back in looking for a safe in that back room; and that Jane had caught him. But how did he end up in the closet? Something wasn’t adding up. “Of course, I do know where a box with 325,000 bucks is.” Devide had a sly look on his face. “Want to go get it?” It didn’t take as long as it should have for him to convince me. If Jane had killed Romeo, then she would have already taken the money in the box back. But if she hadn’t, the box would still be there. I’d be able to test my hypothesis. I wasn’t dumb enough to take the box if it was there, but I had a hunch it wouldn’t be. As we left, Devide slid his arm into mine. “You packing?” “You saw my card—that’s private.” He looked puzzled for a minute and then started laughing. “I mean a gun, silly.” He left his hand on me a little longer than he needed to. I walked him over to my car and popped the trunk. I showed him my Colt Anaconda while I loaded it. “Ooo, impressive—but maybe you’re compensating a bit?” “I’ve got more firepower than this gun does, honey.” Loaner Jane did business out of an apartment above a laundromat, but Devide said she lived somewhere else—he had never been to her place. He had a key and we slipped into a tiny back kitchen. He went to turn on the lights and I slapped his hand. Why are the pretty ones always so stupid? We went into the back room and dug under the couch cushions. I pulled the box out and stared at it. “What the gently caress?” “What the gently caress indeed, honey.” If I’d had balls, they would’ve climbed up into my gut. Loaner Jane was in the doorway. She’d flicked the light in the kitchen behind her, and there wasn’t much room for the light to come past her. She was wearing a fabulous silk night gown and had a cricket bat cocked to swing. “Hosh, honey. You better not be reaching for that gun.” My hand had been creeping to my holster. I left it on my hip. She looked at Devide. He was panicking. “Shoot her!” I didn’t like my odds of my drunken reflexes against her prizefighter ones, but I knew the colt had the stopping power I needed for her. I tensed up. She held her hand up to me. “Steady there, little guy.” She narrowed her eyes at Devide. “What, you didn’t think you’d wake me up? You’re not that dumb—did he put you up to this?” My stomach lurched. “Shoot her,” he was practically squealing. “I don’t think so,” I said. “You lied to me.” “Oh you dumb poo poo, we’re all gonna die now.” “No you’re not.” The door in the kitchen banged open. “Drop that bat and back up nice and easy Jane.” We could hear the hammer of a gun getting thumbed back. Jane dropped the bat and backed up. Romeo and Lorelei were standing just inside the front door. Romeo gestured with the Smith & Wesson Model 29 he was carrying for us to come out of the back room. Maybe it was about compensating. “Garrett, you useless poo poo, slide your gun over to me and get beside Jane.” I did it. Devide came out behind and walked over to them. Lorelei hugged him. “Thank God, I wasn’t sure if you guys could tell what was going on.” Devide said. “We knew he might not shoot her—go get the money.” Romeo gestured toward the fridge. Devide opened it up and pulled a lockbox out of the vegetable crisper. Lorelei grabbed the other box from the back room and held both boxes. Romeo gave the gun to Devide. “Cover them while I tie them up.” He looked at me. “It would’ve been better if you had shot her. We would’ve cut you in.” “gently caress you,” I snarled, and then his brains and blood were all over me as Devide shot him in the back of the head. His headless corpse dropped to the ground. My ears rang, but I could still hear Lorelei squeal happily. The recoil had sent Devide stumbling back a step with the gun pointing at the ceiling. Jane swiped a full bottle of gin off the counter and covered the distance between them with frightening speed. The bottle exploded over Devide’s head, soaking them with gin and blood. Devide sagged to the ground with his head at an unnatural angle. “Oh baby, baby no!” Lorelei screamed. She fell over his body. “Wake up, wake up, please.” Jane grabbed the back of her head and slit her throat with the broken bottle. “Drama queen.” She turned and looked at me. “It’s Garrett right? I’ve heard of you. I’m sorry about this, but it’s way less risky for me to get rid of one extra body then it is to have a witness running around.” She raised the bottle. “You’re right,” I said. I flicked my zippo and tossed it at her gin sodden robe. She went up like a bonfire. I stepped into the back room and put all my weight on the door to hold it shut while she screamed and pounded on it. When it was quiet, I opened the door. I grabbed my gun, stepped over the bodies and went out the door as the place caught fire, reflecting on the dangers of alcohol. “It’s true for ladies too,” I whispered to Ouma.
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Aug 23, 2012 15:49
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I better submit this before I chicken out. As a preface, I’m a male Native American/White (My family got their freak on too much to list the different shades of white). No Coming Back – word count 1498 It was raining in Georgetown again. Guyana never looked good, but with a gray sky it looked even more purulent. Maybe I was projecting, rain always ruined my mood. But there was definitely something in the air, something pungent and foul. I’d just shut my office for the day. I worked the cases the police didn’t care about- usually crimes in the gay community, but every now and then a trans person would come in. Everyone wanted justice, but justice wasn’t as blind as they lead you to believe- we were the only South American nation where you could be still prosecuted for homosexuality. I was on my way to pick up my boyfriend. He’d worked a double shift today, something he detested but never fought against. I told him they were trying to force him out but he was stubborn. His temper had gotten him into a lot of trouble in the past. I ran into the bank out of the rain, shaking off my coat. I’d expected the rain to drive everyone in, but the bank was surprisingly empty. Jian was behind the counter working. He was the child of Chinese immigrants, but they hadn’t spoken to him since he came out. In spite of his usual demeanor it sent him into depression every now and then. “That’s our relationship,” I told myself. “Two broken people trying to pull each other back together.” Jian looked up and smiled. I smiled back and approached the counter. He came around and kissed me. “How was your day?” I asked him. “Same old.” He replied, stepping away from the counter. “Vanessa’s being crotchety again.” “You need to quit this job, Jian.” “They’ll have to fire me.” “Come on. You deserve a better than this.” “I deserve to not have to hide who I am.” He shot back. We were at the door when he noticed he’d left his umbrella. “Be right back!” He shouted as he ran towards the desk. I noticed his manager, Vanessa, staring at me disapprovingly. Guyana was as accepting of gays as it was of blacks; strained tolerance at best and outright hostility at worst. My being a gay black man certainly wasn’t helping. I tried convincing Jian to move with me somewhere more accepting in the past, but he was convinced that he could outfight everyone else. I put my coat back on, threading the prosthetic through the sleeve. This was my memento from my days in the GDF. The arm was probably older than me. At least I had a hand instead of a hook. “Look on the bright side,” I thought, “this thing brought you to Jian.” I noticed two men huddled outside in the rain. Something felt wrong. When the first turned around with a gun, I had no time to react. I was on my rear end as they charged in, both holding pistols. The second one, trailing behind with a limp, kicked me in the head as he charged past. Everything went dark. When I came to a police officer was loading me onto a stretcher. He was Pardo Brazilian, named Bernardes according to his nametag. “What happened?” I asked, dazed. “You have a slight concussion.” Bernardes replied. I stood and looked around. Police milled about, but one thing stood out. Jian was missing. “Where’s Jian?” I asked. “Who? The teller? He…he didn’t make it.” “What!?” I turned around, my heart racing. “He tried to stop them. He got shot.” He looked at me. “If it’s any consolation, we arrested one of them.” My mind reeled. I felt sick. Jian… I should have done something. “Done what?” I let the thought hang. I wasn’t sure what to do. Jian had been the one to pull me out of the bottle after I lost my arm. He brought me around and sobered me up. If it hadn’t been for him I probably would have killed myself long ago. Now he was gone. I turned back to Bernardes. My legs were weak and I had to lean against a desk for support. “Where’s the robber you detained?” “Why?” “I need to speak to him.” “Too bad.” “He shot my boyfriend, goddammit.” “Boyfriend? You-you’re gay? Listen, Bicha, you can’t see him.” I don’t know what made me madder, the insult or his refusal. I turned and left before I lost my composure. My mind raced. The police would only care about the money. No one would give a poo poo that a gay man was killed. No one else would get justice for Jian. It was up to me “If I can’t get to the robber from the outside, I’ll have to get to him from the inside.” I was acting before I finished thinking. I turned and looked at Bernardes. He was still looking at me. His face screwed up in surprise, then fear. He tried to dodge, but I was faster, hitting him hard across the face. By the sound he made I must have broken his jaw. The three nearest police officers charged, just as I’d hoped. The cuffs were on me before I hit the ground. I’ve worked with police enough to know one important thing: Police are idiots. They try but they can’t help it. They put me in a cage with a dozen others and let me keep my coat and arm. They hardly even searched me for contraband. I saw the robber right away. Joseph, an East-Indian kid grinning like a fool. I played dumb, like I was impressed by the robbery. Through broken English and Guyanese Creole we made friends real quick. A black officer approached and banged on the bars. “Piss break.” This was my chance. Slim odds, but I’d played worse before. The officer made us cuff ourselves with another prisoner. No one was paying attention; I’d cuffed Joseph to my prosthetic. The officer marched us out down a hall to a restroom with a bench out front and uncuffed the first pair. He sent the first man in and cuffed the second to his own wrist. “Joseph, I have a plan.” I whispered. “I can slip these cuffs. You have a place to hide?” He nodded in understanding. “Good. Hold onto this.” When I took off my prosthetic, it caught him off guard. “gently caress!” Everyone froze and stared. I bolted for the door, Joseph behind me. The officer gave chase but the inmate cuffed to him slowed him down. Joseph and I made it to the door and escaped before anyone could stop us. Joseph led me to his partner’s shack near Buxton. Figures two lowlifes would come from that cess pit. Emanuel, the partner, was East-Indian as well. He had been the man that kicked me in the head. His foot twisted inwards, limiting his movement to a shuffling gait. We were sitting at a table with the bank money on it discussing our getaway. “And the police didn’t follow you two?” Emanuel asked, aiming a pistol at me. “They didn’t seem to care too much.” Emanuel was trying to think but came up blank. “It seems a bit too easy.” “What can I me to say? Police can’t be bothered to scratch their asses if it means they have to stand up.” Emanuel nodded in agreement. I looked at the money on the table. Was Jian’s life worth this little? Maybe for these two, but not for me. “You can hide here, but don’t touch the money.” Emanuel stood and left the room. He left the pistol on the table. “Joseph, give him his arm.” “It’s still cuffed to me.” Joseph said. “The hand screws off.” I offered. Joseph pulled the hand off and gave me the arm. I took it and grabbed the pistol. “Who’d you shoot at the bank?” “Why?” Emanuel asked. “Just curious.” “Just some human being. Had it coming.” Joseph offered flippantly. I was beginning to lose my composure. Joseph went to the fridge. I aimed the gun and stood. “Anyone want a beer?” He asked. Emanuel turned around just in time to see Joseph’s head explode. Emanuel tried to run. He couldn’t go fast with his limp. I caught him as he reached the window. “Don’t.” Was all I could say. I held the gun to the back of his head, trying to keep it from shaking. Emanuel fell to his knees, sobbing. “Take the money.” He pleaded. “I don’t want the money.” “What then?” “You killed him.” “The teller?” “He was the only good thing in my life, and you took him from me.” That broke him. He bawled like a baby. Confessed every sin and swore it was an accident. He begged for mercy. It didn’t help him. There was no coming back from this. I’d fooled myself into believing I could be a decent person. With Jian gone, so was my chance at salvation. I had nothing to lose anymore. Forget redemption, I wanted revenge. My ears were still ringing when I walked out.
