South Omaha was theoretically its own ghetto apart from North Omaha. Most didn’t call it the ghetto, though - it was Little Mexico. Maybe Kyle was just friends with too many white people, but in all his ventures south of Dodge he hadn’t seen a single Mexican market, piñata, taco joint, or remotely Catholic-looking church. The taco place around the corner from where he lived was more Mexican than any place he’d seen in South Omaha.
The alleged Little Mexico didn’t have the same desperate air that North Omaha carried. Its streets had the same bizarre grey overtones that Council Bluffs carried, and some of the houses could do with a new paint job, but Kyle didn’t feel nearly as suffocated there. Sure, the houses were crammed a little closer together, and the different families - most of whom were admittedly Mexican - did seem to spill from one property onto another, but their lawns were neater and Kyle did feel so uneasy as he drove the streets, searching for Drew’s new place. His lady had put the kaibash on a West Omaha mansion pretty quickly.
Children clustered around a new toy on the driveway of one of the houses and barely glanced Kyle’s car as he passed. One of them even smiled and waved. That was different - in North Omaha he’d get flipped off for making eye contact. The children’s mother came out and rounded them up, speaking in rapid Spanish, and she cast a wary look Kyle’s car, but he didn’t mind.
Drew lived in a strange white pocket of Little Mexico in a whitewashed townhome crammed into the middle of a series of identical townhomes. They had less color than the crowded-together houses across the streets, and after a moment Kyle realized it was because no one’s children were playing outside. He parked behind a beat-up black pick-up truck and reached for his cell phone. He still wasn’t going to stand around alone.
(327 words)
Showing posts with label place. Show all posts
Showing posts with label place. Show all posts
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Over The Bridge
When they said Iowa was “just over the bridge”, they meant it. Kyle had been in downtown Omaha before - the place was a harrowing maze of one-way streets. The grid was at its most perfect downtown, all parallel streets and perfect right angles, but the idea that one could simply travel the grid to an intended destination was a fallacy, so Kyle had never ventured below tenth street in his desperation not to get lost.
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
What he didn’t realize was that Dodge - and Douglas running neatly parallel to it in the other direction - turned into Iowa below tenth street. Omaha went from tenth street to the bridge to a different state entirely.
Kyle could feel it when he crossed the bridge. Drew and the others in the office called Council Bluffs the ghetto, but it wasn’t a ghetto the same way North Omaha wasn’t really a ghetto. Something about the grey tinge to everything - buildings, streets, signs, even the lights - caused Kyle to automatically hunch his shoulders and tighten his grip on the steering wheel as he hunted for the shoe store where Drew’s girlfriend’s shoes were waiting to be picked up.
The sidewalks were disturbingly empty, given that Broadway was supposedly the main drag. Kyle watched the other cars cram the road and tried to figure out what it was that made the place so dingy. He’d rolled up his windows as soon as he hit thirty-second street, because a stench that greatly resembled raw sewage had attacked his car. Perhaps what was most disconcerting was the way none of the buildings were actually on Broadway itself. A dizzying array of dim and flickering signs advertising various establishments crowded for attention above the sidewalk, but everything was set back a ways, and Kyle had to crane his neck to see if the right building was there.
He missed the Payless Shoe Source and had to find a side street to flip around and backtrack. He couldn’t wait to get back over the bridge, but he was sure that once he made it, invisible fingers of unease would claw at the back of his neck until he fell asleep.
(361 words)
Project in the Works
David walked into his room and placed his backpack on his desk. Kicking off his shoes he placed them on the floor of his closet and tossed his dirty socks into the hamper. Walking back to his desk, David unzipped his backpack and pulled out his textbook and notepads, placing them neatly on his desk.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
The room was spacious, the walls lined neatly with posters and pictures in frames. A computer sat humming in one corner of the room. A bookshelf was near the window, the titles organized by genre and author. An electronic keyboard was tucked into one corner, sheets of music spread on the music stand.
Strangely the only disorderly aspect to the room was the bed. Sheets and blankets were tangled on the end of the bed. Papers were crumpled and scattered over the bedding, sketches and snatches of writing. Drawings lay at strange angles and bizarre juxtapositions to each other. A pillow and a light blanket lay on the floor, as if he had chosen to sleep on the floor rather than disturb the pattern of the papers.
