Posts Tagged ‘random fiction’

An old man sits at the bar, waiting for his drink, Jack and Coke, only way to repulse the memories of those years.

That life.

Here comes the bombs, raining down, he’s the one who is dropping them.

Explosions there, in his mind, words, medals, praise, good job.

Screaming “Mother!! Can you hear me? I can’t hear you!” over and over in a padded room, sometime.

He was 53.


Screaming still.

He tries to blank it out.


There’s a silence somewhere.

He swaggers home.


All those years, bottled up, shoved into his brain, to gain a hold.

He shot a man.

He can still see his face.

The enemy.

Die, enemy, die!

Silence as he sits on the sidewalk, watching a puddle.

“I killed a man, mother, he was following orders too. Think God can forgive me? Thou shall not kill, mother, thou shall not kill.” he wrote a letter to his mother, after that day, never sent, it was written, shoved away.

He found himself weeping, there, on that street.

People walk by.

Shake their heads.

Old drunk man on the street, probably homeless.

For goodness sake.

Somebody should do something.

He stands up and wanders away.

Village Girls – Kick it!

The night was awful, sitting there, in some club, outside of reality, but there in time, you could feel your skin pulsating against the music playing around you, happy people dancing around you.

You were on your seventh expensive cocktail when the drugs took hold, the world stopped spinning, creating an energy vortex, Jesus Christ was there, trying to find his phone he lost in 1983.

Jim came in, waved at me, life of the party, the room stopped for just a second, to turn and look and wave back.

The end was near, you could feel it, in the marrow of your bones, trying to consume you, trying to kill you, trying to eat you from the inside out, the drugs weren’t working, just a placebo, you knew it, but the doctors kept positive.

“David, we can’t tell you which group you’re in but your blood numbers are good…good….really good….”

They were lying sacks of shit, you knew it, you could feel the cancer, down below the skin, in your soul, moving slowly into your brain.

“Are you thinking or does your face always looks like that?” Jim was sitting near me, his after shave burning my eyes.

I smiled and nodded.

“Who shit in your Cheerios?”

I shrugged.

He knew, he knew everything, my go to friend, when I needed to cry, he understood, he was dying too, liver was going, too many Saturday nights on the dance floor, tripping, on whatever was the designer drug of the time, but his kidneys were fine, which always made him smile when he said it.

“Lets fuck this place!” he laughed and ordered a beer, some kind of brew that only he knew.

We drank, well, Jim was drinking, I sipped, trying to find my center of the universe.

Two women of the prostitute variety wandered over to us. The ugly one of the pair sat on my knee, smiling.

“You guys looking for fun time?”

Jim smiled, shrugged.

“We could be…”

They all laughed, a part of our nightly ritual, Sarah, the girl on my knee was my off and on girlfriend, Jim’s lady, Doris, but known through out the city as Angel, were okay, for a pair of fellows like us.

They ordered shots, something to clean their pallets of jock cum and such.

“Nightmares all around!” Jim yelled and the crowd yelled their approval.

Nightmares were moonshine for the lack of a better word laced on the rim with cocaine and some kind of Molly meth carted up from Alabama.

There was a strawberry for garnish, I always ate the rum soaked treat.

By the end of the night, everyone was dead or dying, but didn’t care as they hooked up for the ride home, to make love, to fuck, to masturbate to the Weather Channel for those who didn’t get nothing but a Nightmare, to go, cause their moms worried.

Three days later, I was in the hospital, exploration surgery, to remove something, my soul I believe.

Back in time, 1988, the first time I met Jim, we were both young and dumb, freshmen in college, our first time on our own, from home, I was drinking a beer, my dad’s brand, Budweiser.

Jim smiled and sat next to me.

“I’m not gay but I could fuck you!” he said to me.

We both laughed.

We tried sleeping together a few times but discovered we were better as neurotic club kids, worshiping the cheerleaders and fantasy girls and guys who wandered in and out of our lives.

We were both Indiana bred, different sections of the state but same parents.

Our fathers were racist corn farmers, mothers always smiling, high on something, but we could never prove it.

Back to the present, waking up in a recovery room, white walls, too white to be real, was this death?

A few days later, sitting in an office, talking to a doctor, “We have some news…”

6 months, tops, my life would end.

I didn’t even cry.

I made my way to the club.

Jim was there.

He already knew by the look on my face.

“Nightmares all around!” Jim yelled and the crowd yelled their approval.


Photo by Zain Ali on

…She had eyes like a fairy’s soul,
He’d give anything,
To see her smile again,
To hold her again,
You don’t know what you got,
Till it’s gone…

Someplace long ago.

a memory sits at the bar nursing a rum and coke, listening to a song, bringing back a faded memory.

August 2012.

I was dying, or so I thought.

I guess in retrospect, we’re all dying, we’re born dying, from that first breathe we take to that last, we’re dying.

A few years ahead.

July 2012, a small apartment in a town in Indiana.

Shannon was laying on the bed, her corpse.