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Aug 23, 2012 18:19
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The Cave Bear and the Lion Word Count: 1900 The air was cool in Der’s subterranean hut. Gazelle pelts litter the ground and lined the walls, preventing condensation through the crude stone walls. Der’s skin was like creased leather and most of his teeth had fallen out long ago. But his hands were steadfast and his eyes sharper than most in the village. Der decorated himself with feathers and shells, draped across his back was the pelt of a cave bear that he had killed in his youth. Der sat on a gazelle pelt in the center of his hut preparing a dinner of root plants and grains, a crackling fire off to his right cast shadows and warmth into the room, warding off the encroaching twilight. He was surprised when he heard the rustle of men outside his hut, who amongst his tiny village would be so stupid to wander around in the dark outside his home? He slowly got to his feet and wiped the dust off his bear cloak. They wouldn’t enter his hut unless he invited them in, some stupid superstition about his power to curse interlopers. He liked to propagate the rumor because it kept people from forming lines into his hut to fix stupid problems. Der stood at the bottom of the sloped floor leading up into the village’s center. “HOAAH! Who would trouble old man Der at twilight!” “Medicine man! We come with news of death and require your aid.” a young voice yelled back. Der scratched the stubble on his chin which he kept short with a simple broken piece of flint. Life was the province of women in his village but death was his. He would heed its call someday, whether at the tip of a spear or the sharp pangs of age. “Enter man, bring your news.” Der said. Der sat back down and continued to crush seeds with his mortar and pestle. He didn’t look up at them as they stood over him. A loud thump startled him and he glared at them. On his dirt floor lay the body of a boy, the firelight cast a pale orange glow on the body’s skin. “What manner of news is this?” Der took a bite out of a small brown tuber and continued to glare at the two men. The older man stepped forward, his eyes were cold. “I found the body of my son dead in the hills, medicine man, there was no blood, there was no one there, why have the gods taken my son from me?” “Lim, this is grave news indeed, come back to me in the morning, leave the body,” Der stuffed the rest of the tuber in his mouth and ground it to a pulp with his remaining molars. “No medicine man, you come with me tonight, my son is dead and I lust for blood,” Lim said. “You dare make demands of me? Quell your anger and come back tomorrow, I have spoken, Lim, and you will abide.” Lim’s nostrils flared but he turned and left Der’s hut. Der sighed and set aside his ruined dinner. Lim always challenged him, in some future life perhaps Lim would learn why his line were warriors and not medicine men. Der didn’t trust men like Lim, men who put ferocity ahead of wits. Der scooched over to the body without standing and rolled it over on its back. He squinted a bit and ran his hands down the body starting at the head. He found the skull cracked and a few bruises, but nothing to indicate what had caused it. He examined the feet and found shallow scratch marks on the left foot. Der chuckled, he reached behind him and grabbed a piece of flint and dug it into the body’s wrist. He tasted the blood that oozed out and spat. It was bitter with poison. He shook his head and stood up. Death was his province and he would not let the boy’s flesh be disrespected any more than it already was. He affixed a small crown of beads on the boy’s head and draped a large plant and seashell blanket over the boy. He said a few words to calm the spirit of the boy. Der laid down on his cot and stared into the fire. He wondered how Lim slept. The next day Lim and his older son led Der into the wilderness and up the mountain path to where he’d found the body. Der kept a watchful eye on Lim, sometimes the younger man would stop and glance with one eye back at Der. He imagined the cauldron of anger seething behind that glare. When they got to the site Der told them to hold back while he examined the area. The game path was lined with lush greenery and tall vine covered trees. Der squatted examined the path, there was no blood, nothing displaced. It was too clean. “Are you sure this is exactly where you found your son’s body Lim?” Der asked. “I am the best tracker amongst our people. Do you suggest I don’t know these paths like the bottom of my feet?” “Perhaps,” Der got down on his knees and felt amongst the underbrush, small animals squirmed and rushed into the underbrush. He brushed something solid and furry with his hand. He was about to grab it when he felt the razor sharp point of Lim’s spear pressed into the back of his neck. “What is this stupidity Lim! You would disrespect me like this even as I do your will?” “You are nothing but an old decrepit man, yet the women listen to you, the men respect you, the village is latched onto your teat. How do you think they will feel when I reveal you to be false?” Der slowly got to his feet and turned around, Lim’s spear was at eye level. “No man would betray another of his kind like this. You know this.” “If you were a true prophet you could have foreseen the death of my son, you could have prevented it.” Lim pressed his bone spear into Der’s collar bone, a small trickle of blood ran down his bare chest. “I am only doing what is right for my people, what they deserve.” Behind Der someone stamped their feet and hooted. “The Great Bear Der is here, the stars were correct my brothers,” a deep voice said. Der lowered his arms and turned around to face three familiar figures standing on the trail. Der immediately bowed. “My Sultanian brothers, I am humbled to see you again.” “My companions did not believe that Der had killed a great cave bear in his youth, yet there is the pelt upon his back!” one of the Sultanian men said. “I am out here aiding my friend Lim, his son was killed at this very spot.” “And we saw him about to end you, friend Natufian, from on top of the ridge further along here. Was he not happy with your help?” Lim and his son stood quiet and wide eyed behind Der. Killing the old man was simple, no one was to know how it had happened. Now more pieces were in play. Lim stunk of fear. “I fear something is amiss, if you will but pardon me for one second,” The Sultanian’s nodded. Der got down on his knees again and pulled out the hard furry object. It was the dried claw of some great cat, its razor sharp claws distended grotesquely. Der turned around and approached Lim. He tapped the dried claw against his palm “We shall go back to the village now, we have much to discuss.” “You accuse me of killing my son?” Lim said. His spear vibrated in his hand. “I accuse you of nothing, brother. You cannot run from the truth.” The Sultanians accompanied Der and Lim back to the village. Der caught a small boy and told him to blow the Horn of Calling. They continued to the center of the village, a great hollow whining accompanied them as the boy blew the horn again and again. Der had the Sultanians surround Lim and his son at spear point as people shuffled into the village center to hear Der speak. Der cleared his throat “My people! A great tragedy has befallen us, the younger son of Lim was murdered,” Gasps and angry yells followed, “he was killed for the selfish reason of bringing me alone into the forest so your only recourse would be to appoint Lim’s family in my stead when I didn’t return!” People were frothing by then, angry and dangerously close to tearing up Lim right on the spot. The hunters edged closer to Der, threatened by his accusations against their greatest hunter. Der simply held up the claw and walked over to Lim. He continued to glare at Lim and spoke. “This beast’s claw is laced with the poison that killed Lim’s son, I tasted the bitterness in the boy’s blood, if Lim did not kill his youngest then this claw will have no poison on it, and I will give myself to him for judgment,” Der pulled Lim’s son away from him and into the center of the crowd. Der held the claw against the boy’s neck, almost breaking his skin. “This is the last of your blood Lim, with him goes the last of you. Does the claw have poison on it or not?” “What does it matter! I will die a proud warrior, not some medicine man’s lap dog,” Lim spat and stood there visibly shaking. “Did you kill your son coward? Because you are scared of the power I wield? I have dominion over death Lim, but I can grant you another chance, your son stands steadfast and unwavering in my hands, he would make an excellent apprentice, such a waste,” Der pressed the claw against the boy’s flesh. Lim dropped to his knees, tears streamed down his face. “Do not take away from me what I can’t replace Der, I killed my son because he was weak, because I wanted your strength, your power. Don’t kill what I can’t replace.” “Then you offer yourself in his place?” Der removed the claw from the boy’s neck. Lim was deep in despair now, spittle and tears ran down his face. He crawled over to Der and pathetically grabbed at the great bear cloak. Der knelt down and cradled Lim in his arms. He whispered to Lim, “This is our pact then brother, signed in blood and death. Your child will be mine, as will his son’s sons. I will make something of you in him because you could not do it yourself in this life,” Der took the claw and raked it across Lim’s throat. It was over fast. Der stood. “Justice has been done, give Lim the burial of a warrior, give him what he so wanted in life,” Der watched them lift the body and take it away. Der Walked over to the boy and put his arm around him. “We have much to discuss and much to do. I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time,” Der said as they walked together to his hut.
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Aug 23, 2012 18:56
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Well, I wrote something sort of depressing again. Stuporstar, don't read this if you're still on painkillers; or, alternatively, do read it only on painkillers. Probably makes my prose read better. And for the purposes of a full disclosure, I could not be more of a WASP if I tried. Brittle Butterfly (1,463 words) The rain fell sparse upon the Earth the night my brother died. I could not cry, so Heaven cried. Even in Hell, Allah is merciful. I could not hold his hands in my own, for his were splintered, fingers torn, palms dangling from the wrists by flaps of skin and sinew. I could not look into his eyes, for they, too, were gone, charred and bloodied. This is how I had found him. I could only whisper into his ear. “Fee amaan Allah.” In the protection of Allah. “Inna lillahe wa inna ilaihe raajeoon.” We belong to Allah, and to Allah we return. We were born alone into this world, my brother and I. It was he who named me, and I, him. Sahar. Sleeplessness. Isam. Security. Now at last, Sahar would sleep soundly. Nothing on his person was astray, but tucked behind his ear, a cigarette, white, and crumpled. And unlit. “Sahar. I swear to you. I will find who did this to you.” “Isam! Isam!” The Prophet Muhammad—peace be upon him—condemns a woman wearing the clothes of a man. Yet we had no money for the Hajib, and wherever we went, the boys would never consort with a girl. But, “Allah is understanding.” My hair cut short, my mouth kept shut, I was still young enough to pass for my brother’s brother, if only just. I used to watch in silence as he tripped over the words we had practiced together, words that sounded so natural from me weaving unevenly on his tongue. Now, it was to be my turn. “Isam! Isam!” The boys had gathered in an outlet off the market square, between the carpet sellers, calling to me. I waded through the crowds, the traffic of fabrics, the fluttering Khimar. The eldest boy extended his hand. I took it. “Isam. You looked lost. Distant. Is the sight of helicopters really so distracting?” Helicopters. The soldiers. From the north, a country called Russia, I had been told. They had begun arriving recently, here to save us from the “Dushman,” though I do not know what that is. No one can understand them. “It is not important.” The eldest boy cracked a smile, laughing, and the others with him. “Isam! Always, so silent, so serious, and now a voice, like a songbird! No wonder you should keep such a thing to yourself.” “Please. I have no time for this.” “So harsh, Isam, though I suppose that is not so different. What brings you to market today?” “My brother.” “Ah, Sahar, yes. Saw him alone yesterday. Unusual, for either of you. Where is he?” “He is...he is resting.” A wary silence consumed the boys. “…Resting…your brother?” "…Do you mean-" “Yes.” From my sleeve, I produced the single cigarette. “I found this, behind his ear. My brother could not stand even the smell of incense. Do you know where or why he would have this?” The eldest boy collected the cigarette from me, studying it. Another boy, suddenly discomforted, retrieved from his pocket a box in cheap paper packaging, foreign letters printed flat across the surface, and from there pulled a cigarette of his own. Held together, they were the same. “What is this? Where did you get those?” “These? Cigarettes. Like the soldiers smoke. The Russians.” “Is that Russian? Those letters?” “I believe so.” “Where did you get them?” “Another boy. Diya. His father’s house is open to the soldiers. They keep their supplies there. Sometimes he retrieves a thing or two. His father does not know. The soldiers do not know either.” “Allah knows,” I said, irritated. The boy looked to his shoes. “Diya, he likes to impress. He will retrieve anything. But only for a trusted friend, or the trusted friend of a trusted friend.” “And how does Diya know who is trusted?” The boy took back his own cigarette, tucking it behind his ear, close to his cap. “Jazakallaho ahsanal jaza.” Diya’s father was a rich man, and pious. His house was to the west, near the mosque, closest to Mecca. The house itself served as garrison for the soldiers. I could not enter, but had no need. Diya spent his afternoons behind his father’s house, by the fountain, in the shade of the poplar. “Ah, ah, a visitor. Assalamo alaikum wa rahmatullahe wa barakatohu.” Diya was not so young as I had been lead to believe. They called him a boy, but really, he was almost a man. His voice carried like silk on the wind, his eyes dull and tired, but his lips curved in a practiced smile. “Wa alaikum salaam,” I returned his greeting, accepting his hand. “Well now, well now, you are certainly a fairer boy than I have ever seen.” “…I am here on an inquiry,” I took the cigarette from behind my ear. Diya chuckled. “And your voice, like a stern melody.” I stared at him a moment. “It…is a source of much embarrassment, to tell the truth.” Diya’s eyes narrowed. “Well.” He gestured for the cigarette. I handed it to him, and he produced a lighter. There was a click, and the cigarette caught, burning faintly, a thin trail of smoke drifting to the sky. Diya held it to his mouth, and breathed deep. “I thought, at first, you might be older. Perhaps only bigger. Fret not, fret not, age and experience will shape you yet.” Alhamdo lillah. Alhamdo lillah. “What is your name, friend?” “I am Isam. Only Isam.” “Isam, Isam. It is a good name. I am Muhammad Diya Kamal, though if you carry this,” he took the cigarette from his mouth, tracing the air with it, “You already know this.” He offered the cigarette back to me. I took it, in curiosity, then held it to my own lips, breathing in as Diya had. Fog and fire choked my throat. I spit the cigarette out, coughing, holding my neck. Again, Diya chuckled. “An acquired taste, perhaps.” “I…I am sure. But…but this is not what I am here for.” “Yes?” “I have a brother. A boy named Sahar. That was his cigarette. Did you know him?” Diya scratched his chin. “Sahar. Sahar, Sahar…yes, yes I did. Your brother? An odd pair, you are.” “What did he come for?” “Trinkets. They all come for trinkets, the soviet exotics in storage. Not my idea, but their smiles warm my heart.” “Stealing? From the Russian stores?” “The soldiers bring many things I am sure they will not miss. I do not touch the weapons or the bullets. But the magazines and coffee, the cigarettes, and toys, even.” “…Toys? The soldiers bring toys?” Diya nodded, expectantly. He reached down, retrieving something from beneath the cool of the bench, handing it to me. “I do not understand it myself. They have crates and crates of them. I decided to only take a few.” It was a curious object. Lime green and rigid, yet smooth to the touch, and a most peculiar shape. Like a butterfly, with a silver neck, and a leaden wing. “Toss it upward,” Diya suggested. It caught in the air, and spun, fluttering gently to the ground. “It is more entertaining from a great height, I think. Your brother thought so, too. I took only two, but gave him one. It looked to make him happy.” I stared at the butterfly as it lay, cradled in the sand. “Jazakallaho ahsanal jaza,” I bowed to Diya, leaving him to his toy. I walked a great distance, to the edge of the city, to think. I had seen no such thing in my brother’s possession. Had another boy seen him, and killed him, and taken it for his own? Had a soldier spied him playing with a missing toy? What soldiers brought toys to a foreign land? My thoughts were interrupted by the helicopters. The sky became filled with them, gray and heavy, spreading outward in every direction. The soldiers were deploying. On some, the doors slid open, and it began to rain. Green butterflies. Hundreds of them, dancing, descending slowly from the flock of steel birds. Something was wrong. I ran out a ways and stopped, just short of the field of false butterflies. They were the same as Diya’s, green and imbalanced, but no trace of silver. I wanted to reach out, to touch one, but something inside me stayed my hand. There was a rock at my feet. I kicked it towards the thing. There was a crack, like thunder, broken glass, and a spurt of smoke and flame. The sight, the sound of it toppled me, shielding my eyes, my head. At last I looked back. A smoldering circle, charred black, was all that remained of the rock or the butterfly. “Astaghferullah.” I seek forgiveness from Allah.
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Aug 23, 2012 21:55
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Did you just write gay, Hispanic noir? Dammit. I've been doing actual research this week, so damned if I'm going to start again because someone got to my idea first. Onward, to glory!  By the by, Puerto Rican swearing is amazing. They've got that poo poo down to an art.
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Aug 23, 2012 23:05
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Did you just write gay, Hispanic noir? Mi cabron está emocionado.
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Aug 23, 2012 23:59
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:By the by, Puerto Rican swearing is amazing. They've got that poo poo down to an art. It's so  when foreigners discover our Puerto Ricans.I'm gonna have the two Puerto Rican officers I work with read your story, and if even one foul word is out of place, automatic -50 points. 
