Safety First

I've created a monster in my last post; progress on it is slow but steady. Here's something new to distract you from my shame. Read, enjoy; I've got a turd to go polish.

A good many years ago - I was seven or eight at the time - I hovered over the toaster eagerly anticipating my toaster strudel.

I was a short kid, scarcely taller than the counter this toaster had stood on. So, to be ''hovering'' over it meant I had to climb up onto the counter and get on all fours to look down into the glowing, red hot innards of the busy toaster. On a cold November morning, the warming sensation of radiant, strudel-scented heat gleaming onto my face was as close to sex as any seven year old should ever get. The anticipation of the strudel's climactic emergence and the following application of icing doodles proved to great to bear. The sudden clamor of strudel bursting out of the toaster not only removed me from my warm-faced daze but out right shattered my blissful moment -- as well as one of my top incisors.

The scare of the popping toaster had sent my head reeling, at a high velocity, up and away from the offending source and directly into a looming cupboard's ridged corner. Reflex kicked in once more sending me face first into the toaster. I now faced the inescapable pain of an exposed nerve.

The sharp cry I let loose was likely heard by everyone for miles; dogs in neighboring states winced.

I had a sudden appreciation for the use of mouth guards in contact sports but rejected mother's insistence that I wear a mouth guard at all times henceforth. Mother's reasoning was that, ''The world is a hazardous place and our daily preparations must reflect that fact appropriately.''

''Then where is your mouth guard?'' I asked.

''I'm no klutz,'' was her only repartee.

I questioned her logic but did as I was told. Who was I to question a protective mother diligently trying to raise children in a world where soft, rubbery playgrounds bedded with bits of recycled tires were quickly replacing their former wood and steel counterparts? Nowadays everyone can unanimously agree, save for a few of the more obstinate old timers, that the government mandate for the installation of seat belts and airbags in automobiles has saved and improved the quality of many lives. The move for me to wear my mouth piece was surely a decree of the same monumental insight.

It's always better to be safe than sorry, right?

One day, the following summer, I was wondering about the yard looking for something, anything to do. I was bored, and boredom is, by far, the single most perilous thing any child could encounter. I ended up settling on a game of ''Don't get hit in the face with a walnut,'' which my older brother and his friends had recently conceived. The rules were simple: Throw walnuts at other combatants; try not to get hit in the face.

Every child in America has played this game in one form of another.

Baseball-sized walnuts sailed through the air. Some, freshly fallen, were rough, green, unyielding balls that hit the walnut trees we hid behind with a hard thwack while others, rotten and black, swimming with maggots, would strike their target with an innocuous splatter. After taking one of the latter to the center of my chest I stopped to brush off the wriggling mass of pulp and maggot, completely oblivious to an incoming walnut of the other variety. Crack, the walnut fell squarely on the top of my head, knocking me out for a brief moment -- long enough for me to fall to my back and half swallow my mouth guard. It was fortunate that my brother was able to pull the obstruction from my throat before I suffocated. My world turned a red hue from the blood flowing through my hair and into my eyes. Mother cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide and gave me a helmet to wear which was good since peroxide had stripped away patches of my hair's color.

By the time summer was over and the school year started, I was required each morning to don my mouth guard, a helmet, knee and elbow pads, steel-toed boots, water wings, and a neck brace all before heading downstairs to mother who would then wrap me in a layer of bubble wrap. ''Have a good day, Precious,'' Mother would say before kissing my forehead and sending me waddling out the door.

One day at school, it was particularly hot. The suffocating amount of gear I had on combined with the intense heat, caused me to collapse of a heat stroke during lunch.

Following my abrupt crash to the floor, I was quickly stripped of my protective gear. I was then placed in front of a fan in the air-conditioned nurse's office and given a cold compress to hold to my neck while I waited for the paramedics.

The nurse asked me what I was doing with all that junk on anyway.

''To stay safe,'' I explained wearily.

She laughed and pointed out how well it was working. ''Sometimes you just have to take things in stride,'' she explained. ''If you spend so much time worrying about the bad, you'll never have the chance to take in all the good.'' ''Besides,'' she said, pulling up her sleeve, revealing a thick and presumably secret scar, ''Wounds heal and the scars remind us not to repeat our mistakes.''

I briefly reflected on whether she meant that the scar itself was her mistake or that what had inspired it was. Both, I decided. Like her, I ,too, was burned twice -- once by doing stupid kid stuff and again when instead of learning from my mistakes, I tried to hide from them.

Mother arrived before the paramedics and signed an Against Medical Advice form to avoid a trip to the hospital and enable her to take me home ''where it was safe.''

''Tomorrow, I'll order you a Cooling Vest to wear,'' Mom said on the ride home.

