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In! Gunna finally earn me an avatar.
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Mar 29, 2022 16:16
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| # ¿ Apr 19, 2024 18:57 |
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Nae posted:Ametrine Title: Cut Jehms Word Count: 1192 If I had to recount my most memorable episode filmed in my career, I think back to “Big” Jim Kowalski. He was a 48-year-old JAVA developer born in suburban Oakwood, Ohio but relocated to Dayton for work. I first met Jim at an Applebee’s in downtown Dayton. I was initially in town to film an episode of 90 Day Fiancé; however, the shoot was ultimately cancelled on account of the original couple being indicted on smuggling. They had apparently attempted to use our program to acquire a drug known as Shabu through an established ring in Dayton. While mulling over what to do next it was then I met Jim for the first time. He wore a copious amount of gemstone jewelry and a full, dark blue denim suit with white New Balance shoes. I think they referred to his look as a “Canadian tuxedo”. He sat behind me at the neighboring booth, alone. I, too, was sitting alone slowly working at my microwave-sized portions of Sweet Asian chile sauce boneless wings and my 6th Mana Margarita. Maybe we were two asteroids destined to collide? It may have been the Mana Margaritas but I felt compelled to get to know him. I also had to salvage being stuck in Dayton. It started with me asking where he got all those gemstones. He excitedly rose from his booth and explained in tremendous detail what each gemstone was and the sexual energies each gave him. I told him my job as a producer for 90 Day Fiancé and my reason for being in Dayton. Before I had a chance to explain what Shabu was, Jim interjected he was actually about to meet his future wife from Bolivia. She apparently was a princess seeking to leave her small town and was looking for an American lover. He had discovered her through a Facebook group dedicated to gemstone trading. He said it had to be fate finding her while seeking ametrine, a stone he said he was missing much like love in his life. They stayed in daily communication for two years, bonding over gemstones and their mutual interest in Republican politics and The Masked Singer. Jim said it took months of convincing, but he had finally been “given the green light” to come for a visit just yesterday. I was immediately smitten with him and his story. It had it all: some form of romance, a middle-aged man adorned in gemstones wearing orthopedic shoes and a beautiful princess an ocean away. He asked if I wanted to see his gemstone collection and began scrolling through pictures on his phone. I replied I could do one better: how would he like it if I filmed him and his gemstone collection? Not only that but (more importantly) also help pay for his trip to Bolivia to find his future wife? He immediately agreed to having him gemstone collection filmed but was reticent about filming the trip. He eventually conceded when I raised the point he had never been outside of Ohio and having a fellow traveler would make things safer. Plus, this would be a free way to commemorate such an important moment in his life. We toasted over one more order of Mana Margaritas. I made the necessary preparations for travel and a week later arrived at Jim’s home to film some B-roll. He lived in a rather cramped one-bedroom unit where beige was a very dominant color, . if nothing else by choice. A beige couch, beige-painted walls, beige throw rugs. Everything was beige except for his most prized possessions: bookshelves absolutely filled with what looked like piles and piles of colored rocks. There were some small boxes filled with gemstones, some gemstones sitting in carefully created piles. There didn’t seem to be anything that would indicate what the order of these things were in. It was somewhat funny to consider the bookshelves themselves were probably worth more than the stones Jim so seemed to treasure. Jim was too excited about Ametrine to speak coherently. He kept pacing between the shelves of gemstones and his luggage. He said he had to make sure the collection perfect for when Ametrine arrived, saying, “It has to be perfect for when she completes my collection.” I remember his beaming smile as he said that followed by me struggling to cover my chuckling as a coughing. I was also unsure if he understood the climate differences between Ohio and Bolivia when he was packing. When I argued he needed to pack fewer Canadian Geese coats, he stressed she needed to know he, quote, “First impressions matter. Have to show I lot of money.” After a grueling 13-hour flight