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Aug 24, 2012 01:43
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Martello posted:It's so 
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Aug 24, 2012 02:27
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I'm posting a 10-point Research Bounty. If you or someone you know is a member of a group or resident of a locale discussed in this week's batch of stories, and you see a blatant error related* to your group or locale, be the first kid to share the following with the thread and earn a 10-point bump on my own, personal score sheet: 1) What the error is; 2) Why it's an error; and 3) Why you're qualified to accuse your fellow goon. Be warned, though -- if you suggest that a particular thing "would never happen that way", but the author can source what they assert in their story with a reliable publication, you'll lose 20 points for being (A) wrong about a subject you ought to know and (B) a rat. *Error must be significant to the culture and environment of the story. A misplaced left turn doesn't count.
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Aug 24, 2012 02:46
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Howdy. Newb entry alert. 1275 Words Straight Asian male from NYC. Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society: After the Promise Dreaming ended abruptly. A light splash from the ebb tide and She was awake. Her dark body glistened from the sea spray in the tropical sun. The dream left her nostalgically content, but the details were fading fast. She recalled an old American movie, translated into French and shown on TV. The Promise, if she recalled correctly. A simple, yet elegant love story. She remembered it fondly. She watched The Promise the night before her children were born. Her children! She was a mother. She was their Mother. Panic fell on her like a giant, crushing stone. Still disoriented, she turned and turned, pirouetting in fear and dread. Broken trees. Debris. Flotsam and jetsam. No children to be seen. "Help!" she cried hopelessly to the air and sea and anyone that had an ear to hear. "Help me! My children!" A voice called back. "What is the matter, Manman?" A figure came into view from the wavy heat. "Monsieur Skarabe! Thank the gods!" Manman half screeched and half whispered in her desperation. Monsieur Skarabe's bulbous but powerful form lumbered closer. It was obvious he was of mixed heritage, as many on the island were nowadays. The Monsieur was darker than the wet sand beneath their feet, yet lighter than Manman. "Are you all right, mademoiselle?" Monsieur Skarabe said in his usual genuinely caring tone. "I am fine, Monsieur, but my children..." Manman said, trailing into sorrow and disbelief. Monsieur Skarabe attempted to calm Manman. "Before this whole mess, they were home, wi?" he began. Home. "Of course!" Manman thought. Home, the small hill by the farmer's house. And Manman was off. "Thank you, Monsieur!" “I am sure they are fine, Manman!” he called after. Not long after Skarabe was out of view, hunger wrenched Manman. A ravenous appetite held her from her forward momentum. Her nurturing nature was being superceded by a more primal force. A caterpillar crawled along the jungle floor. Manman pounced on her prey and bit and bit. From torn flesh gushed the inner goo of the poor creature. It died, and Manman was satisfied, for now. Further along into the jungle, Manman heard the sound of work ahead. Leaves rustling, construction, voices. As she made her way towards the sounds, the scene Manman found made her eyes grow wide. Dead. Corpses strewn about, carpeting the ground. Lifeless, yet unbroken bodies. Waterlogged husks with liquid oozing out of orifices. "Manman!" called two voices simultaneously. The brothers Foumi, Alexander and Jean. Hard working and strong young men, they were said to be of singular mind. "What?" Manman began, quivering with horror. “We are glad to see you are not harmed,” said one brother, Manman knew not which. “Yes,” said the other. “Truly, a disastrous event. But, now there is work to be done. Those that are yet alive need to think about continuing to live.” And with that, the brothers continued their work, arranging the corpses in a line for transport. Transport into cave of some sort? Manman knew not the reason but thought probably for burial rites. Manman snapped back to the task at hand. "My children!" There were bodies of children about. So many children. So many young, and old, too. The strong and fit. Ones she knew in life and ones not known. So many dead. "Not here," the brothers said together, not even looking up to address her while they worked. And that was how Manman left the Foumi brothers, continuing with their gruesome business. The jungle cleared into farmland. The hill next to the farm house would not be far now. Home was still a little while off, though. Just beyond the clearing, Manman spotted a chicken, and opportunity reignited her hunger. In an instant, she was on the chicken, piercing flesh with teeth. Blood spewed into Manman's mouth, and she savored the taste. When she had her fill of gore, Manman continued on. Through the gaps between some tall grass, Manman made out a familiar face. Sotrel, the jolly freebooter. Her long-legged and lanky old friend looked confused. Manman called out to him. "Sotrel!" He slowly turned to look her way. He was pale, as if he saw the ghost of his grann. "Dead, all dead, and for what?" Sotrel muttered to himself as he looked away from her. "Sotrel, where are my children?" Manman demanded. "Gone. All gone," Sotrel continued to mumble, pacing to and fro. “Gone. All gone. Gone, all gone.” Slowly, methodically, and with increasing volume, Manman said, “Sotrel. What. Happened. To. My. Children?” Sotrel snapped out of his pacing, his face contorting in pure fear. “Agwe,” he whispered. "Agwe?" Manman said, thinking out loud. Splashes of memory bubbled in Manman's mind. Her recollection of recent events still hidden from her. “How quickly you forget the gods!” he snapped. “The storm? The rain? The flood?” Sotrel pantomimed his words, long limbs flailing about in an almost humorous fashion if not for the circumstances. Key words began to illuminate in Manman’s mind. Storm. Flood. Hill next to the house. Home! Manman rushed as fast as she could, her heart pounding and body aching in anticipation of finding her children. The small hill by the farmer's house. Again and again as she moved. The small hill by the farmer's house. The small hill by the farmer's house. Nothing. Manman found nothing. No children. No hill. No home. No trace of anything, just saturated soft ground. Manman thought she must be lost. She looked around and saw the landmarks. The farmer's house. The tall grass, the jungle. How could a hill disappear? Who could move such a thing? A sinking feeling slowly overwhelmed her. "Why?" cried Manman. "Why?" she demanded of Agwe and all the gods. Manman continued with her questioning in despair. Disappearing memories spotted her consciousness. Her children. Their birth. The joy of motherhood. A silly love story she saw the night before that made such an impression on her that linked all those fond thoughts together. The farmer boomed out of his house. His long grey beard was a stark contrast to his dark bald scalp. The thin man scratched his protruding potbelly and said loudly, "What a waste," as he surveyed his surroundings. Rage filled Manman at this point and she wanted to cause harm. Harm to anyone and anything in her path. She screamed out of loss and frustration. She screamed and charged for the farmer. Manman attacked relentlessly, the old man defending himself in futile. She bit deeply into the farmer's neck, a mouth full of skin peeled from his body. "You are annoying the Christmas out of me!" bellowed the farmer, finding some strength to fight back. And with that, Manman flew off. "drat horse fly!" said the farmer, cursing Manman as her silhouette faded from view against the now setting sun. Manman would always remember The Promise, the reminder of her latest batch of children. She wanted to keep the memory of her happy maggots, gorging themselves in the hill of animal filth next to the farm house. She had to keep the memory of her children, washed away in Agwe's storm and flood. Now, Manman needed to think about the future. She needed to think of the eggs swelling insider her, loved and nourished, bathed in the feast of blood and flesh she had that day. A new dawn and new children would come, soon. Melissa Manchester's voice resonated in Manman's mind, singing the song from The Promise. When I say "always," I mean "forever." I trust tomorrow as much as today. I'm not afraid to say "I love you," and I promise you I'll never say "goodbye."
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Aug 24, 2012 05:10
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Alright, threw on some Depression-era jazz, poured myself a whiskey, and pounded out some noir for the gods of the Thunderdome. For the purpose of determining diversity, I am just a boring straight white dude. Without further ado: Ghost (1285 words) “Those things creep me out.” Sokkim followed Lieutenant Yun’s gaze to one of the security cameras. They were always watching. Invisible arbiters, unblinking red eyes sweeping back and forth in broad, silent arcs. “They don’t have those back home?” “A few downtown, but not like this. They’re everywhere up here.” “You get used to it.” “Yeah, well. I don’t like to think about some guy sitting at a desk watching me all day. I don’t even want to scratch my rear end around one.” Yun was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. “So speaking of home –” “Born and raised a few blocks away, believe it or not.” “No poo poo?” Sokkim knew he wasn’t actually interested, that he was just hoping to validate some inward speculation about his complexion, dark even by Khmer standards. In fact he was the son of a South African consul who had perhaps been overly diplomatic, which didn’t stop him from putting as much distance as possible between himself and Cambodia as soon as his stint at the embassy was finished. But at least Yun had the balls to ask him. Most of the others pretended not to notice until he was out of earshot. *** Sokkim was sleeping off the last of a jug of Carlo Rossi when the alert came through. First one in nearly a month. The piercing chirps from his cochlear implant made him wince. It was always too loud, but drinking made it worse. He dressed quickly, patted his pockets for the keys, and headed out. Stepping into the hallway was like arriving in some new and savagely vibrant world. His head felt heavy. Someone or others’ neglected brood of children entertained themselves by stomping up and down the stairwell. From next door came the muffled shouting of the Cheys, who argued daily and had long since given up any pretense of modesty. Ong was cooking a sweet potato curry and fried prahok with his door propped open so that the smell of it hung in the air like a pungent fog. Sokkim propped himself up against the wall and concentrated on breathing deeply until he heard the ding and the elevator doors glided open. Lieutenant Yun was already waiting for him in the lobby. He looked up and shook his head. “I’ll drive.” *** “They’ve done a preliminary walkthrough and taken samples already. No sign of the weapon, and footage confirms nothing’s been touched.” “Got a name?” The lieutenant pulled up it up on his datapad. “Heng Sen. Forty-two years of age, never married, worked in research and development with a Chinese-backed defense contractor called Shenlong Group for the past six years.” The body was sprawled out near the curb. There was a small puckered hole just below his right eye where the bullet had passed before blowing out the back of his skull in a bloody wad. Powder burns around the entry wound meant he had been shot at point-blank range. Sokkim fished in the man’s pockets and found a bloated wallet band. Cash, cards, receipts, grocery list. Not a botched mugging, then. He unfolded the first receipt. The Stagger Inn, a little bar off of Norodom Boulevard, stamped for the night before. It was a useful place for someone in Sokkim’s line of work, and for more than one reason. He stood and scanned the area, picking out three cameras. Something wasn’t right; between them there should have been a clear view from every angle. The heap of biometric systems housed in each one was enough to identify someone even in the worst of conditions. He turned to Yun. “What happened to the cameras?” Yun had a faraway look in his eyes. “Cameras are fine.” “Then why are we here?” “Because whoever shot him wasn’t on the footage.” Yun brought the film up on a loop. A lone Heng Sen crumpled from three angles, rose from the dead, crumpled again. “But the powder burns…how?” “No idea. We thought maybe someone hacked into it or edited the footage, but that went nowhere. As far as we can tell none of the cameras have been tampered with. No remote access, no image manipulation, no signal disruption.” Yun sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Hell, maybe we’re hunting a ghost.” *** Sokkim pulled up to The Stagger Inn an hour before closing. He passed through the gravel lot, under the archway where the bar’s name hummed and winked in dull neon. It was almost empty inside. Two women sitting at the bar whispered something about “the negrito” and erupted into drunken giggles. He edged past them and dropped into one of the booths where a hulking man had surrounded himself in a galaxy of shot glasses. “Champ” Chanta, a legitimate heavyweight contender before he switched to pounding gin instead. He might have been unpredictable in every other regard, but Sokkim could always count on finding him here. “What can I do you for?” “I’m wondering if you saw a guy that came by last night.” “Maybe.” “You’d remember him. Gray suit, moustache, lovely haircut.” Chanta shot him a huge Cheshire grin. “Yeah, he was in here. Didn’t stay long though. There was another guy that came in about an hour before your man showed up. They got to talking and left together. Looked like they were meeting up after work.” “Why’d you say that?” “They had the same name badges, with the big red S.” Sokkim furrowed his brow. “You remember what he looked like?” “He was close to your height, maybe a little shorter, pretty well-built. Younger guy. Not much of a looker, though. Don’t think I could pick him out of a crowd or anything.” “Did you notice any tattoos, piercings, things like that?” “Nah, nothing like that.” “Well look, I appreciate it.” Sokkim waited for the camera above the bar to pass over him and slid a few bills across the table. “Why don’t you give me that partner of yours’ number instead?” “He’s married.” Chanta drained his gin. He swirled the empty tumbler and the ice cubes chinked together. “Shame.” Sokkim pressed the money into his palm and motioned the bartender to bring the Champ another round. He called Lieutenant Yun in the parking lot. “I want you to look into Shenlong Group. We can push through an expedited warrant if you need it. Comb their logs for any projects our new friend was working on. And patch me in if you find anything.” *** No sooner had he pulled into the apartment garage that Yun’s voice crackled to life inside his ear. “Alright. Says here Hen was working on three projects, all filed as military contracts. Let’s see. Improved stabilizing fins for long-rod ordnance, readiness testing on caseless munitions…” his voice trailed off. “poo poo.” “Yun?” “Battlefield applications of phased-array optical camouflage. Development status listed as final as of Monday.” Sokkim broke the long silence. “Jesus.” “What the hell are we supposed to do now? Whoever did this, how are we supposed to find them? He’s loving invisible.” “Listen. Get the names of everyone else attached to that project and lock them down. I don’t want any communications, ingoing or outgoing, and I don’t want them leaving the country.” The nausea of that morning had been replaced in his stomach by icy knots. He rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. There were no sounds in the hallway now. Sokkim entered his apartment and collapsed on the couch without undressing. Tomorrow he would meet with what remained of the Shenlong committee, and when he finished he would begin hunting a ghost.
