Getting Up: Finding My Way Back in a Flash, 2011-2014

Drugs and Death

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A Moonlit Kill

The moon illuminated the back wall of the yellow trailer. At 3:30 a.m., nothing moved much inside the small community. A tiny figure covered in a black hoodie crept up splintered steps. Skeletal fingers shoved a piece of wire coat hanger between the back door's bolt and its housing. The lock popped. The Hoodie took a step inside. The living area and kitchen were empty. The air was stale, warm and rank with a sweetness that smelled like a cut-up brick of rat poison. The Hoodie passed through the living room and left dried blades of grass from its shoes on the stained, in-and-out carpet. The Hoodie stopped. It heard a humming coming from the bedroom.
Eric scooted to the farthest corner of the room that faced the back of the park and the home next door. His revolver lay next to him. He skipped green-and-blue marbles across the room and watched them bounce off the walls. He hummed tunelessly and tracked the intruder by sound. His chocolate-covered pit bull lay its head down into his lap with its ears turned up. Eric stroked its back to keep him from growling. Eric watched uneven nails creep around the particle board casement that outlined the bedroom door.
"I just want a taste," it said.
"No. You can't even afford a taste." Eric whispered.
"Just a little, anything for a little." The cloaked figure, faceless, hovered and cast a shadow in the moonbeam.
Eric laughed and threw a marble at the Hoodie. "Taste that. You owe too much to a lot of people."
The Hoodie pounced on the floor, grasped the marble, and turned it over. The Hoodie hissed, "Please, just a little. I got some gold earrings."
Eric hit the Hoodie hard with three marbles. "Alright, you've won me over with your charms, but you pay tonight, sweets"
Eric tugged out the only piece he had on him and threw it out the door. He let his pit go.
The chocolate-covered pit trotted to the door and chased the old woman with the gray legs outside. Screams and barking echoed back to Eric. The screams stopped. He waited. Nothing moved much at this time of night in the small community. Padded toes and exerted huffing jumped back into his lap.

***

Cherries

The tombstone watched Frank. He watched it. His best friend, Alice, had been killed when a car hit her bike. Alice's grandmother sat motionless in a metal chair underneath the funeral home tent, her slim hands folded in her lap.
After the service, Frank walked the half-mile to Alice's house, his face wrinkled with tears. He stepped up onto the paint-chipped porch and sat down. He could almost hear her clomping down the stairway inside, blasting out the door, her little nasal voice excited, snip-snapping about either baseball or books.
He swallowed and felt dryness in his throat. He stood up and immediately the world pitched to the left. His neck muscles tightened and his legs tingled. The sensation rounded out to his vision as he watched Alice's dog, Charlie, a Boston pug, with concerned, moon-shaped eyes walk up the steps. He grabbed a post near the rail and threw up in the bushes below. As if someone had taken pity, a cool breeze hit his temple, and he felt miles better. He picked up Charlie, and the dog squirmed inside of his suit jacket, extending his short neck up to lick him in the nose. They walked to one of the windows together and peered inside. He saw a shaft of light painting the floorboards and casting abstract spots on the paneled walls. He could smell cherries. A bowl of them were always left in the foyer. He remembered Thanksgiving when Alice had hit him with a book, because he was salivating over one of her grandmother's cherry pies. Charlie licked the glass and whimpered.
Frank let go of Charlie and stepped down into the yard. A scent hit the dog's nose from around the corner of the house, and he rocketed after it through the gold and brown leaves.
Frank walked faster toward the mailbox at the end of the drive. His tears fell even faster.
"I'll always miss you, dummy." A hint of cherry followed him as he ran home.

***

The Beatles and No Cigarettes

A spartan cot, dusty wooden floors, and dirty white linen drapes billowed outside, away from an abandoned farmhouse window. Picturesque, kind of Grapes of Wrath-ish?
Hi, I'm Johnny. My impersonation of a hippie hobo has led me and my friend, Emilio, to camp for a couple of days until we stop seeing rainbows and little ponys with Barbie hair. We tripped through a hole, and dammit, it wasn't Pepperland.
It was a two-story structure, and we staked out the upper floor bedroom, so we could see if anyone was coming. My Civic was hidden behind the house. I rubbed at my sandy cropped hair, my insides crawling, I swear I saw a yellow snake in the corner. Emilio jumped at that and fell over in a heap, crying he needed a cigarette. My T-shirt and jeans were ripped from a fence we had to hop over, a Rottweiler chewing at our wallets, a score in Jacksonville screwed from the start.
No cigarettes. We were going to expire right here and right now. What do we do? We withdraw from the junk tabs in the ashtray of a girl's apartment a few states back, that pushed us in the wrong direction on the highway in the first place.
I try to console Emilio, but he's a weak putz like me. I'm not thrilled about getting back in my car, so I slapped him until his eyes went slanted with recognition. He does the same for me only with much more verve than I thought necessary. We shook hands and counted our remaining funds. We had enough for gas and maybe four packs between us until we got back East. We would just have to smoke slow.
The cool wind cut through the windows and the haze, the miles ticked by, and the day finally melted away into the end of my red and gold ember.

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The Lavender Syringe (an Esquire contest entry)
The tiny girl with white hair stood for her first Polaroid. She danced with a scarf that flew like a kite in a heated, restless wind. The scarf sailed away to the tiny girl's father and he shot it. The dead rattlesnake dropped inside the earth back to hell. She smiled at him with swollen, green eyes. A woman in a lavender coat watched over her with concern. A droplet fell away from the syringe.

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The Demon Sitting on my Chest (One of the first things I wrote when I was hurt)
Blood stuck to her hair. She traced rust patterns on the mirror and tossed cocaine at it. She laughed at the pony galloping through the snow. A child moved quick through the shadows behind her, his dark hair matching his dark suit. She slid off of the vanity stool and slammed to the floor, her white muslin gown sinking into the puddle of blood beneath her.
Her chalk, white skin turned blue and vibrated. The dark man in the dark suit straddled her and the whole room spun. Her crystal green eyes snapped open.