30 April 2010

"Instant" #Fridayflash









"Repugnant is a creature who would
squander the ability to lift an eye to heaven;
conscious of his fleeting time here."

Right in Two - Tool

____



The sky flashed, illuminating thick, rolling underbellies. Veins of red and deepest black traced those surfaces like a fatty vital organ. Bilboy peered out the rain-speckled windshield up at the magnificent display of nature’s wrath. An old-time country song crooned to itself on the AM radio. The Ford sputtered, recapturing Bilboy’s attention.

“Just a few miles more,” he muttered to the rusted behemoth.

There was this reoccurring dream: It always ended before his inebriated mind could wrap its arms around the true significance. Clouds overhead. Weak headlights stabbing vainly at the gathered night. Indescribable shivers puckering the old Semper Fi tattoo on his right forearm.

The reflection in his big-faced Timex watch, then the old Ford would sputter, just like that. Bilboy’s mouth twisted downwards and he rustled a bagged beverage clinging to the driver’s side door sill in one of those plastic half-circle cup holders you could get at the Speedy-Stop outside of Wilmenco.

This night drew up viscous memories of cold fluorescence, the stench of spilled gasoline and the tight red-burn of rope-bound wrists. It wasn’t too long ago that those scars’d faded  to silver, just under the deep chestnut hairs. Spiderwebs skittered over those bones and canvassed the tops of his hands where the skin peeled back, like an old dirty sock.

Thunder announced just behind the cab making the old man jump in his seat. No seat belt—a ¾ Tonner didn’t have those kind of rules. He took a bitter swallow of piss-warm beer and fumbled in his breast pocket for a Camel, thumbing the lighter in the dash. It never worked; he never remembered that until it’d pop over and over again, only to hold it in til he could feel the heat radiate outwards from the inch-diameter hole.

The spiral of bright orange illuminated the end of his cigarette and guided the lighter back home. The Ford dipped two tires off the paved road onto the shoulder, and Bilboy corrected with a reflexive jerk of the gigantic steering wheel. The other two tires screeched in protest as the empty bed of the truck swung around to meet the front.

Bilboy growled as he attempted to hammer the brake into submission, spilling his beer down his leg and finally the floorboard as both hands clamped on the steering wheel.

Lightning flashed over the slick pavement, strobing the scene as it unfolded before his eyes, but it wasn’t this moment in time.

It was the dream. That same damn dream that jerked him awake, sheathed in chilled sweat and trembling like a newborn calf. The dream of what happened when the Ford really did leave the pavement and fall afterwards.

Snap of thunder. Blaze of fire. Gasoline.

It was his time, but he didn’t believe in that kind of thing. He didn’t believe in anything except Pearl, (who’d gone on fifteen years before) Pabst beer, Winston-Salem and that number 45 car, whose driver was a distinct asshole but he sure did get the job done.

Bilboy threw his arms up to cover his face, but the glass melted through his skin. The old 302 wormed into the cab to greet him, partially severing his right leg in a searing instant. The rain saturated his dry skin as he stared up into the face of his Maker.

22 April 2010

"The Week After" #Fridayflash




"Someone shot nostalgia in the back
Someone shot our innocence."

Who Killed Mr. Moonlight - Bauhaus




###
 

Shiny leaves bounced in the mediocre shower as I watched two men work in tandem to ease the deceased to his final resting place. Their hair slick and hanging, slapping against cheeks pulled in from exertion and eyes puffy from tears.

The hole was without a headstone, only a mound to indicate a prior individual lay there in the dirt. People needed markers inscribed with comforting verses and clever poems. Humor in the morbid. Couldn't think too hard about the Time, because the rest of the Days would fly by.

I blinked, closing my eyes to hear nature's liquid percussion patter along vinyl tenting and drip off the curved shelter of my umbrella. I was a house. This was my eave. He was buried in my backyard. I pulled my feet out of the gathering muck. It was time to move.

I took a cab back to his apartment. It would always be his in my mind, because I was still a guest. I'd come to help keep him warm, but hadn't earned the right to live in his closet, our clothes mingling, merging and getting lost. Socks of red and black.

A framed photo of us mocked me from the mantel and I lay it face-down. He was gone a week and already I wanted to erase my mind of the happiness. A false start. I'd been left idling in a parking lot where the building was torn down.

I had no meter, only a heart. I wanted to reach inside and turn back the hands, just push back the spring to remember how it felt before I stopped hurting for the right one.

16 April 2010

"Crooked Fang" #Fridayflash

This week I wasn't sure if I'd even have a piece to share. I lost my guitar hero, Peter Steele. If you have anything to do with me, you're already aware of the status level of my absolute distress. Still, I was browsing Type O Negative's website and inspiration struck. Xan Marcelles, aka Crooked Fang bassist doesn't have a bio. As it is entirely fictional, I figured I'd make you chuckle if I could. Smile for me. I'll catch up later. 


Type O Negative's official site
Crooked Fang's menial blog


Xanox Marcelles,  (born Gabriel Nez on October 8, 1958) is the backing vox, bassist, and full-time asshole for his band, aptly named Crooked Fang. Preferring to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible,  Xan can usually be seen lurking in the intentional shadows onstage during the small shows randomly held at PALE RIDER in the backwoods of Pinecliffe, Colorado.

When not plucking four strings, cursing, drinking, or sleeping in, Xan often takes assignments off ‘those kind of people’ but no worries—he only offs other vamps.