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Aug 24, 2012 06:46
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Pakeha male, 40, Irish and Scots by heritage. Straight. Lion, in the rain. The river was flooding again. Chao Phraya in the monsoon was like a lover on a hot night, throwing itself around, making everything wet and smelly. The city took it, with a grumble. Me, I was dry and happy, cross-legged on my shop. My little sign next to me; lettered by a helpful old farang before he got frisky and I had to prick him with a pineapple knife. "Singha Recoveries," the sign said in English. "No find, no fee". I'd drawn the lion myself. The dry came from not being wet, as my dead mother used to say, and the happy came from good business. I was two recovered iPods, a cell phone and 2000 baht up on the day, and there was a whiff of commerce in my nose. Smelt just like river fug. During the floods, everything did. "Sawasdee kaa," from my left. I looked up. Nice skirt, long hair, red lips. Pretty lady - no, not lady. Kathoey. I smiled and wai'd deeply. Always good to be polite to customers. "You find things, little one? I'm looking for a book. Small, black cover with a fish on it. This big." She mimed a space big enough for a pack of cigarettes. Huh. I put my hands down into my lap, tapped my index fingers together a few times. "Where did you lose it?" She waved an elegant hand. "Black Pagoda, last night. From my bag, while I was on stage - the owner took it, I am almost sure. He -- ". She glanced up the road and her beautiful lips pursed at something she saw. "I have to go. 60,000 if you can find it for me." She dropped a card on my mat and was gone the other way before I could haggle, a swirl of something expensive in her wake. I looked up Khao San Road in the direction that had spooked her, saw a fat mass of fluoro-dressed farangi, a couple of scooters, a tight-trousered street cop strutting his beat. The usual. I began folding up my shop anyway. This warranted a close-up look. 60k was a nice haul for a few questions if I could turn up the ladyboy's missing - client list? Diary? Whatever, not my business. I slung my little bundle over my shoulder and trotted through the crowd. Ten minutes later I was squatting on my haunches over the street from the Pagoda, eating noodles as I watched the bouncer smoke a cigarette. He looked like one of the boxers I'd seen at Ratchadamnoen a few nights back, rangy and bulging with muscle. I finished my noodles and sniffed. The air was thickening up, I was guessing we were in for a bucketing that would make Songkram look like a toddler's bath night. In fact I was counting on it. I grinned. And the street was suddenly white with rain. No time to waste. When the bouncer ducked inside the club to get out of the downpour I darted across the road. In a few seconds I was in the alley to the side of the building. The khlong was narrow, clogged with sodden boxes and foaming with falling water. A bony cat squealed and bolted past me as I hurdled a box and tucked myself behind it. Warm rain trickled down the neck of my Hello Kitty T-shirt as I counted to 12 under my breath. No shouts, no-one following. I stood up, walked towards the kitchen door I'd spied earlier. Tried the handle - open. I checked behind me one more time, slipped inside. There was a grubby rice sack on the floor. I squeezed water out of my hair, wiped my bare feet on the sack and looked around. Commercial kitchen, no-one around. I could see stairs through a door by the big freezers. As I padded over I readied my "stupid little girl"€™ expression for when I got caught. Still no-one. I looked up the stairs, took a deep breath. "Stupid little girl"was going to be "beaten or arrested little girl" if I got found in the boss's office. Or worse. I shook my head, sending a little spray of water out like a dog. Enough jittering. I'd drawn my own lion; I needed to act like it. I monkey-footed up the stars, breathing lightly. On top there was a little landing, three doors, one with "˜Manager" on it in loopy cursive. I put my ear to it, pushed when I heard nothing. Inside was a desk, computer, another door, couple of chairs, air conditioner humming in the corner. All expensive stuff from the look of it. And on the desk? Ah. I reached out and picked up a tiny black notebook. On its front was a stylised fish in gold. I flicked through it, pages crammed with tiny writing. I tucked it into my shorts and turned to leave - then froze as I heard footsteps on the stairs. Oh, no. I took a step towards the other door in the room. Behind it, a toilet flushed. Oh no. I cast around for a place to hide. Not under the desk, it's the first place they'd -- the door to the toilet started to open and I darted behind the desk, crammed myself under it. I hugged my legs, listened hard. "Sa'dee. Kuhn". Gruff voice, sounded like it was used to getting its way. From the stairs, as far as I could tell. "Waan jai! So good to see you! The response was effusive. Maybe the owner, it came from the opened toilet door. I heard footsteps, what sounded like a kiss. "I don't have time for that. Where are all your people?" There was a creak as a weight settled on the desk above me. "I gave my people time to help their family with the rising waters, they will think I am jai dii, ha?" "Good hearted? If that notebook gets out they will know you are jai dam, Sura. I can't cover for you any more. I just heard from the hospital, she died ten minutes ago." There was a pause. I started to shiver. Jolly toilet man spoke again, sounding less jolly now. "Dead. Bad news, sure. But, Prateep, I have the notebook. So it will just be bad news for her, there's nothing her, uh, sister can do to us. Look." There was a shuffling of papers above me. I closed my eyes, squeezed them together, as scared as I'd ever been. But I knew that if I didn't act then I never would. I pulled my T shirt over the notebook and crawled out, stood up. Two people looked up at me. One, the owner, fat, oily eyes. The other a policeman. Prateep, it seemed. Everything was still, then Sura, the owner, glanced at Prateep and turned back to smile at me. The cop started walking round the desk to me. I edged back towards the window and he stopped. "Hello little girl. You, you came in from the rain? You want something to eat? Hungry? Shall I --" As he spoke he was stepping round the other side of the desk, probably planning a grab. When he took his third step I leapt on the desk and jumped for the door, bounced off the landing and took the steps three and four at a time. Behind me I heard the cop shouting at me to stop. I skidded through the kitchen, rumble of steps on the stairs in close pursuit, crashed out through the side door and alley and into the street. Where I came up short. The kathoey, whose name I still didn't know was standing a few metres away. Same clothes, perfect makeup smeared with tears, a gun in her hand. The boxer was gone. There was a scuffle behind me as Sura came out of the alley. "Stop there you --" The woman raised her pistol and fired, a flat crack that echoed off the building opposite. Sura gaped at her, looked down at the red blotch on his shirt. She fired again, knocking a chunk off the alley wall. There were two answering cracks from the alley, the cop returning fire from behind Sura, and she sagged to her knees, dropped the gun. My legs were heavy, but I forced them to run. On the corner of Patpong Road I looked back one last time. Prateep was cradling Sura with one arm, yelling into a cellphone held in the other. Two days later the floods were subsiding. I sat, cross-legged, on my shop. My sign was next to me, a little more crumpled than before. A shadow fell over me. "Inisra? We talked on the phone." I looked up. A woman, smartly dressed. "About the Patpong murders. Bangkok Post. You ... said something about a notebook." "Yes. But there's a fee. 60,000." She nodded, and opened her purse. It began to rain.
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Aug 24, 2012 09:40
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Edit was to fix some bullshit characters my ipad added without me noticing. Word count fourteen ninety gently caress you.
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Aug 24, 2012 11:04
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Just to check, deadline's about six hours away? I'm done writing but I want to let it sit for a while so I can do a last round of edits.
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Aug 24, 2012 23:25
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Really whittled this down to get it near the count. I'm WASP east Canadian and this is in the north. If that's too close then too bad, this is thunderdome. Inuition (1594 words) Living in the north country had its ups and downs but when Pavlo and his red constable lapdog came 'round things usually went south. The only reason townies like them came to the reserve at the end of the world was for one of two things: doing research or making trouble, and these kringmerk weren't exactly scientists. Today they had me digging up a body above the 66th parallel, only a petrified limb jutting from a mound of snow, a demarcation of the dead. “How about some help?” I said over my scarf. “Sorry, ain't our jurisdiction.” Even through the slits of my snowgoggles I could make out Pavlo's sneer in the whipping white. He was some east Russian mongoloid who came running after the collapse of the big SU and became mayor of a town outside the reserve, but only because the two guys above him walked out into the snow and never came back. The constable standing stoic behind him was a Sikh, RCMP, dropped here after some drug bust gone wrong and his every expression spoke only of a distaste for the assignment. With his purple turban and bright red coat he stuck out in the tundra like some cartoon character, Dudley Do-right without the Do-right. “It is if it's murder.” I was a one man department, a new age angakkuq for the law but a badge could only do so much. With the only jail around, Pavlo had the final say in things and he knew it. “Coulda been a polar bear, we told you eskimos no more igloos, now look.” That wasn't concern in his voice, only a mock musing tinged with a palpable sense of pity. “We wouldn't make 'em this time of year.” I said as I threw another shovelful over my shoulder. “Besides, we're out of the igloo game.” I had the torso uncovered now, the expression on its face one of frozen fear, a scream turned stone cold. This wasn't no slow snow death, it had been quick, merciless. I grabbed his collar and pulled, leaning back until the legs came loose and slid from his grave. There. A dark spot staining his abdomen, trickling rivers of red evident down his animal leather pants. “Guess who's doing the paperwork now.” I said, looking to Pavlo but finding him and the constable gone. I stood and looked around but the wind was picking up and the snow was a tempest, veiling everything in the fury of the flurry. A glint caught my eye but I was too slow, a harpoon with my name on it slicing through my parka to sink deep into my gut. My first bad decision was trusting those two behind my back, but my second was all reaction, yanking the metal rod and tossing it away. Immediately I felt a gush of blood run under my clothes and no pressure would stop that, not through four layers. I fell back into the snow, already beat from the digging, the rattling and wheezing in my breath taking on a new, sudden, grave meaning. It was amazing how quickly you could give up, ignore the snow and cold for the numbness and heat, just yearning to shut your eyes and rest. Just dying to shut your eyes and sleep. * I awoke to the kiss of an angel under a blanket of stars and curls of green. She pulled back, a young face of tight leather and full red lips, black braids tumbling out of her fur-trimmed parka, and I knew it could only be Sakari. “Hello Illiivat.” She said. I sat up and cringed, new bandages pressing into my wound. She sat on her knees. “It's Michael now.” I said, knowing it wouldn't go over well even before she rolled her eyes. She was my old winter flame, my first everything, and the toughest gal I knew. She had lived eighteen years under an alcoholic tyrant then fled into the tundra, making her own way on the old ways, convening with nature in a way long thought lost. “What happened?” I looked around and found we were on a small piece of drifting ice skirting across a black mirror, a thin white horizon glittering behind us as it floated away. Her kayak was overturned nearby with several sacks containing all of her worldly possessions if I had to take a guess. “Something rotten.” I said as I pinched a cigarette from inside my parka before realizing I had nothing to light it with. She didn't seem impressed. “Still playing whiteboy?” “I'm playing the law.” I showed her the badge but she nabbed it and tossed it into the water, shattering the surface into ripples. “Who's law? Their law.” Her words had confidence and wisdom beyond her years. Always a question followed by the answer. My judge, jury, and executioner. The Sakari I remembered and the Sakari I wanted to forget. She stood and walked to the kayak. “Pavlo's killing us, running us out of the reserve.” “Good. Maybe you learn.” She collected her things and seated herself before slipping back onto the water in one fluid motion, barely disturbing the dark silk. “I don't suppose you have room for two?” I said with a grin but her expression was all pity, not the Pavlo kind but the real kind that knew only a hurting no bandage could mend. “The current will take you back.” She pulled a rock up from between her knees and tossed it to me. “Take that, start your inuksuk, find your way.” The rock was wide and flat, covered in frost except for two dark wet spots in the shape of her lips. She paddled on and I watched her go for a long time in the calm clear night. * I arrived on the outskirts of the reserve, a layer of sweat and heat merging my clothes and skin. As I watched, angry trucks labeled in Cyrillic and fuming black smoke rumbled down a make shift road carrying massive drills and other wrought metal, off in search of a gold that did not glitter. Greed was predictable and I knew as long as I had been around nobody was going to start poking holes in our land. But with me out of the picture, it seems Pavlo had other ideas. A crowd had gathered outside my station and Pavlo was shouting through a megaphone, behind him the constable at the wheel of an idling bulldozer, just waiting to release its pent up aggression. “We will have you relocated into town by next week.” Pavlo said, an attempt at reassuring the crowd who were already shouting him down. “No law, no land!” He proclaimed, shaking his finger and repeating as people protested. I'd seen enough as the boiling inside me frothed over. I walked into the street light and roared, “I am the land, I am its law!” Pavlo's face stopped then sagged and the crowd gasped, angry faces turning back to Pavlo in disbelief. “Piktaungitok! Piktaungitok!” They cried, surging forward. Pavlo dropped the megaphone and ran, leaping onto a snowmobile and darting off. I stood in his path defiant but saw him pull a gun from his parka. I rolled to the side, the buzzing crotch rocket zipping by with a bullet or two just whizzing by. He slipped between two shacks and motored down a hill, skidding out onto a wide frozen plain. I caught up with him, the snowmobile slipping and turning in circles as it stripped away the snow to reveal thin blue ice beneath. He saw me coming and stopped, the gun shaking in his naked hands. “It's too late, all I have to do is sign the contracts and this land is ours.” He said, that sneer presenting itself again. I'd always hated that sneer. “Our elders have a saying,” I said, slipping a hand into the fold of my parka as Pavlo cocked his gun with a click, “If you are going to walk on thin ice, you might as well dance.” “Then lets dance.” Pavlo said and crack of the gun was his first note. The bullet went wide as I gripped my rock and tossed it, one end landing a solid hit on the ice at his feet. “You missed.” He said but even as the words left his lips he looked down and cursed, the ice cob-webbing outwards then snapping, sending man and machine tumbling into the black water. I widened my stance and watched. His head bobbed once, arms flailing as his heavy parka dragged him down. He may have sputtered a cry for help and if he did I don't remember hearing it. The ice and the waves bobbed then calmed as if nothing had happened at all. The crowd had stopped the bulldozer with only light damage to the station. The Sikh was stern but silent, allowing himself to be arrested and carted back to town. No one there asked what became of the mayor and from what I could see it was more of a relief, a burden lifted from sad sagging shoulders. These days I have a lot more to do, looking after both my post at the reserve and handling the daily affairs of the town. In the back of my mind though, I know none of this could have happened without her, and on some nights, when the sky is snaked with green and silent as the desolate tundra beyond, I look up and try to remember that kiss from an angel. ###