David glanced over at the bed, twitching as if he were going to jump up and rearrange the papers on the bed. Sighing he turned back to his homework, working out a few sums. Looking at the bed again, David almost made it out of his chair before he stopped himself. Grinding his teeth, David turned his back squarely on his project and forced himself to finish his work.
"Soon enough," he said.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
West Omaha
“Now this is a house call.” Drew whistled appreciatively as Kyle steered the car off the main drag and down a side street.
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
Maybe this neighborhood was safer, but to Kyle it was...boring. Sure, the houses were big, and the lawns were neat, but everything looked the same. It was suburban hell at its finest. Most of the houses were cookie-cutter generic, from the fancy molding around the windows and the stylish wooden shutters set to make the places look semi-rustic. If just one of the houses had looked like that, it would have been fine, but driving through a bewildering subdivision of over a hundred of them was like being lost in some sort of Jungian nightmare hell. It was Kyle’s subconscious reminding him why he had a loft downtown on the borders of Little Mexico, the ghetto, and corporate satanism.
“I’d kill to be able to afford a place out here,” Drew said. “When Melissa and I get married, if I can score a place like this --”
Kyle privately thought that if Drew moved Melissa out to one of these mansion-wannabe monsters with the fake chandeliers and overly thick cream carpets, she’d tear her own hair out. All of the streets had ridiculous names on overly-gilded signs that were difficult to read in the glare of fading sunlight. Did that say Black Swan or Black Dawn? And who’d want to live on Black Dawn anyway?
Predictably, the house that had summoned them was at the end of a cul-de-sac, perched at the top of a ridiculously long and curved driveway. Golden light spilled from the massive front windows - a bay window on the second floor - and it felt like a three-eyed demon was staring down at them. The squat doors for the three-car-garage grimaced like so many teeth.
Kyle parked the car at the sidewalk and followed the curving path up the slope, nervous about stepping on the immaculately manicured lawn. From the doorstep, he could see the fake chandelier, and - oh hell, the woman coming to answer the door was wearing a 1950’s house dress, complete with pearls and high heels.
So this was West Omaha.
(370 words)
The Trenches
David and Joe huddled in a fox hole; a few feet away, Mark, Bryan, and Steve were crouched in another. The steep earthen walls crumbled and dirt slithered to the ground as another mortar shell landed nearby.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
"Join the Army, they said. See the world they said," Joe grumbled, shifting as more dirt found it's way down his shirt. He felt like it was caked on an inch thick by now.
David's smile was crooked, "this isn't the Army, we are a branch of the Marines. We go where they tell us, do what they tell us, no questions."
David stood up and fired a few rounds at the enemy. The screams of pain reported a direct hit. "I feel a bit like that game Whack-a-Mole. We pop up and pop down. And if we're lucky, we don't get hit back," David said as he crouched back beside Joe.
"At least can we have a war where it's cooler?" Joe asked, mopping the sweat out of his eyes and taking a long pull from his canteen.
"Can't help that the hot spots in the world right now are in the Middle East," David said, shrugging, and taking a swallow of his own warm water. He took in one more mouthful, swishing it around, and standing, spit it out quickly to get the grit out of his mouth. "Just imagine being in Alaska, salmon fishing in the rivers," David said, sitting back down, "at least trench warfare is nothing like it was in the other wars. Here it's relatively clean and sanitary."
"Hey Boss!" Steve hollered from the other hole.
"Yeah?"
"What is the deepest part of the ocean?"
"Challenger Deep," David hollered back.
David could hear a scuffle from the next hole over, and a faint, "ha, I told you so. Pay up."
David rolled his eyes. His team could be immature, but he wouldn't trust his life to any other group of men.
"Hey boss!" It was Bryan this time.
"What?"
"When can we go home?"
"We go home when we've won," David said.
"When we've won," He whispered to himself.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Vein
Some people are bothered by the sounds of traffic, especially out here. Not me. My apartment complex sat right by the interstate and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
The complex was made up of four buildings that stood straight and narrow, all alike, almost like giant bread boxes looming towards the sky. Of course, they weren’t very tall, with only a ground floor and one flight of stairs to speak of. Lights burned quietly between each set of apartments. The doors came in twos, with their numbers rusting away bold and black against the white paint.