''No,'' I argued, ''In fact, all I'm wearing tomorrow is a tee-shirt and shorts''

''But, but, but, you won't be safe,'' she stammered, her gaze widening. ''You'll get hurt!''

''Shit happens,'' I rejoined, relaying what the nurse had taught me. I was paraphrasing of course.

*Work in progress*

This is very much so work in progress [started a little over an hour ago] so please hold off on any comments regarding punctuation or the particulars of sentence structure. I must admit that I don't really like this piece [yet] but I'm forcing myself to sit down and just write without regard as a sort of mental exercise I guess. I'll pick this up again later, for now I have to dart off to work.

When the sun finally fizzled out the whole of the world was thrust, almost instantly, into an immutable darkness. The moon went black without the sun's telling luminosity exposing its features, and the only evidence of its existence was a migrating void in the star speckled night's sky. The irony was in the fact that this occurrence took place on the tenth anniversary of the World States ''Bold Initiative'' act. An act calling for the abolishment of the drilling for and use of fossil fuels. Drilling so deeply was deemed too invasive and damaging to the New World's beloved deity, Terra or Earth Mother, thus resulting in the banning of Geo-thermal energy only three years after Bold Initiative was passed. The new act was titled ''Spare Mother's Heart'' Most of the worlds power needs where thereafter satisfied by solar panels.

The New World States [I'll explain for history's sake] or NWS as it's commonly refereed to, was formed in 2012 as a means to create a coalition that would counter the predicted end of the world. The NWS quickly set to work establishing – what would shortly become a full fledged religion – an order of rules and regulations intended to promote the integrity of the planet and civilization in general. Apart from the ecological protections introduced, the words ''person'' and ''people'' were replaced with ''earth'' and the Earth was thence called ''Earth Mother,'' ''To incite an unprecedented connectedness of the world,'' it was said.

All the earth of the world gasped in unison the day the sun gave out. The New World had failed them, more so even than the old. Many claimed the sun died of negligence, the earth had forgotten the sun and the sun, having been the center of attention for centuries, lamented the return to the ancient ways of an ethnocentric earth. After a decade of being passively utilized and taken for grated, the sun simply gave up. No super nova, no implosion, just a subtle crackle followed by a fizz. Mother Earth was consumed by the frigid, tenebrific universe.

Earth everywhere struggled to find hope in these [excuse the pun] dark times. Some fervently began worshiping the sun by partaking in rituals that involed setting themselves or others on fire [damn, more puns]. In short, Mother Earth rapidly desended into chaos as a glacial cold crept into the hearts of earth and Earth Mother alike.

A Love Transpired

Another old piece, originally writ as a Valentine's Day gift for an ex, but to hell with her -- I'm taking it back. Posts of new works coming soon.

Hearts close, thine to mine.

Recumbant, your fine lines, curves, cut like knives.

Two lives: hearts, bodies, minds entwined.

Sweat beads, drips, proceeds,

trickles down, slips deep between,

where lovers meet and two it seems,

become as one from neck to navel.

Blue-green eyes are meet with hazel.

Fervent hands caress your thighs,

whilst lusty moans pass into sighs.

Love subsides and all that stays:

Lovers locked in loving gaze.

Ambitious Droning

Again, something old; inspired by Bokowski, mild depression, sleep deprivation, and tequila. It was a rare time so don't expect any similar postings.

I watched for a long time

and waited.

Disinterested

but invidious.

Never thought to think, to stay motivated.

Never wanted anything, save everything.

Four A.M

Something on t.v., turned to low to hear.

Im writing this

thinking maybe you will read

and partake, with me,

in sour grapes.

But you're better then that

and I know it.

So I'll aspire to make good

on presentimental successes

and maybe, just maybe

even you won't hang on too high a vine.

(No Such Thing As) A Free Ride

This is something I wrote about three years ago. I'll rehash a few old pieces before I get into anything new. I hope you enjoy.

I shot up terrified in a cold sweat. I could hear the quickly fading echo of a shout reverberate within the cars chassis. Had my own screams woke me? In any case I was awake and hung over with a pounding headache -- the most likely culprit of my night terrors. Midday terrors rather, I checked my cell; it was almost three in the afternoon.

Where in hell had that rat fink bastard Charlie gone off to? It was, after all, his car I woke up in.

Charlie was a strange character, a gangster of sorts in the sense that he was a Guinea, owned a gun, and sold drugs. He was an outgoing guy who always spoke his mind and did what he wanted.

“Get your hands off my girlfriend!” he would command the male counterpart of any reasonably attractive woman.