in which our flight had to stop several times due to Jim’s predilection for chronic, howling night terrors which disrupted the flight (thanks to his over-consumption of Dramamine) we landed in Puerto Quijarro, a beautiful and verdant river-side city of 12,000 people which sat adjacent to Rio El Pimiento. The river was the country’s only natural water-source that reaches the ocean. It was a far cry from the drab color Ohio provided us. We met with our translator at a nearby hotel where we attempted to figure out the best route to Ametrine’s address. We had to decide if we wanted to drive at least 9 hours westward or take a short flight in a privately owned plane to Aeropuerto de Ricón del Tigre. After several negotiations with the studio, we settled on a gentleman who owned a beaten-up Suzuki who was willing to do the long drive. Despite initial protest, we agreed to again sedate Jim with Dramamine (this time having his mouth taped shut, with his consent of course) as “to conserve energy for his ultimate meeting.” The taxi driver pulled up to a visibly ramshackle house and said we had arrived. Jim began to hyperventilate. I had noticed he had a tendency to sweat profusely, but his anxiety was visible. He was drenched in sweat; I could smell it, it was disgusting. ”Oh man, this is it.” Jim said, rubbing his hands on his thighs. I felt excited for him, like I was living a tremendous moment vicariously through him. That was probably true in that moment. He began to exit the car before I had to ask, “Hey Jim?” He turned around. “Why do you call yourself Big Jim?” He chuckled. “Sounded better than Regular-sized Jim.” He turned around and walked to the house, knocking on the door with vigor. The door opened and he entered. We lost sight of him ever since. loving magic act. The last correspondence I ever received was a post-card. Damnest thing. It was a picture of Jim with Ametrine. Never explained to me where he went when he went into that house. I had a film crew and everything and we lost him like a Criss Angel act. I was pissed at first, angry at myself for falling for yet another drug smuggling operation. But now…the idea that Jim was out there, finally having found that one thing he was looking for…I don’t know. Seemed a better ending than anything else.
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Apr 4, 2022 07:05
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In
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Apr 5, 2022 01:22
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Sacrifice on the Glory Road 1274 words I’ve been hauling rear end for the past 60 miles and there’s another 15 miles left to go. I push down on the accelerator as hard as I can, praying that pushing down harder would somehow make a difference. How could I have been so stupid? I let my guard down, thinking this was going to be a simple pick up. There are never simple pickups. I was warned that from day one. I grimace every second, feeling the bullet lodged in my abdomen. In the Wastes there are always vultures scavenging. I was unlucky this one was well armed. I feel a rush of blood from my side. A cascade of warm and wet on dirty clothing. I feel weak. My seatbelt keeps me upright. This loving sucks. At 100 miles-an-hour time and space gets kinda funny. The world is rocketing past you like in the old-world cartoons. It’s all a blur. But when staring straight ahead it’s like I see everything in slow motion. I feel the car floating. The only time I’m reminded I’m not flying is when I need to steer. I feel the car twitch quickly and violently. The sudden movements remind me of the fragile control I have over the moment. If it wasn’t for the absolutely brutal pain and bleeding I was experiencing this would be the thrill of my life. The car’s V6 engine does all in its power to haul maximum rear end but it can only do so much. Worse yet, if vultures catch whiff of me there won’t be much I could do but try and out run them. Every second matters, though. I do my best to stay focused on the moment and not let doubt take over. I try my best to remember why I’m doing this. In the trunk was someone’s last hope: rare penicillin. Just having a moving car was enough of a casus belli to have thirsty scavengers gently caress with me, but the thought of desert goons wasting precious medical supplies because they were too ignorant to know what they were would be too painful a thought to manage. If I’m going to eat this bullet, at least let there be a point to it. Otherwise, if it’s all the same I’d just like to go back home. Back to my wife Roxanne, the only bright spot in an otherwise lovely world. If there was anything I was fighting for most of all, it’s to see her face again. Better