The light was out near my apartment. It was the only one that didn’t shine. I didn’t care too much.
All that stood between me and that stretch of freeway was a small drain that bubbled along its way every time it rained, and a fence. If I could climb that fence, I’d be home free, thumbing my way to some other state, to some other city.
But I liked it here. I never heard many sirens, and I could always see the stars - lying on the hood of my beat up car, I could see everything, hear the noise, and at the same time drown it out.
(207 words)
Home
The place that David had come to call home was austere. On the surface it was a small bunker, but underneath was a world of concrete and florescent lights. Corridors that stretched on forever were designated alphanumerically. The walls were stark, bare concrete, reinforced with re bar at their core. Pipes were exposed in the ceiling, color coded for identification. Blast doors, accessible only through a key card blocked much of the facility. Sound seemed dampened here, the air sterile, scrubbed a thousand times by the filtration system.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
Barrack rooms were kept spotless. Fifty beds to a room for new recruits, five to ten beds for the team barracks. The common areas were even silent, as if holding a breath, waiting for a slight movement.
Strobe lights and sirens sat at junctions, waiting to go off. Weapons lockers and equipment storage were immaculately organized. Everything spoke of flawless military precision.
The Right Address
“We’re not doctors. Why are we making house calls?” Drew asked.
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Kyle hitched his laptop bag higher and sighed. “Keep your chin up and walk a little faster. Then we won’t get mugged.”
“Mugged?” Drew squeaked.
Kyle rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’re in the ghetto, man. Two white guys in the ghetto - we’re walking targets.”
“We will be if you keep talking like that,” Kyle said. “And this isn’t a ghetto.” At least, North Omaha wasn’t like the ghettos people saw on TV. The streets followed the semi-organized grid-system that the rest of Omaha pretended to follow, but the further north of Dodge the streets got, the more broken-down they became. Kyle and Drew would have been driving if Drew hadn’t blown a tire on a pothole. The cracks in the broken sidewalk seemed to have been timed to match the potholes in the tar, and Drew had almost tripped over his own shoes five times now.
“You told the caller what a house visit costs?” Drew asked.
“It’s not like Holgren would let us out of the office if I hadn’t pinned the caller down to actual payment,” Kyle said. Drew’s skepticism was understandable, though. Most of the houses in these neighborhoods were from the sixties and seventies, and a good number of them hadn’t had paint jobs since then. Lawns were overgrown and choked with weeds, and the scent of grits that wafted from open windows. Drew looked guilty when his stomach growled. Kyle would have paused to admire one of the ma-an-pa corner stores a little longer if the group of teenagers pouting over soda pop bottles weren’t glaring quite so fiercely.
“...Are we still even in the city limits anymore?” Drew asked.
Kyle peered at the GPS on his cell phone, then looked up. They’d reached the end of Maple Street, which had dead-ended here even though it was a main street further west, and there was a single house, ramshackle and made of what looked suspiciously like bamboo. It stood in the middle of a single, grassy field, and Kyle was convinced that a gang of men would emerge, singing songs about picking cotton. The grassy field was huge and dotted with trees, and the rest of the neighborhood seemed to have vanished from around it.
“Well,” Kyle said at last. “It’s the right address.”
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Warren Buffett's Neighborhood
“I’m telling you, this is Warren Buffet’s neighborhood.” Drew gestured to the view beyond the windshield.
Kyle sat back and stared at the row of suburban houses and wondered where Omaha had gone. Sure, this wasn’t downtown, but this wasn’t really the suburbs either. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the rush and zoom of cars on Dodge, which was the city’s main artery, but when he looked forward, it was as if he were staring into a whole new world.
And a whole new world it was, with dozens of little gingerbread houses topping fairy-tale adorable lawns. Each lawn was perfectly manicured and dotted with patches of flowery color that resembled carelessly-strewn candy. There was something uncanny to the overly-sharp slope of the roofs and the too-bright flowers in the trees that made Kyle wonder if he’d stepped into Wonderland. The faux-tudor finish in the front was kitschy and unsettling, and any moment a little dwarf with a pointed cap and a shovel was going to come a-whistling out the front door to the tune of “hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“If I ever pay off my student loans, I’d totally love to buy a house here,” Drew said. “And not just because super-man Buffett lives here. It’d be a great place to raise kids, right?”