With enough drink in him he was likely to announce to an entire crowd – loud and clear, without a hint of shame - the quality of a woman’s rear or bosom. Needless to say he was abrasive and tended to piss people off, myself included; but overall he was the nicest asshole I ever meet.

Whimsical as Charlie may be he was also a possessive brat, so it struck me odd to find myself alone in the driver seat of his Galant, keys in the ignition, parked in a playground miles off from either of our apartments. Had I stolen his car? I couldn’t put it past myself; I drove a second hand pile of junk so tearing up the freeway in Charlie’s lovingly cared for Mitsubishi had been a long running fantasy of mine.

I dialed Charlie’s cell - no answer. Honestly I don’t know why he owns the damn thing, he never picks up.

“TSSSHHHH” I inhaled through my teeth and pinched the bridge of my nose as one with a severe brain freeze might. My brain was frozen alright; I couldn’t remember much, if any of last night’s festivities. I had to think - had to find Charlie. It was Saturday and we were due to attend his sister’s birthday party in less than three hours. He must have taken the train home, I should meet him there. I started up the car and peeled out into the road with a screech.

My mind seemed to open up with the throttle. I always did my best thinking behind the wheel.

Any recollection I had of the night transpired came as a fish-eyed haze and only in brief snippets - flash bulb memories, like someone cut chunks out of the film of my mind’s eye and scratched the shit out of the rest with their car keys. I remember sitting in Lennie’s Pub well enough, but I’m certain we left after two or three pitchers of the Wailing Wench. Where did we go next?

“Come on Jack.” My conscience played back in response, “I’ve got to go pick something up.”

Charlie drove us a good while before reaching an ill maintained dirt road that winded its way to a derelict country house. Sobriety had been creeping up on me slowly during our drive so I can recall the mad house, as it where, with reasonable clarity. It was a dilapidated two-storied plantation style home spotted with chips of white paint that curled away from the façade on which the scarcely clung. The roof of the sprawling ramshackle portico was supported at a precarious angle by three pillars and an aching make-shift two by four pillar which withstood the roofs corner with reluctance. The house was inundated with wildly incontinent drunks that whooped and hollered unabatedly. Blaring music pervaded the air for miles; so loud you couldn’t have heard a howitzer fire.

I can’t tell with any certainty where the house was located save for the middle of nowhere.

I followed Charlie up to the house. We had barely begun to work our way through the throng towards the bar when someone called out Charlie’s name. I swear he knew half of everybody there. That’s just the way it was with Charlie, it didn’t matter where he went. The man whom I did not recognize and whose features I can’t rightly recall took Charlie away. I pressed on to the homemade bar that was a chest high wall of milk creates topped with a warped wooden plank. I had two shots of well whisky to get my buzz back then filled a plastic cup courtesy of a nearby keg. I remembered standing around bobbing my head to the music, admiring the graffiti covered walls, helping myself to another beer and then... nothing.

The reel of my memory fluttered as though it had reached its end. It’s as if someone drew the curtain but the players continued their act behind the veil. Strange, I’ve never been a black out drunk. Could I have been slipped something?

Red and blue lights flickered in the rearview mirror. “Fuck the police!”

I pulled to the side of the road less than four blocks from Charlie’s apartment.

“Good day officer!” I said sarcastically as he approached. His hand was poised over his pistols hilt -- a good indication he wasn’t interested is pleasantries.

“License and registration.” He commanded. I obliged him.

“Are you the owner of this vehicle?”

“No sir, though I’m a good friend of the owner.” I responded a bit sheepishly.

“Are you aware that this vehicle has been reported stolen?”

“No sir,” I retorted. “I assure you there has been a mistake.”

I laughed inside, careful not to let my amusement show through. I had stolen it! I would have to punch Charlie in the mouth for turning me in. I thought he hated cops.

“The owner lives just a few blocks ahead,” I continued, “I’m on my way there now.” “I could give him a call if you’d like?”

“You better do that,” the officer said after a pause.

I dialed Charlie as the cop walked a lap around the car. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.” I chanted into the ringing phone.

“Would you pop this trunk?!” The cop requested aggressively.

I did as he asked thinking little of it until I heard a familiar ring tone coming from inside the now wide open trunk.

The cop drew his pistol and fixed it on my head. Two other patrols arrived just in time to help drag me out of the car and slam me on the hood of the cruiser behind the Galant. I jerked my head to the side in the midst of this transition to see inside the trunk. I only caught a glimpse before my head was wrestled forward and pressed into the cruiser. Charlie was dead -- his body folded awkwardly into the small trunk, hands bound and legs contorted in an unnatural way so that he faced his own heels. Charlie’s revolver rested on top of the corpse; I had no doubts in my mind that my prints were all over it.

It was plain for me to see that Charlie was set up and I was a convenient scapegoat.