yet, for her to see me again but this time as a hero. I knew taking this job meant risking my life but this was the first time I actually found myself in genuine risk. I once felt strong with the 9-millimeter handgun by my side, but in this moment, I realize I was woefully under-powered. I only have one hour before night-fall and that’s when things get even worse. I’ll need to depend on my headlights to see anything, let alone whatever is creeping in the darkness. I may as well attach a bull-horn to the roof and scream HERE I AM, gently caress WITH ME. My mind drifts too long as I catch myself being lit up by headlamps following my tail. The only words I could summon in the moment: “Sweet and sour chicken balls. gently caress. gently caress! gently caress!” I had gotten lucky driving this long under their nose, but it was far too much to hope I could reach home clean. The lights started small but they grew bigger and brighter. It’s clear they’re gunning for me. No one else was kicking up such a big dust trail. Fortunately for me, it looks like they’re driving two lovely rust buckets. So long as I can keep pace, I should be ok. Besides, there is no going back. I feel powerful slam from behind me. My car jolts forward but I can hear it straining from the impact. Not good. I can’t see what the drivers look like but by the tell of their driving I could guess what they wanted: to pillage whatever their filthy-rear end hands could take. I had my gun inside the middle console but turning to shoot proved to be too painful. I was barely in control of driving as is, turning to blind fire felt impossible. Still, I couldn’t just take the hits. They had to know I meant business, too. I slam the brakes to let them past forward, then leaned hard onto the left to slam onto the oncoming vehicle, aiming for their tail in hopes of forcing them to spin out. Instead, we slide the sides of our cars together, ripping off both our side mirrors. I try to use the momentum of my car to force my opponent off the road but I quickly then feel another slam my other side. The second driver entered the fight. Focusing became a challenge as I try to swallow my pain as if that would actually do anything. I wasn’t quite sure yet which was worse: the prospect of letting the village down or the intense throbbing and hemorrhaging occurring at my side. Failure meant death, and the only thing keeping me alive was the violent sense of speed trying to tear the car apart and whatever sense of honor I felt cognizant enough to credit myself. I had to complete this run. Doing this would finally go a long way to proving myself and my place within the village. This was my test. I can see the village coming over the horizon, but I cannot shake the vultures. If I get close enough to the village, I can hope the border guards can take their shots at them. I summon what strength I have and reach for my gun, firing a desperation shot from the passenger-side window. The shots shatter both our windows, glass flying everywhere. I do what I can to shield my eyes with my gun hand while keeping the other hand on the wheel. I try to turn to fire toward the driver side but the now out of control right-side rust bucket slams into my tail, forcing me into a spin out. At 100-miles-per-hour, the car begins to flip violently and shreds into pieces and it continues to roll. My consciousness fades until I slam into a barricade. Hard. The whole moment becomes a slow-fast blur. I can see myself ripped from seat, going face first going face first into the windshield, the collision itself a blank-out-moment before I can feel the hard thud onto the ground, hitting my jaw on the ground and my head rebounding backward. Everything finally settles into a moment where I lay motionless. I can see home. It’s right there. I can’t feel my body but every instinct is screaming crawl. Push. Anything. I’m not sure if my limbs are moving but I do what I can to shuffle my mass forward. Things become a blur again. I feel my body being dragged. I’m powerless to do anything but be dead weight. I’m so tired and thirsty. I feel weirdly hungry but my stomach feels full. I feel quick moments of pain before going totally numb. I hear yelling but can’t tell what they are saying. I look up and see her face. I want to touch her face but all I can do is smile. I see her silhouette lean closer to me. “Stay with me!” I think she says things are going to be alright. The last thought I remember having was hoping they found the penicillin in the trunk. If I died, I hoped at least my sacrifice meant something.
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Apr 11, 2022 06:59
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What the hell why not, I'm in.