Kyle cast Drew a glance askance. “To raise kids. Sure.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
The woman who’d crawled out of Kyle’s bed this morning before he woke was pretty sure.
“All right.” Drew revved the car. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the Dundee Dell - they’ve got great imports on tap as well as seriously good food. You’ll like Omaha - you’ll see.”
Kyle sat back and stared at the row of suburban houses and wondered where Omaha had gone. Sure, this wasn’t downtown, but this wasn’t really the suburbs either. If he glanced over his shoulder, he could see the rush and zoom of cars on Dodge, which was the city’s main artery, but when he looked forward, it was as if he were staring into a whole new world.
And a whole new world it was, with dozens of little gingerbread houses topping fairy-tale adorable lawns. Each lawn was perfectly manicured and dotted with patches of flowery color that resembled carelessly-strewn candy. There was something uncanny to the overly-sharp slope of the roofs and the too-bright flowers in the trees that made Kyle wonder if he’d stepped into Wonderland. The faux-tudor finish in the front was kitschy and unsettling, and any moment a little dwarf with a pointed cap and a shovel was going to come a-whistling out the front door to the tune of “hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.”
“If I ever pay off my student loans, I’d totally love to buy a house here,” Drew said. “And not just because super-man Buffett lives here. It’d be a great place to raise kids, right?”
Kyle cast Drew a glance askance. “To raise kids. Sure.”
Drew rolled his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
The woman who’d crawled out of Kyle’s bed this morning before he woke was pretty sure.
“All right.” Drew revved the car. “C’mon, I’ll take you to the Dundee Dell - they’ve got great imports on tap as well as seriously good food. You’ll like Omaha - you’ll see.”
Remembrance
Dim light filtered into the alley; reflections from the windows across the street. Busy shops, full of people and prosperity, just around the corner from hell.
Refuse was strewn on the ground; the air stale and rank with urine and vomit from any number of homeless people who would squat there at night. There was an empty dumpster near the mouth of the alley, lidless and reeking, one wheel missing from the front. It looked like it hadn't been moved for an age. The rest of the alley was filled with broken bits of human life. A T.V. with a smashed in screen, a child's bike, the paint faded and the once bright silver rusted, newspapers dating back to the previous decade, empty beer bottles and copious amounts of glass. Spray paint covered the walls, gang tags, claiming territory hardly worth defending.
David stood from where he crouched among the rubbish, a breeze carrying the stink of the alley into his face; making him scrunch his nose in distaste. A bunch of Forget-me-not left on the ground. They would be dead and shriveled in a few hours. David turned from the alley and walked to his car.
Dead and as lifeless as his love.
Refuse was strewn on the ground; the air stale and rank with urine and vomit from any number of homeless people who would squat there at night. There was an empty dumpster near the mouth of the alley, lidless and reeking, one wheel missing from the front. It looked like it hadn't been moved for an age. The rest of the alley was filled with broken bits of human life. A T.V. with a smashed in screen, a child's bike, the paint faded and the once bright silver rusted, newspapers dating back to the previous decade, empty beer bottles and copious amounts of glass. Spray paint covered the walls, gang tags, claiming territory hardly worth defending.
David stood from where he crouched among the rubbish, a breeze carrying the stink of the alley into his face; making him scrunch his nose in distaste. A bunch of Forget-me-not left on the ground. They would be dead and shriveled in a few hours. David turned from the alley and walked to his car.
Dead and as lifeless as his love.
Monday, June 29, 2009
King Pin
There weren’t many places to hang out in Fayeville. Vince and I always seemed to wind up at the bar (yes, one bar in a town of drunks), or at the bowling alley. I liked the nights where we pulled into the bowling alley parking lot more, because I knew I would have fun, instead of getting drunk and pretending to have fun.
The parking lot was fairly big, simply because business was usually booming every single night for one reason or another. Even though it was big, it had few lights, so what it did light up seemed ghostly. It kind of freaked me out sometimes. I hated going out to my truck alone when it got late. I always made Vince walk out with me.