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Aug 25, 2012 01:04
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Background: P. drat white, straight, cis-gendered male. Pineapple Fields Word Count: 1504 Kalani’s skin was the color of cocoa, his lanky frame showing his bones, his clothes hanging from them like in a closet. When the three of us found Kalani he was face down on the bank of the reservoir. His black, bushy hair was slightly wet, and must have been drying in the noon sun overhead. What he was doing so far from his section of the pineapple fields, we didn’t know. “Ho, brah, dis no good,” Hama said. He and Kalani were both Tongan, with a little bit of Portuguese and Samoan mixed in, but they couldn’t be any more different. Hama was a Big Island moke, strong as an ox, just like he was supposed to be. He was round in his shoulders and chest, like a football player. The red dirt around the reservoir was un-disturbed and something felt very wrong. I bent down to turn Kalani over. “No, no, no, Kaona, don’t touch him. He not clean. ‘Member, yeah? He sick, he not clean,” said Pokole. He was the only real native I knew, but not too smart. “gently caress that superstitious talk, braddah. What he doing out here, yeah? If he so sick?” I said. Before I had a chance to turn Kalani over, we heard the groaning and rumbling of the plantation truck coming down the dirt road. “Shoots brah, we trouble now,” Hama said. He straightened up and put a hand over his brow, “Kine Japs.” I stood up. Mr. Dole had a lot of people working for him, but he only sent out his Jap workers for the even more unscrupulous tasks. Us natives were too stupid to do anything but bend, chop, toss pines into buckets, he thought. If he sent out his Jap boys, did he know Kalani was make? “Hurry, braddah,” Hama said. I turned Kalani over, despite Pokole making sounds like a stuck pig. He was make, for sure, for how long couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours. I remember him holding his belly and running to the bathroom this morning. Kalani’s eyes rolled in the back of his head as I looked for anything. No blood, no cuts, but one huge bruise over his neck. The plantation truck creaked to a stop a dozen feet away from us. I turned and watched Hama puff up and step between me and Mr. Dole’s boys. “What are you stupid mokes doing off the line? Get back to work,” one of them shouted at Hama, poking him with the business end of a club. His name was Kento, and he was the craziest Jap I had ever met. Kento did all of Mr. Dole’s undesirable work. Two of them pushed me out of the way and grabbed Kalani under the arms. “Break time, brah,” Hama said, towering over the Japanese man. “Break is over, get back to work you dumb mutt.” “Ho, shoots! Who you calling mutt, half-breed Haole Jap poo poo,” Hama bristled. Kento, whether he was stupid or crazier than I thought he was, put the end of the club against Hama’s chest and pushed off. Hama didn’t budge. Pokole wheezed behind us. “Is Kalani going to be okay?” I asked, getting between Hama and the man. “Get back to work, he’ll be fine.” The other men hauled Kalani into the back of the truck and they took off, kicking red dirt and dust into the air behind us. “Kalani make, yeah?” Hama asked. “Yeah. I know. They know it. They know we know.” “Shoots,” Hama said. Pokole dropped me off on his way home. I patted the side of his truck and he took off. My truck was sitting in the yard on blocks. I’d get to fixing it one day. Today was not that day. A bit better than a lean-to, the sheet metal of my roof always made the best sound when the rain would hit it. Pock, pock, pock. I laid on my cot, eating a plum musubi. The crunch and salt of the seaweed tingled on my tongue. The rain would come and go throughout the evening, and I fell into a fitful, sweaty sleep. There was a tapping at my window. I opened my eyes, thinking it might be rain. Tapping again. “Psst, Kaona, Kaona. Where’s my Kalani? He no come back, yeah?” I knew the voice. It was Poi-Boy, Kalani’s squeeze. “Get outta here, you want people to think we’re da kine? Kalani ain’t come back. Not now, not ever. He make, out on the fields.” Rustling and climbing, Poi-Boy flopped in through my window in a pile on my floor. His skin was creamy, almost Haole white, and he was small, smaller than Kalani. He looked like a mound of poi, and he was soft like it too. Tears began to form in his eyes. “They shut him up, those Dole boys. I knew dat was trouble, oh I knew dat was touble,” he begain to wail. “What you talkin’ bout Poi-Boi?” “Kalani, man, Kalani. Two days ago, he snuck some canned pineapples home for me, you know I love them Kaona, you know I love them. We ate dem pines, and we got sick. We got so sick, Kaona.” “Yeah so? I get the shits too. I bet you do a lot,” I sneered at him. “Kalani say he gonna tell Mr. Dole. Mr. Dole made us sick, and he gonna tell people unless Mr. Dole gave him some money. I knew dat was trouble, I just knew it,” Poi-Boy started to cry. My stomach knotted. “Poi-Boy, do you have any cans left?” He nodded. “Go get them, and bring them back here in the morning yeah, I gonna go get Hama.” Poi-Boy started to go for my door, but I grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed to the window. He grimaced and clambered out. There wasn’t much time before Pokole would be back for us in the morning. I had to think. I put on my rubbah slippas and hurried to Hama’s house. “Shoots, brah, what are we gonna do?” “We get da can of pines, and we give it to da news. We kiss our jobs da kine,” I said. Hama looked defeated, but he knew that was all we could do. We waited by my house for Poi-Boy, but even by the time Pokole drove up, he was no show. I made Pokole take us to Poi’s house, ignoring his protests. Poi’s door had been kicked in and his place a wreck. Blood drained from Poi’s nose and mouth as he lay motionless against a cabinet. Someone, some people, had beaten him so badly his creamy skin was more blue and black than anything else. Spray painted all over the wall was “Fag,” but we knew better. Everyone knew Poi-Boy was like that, and no one cared here. This whole thing was rotten to the core. “No pines, yeah?” Hama asked. I looked around and shook my head. They knew exactly what they were looking for and made a big mess to cover it up. “We gotta go chop, braddahs,” Pokole whined. He was right, we were already late. They knew we knew. It was only a matter of time before they came for us. “You go, I catch up, yeah,” Hama said. I nodded. Pokole and I climbed into the truck and headed towards the fields. We got there first and picked up our baskets and knives. We stood in a red dirt clearing, pineapple fields around us in all directions. Normally, some haole foreman would be here to tell us all where to go for the day, but it was just me and Pokole now. I started to get nervous. Clouds of dirt were getting kicked into the air as a truck approached us from the factory. It was Kento and some of his men, I could tell. I had a real bad feeling about this. Kento’s truck pulled up to us, and I wasn’t feeling as brave anymore. “You’ve been sticking your nose where it don’t belong, moke,” Kento said to me as he left hopped from the back of the truck. “I wanna see Mr. Dole,” I said. Kento looked back at his goons and laughed. I doubled over from the club in my gut. My face hit the dirt as the club came down across the back of my shoulders. I could hear Pokole start to cry. The familiar sound of suspension creaking and bouncing lifted me up. Hama’s truck pulled up, loaded with some dock boys. Behind them, another truck with some of Kalani’s family arrived. I got up off the red dirt and brushed it off my shirt. “We wanna see Mr. Dole,” I said to Kento. “Over my dead body, you stupid moke islander,” Kento said. Kento pushed me with a club. Hama stepped between us and laid the man low with one punch. And then I did what any stupid moke islander would do. I bent, chopped, and tossed.
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Aug 25, 2012 01:09
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Both my internet connection and the SA database are being crazy today and I'm terrified they'll wig out at just the wrong moment, so here it is. About 1300 words. I'm an NZ Pakeha/Maori/Greek straight male. Bring-your-daughter-to-work day Bereft of an ashtray, Marco leaned over the Castillo wall and tapped his cigarette, sending the flecks of black and grey floating downwind, over La Perla and out of sight. There would be another murder tonight, the fifth; young, pretty, gutted like a fish and left on the beach to rot. Maybe the police would send a man, maybe not. They only came down to La Perla if they thought it was important. Someone cleared their throat behind him. He knew it was Paulo without turning around. The man had gone at his wife's new husband with fists and got back a box cutter in the throat. Some-say-lucky bastard made it but he could never talk right afterwards. Always cheating husbands; that was the gig. Cheap digital camera, a little bit of skulking and in return, steady pay and a sign on the door that says Private Detectives. Like a movie. Like a big game. They'd agreed Day One to never let it get personal. If only it were that easy. "Daddy?" a voice piped up. Marco groaned inwardly. He turned and saw a sandy man, white short-sleeve shirt and a two-dollar haircut, with a little girl poking out from behind his legs. She wore a pink dress. "Sonia, chiquita, not now," said Paulo. His voice was broken glass and sandpaper. The girl stomped her foot. "but I wanna see the-" "Paulo, a minute?" said Marco. He pulled the man aside and glared at him. "The gently caress, loca? Estas del carajo. You're bringing your loving kid along?" he said. Paulo shrugged. The scars on his neck moved unpleasantly. "I only get her on weekends. Besides, she can cover her eyes if we find anything," he said. "Oh. Oh. Cover her- cover her eyes? Jesus chacho, you're like a monkey loving a burro. If you got any dumber, they'd ask you run for office," said Marco. He wasn't shouting yet. "Language in front of Sonia, man." Despite himself, Marco felt the wind leave him."She sees something she can't unsee, it's on your head," he said. "We've got the internet at home, acho. She's seen plenty and if she can't find worse, I'm sure that rear end in a top hat Carlos will help her out," said Paulo. His throat went red at memory of the man's name. "Well, cabron, someone had to be loving your wife," said Marco. The men laughed. There was no humour in it. Sonia had been inspecting the brickwork, brow furrowed. She wandered over and poked Marco's thigh. "Are we going on an adventure, daddy?" she said. Marco bent down shook his head. "I'm not your daddy, hun." Paulo laughed again, like a banana in a blender. "Never though I'd hear you say that, acho. C'mon. Let's go find a killer." --- There were only a handful of ways into La Perla; the best was through the cemetary. The district was established so the Spanish never had to look at dirty things; freezing works, cemetaries and slums. La Perla was too used to corpses. Marco fingered his rosary as he walked through the graves. Sonia was singing quietly, counting and touching each stone angel. "Dos y dos son cuatro, cuatro y dos son seis, seis y dos son ocho, y ocho diez y seis," she sang, then, seeing another angel, she shouted "Five! Five angels!" Paulo looked worried. Marco elbowed him and grinned. "Better hope she don't practice Santeria," he said. "She don't," spat Paulo. He was shaking a little. Marco grabbed his arm and gave it a quiet squeeze. "It was a joke," he said. "I know, just – Maria was into that Bruja sh- stuff. I don't know what they're teaching her, acho," said Paulo. Marco sighed and squeezed a little harder. "Nothing you can't unteach, eh? C'mon, no point in looking for bodies in a graveyard," he said. They went to move, then stopped dead. Sonia wasn't singing any more. The men turned slowly and saw her standing completely still, her hands pressed firmly over her eyes. "dad?" she said. "Yes?" the two men answered at once. "I saw something scary," she said. Marco drew his gun and checked the safety. No use shooting your foot over a bump in the night. "What did you see, chiquita?" he said. She took a hand very carefully from her face and pointed off into the darkness between the graves. She was shaking. "A ghost," she said, "all white with no face." There was a pregnant pause, which gave birth to another pause and raised a tiny, awkward family. Then Paulo laughed, snorting like a bag of rocks in a garbage disposal. Marco slid his gun back into its holster and took a deep breath. "poo poo, girl, you were nearly right- you just about gave me a heart attack," he said. Paulo's face was caught between laughing and crying. After a moment, he pulled himself upright. "don't swear in front of Sonia," he said but his heart wasn't in it. "On the plus side," he continued, "if our killer was nearby, he's probably heard us and wigged it. I'm likely to follow suit. Too much excitement for one night." He was looking at Sonia. She'd wrapped herself around his leg again. She was still shaking. Marco nodded quietly. "You want me to walk you guys home?" he said. Paulo slept in the office mostly but he had a two-room shack down near the water. Worse than ghosts could be out tonight. Paulo looked pained. He turned his head up the hill, toward Old San Juan. "Not sure I want to be down in La Perla tonight, know what I mean?" he said. The leather couch in the office smelled like old dog and didn't fold out but it had a foetal-Paulo dent in it from sheer persistence. "Si, Cabron," said Marco. He searched his pocket, pulled out the keys and threw them to Paulo. "I'm going to stick around a while. See if our ghosts left any footprints," he said, winking at Sonia. Paulo shook his head. "No seas pendejo. You're not going down there alone, not tonight," he said. As they talked, Marco thought he saw movement in the corner of his eye; something white. Maybe a ghost, maybe an angel, maybe a man in a white suit with a wicked smile. "Callate la boca. Shut up," he said, putting a hand on his holster. Paulo moved to speak again and Marco shot him a look. "Hablas cuando las gallinas mean," said Marco. His gun was out now. He caught another movement, spun and fired. The barrel pointed directly at Sonia. Marco felt every skin cell on his finger close over the trigger and pull it down, felt his pupils shrink, felt a bloody part of him screaming. There was no noise but a soft click. The safety was still on. They were all shaking now, close to crying. Paulo broke the silence. "Guess luck runs in the family, eh loca?" he said. Beyond words now, Marco grunted in agreement. He forced his gun back into the holster, holding his arm steady to stop the shaking. He'd seem something out in the dark between the graves. Maybe a ghost, maybe an angel, maybe a man in a white suit with a wicked smile. Either way, it wasn't tonight's problem. Marco looked up at the reassuring lights of Old San Juan and then down to La Perla. A girl would die tonight; young, pretty, gutted like a fish and left on the beach to rot. Five angels, nearly six. Enough movie, enough big old game for the night. Enough for a lifetime but he knew they'd be back. Private Detectives, like it said on the sign on the door. Paulo grabbed Marco's arm and squeezed. "C'mon cabron," he said, his voice honey and broken glass. "Let's go home."
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Aug 25, 2012 01:12
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Canadian Surf Club posted:
I just have to point out that is this title is amazing. This is a cool prompt, I'm just imagining a veritable UN council of detectives hanging out in a hazy lounge somewhere.