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Apr 13, 2022 01:59
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Week 506 One Walks the Anexium Pathway Again 900 words I drink deep from the pewter goblet. The liquid tastes foul. I’m sure this must be bog water. My stomach immediately burns. Worst of all, I feel vulnerable. The shaman intones in deep baritones an incoherent yet rhythmic chant. As I wrestle with the knot growing in my stomach, I lose my sense of place. The runic scribblings on the walls grow brighter. I start to feel moist, then dripping with sweat. The heat becomes unbearable until I find my hands melting into the floor. “What is this?” I scream, feeling the bottom of my mouth continue to melt with the rest of me. I’m unsure if I still have a voice as I drip apart. The shaman replies, “You asked to find the Anexium Pathway. Did you assume it was just a literal cavern?” It takes great effort to keep focus. I greatly fear if I lose focus over the moment I may come apart for good. “To understand the ethereal plane, you must relinquish your control over the material, “the shaman demands. “You are more than just your body. Your soul is of a god. The Old Gods relinquished corporeal forms to expand not unlike an insect from a cocoon. For even you are still an insect in this grand tapestry.” I imagine flexing my muscles, attempting to pull my essence together slop by slop. This is not the first time someone has attempted to manipulate my mind over the course of 2000 years. Slowly pieces of myself come back together like mud slapped on a pile. When I feel together enough, I attempt to shout again: “I only wish to speak to them. I don’t seek to be one.” The shaman says nothing. There is no room anymore. Only the infinite expanse of literal space. I feel wide and small. There is darkness and refractions of colored light filling its void. I barely contain myself before feeling a powerful presence before me. A powerful wind from nowhere trying to further strip my being away, no more than the wind carries a leaf. A deep voice reverberates from my soul. “Seek and you shall find. Another generation has taken my throne?” My…head? I think what is my head is pounding. I feel in my gut the vibrating from their speech. “Who are you?” I hear booms and see my body undulating. Is...is this its way of laughing at me? It finally showed itself. The sight of it hurt to see. It’s gaze absolute and piercing, stabbing at me. A perfect symphony of inscribed rings revolving around a single unblinking eye. It is draped in a glistening down of feathers. Beautiful and horrifying in equal measure. There is no corner of my mind in which I can hide. It sees all clearly. “What are you?” I cry. I’m bouncing in my own head, the pain excruciating. “The next step.” “If you truly are of the old gods then I demand answers!” I shout, frustrated that I’m but a toy in their hands. “Were you the one that brought me to this plane from my home? How do I go back? Why have I been brought here? What are you now? Just loving why?” I scream into what feels like a void, judged by an unblinking eye. I feel my body undulating again in what I’m sure now is it laughing. “You’ve come this far to ask such simple-minded questions?” the booming voice ponders aloud. The reverberations from its voice make me believe it now sounds insulted. The revolving rings around the great eye stop and form a target pattern around its center. Bright tentacles extend out and stab me into what I think was my eyes. Whatever question I can bother asking I’ve already been given an answer. I don’t feel the presence grants me knowledge because it genuinely wants me to know but to prove it can show me. My eyes can only keep opening wider. I see moments. I exist in every one of them simultaneously. Both bystander and perpetrator. In one moment, I am a bird flying above the terrain, focused on finding the next meal. I feel the pulsating life of billions of the world’s insects. In another instant moment I am a murderer shamelessly killing frightened prey in cold blood. All of these feel equal. Simple energy passing from one place to another, sometimes in small quantities other times larger. It’s all overwhelming. I have only now realized all my previous efforts were feeble. Over the course of my over lived life, I gained the strength to shatter mountains. The will to mobilize armies with my voice alone. I was worshipped as a god. These facts felt petty compared to the wisdom I was bombarded with. I was but a child believing I could swim because I floated in a shallow pool. “Whatever world you knew before this plane is gone to you. But come with me and I will show you another way forward.” The burning sensations give way to a feeling of nothing. The last of me evaporates into its light. “We are burdened with the cruel task of being born again,” it tells me, its voice now reassuring. In this moment I feel connected to this presence, and I learn its truth: it too once sought a way back, though it has now long forgotten what there was to ever return to.
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Apr 17, 2022 03:10
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| # ¿ Apr 19, 2024 18:57 |
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Apr 26, 2022 17:49
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