Her eyes were glazed over.

I don’t remember calling the police, but, there they were.

I was sitting on the couch.

I remember wondering what it felt like to die.

It was ruled an overdose.

Shannon no longer wanted to feel the pain of the cancer killing her from the inside.

She went on her own terms, sleeping pills and Jack, a phone call to me, “I’m dying…”

A few months later, I was on the floor crying.

Life wasn’t the same without her, her voice in my brain, her face there in the doorway, smiling at me.

I held the knife close to my wrist.

Pictures gathered about me of Shannon and I, somewhere, I was ready to die, to kill those demons surrounding me.

I felt the cold steel slice into my wrist.

Shannon and I met on our first day of kindergarten.

We became fast friends and by junior high, in some silly pact, we promised to lose our virginity to each other.

It wasn’t till our sophomore year of high school that we fucked.

By then, Shannon had already been with three boys.

We ended up at my cousin Steve’s apartment.

He was older, in college, and handed me the keys.

“Lock up when you’re done!” he threw me the keys, smiling.

There was beer.

Shannon naked there on the bed, her hand wrapped around my cock.

She smiled as I felt her slide down my hard shaft.

“It’s bigger than I thought it would be!” she joked after we were done, laying there in bed.

“Was I as good as those other guys?” I half jokingly replied.

She smiled and blushed slightly, “Better! I wish you had been my first!” she cooed and kissed me on the lips.

I had wrapped my arms around her and we both fell asleep.

Vincent sat alone at the bar, his glass half empty, with broken dreams and stolen promises of greatness lifting into the air, falling hard to the ground, to collect around him in such a way, to seem, as if he was a leader of some great army, misery.

In the madness which was his brain, he thought, tried to dream, hopefully to be free, to be with that one girl, that one love.

“Wanna another?” the bartender said, taking his glass.

Vincent nodded as the bartender poured another.

Dust was playing on the jukebox, a slight breeze moved through the place, James Dean was sitting on the other side, drinking a scotch and dreaming.

Somewhere, a woman in a soft silk dress, danced merrily with her small child, she was beautiful, she was in love with another, and it killed Vincent inside.

He downed his drink, one swell swoop, never mind the rim, and eyed the clock.

4:45 pm.


Vincent nodded. He was beginning to like this bartender.

By 7 pm, he was singing songs from his grandfather wars.

“Over there!! Over there!!” his voice boomed out, filling the room, the men and ladies sang with him as if it was their generation’s songs.

There among the barflies, Vincent became the king of this world, and died there on the floor, among his people.

She sleeps, there, curled up in the darkness, dreaming sweetly, inside a magical land.

I sit here, by the bed, trying to realize the magic of the moment, failing instead.

I wish, I could, peacefully sleep, like that, alive in the moment, a wish I dare not say outloud, for it would then not become true and instead, would wake her from that deep pleasure known as sleep.

I dreamt once, a long time ago, as a child, it was a day like any other, in that dream, my mother cooked, father sat at the table, reading the newspaper.

“War is approaching!” he said, crumpling the paper into a mess and throwing it to the floor.

“Do not read such things!” Mother said, pouring him a bowl of soup.

He ate and sighed.

Why I would dream of such a thing I do not know why, just a random dream, I guess, from those days of childhood.

Mother told me it meant nothing.

Father had died five years before I had told mother.

We both had a good cry and then laughed.

Why, I had no idea, the whole thing seemed funny at the time.

Now, here, even more years later, how I wish I could go back, to that time, just a simple moment, sitting at the same kitchen table, eating a bowl of mama’s soup and laughing about a random dream.

Sickness, it does consume, when it comes, you shall never know when it will come, but it comes for all, like death, except death is a relief, you’ll pray for it, when the time comes.

When death takes those in your life, you’ll curse it, call it horrible names.

“How could you God!?” you’ll scream into the heavens, even the atheists do it.

But when the time comes, you’ll embrace death, as a good friend, a lover almost, the greatest lover you’ll ever know.

Sickness is a bitch; the worse you’ll ever get to meet, she’ll come into your life, beat you to the point you’ll want to kill yourself, but by God’s grace and your inability to hurt the ones you love, you’ll keep living, one day at a time, but soon, you’ll utter that prayer, the one which begins — please death, take me from this misery, let me not wake to another day of pain…

Death will be an asshole though, it will not come too soon, it’ll tease you, whisper in your ear, tell you, “I’ll be there soon…” but it won’t, you’ll hear a knock at the door, a hint, maybe?

But it isn’t death; it’s just more sick, a cough, a spot on your lungs, a twist in your spine, more pain, more tests, more doctors smiling trying to keep you from blowing ydaour brains out!

But one day, you’ll pray, please death, do come, to carry me away from this pain, let me not wake another day, to this pain, to this disgrace. Deliver me into green pastures, where I may sleep, and dare say dream, of better places!

And here I sit, another night, sleepless, in pain, another night of dreamless awake, praying a prayer, utter in hope, before dying, maybe?