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Aug 25, 2012 02:01
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If this gets double posted I'm sorry. SA basically works, but I have to reload each page every time I try to visit it. Also I went over the wordcount (1800 words)but gently caress yeah Thunderdome, I have tasted the fires of judgement and come through them unscathed before so bring it. I am a white mostly hetero 23 year old female from a pretty suburban background. Also edit, somehow one or two words went missing when I copied and pasted so I put them back. Please forgive. Charity Case Time for the bleach bath again. I dabbed a rag into the watered down mixture, grimaced around my cigarette at the feel of chemical water on my skin. Rain thundered on the roof of the little apartment like the impatient drumming of a woman's nails. It was date night, but all I could think of was washing away the bleach and sores in that warm downpour. Bath time over, I tossed the cigarette into the toilet and started the long, slow lurch back to the living room. My chair was busted, the little joystick that was all of my mobility in the world unresponsive at the best of times. Normally that was where I'd conk out in the bathroom for some shut eye, but I had a rendezvous to keep. I rolled haltingly past the kitchen with its chorus of flies, over dirty laundry that had been ignored for so long that there were tread marks from my wheels. I was halfway through the living room when the sound of car doors froze me in my tracks. Strangers. What did they want? I felt stupidly exposed there in the living room, and the few feet separating me from the drawer containing my handgun may as well have been the grand canyon. I was no Evel Knievel, that was for damned sure. I strained my ears, sure that my heart was going to give out for the raw tension in my body. Footsteps in the hallway connecting my apartment to the others, then a sharp knock a few doors down. I breathed again. Someone else's problem, whoever they were. I jerked and jolted the rest of the way to my desk and liberated Chastity from the drawer that she usually shared with her bestie, Jim Beam. Chastity all but purred when I spun her chambers, and on better days I would have cooed and told her how pretty she was for an antique. A knock at my door, soft, hesitant, feminine. "It's open," I called. Sweetness knew as much, of course, but the knocking was part of the ritual, her way of showing me the respect that others didn't. It was date night, but the jig was up as soon as I saw the look in her eyes. "What's wrong, babydoll?" I asked. Sweetness slumped down on the couch and crossed her legs so that her little shift dress showed scrawny ankles and bony knees. "So you know my girlfriend," she said as she took one of my cigarettes from the mostly empty carton. "Yeah. A little." I knew the girl, though like Sweetness we hadn't got around to exchanging names, just monikers. "I think there's someone else in the picture. A guy." She exhaled smoke, looked at me with those expectant blue eyes like I already knew the story. "I'm sorry to hear that, darlin'. Sadly I don't do couples counseling." She shook her head. "Aint like that. I think she's using again." "Ah." I tried not to look at her mottled arms, tried not to see the slippery slope starting to tip under Sweetness like it had one too many times before. "I know you...you know people around here. I was wondering if you could find out if this guy is dealing for one of them." I sighed and leaned back in my chair. Outside, the rain had passed and left the smell of damp garbage in its wake. I'd always thought that the name Colorado Springs sounded more like a retreat for whitebread suburban types, but for me it was just another corner to rot in. "And then I'll ask him real nice to leave the pretty girl alone, huh?" I regretted my tone, but Sweetness had been around long enough to know what she was asking of me. She didn't flinch from my look. I sighed again. "Alright then." "Look, I know if it comes down to it you can't do much. But you have a way with talking to people. Maybe I could--" she swallowed. "Maybe I could work something out. With the guy." Though Sweetness wouldn't know it, I was strung up between furies in that moment. I wanted to explain to her what it felt like to connect a sock full of batteries with someone's face, but I knew that would come across as empty bravado. I wanted to tell her to forget the pretty junky because I'd seen this all before, but then I'd just be condescending. No, she needed the cripple with a way with words. We played cards for the rest of the evening and listened to some C.D.s she had brought over, Disney songs and nostalgic 90's pop. Later, as she was leaving, she turned to look at me from the door. "You know I think you're more than this." She gestured around. At my apartment. At the poo poo neighborhood. At her predicament that had somehow become our predicament. "I know, darlin'." Then she was gone. - Old Jay was my first visit. He opened up right away when he saw it was me, trying to conceal the apprehension in his eyes by being pleasantly surprised. I knew better. In Old Jay's world, pleasantly surprised was finding out that the bullet wound was only a graze. Or that they meant to pump led into someone else's house, no hard feelings about the windows, alright man? "Naw, I know the one you're talking about, little tomboy-lookin' thing," he said of Sweetness's errant girlfriend. "Know the guy too. His poo poo goes deep in this area, know what I'm saying?" "I don't buy that his racket relies on a bunch of hoodrats to stay afloat." Old Jay shook his head. "Your guy goes deep with Tomboy too. She grew up here, you know. I seen her with him a few times over the years, and toward the end she was looking real haggard. I wasn't too surprised when she started laying up with your Sweetness, truth be told. Tomboy cut her hair, started mean-mugging all the men in the 'hood, the track marks healed up." He leaned back, fixed rheumy brown eyes on me. "But some folk don't know what to do with theyselves when they aren't owned by something. When she's using, selling, being used..." He trailed off and I nodded in agreement with his unfinished thought. It didn't come up again until I was leaving. "I know you think there's something you can do," Old Jay said, looking down at me from where he stood at his front door. "Get that chair of yours fixed. Find a nice girl. Get out of this poo poo hole. Go home. I know it aint here." "Jay, I'm still here 'cause folk only help themselves. If there were any mercy for me I'd be gone in a heartbeat." I looked out across the apartment complex, saw oil-filled puddles glittering iridescent under the patchy sky. "You gonna haul my rear end and this busted up chair thirty minutes down the road to the airport? Don't think so. I figure if I help the right person, maybe there's help for me too." Jay laughed and shook his head. I limped home in my chair, praying for rain. - I hadn't seen Sweetness for days. Finally, it was Tomboy that I ran into on one of my rare and ambitious dumpster runs. Before I could figure how to react she had turned on me, spraying accusations like spittle. "You stay out of my business, you hear me? That bitch knew what she was getting into and no one needs you sticking your goddamned nose into it." "I just wanna know where she is," I said quietly. "You'll do what you'll do." Tomboy laughed. "Where she is," she repeated, then leaned close. "Where she is is getting railed by my man for dope. What did you think this was all about?" "She only wants to be close to you. Protect you." Tomboy's eyes flicked up to the windows to the apartment above us. Someone was watching the commotion through parted venetian blinds. Sweetness? But it wasn't her apartment. I figured I didn't need three guesses to get who she was with up there. "Look, I know people out West. I can't get to them but you guys could. I could call, set you up." I swallowed. Feeble. Tomboy looked me like I was something repulsive, confusing. A door opened and closed around the corner and the man himself appeared. I could smell the sex on him. He put an arm around Tomboy without looking at her and glowered down at me from towering heights. "Lay off, brother." His voice was deep, authoritative, with the calm certainty of the habitually violent. "What are they to you?" My voice shook and I clenched my fingers around the shank wedged between my leg and the arm of my chair. "Do what you gotta do to get by, but this isn't that." He laughed, full and low, and I knew that in his mind there was no confrontation here. "You think you can promise them something else? Promises are words. I take care of my own. I got proof. What do you have?" My gums itched with a predatory craving for a fight, but I knew my chair wouldn't clear the distance between he and I quick enough to take him by surprise. My grip on the shank slackened. "Smart boy," the man murmured. He pulled Tomboy closer. "'Sides, I like having a full pair. It's like socks. Just one aint gonna keep you warm the same as two will." Tomboy giggled, batted at his chest like he'd just made a bawdy joke. I looked up at the window where two delicate fingers made a peephole in the blinds. Then like that, they were gone, retracted into the darkness of the room within. The man knelt down to be eye level with me, still out of the reach of my knife. Should've brought Chastity. "Now I know we're not gonna have anymore problems regarding what belongs to who around here," he said. "Naw," I rasped. He nodded, stood, and escorted Tomboy by one shoulder back into the apartment. As soon as they were around the corner, I looked up at that window one more time. My heart thrummed a sinking song when I saw the blinds pulled up and Sweetness standing there framed in the window like a fairytale princess. I need to find my mercy, her eyes seemed to say. She regretted getting me involved, I could see that much. Some happening inside the apartment caught her attention, and the blinds dropped. Wash your hands of me, that's what she would have said. Wash me away and leave me to find my mercy. The clouds were heavy overhead when I turned to lurch back to my apartment, the air heavy with moisture and the warren-like feel of humanity. My chair sputtered and sparked when I threw the joystick forward as far as it would go. I inched along across the empty parking lot, trying to beat the rain home. When it came, it came hard, and promises were all that it washed away.
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Aug 25, 2012 02:18
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Because I know I'm gonna get reamed on accuracy points and because we totally need more dramatic readings, I've done Chairchucker's story in my hammiest fake Australian accent. 
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Aug 25, 2012 02:25
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Because I know I'm gonna get reamed on accuracy points and because we totally need more dramatic readings, I've done Chairchucker's story in my hammiest fake Australian accent. That's a better Australian accent than mine. EDIT: Radioactive Bears posted:I waited until the last minute to begin writing, and ended up with something too personal to post. I suppose that is what happens when you don't do things early. Do a reading, then!
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Aug 25, 2012 02:56
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I waited until the last minute to begin writing, and ended up with something too personal to post. I suppose that is what happens when you don't do things early. I have shamed myself in this dome of thunder. Edit: My microphone also sounds like an angry robot jerking off right now. A recording is not in the cards. VV Edit: Thanks dude, it's not that bad. It's my own fault anyway for waiting until the day of to write.. VV
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Aug 25, 2012 03:18
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You have an awesome username, so that sort of makes up for it 
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Aug 25, 2012 03:38
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Tried to write a story focused around Xeer in Somalia, but it could work. So I took the easy route instead. Hopefully I didn't gently caress up the Portuguese too badly. Either way, it's a pretty mediocre story. Cracolândia, 1178 words Afonso stared at the stocky, caboclo man laden with gold chains. The meeting was making him nervous. The boys from Comando Vermelho had pulled him out of his apartment and brought him here. Outside, a couple teenagers manned the stalls, selling marijuana and cocaine in small bags. "Do you know who I am?" Afonso shrugged. "A traficante, I guess? I try to stay clear of the CV. I don't poo poo where I sleep." The man laughed. "Yeah, you're right, daquele jeito. You stay clean so you don't become an alemão. I'm a big man in the CV. This is my corner." "The big man got a name?" "Gaspar. You know why you're here?" "Probably because I hosed up," Afonso replied. "Probably because I pissed you off some how. Not sure what I did, really. Like I said, I stay clear of the CV." "Wrong. You pissed us off, you'd have caught a bala perdida. Naw, I just want you here for some papo reto. I need you to do something for me." "A job? Why can't one of your boys do it?" Afonso scratched his beard and leaned back into his chair. He didn't have a chance to shave before this 'meeting' - the water wouldn't be on for another few hours, at dawn. "My boys might be part of the problem. Can I get you something? Pó? Maconha?" Afonso nodded, and grabbed a bit of marijauna. He carefully rolled up a joint while listening to Gaspar the Big Man. "You know the deal we've got with the other gangs and the BOPE. No crack in the comunidade. We put it in years ago, and people have been following it. Except somebody is selling that poo poo in my territory." "And you want me to find him? What if it's one of your boys?" "Then I'll deal with him. You just find out who. I'll pay good, and the CV will owe you. I just don't want that poo poo coming back around here." Afonso scratched his beard again, and thought about it. He didn't really have much of a choice - he lived in Comando Vermelho territory. If they wanted his help, he'd have to give his help. "Yeah, I'll do it. Just don't be mad about what I find." "Good," Gaspar smiled, flashing his teeth like a shark. The sound of kids tormenting a dog woke up Afonso. It was late in the morning, and the strange meeting early felt like a dream. The roll of reais in his pocket meant that he had no such luck. He groaned, and lurched over to the small bathroom. A private bathroom was a luxury around here, but Afonso was a private man. Besides, he could afford it. There was always lots of work for guys like him. He carefully shaved and rubbed coconut oil into his scalp. Fortunata had promised to braid his hair, but then he had gone and pissed her off again. It was his own drat fault, of course, but he just wasn't the type to settle down. Even if he was old and worn out, long past his prime. He rolled up some erva and smoked it before grabbing his chumbo and heading out. He figured that to find a crack dealer, you'd just follow the crack heads, and that meant walking along the Gaza Strip in Manguinhos. Afonso wasn't expecting any trouble, but he'd still want some protection. The Gaza Strip, an encampment of crack heads along the rail line, smelled like dog piss and vomit. The zombies wandered around shamelessly, not caring who saw them gently caress and poo poo in the open. Why would they care about one more set of eyes? Gaspar seemed to be right. Small groups would break off, slowly shuffling towards his territory, looking for a hit. Afonso laid back, watching the slow migration. He'd follow for a few blocks, and then break off, waiting for the next group to come on through. It took him a good part of the day to follow them up the morro. Finally, it seemed he found the place. The zombies would shuffle into a small building. A bit later, he saw them wander out again. A negão come through every now and then, chasing them off. Whoever was dealing in them didn't want the zombies hanging around. Afonso settled into an out of a way corner, waiting for night to fall. The darkness turned the area into an open-air putaria. The tarados and gatas were out in full force, buying and selling sex like it was going out of business. Afonso debated grabbing some rabo, but he had a job to do. Pleasure could come later. He picked out a coruja watching out for police or thieves. He was young and prado - Afonso saw a bit of himself in the kid. But he was off by himself, and he'd know who was inside. Afonso slammed the coruja in the back of the head, and hauled him off into the dark alleyway. He kept his chumbo pressed hard against the kids throat. "Who do you work for?" The coruja stared back at him defiantly. Afonso slammed the butt of his chumbo into the kid's face, right above the left eye. It made a sickening crunch, and the rusty smell of warm blood filled the air. The coruja tried to look strong, but tears were streaming down his right eye. His left eye was a ruined mess of blood and gore. "I'll beat you to death if you don't tell me. Try me." The coruja sniffled for a bit, then broke. "Big M. Marcelo. He runs the place." "He sells crack, right?" "Yeah." Afonso stepped back and pulled the trigger. The kids throat splattered against the wall. He grabbed a small wad of bills out of the kid's pocket, and walked away. Nobody was going to care too much about a gunshot, not around here. By the time they found the coruja, Afonso was long gone. "Your guy is named Big M. You were right, he's selling out of your territory. Has a building where the crack heads come in and get high, then he chases them off so they don't hang around." Gaspar leaned back in his chair. "Big M. You're sure?" "I can take you out to where they're getting high, you can tell me who runs it. But the name I heard was Big M." "Alright," Gaspar muttered, leaning back into his chair. "Alright. Alright. Let's take care of this. Pio, take care of Afonso here. After that, we'll go talk to Big M." Afonso went to stand up, but felt a huge grab his face. Before he could react, Pio had slit his throat like a pig, and dumped him on the side of the chair to bleed out. Gaspar dialed a number, one he never dared to call before. "I need to talk to the boss. He's nephew is dealing crack in my neighborhood. No, don't worry, nobody knows. But I need to know what to do. Thank you."