Inside, you get thrown back a few decades, but in a teeny tiny town like Fayeville, you got used to it. It was like that everywhere you went. The pool tables stuck out like sore thumbs because Brad has only gotten them a few months ago. That’s what Vince and I did. We were slowly but surely becoming pool sharks.
“So what’ll it be tonight, Sam? Eight? Nine? Trick shots?” Vince was gathering the pool balls and putting them in the rack. I was mildly distracted by the rumble of the lanes, the whirring of the ball machines, the distant clicks and clacks of the one pinball machine that stood in the corner, lonely and itching for a quarter.
“Sam?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sam, why are you always spacing out on me? I think you’re coming down with a case of EDD or something.”
“It’s ADD, Vince. I’ll go get us some cues.”
(278 words)
The parking lot was fairly big, simply because business was usually booming every single night for one reason or another. Even though it was big, it had few lights, so what it did light up seemed ghostly. It kind of freaked me out sometimes. I hated going out to my truck alone when it got late. I always made Vince walk out with me.
Inside, you get thrown back a few decades, but in a teeny tiny town like Fayeville, you got used to it. It was like that everywhere you went. The pool tables stuck out like sore thumbs because Brad has only gotten them a few months ago. That’s what Vince and I did. We were slowly but surely becoming pool sharks.
“So what’ll it be tonight, Sam? Eight? Nine? Trick shots?” Vince was gathering the pool balls and putting them in the rack. I was mildly distracted by the rumble of the lanes, the whirring of the ball machines, the distant clicks and clacks of the one pinball machine that stood in the corner, lonely and itching for a quarter.
“Sam?”
“Hmmm?”
“Sam, why are you always spacing out on me? I think you’re coming down with a case of EDD or something.”
“It’s ADD, Vince. I’ll go get us some cues.”
(278 words)
Old Park Bench
The scent of loamy earth rose on the damp air. The sun had set behind the city, painting it a vivid orange, and dusk was falling. The city lights were starting to come on, glowing pale in the misty night. Fog was gathering and drifting into the streets, flowing like river currents towards the center of the city. The moon was rising, bathing the night in silver light.
A bench, partly hidden by the drooping branches of an ancient Elm tree, was tucked away near the trunk. The gnarled branches cradling the bench and casting deeper shadows on Arianna and David as they sat on the old park bench, nestled at the top of a hill, just outside of the city to the East. The breeze was blowing gently from the south, cool and soft.
Arianna snuggled into David's side, her head against his shoulder. She shivered lightly under his leather jacket that was slung around her shoulders. David placed his arm around her shoulders, sighing in contentment. Right now, he thought, right now, I'm happy.
David tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The clouds were starting to thin out, and he could see the first spots of light in the distance.
Arianna watched David watching the stars and smiled, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his neck as his head was tilted back.
David's breath hitched, his skin goosebumping under her lips. He looked down at her, his eyes dark in the night. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly and passionately.
"I love you Arianna," David said.
"I love you too."
It was the first time those words had been exchanged.
A bench, partly hidden by the drooping branches of an ancient Elm tree, was tucked away near the trunk. The gnarled branches cradling the bench and casting deeper shadows on Arianna and David as they sat on the old park bench, nestled at the top of a hill, just outside of the city to the East. The breeze was blowing gently from the south, cool and soft.
Arianna snuggled into David's side, her head against his shoulder. She shivered lightly under his leather jacket that was slung around her shoulders. David placed his arm around her shoulders, sighing in contentment. Right now, he thought, right now, I'm happy.
David tipped his head back to look up at the sky. The clouds were starting to thin out, and he could see the first spots of light in the distance.
Arianna watched David watching the stars and smiled, her hand resting on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned over and kissed his neck as his head was tilted back.
David's breath hitched, his skin goosebumping under her lips. He looked down at her, his eyes dark in the night. He brought his lips to hers and kissed her slowly and passionately.
"I love you Arianna," David said.
"I love you too."
It was the first time those words had been exchanged.
Downtown
It was almost romantic, standing beside the window in his darkened apartment, staring out at the city while soft piano music played in the background. Of course, the dim glow out of the corner of his eye came from his laptop instead of candlelight, and his neck was craned at an awkward angle so he could catch a glimpse of the fireworks hailing the end of the annual city arts festival, so it still wasn't quite romantic.