That’s right, Xan is also a vampire. Shit—I thought he told you. 

In his spare time Xan enjoys tinkering under the hood, drinking, social networking, drinking, smoking, drinking, women, and occasionally kicking himself in the teeth. After a drink.

Xan’s main musical influences include Roger Waters, Peter Steele, Glenn Danzig, (The original one) and any other badass musician with a good set of pipes, inhuman percussion techniques, or bass sweet enough to feel in the cockles.

Crooked Fang is comprised of Jason, Josh, and a certain missing vocalist named Serv. Xan swears he’s not taking that spot.

Crooked Fang is hiring lead vox. Preferably immortal and not a douche bag.

Hey Peter


The silence is deafening. You and Type O Negative have been my soundtrack for seventeen years. There are no words to express my sorrow.

Rest in Peace

09 April 2010

Help Young Native American Readers

Making a Difference, One Book at a Time - the Guys Lit Wire & Operation Teen Book Drop Event for Navajo & Apache Teens

 Read the above post and help a teen discover the joy of reading from Powell's Books!

"341" #Fridayflash


I have to punk out this week, and leave you with a scene from my forever WIP "500". The following scene isn't really gory, but the inferred references are. Keep an open mind or leave now. Just sayin'. - CC

(In this scene, Stein has been led around by Roger De Los Muertos, or You-Know-Who's Assistant, and he seems to want to break the man. Scenes from his life are rerun like a bad movie, out of focus, and out of order. If it works well enough as a stand-alone, awesome. Otherwise, I apologize for the abstract slice. This is an experiment.) 




Photo credit: alexfrance from morguefile.com


Stein felt naked. Steam rolled in around him, hot and humid. He looked down and gave a little yelp.

“Oh come now, not as if I can't see all of you anyway,” Roger said, standing next to him in a towel. His sunken white chest had weeping sores dotted across it, like crying eyes. Stein recoiled when they blinked in unison.

“What the fuck?”

“Seems to be your favorite statement come lately,” Roger scoffed and rolled his head back on his neck.
“Know where you are?”

“Gym,” Stein said flatly. His hair was soapy. He turned to the water spray to rinse the shampoo out. “Kevin.”

He switched the water off and Roger handed him a towel. Or at least—fuck. That caught him by surprise. Kevin Cordoba stood there in a towel himself. His face was red and he stammered. Even though Stein knew exactly what he was going to say, his face worked into a mask of surprise.

“Do I know you?”

Kevin managed a small smile and clung loosely to the towel when Stein moved to snatch it out of his hands.

“Jesus,” Stein said to Roger, outside himself, seeing everything as it occurred. “I was fucking seventeen man! I don't want to see this—“

“You did very horrible things, didn't you Stein? What was it that you did immediately after you told him to get the fuck away from you?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“No?” Roger said, “Because I can show you what your friends did to him—“

“Fuck you.”

“They had to identify him by his teeth, Cristein. He was tied down in the bed of a pickup truck like an animal. No one ever knew young boys could be such—monsters.” His grin wavered, “But not you Stein. No. You came off smelling like a rose. Seems Angel and Jason did time in the big house. Jason was stabbed in the throat with a sharpened spoon. He died at the scene, and no one knew where or how that inmate was able to keep a weapon like that. They found out when Armando died a day later from internal bleeding.”

He jerked the towel from Kevin's paused hand and blotted Stein's face.

“Three for the price of one. You've been quite the commodity during your time.”

“I didn't know goddamnit,” Stein said, gritting his teeth. The shower faded, and so did Kevin's hopeful smile.

01 April 2010

"Two Scoops" #Fridayflash



Jackson sat there in handcuffs, slick as an oil-spill in his sateen getup, feathered black hair, and thin moustache. He'd been around the block a couple of times. Hillcroft was no more than an unbroken bronco: wheat-colored hair and glaring green eyes as he tugged at his restraints. A new dealer to the thug enterprise, an ex-boxer and thief that wasn't all right upstairs, Hillcroft clearly disturbed Jackson.

"And so I opened the trunk, and oh sweet baby Jesus, if Hillcroft hadn't made ten bodies fit in the back of that T-Bird."

"You say ten bodies?" Marilyn (just Marilyn) was a tough broad, one of the few on the force. Her daddy was a cop, so she just walked into the job, but soon proved herself to have bigger balls than the rest of them.

"Ten, yeah."

"You told me to get rid of them," Hillcroft shot back and glared across the metal table at Jackson.

"I want him outta here," Jackson said to Marilyn, "He's crazy. I got my rights you know."

"Pipe down both of you," she said and leaned over the table at the younger thug. "This true Bill-Hill? You fit ten bodies in the back of a 1974 Thunderbird?"

Hillcroft grinned. "Ain't nobody called me Bill-Hill in ages. I did."

"You cheated, you little shit," Jackson growled."Bill-Hill. He's proud of that you know."

"I did your record up by a couple."

Marilyn pushed off of the table and smirked.

"And this is why you were found off State 90, scooping parts out of the trunk with shovels like kids with sundae spoons."

"I told him not to cut off the goddamn legs. Not the fucking legs."

"It was more than legs from looking at the photos." Marilyn spread out the 9X11 glossies on the worn surface. "Distinctly Picasso. And to think, if you'd just taken two trips, you wouldn't be here."

Jackson kicked Hillcroft under the table.

Today AT-THE-BIJOU!





Come up and see me sometime.