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Aug 25, 2012 05:04
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I'm a Vietnamese-American woman, bisexual, college-aged. My first language is Vietnamese, and I've lived throughout many states in the Southwest because money and jobs  A Newer Generation, 1349 words The passenger van rolled away behind me as I turned to face the cafe designed to resemble a boz uy. The owner, a Dungan man, a Han He, squatted in the doorway. No one appeared to be with him. “Hello. Are you Madam Isakovna? I am Han He.” He stuck out his hand. He spoke Kyrgyz, not Russian, but very well. We shook. “Yes sir.” I removed my shoes as he led me inside. Spacious for a boz uy, beautiful shyrdak on the floor, low tables and seats for the cafe laid out for the evening rush. Mister Han turned on the rest of the lights and let a patterned curtain hang over the entrance. “How long has your daughter been missing, Sir He?” “About two days, Madam Isakovna. Duo came back from Naryn, from the university there, a month and a half ago. I thought everything was as normal as it could be. She went to stay with some university friends in Bishkek proper a few days ago, to visit. I called and called her on her cellular to check in, but no reply. I went to the address she gave, of her friend. They said she would be back, but I watched all day. My wife had to work double the hours.” He pursued his lips and blew. “She didn’t show up. I asked some neighbors, they did not see a girl of her description the entire time she was supposed to be there. Bishkek is large, she could be anywhere, doing anything. Please madam, I don’t have much, but I have enough to pay you for your services. God is good, the cafe does well. Everyone wants Huihui food,” he added, a small smile crossing his face. I asked some more questions of him: names, friends, boyfriends and girlfriends, how her studies went, places she loved to visit. He gave me photographs, some numbers, a small sum of money, and the blessing of God; I left, twenty som for my next destination, the Dordoy Bazaar. *** I had done some thinking on my way over, standing up in the passenger van, crammed in next to too many passengers. Han Duo, or Albina as her friends called her, by all accounts an above-average student, ambitious, maybe a bit naive, but not overly so. She hadn’t disappeared on her own by any means. I bought some naan from a vendor on the outskirts of the market. Duo’s last confirmed location was this market a month or so ago, shopping and visiting an old friend that ran a clothing box. The market had grown much, much larger than the last time I was here a few years prior. As always, Russian and Kyrgyz filled the air, with the smells of the small produce stalls selling food to shoppers. A variety of goods from all over central Asia, China, and Russia filled the aisles and containers. Some of the older vendors cast me looks, one woman unescorted, wearing jeans and a kerchief, but most didn’t care. Duo’s friend was named Andries Bakiyev. He was doing this temporarily for his elderly parents, to make money to fund university studies. Mister Han said that he was part Afrikaner as well as Russian. I really could not tell, and perhaps that was the idea. “Hello. Andries Bakiyev?” I stuck out my hand. He raised an eyebrow but shook it all the same. “Yes, I am he. Who are you?” “Kurmanjan Isakovna. I am here to talk to you about Han Duo.” “Duo…oh, Albina? I saw her a few days ago. What has she done?” Interesting that he should assume that. A few days was the wrong timeline. “Nothing that I know of. It seems she has been gone for a day or so though. Her father sent me.” He visibly unclenched, a relaxing of the shoulders and a small releasing of the breath. “Really? She came to the bazaar, looking for clothes. It was the day after Eid. We hadn’t seen each other in a while and Albina wanted to meet my boyfriend but he wasn’t here; he works in the center of the city. She was with some girlfriends, Roza Babanova and Ma Xiaochen.” Eid had been three days ago, but Duo’s father said she had been here, that he knew of for sure, only before Ramadan. I knew that they were university friends. “Who are they?” “Xiaochen’s an old friend of Albina’s. I am not sure about Roza.” “Do you know where they went after they visited with you?” “To Roza’s apartment in the center of Bishkek. She’s very well-off.” Something was not adding up. “Thank you Sir Bakiyev.” *** The door opened on the third knock. The woman was tall, with dark hair. “Who are you?” she asked in Russian. “I am Kurmanjan Isakovna.” I was doing a lot of that today, introducing myself. “I am here to ask questions about your friend Albina.” This must be Roza Babanova. “Albina is not here. Please leave.” I grabbed the door as she moved to close it. “Then where is she now?” “I don’t know.” I pushed back. Babanova stumbled and gripped her forearm, apparently in pain. I had not pushed that hard. “When did she leave?” “Why does a drat Kyrgyz girl ask me so many questions and barge into places? A few days ago.” “Do not call me girl. Why did she leave?” She pushed herself up. “I don’t know.” “Do you not?” “Just leave.” She tried to push me down, but I swung my bag and hit her in the torso. She fell back again, winded. A thought hit me. “Madam, who are you?” She glared from her undignified position on the floor. “Who do you think? Roza Bubusara Babanova. This is my apartment. Leave or I will holler for people to come.” She looked nothing like the pictures of Duo, and only a couple of days ago Duo’s father had visited and spoken to the residents of this apartment, but he had never seen his daughter’s university friends. “Ma Xiaochen? Why are you in your friend’s apartment? You do not live here. How stupid could you be?” “That is ridiculous. You’re insane. Leave now.” I moved to block the entire doorway. No one else was outside that I could see. “Madam Xiaochen, where are Babanova and Han?” “I am Babanova! Albina left a few days ago, like I said. What evidence do you have?” “I have been in this business for a long time. Why did you tell Albina’s father she would come back when she had obviously never been here? Where did you take her after you left the Dorday Bazaar?” *** “Keep your money.” Han He did not say anything, but he did stuff his wallet back into his jacket. The shadows lengthened even more as the five of us squatted in his boz uy. Ma fiddled with her fingers. “I don’t know about visas. I told them…” “And you should have told me!” Han stood up, shoving against the table and nearly breaking his dishes as he did so. “They may come back. Perhaps they just want the marriage. I don’t care if she is married to another woman, I just want her back,” his wife said, moving to silverware and catching the chopsticks. I stood up too. It was far past time to leave and this was not my job. “Many Americans do that, go to another state to marry and then return to their home. You will have to see in a few months.” Andries Bakiyev looked suitably ashamed. “I knew their feelings, and I knew I had to help them. They’re smart if reckless.” Han said nothing, although he was in the process of snapping several chopsticks. “You may as well get used to it. Your daughter has good friends, if reckless ones. I think she will be fine.” I should not have said it, but… “I have some friends in South Africa. I will let you know if they hear anything.” I pushed aside the curtain and hailed a passenger van.
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Aug 25, 2012 05:08
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Cardboard Wings (1365 Words. I am a white male, between 20 and 30 years of age, living in suburban California) Dayton, Ohio had been changing for years. Urban planning had gone for something new, in a fit of free market lust. Special industrial zones, with especially lax worker regulations had sprung up line tent pegs around the city's borders, and around those were the typical low income housing towers. The architecture itself was sparse (though some enjoyed the sharp right angles and ultra-utilitarian geometry), but their clearly defined lines were often marred by ersatz shanty towns encircling them, for those who arrived to work off of the books, or couldn't afford rent. There were the obvious problems of sanitation, crime, food, pollution, and police brutality. They were the background of this sort of urban lifestyle. But there were less tangible things, such as the non-skilled jobs not granting any avenue of escape. With that, plus the utter banality of everyone around you having the same or similar manufacturing job with no extra resources to lend, financial escape just wasn't an option on the table. Mariandre thought about this often as she walked home after the night shift, through slick black streets clotted with cardboard and tents. More and more people came, and very few of them seemed to move anywhere better. She had wanted, since the time she could start recognizing what the pictures in her coloring books meant, to see places in the world where the skyline wasn't cracked up with smokestacks and highrises. She'd wanted to go to school and get the training she needed for the job she saw as being the closest to freedom while still being a job- a charter pilot. It was especially hard for her given her skin color. It wasn't that the majority of her peers weren't black as well, per se. She was an equal among any of them, outside of determination. It was that her skin color brought on a wealth of other deficits. She was lacking in connections, given that most of her friends and acquaintances were poor like her. It seemed to her that the borders between being black and being white were, for reasons she could only make guesses at, tied more to wealth and opportunity more than the idea of race itself. She perceived, in the back of her mind, a sort of cultural divide she saw between people who, for the majority of the time, ate the same food, spoke the same language, watched the same television shows, and, in a lot of ways, worked the same jobs. They walked in the same doors, and wore the same uniforms, but those cultural lines seemed to spring up even inside the factory she worked in. She'd say hello, passing the inspection tables where mostly white people worked, put on her gloves and apron, and sit down at the assembly line folding pieces of cardboard around notebook paper to be stapled by the next person in the line. Sometimes she got to staple, and sometimes she got to cut the cardboard, but she never got her name pulled to inspect. Breaks were called at different times, and when the inspection team was in the cafeteria filling it with cigarette smoke, and emptying the coffee carafes. She'd always try to speed up during this time, just to make sure they had a little bit of extra catch up to do when they'd get back. It wasn't entirely mean-spirited, she felt, because her own break was next and it would be unfair for them to have nothing to do for that extra fifteen minutes. Why should they deserve two breaks? She didn't know many of them anyways, despite greeting them and being that sort of passive work-politeness you feign until real friendship, or even just basic acquaintance develop. They all seemed to get moved to different, better paying positions before long. Six months tops, and some kid working his way towards saving up for school is making more than her, despite being 'loyal' to the company for years. It was enough to make her wish they would take an entire hour for break, just so they'd have an impossible pile of notebooks to prod with their rulers to work through when they got back. It wasn't just anger at people who she felt had an easier job, of course. Most of the guys she worked with on the line would often get called up to load trucks or organize freight in the warehouses. It was frustrating in a way she had no idea how to deal with, but she knew she was best to keep her mind off work as she walked home. The busses didn't run at night even though it was technically morning. Night shift ended at at five in the morning and walking home while the sun rose was almost a treat, especially during this time of year. It wasn't freezing or sizzling, often, during springtime. It took almost an hour to get home, and even though her route never changed, the scenery always did. She would usually try to shut her mind out to the fact that she would probably never get to be a pilot, much less train to be one, much less ever be on an airplane. Money was an issue she could deal with, with enough planning and saving, and maybe borrowing some money. Time was less forgiving. Ten hour shifts took up the majority of her day, transport and sleep were likewise immoveable. There was a flight academy in Akron she had looked up in a phonebook once. It seemed like the best bet, despite being hours away. She had the plan to get Fridays off for sixteen weeks in a row. She could take a bus there, and do the weekend courses. She could get her sleep in on the ride back and ready to work Monday at 7PM. But even after calculating the thousands of dollars in bus fare, and the idea of taking a taxi to and from the stations, and the fact she'd need a place to stay between Saturday and Sunday, the plan fell apart. All of her friends were in the same situation as her, and she simply couldn't pull together enough support to get any traction. Every morning after leaving her job she ran through this plan, and reminded herself not to think about how much pain her work caused her. Walking home this early as day was just coming up over the peaks of the buildings, she felt a bit safer than at night when it was dark. She knew groups of teenagers drove around looking for trouble. She even felt safer than the daytime, when everything was crowded and loud, and strangers would occasionally shout rude things at her. The worst she had to deal with at this hour were garbagemen and homeless people strolling about. She felt bad for both of them (she also felt bad for the roaming teenagers, in a way), because they were stuck in Dayton like her. Everyone she'd ever been friends with was the same way. Ten blocks later and four stories up, she waggled her key into the lock. She always had to quietly fight with it to get it open. Once that hassle was done, she locked it back up behind her. She snuck two cups of water from the tap, drinking one and rinsing her mouth with another, before flopping onto the couch to sleep. Once her roommate left for their own job, she'd stumble to the bed. Until then, she didn't want to wake her. She fell into sleep quickly, from her point of view, before being woken up two hours later as her roommate struggled to get the lock shut. She automatically switched to the bed, and fell back asleep even quicker, despite the day's heat starting to fill the room. She dreamed, this time. It was a work dream, which she usually hated, for all of the same reasons she hated even thinking about work while she was off the clock. This dream wasn't so awful though- Mariandre was folding the cardboard into wings, which were then flapping themselves into birds. The people in the inspection room had no idea what to make of them.
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Aug 25, 2012 05:19
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OH! Yeah, I forgot to mention. I am a straight, white, male, upper-middle class America who lives in a Northern state and has never been to Brazil or a favela
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Aug 25, 2012 05:20
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Radioactive Bears posted:I waited until the last minute to begin writing, and ended up with something too personal to post. I suppose that is what happens when you don't do things early. This is the worst thing. There should be nothing "too personal." I'm very upset.  Jonked posted:OH! Yeah, I forgot to mention. I am a straight, white, male, upper-middle class America who lives in a Northern state and has never been to Brazil or a favela Have you played Modern Warfare 2? If so you pretty much have been in a favela.