Downtown Omaha from the fringes from the north side of Dodge, on a night like this, looked like someone had carved a piece of Victorian London of the past and dumped it down in the middle of the plains. Then giant hands had rearranged it to form a semi-neat grid and smeared it in golden light. The rooftops were flat and even, punctuated in spots by the highrise buildings of the banks and law firms that corroded the downtown skyline. Most of the buildings were old brick with high, roman-arch windows. They were old factories and warehouses remodeled into stylish studio apartments with sky-high rent and starving students lounging on the stairwells, trading talk about Heidigger and the latest college world series game.
Some cities were modern halogen-bright, stark with blue-white light cutting into the dingy shadows that crept alongside decrepit buildings, but Omaha had older lights, golden and warmer, if a bit foggy on a humid Sunday night. Edges of buildings and billboards looked softer, almost dream-like.
If he squinted just right, he could see the sudden dip in the even rooftop world, like a black hole had clawed up through the bottom of the pseudo chimney-sweep universe and swept away the singing Dick Van Dykes. The county jail was over there, right in the middle of downtown next to the world-class performing arts center modeled after some fancy Viennese institution.
The fireworks echoed across the sky like gunshots, lit up the factory-ancient roofs, and for a moment, a dull city night was colorful.
Downtown Omaha from the fringes from the north side of Dodge, on a night like this, looked like someone had carved a piece of Victorian London of the past and dumped it down in the middle of the plains. Then giant hands had rearranged it to form a semi-neat grid and smeared it in golden light. The rooftops were flat and even, punctuated in spots by the highrise buildings of the banks and law firms that corroded the downtown skyline. Most of the buildings were old brick with high, roman-arch windows. They were old factories and warehouses remodeled into stylish studio apartments with sky-high rent and starving students lounging on the stairwells, trading talk about Heidigger and the latest college world series game.
Some cities were modern halogen-bright, stark with blue-white light cutting into the dingy shadows that crept alongside decrepit buildings, but Omaha had older lights, golden and warmer, if a bit foggy on a humid Sunday night. Edges of buildings and billboards looked softer, almost dream-like.
If he squinted just right, he could see the sudden dip in the even rooftop world, like a black hole had clawed up through the bottom of the pseudo chimney-sweep universe and swept away the singing Dick Van Dykes. The county jail was over there, right in the middle of downtown next to the world-class performing arts center modeled after some fancy Viennese institution.
The fireworks echoed across the sky like gunshots, lit up the factory-ancient roofs, and for a moment, a dull city night was colorful.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Grease-monkey Central
The battered radio in the corner blared loud dance-rock, and someone somewhere hummed tunelessly to the beat. In counterpoint to the music someone was drilling, or using a high-powered screwdriver, or something, because there was a repetitive, high-pitched power-tool shriek, occasionally punctuated by curses as something went wrong. The scent of gasoline and oil was overwhelming, and both substances were smeared across the floor in casual splashes, as if Jackson Pollock had come through drunk. Cold air blew in a steady draft beneath the bottom of the garage door, which needed new weather-stripping. Someone hit his head on something he shouldn’t have, which set off a round of cursing and a series of metallic thuds as car parts landed on the ground. Three tall red tool-boxes stood free and proud in the middle of the cement floor like misplaced modern art sculptures and were scrupulously organized, if grease-stained. Someone - perhaps the chief mechanic’s wife - had nailed a coat rack to the back wall, and from it hung several grey, oil-stained overalls, each paired with a different-colored bandanna; there was one for each mechanic. The microwave in the opposite corner from the radio let out a ping and emitted smoke and the scent of too-cooked instant burrito, and the punch-clock on top of it rattled dangerously. In ten minutes, the corpse-like cars up on blocks would be swarmed with boys in overalls, and lunch break would begin.
(248 words)
(248 words)
Friday, January 23, 2009
Book of Dead Names
The Book of Dead Names was a shambles from the outside. It was a in a seedy neighborhood that butted up against the ritzy neighborhood where the stars, tycoons, and politicos let down their hair for the weekend. They rolled up in their limos and strolled down red carpets and didn’t see, halfway down the nearest alley, a simple wooden door.
The wood was old and dark with age, an anachronism against the city concrete, and the brick walls were riddled with old bullet holes. Just inside the door was a cramped hallway lined with hooks from which hung a dazzling array of coats, jackets, cloaks, cardigans, and more. Beyond the maze of coats, too reminiscent of a wardrobe leading to another world, was the Book of Dead Names itself.
It looked like an ancient library in a manor house, only there was a bar along the back wall, long and straight and staffed by a trio of forgettable but strangely identical young men in suits. The walls were lined with books and paneled with velvet. The carpet was deep red, plush, and thick velvet drapes separated a single room into intimate nooks and crannies where tables for two and three nestled. Each table was antique and different, as if the proprietors of the place had hit up a multitude of estate sales from the seventeenth century onward. Some tables had games on them - chess, checkers, go - and others had tall, thin glass vases overflowing with artfully arranged corpses of flowers. The light - from overhead, in a creaking chandelier; from the walls in sconces; from the tables, in lamps - was all candles, all soft and warm and golden.
It was the perfect place to escape every day world, and a perfect excuse to never go back.
(296 words)
The wood was old and dark with age, an anachronism against the city concrete, and the brick walls were riddled with old bullet holes. Just inside the door was a cramped hallway lined with hooks from which hung a dazzling array of coats, jackets, cloaks, cardigans, and more. Beyond the maze of coats, too reminiscent of a wardrobe leading to another world, was the Book of Dead Names itself.
It looked like an ancient library in a manor house, only there was a bar along the back wall, long and straight and staffed by a trio of forgettable but strangely identical young men in suits. The walls were lined with books and paneled with velvet. The carpet was deep red, plush, and thick velvet drapes separated a single room into intimate nooks and crannies where tables for two and three nestled. Each table was antique and different, as if the proprietors of the place had hit up a multitude of estate sales from the seventeenth century onward. Some tables had games on them - chess, checkers, go - and others had tall, thin glass vases overflowing with artfully arranged corpses of flowers. The light - from overhead, in a creaking chandelier; from the walls in sconces; from the tables, in lamps - was all candles, all soft and warm and golden.
It was the perfect place to escape every day world, and a perfect excuse to never go back.
(296 words)
Thursday, January 22, 2009
My Own Prison
The sound of the water dripping from the crack in the mortar at the top corner might have been enough to drive a man mad, if he had not been already mad enough to lie in the middle of the flagstones and count the other flagstones on the remaining five surfaces and assign them names. The one with the pebbles shoved into the corner to make its edges line up ought to have some sort of masculine name, for its surface was rough. Some of the other flagstones were made of a darker rock, curiously smooth, either by age or by nature. The mortar between each rectangular piece of hell was surprisingly white up in the ceiling, but darkened as it approached the floor, approached the misery huddled in the middle of it all. The door was made of iron, rusted dark with time and water, and creaked when opened, clanked like a cannon when slammed. The flab in the bottom of the door was just large enough to fit a soup ladle through, though the flat tin dish of tepid soup was long untouched. A window - high, slanting, barely enough to let in sunlight - broke the uniform precision of the flagstones and bricks, and the air that seeped down was salty, from the sea. The constant drip of water was enough to drive a man mad, but after dark, the pattering of tiny feet and the swish of worm-like tails was enough to drive a man to terror.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Hideaway
The sound of the water from behind the waterfall was an almost deafening roar, multiplied and refracted by the rocky surface. On the other side of the watery curtain, sunlight filtered through the trees, green and gold, and set the dust-motes in the pool alight like the flecks of gold in a piece of tiger's eye. But behind the waterfall was the best place. The roof was low, but not so low as to force a stoop, and the walls were rough, rounded, with the occasional surprise stalactites and stalagmites, and the ground was equally rough, but a steady nest of blankets and scraps had rendered a space at the back fit for human living. Just beyond the grasp of the light, where the bright brown succumbed to black shadow, someone had hewn a shelf into the wall and littered it with treasures - a piece of colored glass worn smooth by water and time, a piece of rock with the fossil of a leaf imprinted, a whistle made of bone, and an old leather-bound Bible lined with a spider-web of names printed in Cyrillic. It was a safe place to hide, and peaceful. When the roar of the waterfall faded into the background, the rest was silence.