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Aug 25, 2012 06:10
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By my count, there's about an hour left and we're still waiting on the following: Black Griffon Fanky Malloons (dramatic reading only) Genetic Toaster Hat Thoughts
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Aug 25, 2012 06:11
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Martello posted:Have you played Modern Warfare 2? If so you pretty much have been in a favela. Max Payne 3 also.
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Aug 25, 2012 06:19
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:By my count, there's about an hour left and we're still waiting on the following: What are you, a judge now? Yer lucky it's the weekend and I won't be calling the Puerto Ricans just to determine how awful your slang is. But yeah, those dudes are hosed up big time if they don't post in the next forty minutes. And Radioactive Bears is basically the gimp riding the motorcycle dude right now. sebmojo posted:Max Payne 3 also. That too. I haven't bought that game yet. I'm too busy playing Ghost Recon Future Soldier.
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Aug 25, 2012 06:26
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Martello posted:Radioactive Bears is basically the gimp riding the motorcycle dude right now. I've never actually seen any of the Mad Max movies. I'm just assuming this is a bad thing to be.
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Aug 25, 2012 06:30
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Martello posted:What are you, a judge now? Yer lucky it's the weekend and I won't be calling the Puerto Ricans just to determine how awful your slang is.  also bored because it's Saturday arvo and there's nothing to do so I'm refreshing the thread like a crazy person waiting for new stories. Radioactive Bears posted:I've never actually seen any of the Mad Max movies. I'm just assuming this is a bad thing to be.
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Aug 25, 2012 06:34
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Radioactive Bears posted:I've never actually seen any of the Mad Max movies. I'm just assuming this is a bad thing to be.  Don't worry, it's a quick death.
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Aug 25, 2012 06:40
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I'm a Muslim from Indonesia. However, I spent most of my formative years outside Java, whose culture this story used. I claim that as my defense. Cord (1496 words) The knocking in my door saved me from my nightmares. I briefly thought it was the headmaster waking us up for Tahajjud, but then I remembered I’m no longer a student. “Mbah Dukun! Mbah Dukun! Help!” I recognize that voice as the security guard. I stood up from my bed, moved the table of ingredients away and opened the door. There he was, shining a light into my face. “What happened?” “Sari’s baby...Sari’s baby, she...just follow me!” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from my house. It is then that I remembered not wearing sandals. I never walked barefoot. As we entered Sari’s house I can hear prayers. It was so loud and genuine that I cringe. On the floor, above a single sheet of cotton, lay a black baby. The baby was silent but the chubby woman next to it was praying and, putting wet towels on his forehead. Next to the cotton sheet was a bowl filled with water. “So what’s wrong?” I asked. “The baby’s black!” the security guard said. “He wasn’t born that way. Also he had difficulty breathing!” I leaned over to the baby, trying to ignore the woman’s sing-song prayers. “Shut up,” I said to her as I touched the baby. It was hot. It was as if he was being roasted. I instantly thought of my clients, who complained about their stomach warming up at inopportune times. “You stupid guard! Why aren’t you calling a doctor?” the woman said. “The father’s going there! The nearest clinic is three hours from here,” the guard said, “So, I called Mbah Dukun.” Of course, babies are the closest thing a normal human can get to the other world. It is common belief that infants can see and hear what adults don’t, could this baby feel it too? Could this baby feel the flames of hell? “Stop touching him!” The woman slapped my hand away. “Your rotten hand must not near the baby.” I asked her if she was the mother, turns out she was the midwife. The mother was sleeping, resting from the childbirth. I expressed my wish to see her. The midwife disagrees, saying that I will curse her with my lifestyle. The guard was on my side and I promised her not to touch the mother. The mother was sleeping, clearly unaware of her baby’s situation. The midwife had decided not to wake her up, thinking that the stress would just kill her. I walked to the bed, with the midwife by my side. I pulled out a small mirror and put it in front of her face. In the mirror there was the exact same face. She was not a charmed pregnant woman. “Are you done?” the midwife asked. “Get out.” I went out of the bedroom and asked the guard to borrow his light. “What does Mbah want to do?” he asked. I explained that I just want to consult the spirits for help. I then exited the house. The guard was taken aback and didn’t try to follow me. The house was the usual shack. Bamboo walls with thatched roof and stone floor. There was a blue tarp strewn on the outside, used to protect bikes from the rain. The father must have used the bike. I went around the house, looking at the walls for any sign of curses. There’s not much to see if the whole house is cursed, but there is usually some sort of aura that can be felt on the air. I went to the back of the house before I noticed something amiss on the ground. I shone the light and saw some barren pieces of earth, in the middle of a grass field. Someone had buried something. I claw through the dry soil with my left hand, pulling some grass roots away. On the hole I’ve dug I could see some red blotches. Blood. Someone had stolen the umbilical cord. For eternal youth, most likely. The many at-home births in this village were a resource for those women. The baby is then cursed, probably because the shamans they contacted weren’t good enough. The blood from the cord may mix with the blood of the women, the incantation was improper, or the shaman may just be a deceitful one. The guard walked into my sights. “What happened, Mbah?” “I know why the baby turns that way.” He looked impressed. “Why?” As I explained the uses and abuses of umbilical cord, his expression did not change. “So the black skin is the curse?” “The baby’s not black from the curse, but from hell fire. Whoever uses these charms will fall to Jahanam hell and as they get older and closer to death, they can feel the flames. These ends in nightmares, itches and other sorts of diseases. To save the baby, the curse must be lifted. For that, I need something from my house.” “I can take it for you,” he said. The sounds of a motorcycle overpowered my answer. I and the guard ran back to the front of the house, where I could see a man parking his motorcycle, followed by another man clad in a doctor’s coat. I entered the house to see the doctor leaning over the baby, placing his stethoscope over the baby’s small chest. I walked to the man, who claimed to be the father. “Who are you?” he asked. “I’m a shaman,” I said. He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you in my house?” “The guard called me. Do you want me to cure your child?” “I’d rather trust a doctor than someone like you,” he said. “Allah will cure my son.” “Of course he will. I will be leaving then.” “We need to go to the hospital for this! His heart is beating too slowly and his skin is...” I could smell rot. That baby cannot be saved anymore. Not even my powers would do. The father wrapped the baby up in cloth. He lifted it and hand it to the doctor before running past me. The doctor followed suit and soon the two left, speeding through the village with enough noise to wake up some of the neighbour. The guard was just standing there, confused at what just happened. I used the butt of his light to scratch my chin and there I smelled something. Something...weird. Something I had smelled before. Blood. He did it. The guard stole the cord. “Guard, will you come to my house?” I asked. “Oh, but I really should go around, do my job,” he said. “Just for a bit.” As we returned back to my house, I closed the door and ordered him to sit down on the floor. I also sat down, across from him with a small table filled with my ‘trinkets’ between us. I stared at him and said, “Put your hands up.” He did so. I grabbed his fingers and smelled it. It is faint, but the smell of blood is there. “Your soap isn’t good enough to hide the scent of blood,” I said. He pulled his hands away. “What do you mean, Mbah?” “I didn’t expect a man to steal the cord. What do you use it for?” “I don’t understand,” he said. I picked up a glass of water from the table and splashed it to his face. “That water had been laced with spells. Can you feel the itch inside your stomach?” He touched his stomach and scratched it. However, as he scratched it, the more intense the itch feels. He continued to scratch it until he finally stopped and looked at me, begging to stop the itch. “What did you do?” He confessed. He had asked another shaman about the powers of the umbilical cords and assumed the ritual was something he could do himself. He stole the cord just after the cord is buried, two hours before he woke me up. He did the ritual instantly after taking it out from the ground. Eventually he heard that the baby’s problem and went to the nearest shaman: me. He assumed I could heal the baby easily, without needing to know anything about the cord. After the ritual he threw away the cord into a nearby river. “What’s going to happen to me?” I pulled out a needle and stabbed one of his fingers, letting few drops of blood fall to a stone cup. I put in a powder made from cloves, the leaves of lime and the mucus of some trees and began chanting. This kind of self-inflicted ritual doesn’t really accept ‘healing by other shaman’ in any way. The usual way to ‘cure’ this is...religion. I have no time for him to repent. The spirits pulled him away. --- Around dawn I saw the mother talking to the father before leaving together on their bike. Later that night they returned without the baby. “Inna lil-“ Flames filled my mouth and pain enveloped my black tongue. Notes: Jahanam: Although the number of levels differ from wikipedia and my middle school textbook, this is the deepest level of hell. Dukun Mbah: A way to refer to someone who is 1)older, 2)wiser, or 3)both. "Inna lil-": He is trying to say this.
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Aug 25, 2012 06:42
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I am a straight able bodied Caucasian dude from the west coast. Lionel Messi’s Righteous Left Foot (1156 words) I enter the boarding house alone, the click-clack of my cane announcing my presence. The gauchos are huddled up around the tiny television set, watching the World Cup. “Messi, Messi!” they cheer. The national team might have scored a goal, or they might have won, I don’t know. I have never much for sports. One of them, Raul, hears me and asks, “Quienés?” without looking in my direction. “Luis,” I respond. He shouts something in return, telling me to go out to the fence of the estancia. I shuffle back outside. The mid-morning sun is blinding. I have to squint as I make my way around the boarding house out to the fence, dragging my twisted, withered left foot behind me. This morning my mother dragged me out of bed, shouting that I had a job request, along with other more unpleasant things. One of these days I’m going to kick her out of the house, make her move in with the other shrill old widows at the other end of town. But a job is a job, I told myself. I roused myself from some mediocre state of slumber, which is hard to come by when your entire leg is in crippling pain most of the day, and set to work. See, I have something of a reputation in the village, a reputation I have to maintain. People come to me when they need help. When they lose something, when they suspect their lover is being unfaithful, when the neighborhood dog is found skinned in an alley. I’m pretty good at that sort of thing. I went to secondary school after all. Ten excruciating minutes later, I reach my destination, and I see Alonso sitting on the fence, hand-rolled cigarette in his hand, looking as dashing as ever in his red poncho. My heart begins to pound. “Hola,” I say, thrilled to both be standing still and be in the presence of such a classically beautiful man. “Hola, Luisito,” he says before blowing out a stream of silver smoke. I pull a cigarette of my own out of my satchel and lean against the fence. “I hear something happened here last night,” I ask between drags. The nicotine feels good in my lungs. The only thing better was booze and heroin for the pain, but I quit the hard stuff a couple years back and in any case I needed a clear head for whatever was coming up ahead. In order to deduce things, and other poo poo like that. “Yes,” he says. Alonso is a man of few words. I like that, because I can’t hear out of one of my ears. My left one, if it matters. The lesson to be earned here is that motorcycles will gently caress you up. He hops off the fence and opens a gate, leads me into the field. There is no one else around. I start thinking about Alonso and I, alone in the field, nothing dirty at first, maybe just gazing into each other’s eyes a bit, maybe a tender caress or two. I’m a romantic at heart. This world is so knee deep in its own poo poo that sometimes you need the little things to lift you up out of it, to take your mind off of things, especially when your mind wants to keep going back to how much your leg loving hurts trying to navigate this uneven terrain where every misstep is rewarded with fire and pain. My mind was about to get into to the dirty stuff but then a rank smell fills my nostrils and takes me out of my sweet reverie. Alonso doesn’t seem bothered by it so I don’t ask questions and try to keep my breakfast in my stomach. The foul odor makes a lot more sense a minute later. Alonso hands me a handkerchief to cover my face, and I take it graciously, machismo be damned. I am no gaucho. I come across a pile of charred flesh and blackened bone and I do what most people do, think what the gently caress and get the hell out. Except not the second part, I’m a goddamned professional, so I stand there, hold my breath, and try to figure things out. From beneath the handkerchief I begin asking questions, and a picture begins to form. This isn’t the first time this has happened, according to Alonso, but they decided it was about time to call in a new set of eyes, someone who has seen this before. Well, I haven’t, not the burnt carcass of a bull anyway, but every case can be boiled down to a few essentials. A perpetrator, a motive, and so on. I come up with some more probing questions, hoping to get more than one word answers from Alonso. I end up disappointed. “Why would someone do this?” I ask. He shrugs. “Maybe they are Chilean.” He’s on to something there. If there’s one thing we Argentineans learn at a young age, it’s “gently caress the Chileans”, but that doesn’t seem to apply to this situation. Except that Chileans are loving assholes and would probably do something like this if they weren’t so goddamned lazy. I tell Alonso this. He smiles. “What about rivals? Anyone trying to buy you out?” “We are the oldest estancia in the area. The others don’t mess with us.” “Teenagers?” I ask. “No cajones.” I nod in agreement. Our local teenagers are weak, probably still nursing off their mother’s tits. None of them had the guts to burn livestock in effigy. “Have you set a watch?” “I have. I saw nothing.” “What about the other gauchos? Raul? Carlos Echevarria? Ramon Salazar?” “Nothing. I was on watch. They only watch futbol.” “Messi scored the gamewinner,” I tell him. He shrugs and says nothing. We stand there in silence next to the carcass. Maggots have began to crawl across its surface. I feel nauseated, but still my mind turns. And then everything clicks into place. “It was you, Alonso.” Still he says nothing. We stand there out in the field, my twisted leg still throbbing, looking at each other. I know I am right. He knows I am right. “Why?” “You, Luisito. It was always you. From the moment I laid my handsome eyes on you I have imagined only this moment,” he says. Maybe not exactly like that, because there was a dead loving cow next to us and he was not a winner with words, but for a moment, a single moment, the pain dissipated and I felt whole again. He was four paces away. I must have given myself away because he closed the gap in two before I could react, and as we held each other that single moment stretched on forever. The handkerchief fell from my hand and even though the smell of death filled my nose and maggots wriggled through decaying flesh yards away, I was happy.
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Aug 25, 2012 06:56
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