(210 words)
(210 words)
Making Camp
Canvas tents, colorless from exposure to the weather, form a neat grid in parallel rows marked out by stakes and ropes by the pickets who ran on ahead. A campfire ringed with muddy stones marks the center of the camp. The fire that crackles in the middle is smoky from the damp wood, and grey-uniformed boys build a pile of boughs and twigs off to one side of it. A large black pot, dangling from a make-shift tripod, hangs over the slow flames, and the scent of fern stew washes over the crowd of young men gathered at the fire. Some rest, stretched along the carpet of dead leaves and pine needles, knapsacks as pillows, hats tilted over their faces to block out the white-blinding sun and the haze of black motion that is a swarm of gnats that never seems to leave. Rifles are scattered here and there like fallen matchsticks, though they are laid with a certain deliberately insouciant air, and each is within hand’s reach of at least one man. The largest tent, closest to the fire, has its front flaps open, and inside is a morass of boxes, papers, and glass lanterns so the commanders can study the night away. The clerk’s desk - wooden, rickety, a relic from a big-time law-firm in a small town - is tucked into the corner, stained with ink and covered with quills, a pen knife incongruously tucked into the midst of the feathers. At the edge of the camp, also in a scrupulously neat row, is a series of wooden crosses, cobbled together by twine and someone’s bowie knife, hammered into place my a rifle butt, and twined with garlands of dead flowers.
(287 Words)
(287 Words)
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sector Quarters
Sector quarters in central looked like jumped-up dormitories. There was little privacy to be had for the six agents, but the commander had a bunk of her own separated by a flimsy curtain. The beds, at least, were large and comfortable, because wet-work agents had to be well-rested and at their physical peak to perform their job duties properly. The plainest of the sector quarters had seven beds, seven desks, seven drawer bureaus, and two bathrooms to keep everyone clean. Each desk - cheap faux-wood topped, wobbly legs - was equipped with a computer and a telephone. The mini-kitchen would have barely fed three college boys, and the den was cramped, but the space was habitable. Some sectors who managed to agree on something had a television or a sound-system installed as well, but it came at their own expense and they took it with them.
Sector five’s quarters were spartan spare and neat. All the beds were made to military inspection, firm enough to bounce a quarter off of. Uniforms and towels were folded at the foot of each bed, and seven pairs of shoes lined the wall just inside the door. The desks were organized with everything at right angles. The carpet - plain grey flecked with blue - was scrupulously vacuumed, and it looked as though no one lived there at all.
Except for the morass of electronics that took up the den in one corner. The latest in all gaming technology was to be had in a complicated web of wires artfully spliced and plugged and twined together. The sound system - connected to the sleek, thin, flat-screen television - was wired up all along the walls for surround sound.
And stacked against the walls was the greatest collection of fantasy RPGs ever owned.
Sector five’s quarters were spartan spare and neat. All the beds were made to military inspection, firm enough to bounce a quarter off of. Uniforms and towels were folded at the foot of each bed, and seven pairs of shoes lined the wall just inside the door. The desks were organized with everything at right angles. The carpet - plain grey flecked with blue - was scrupulously vacuumed, and it looked as though no one lived there at all.
Except for the morass of electronics that took up the den in one corner. The latest in all gaming technology was to be had in a complicated web of wires artfully spliced and plugged and twined together. The sound system - connected to the sleek, thin, flat-screen television - was wired up all along the walls for surround sound.
And stacked against the walls was the greatest collection of fantasy RPGs ever owned.
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Law Library
The library at the law school is a vast contradiction of Victorian grandeur and modern technological convenience. The walls and dividers, bookcases and desks, are made of a suspiciously red shade of deep, dark wood that is too red to be real rosewood or cherry wood, and the walls, desks, bookcases are just a shade different - orange, really, like orange sauce on orange chicken, and it all smacks of woodstain instead of wholesale slaughter of trees of a particular breed. The soothing tones of the wood, coupled with the warm, golden light from overhead is enough to make one pretend that one is in the vast library of a victorian manor, searching through books full of information otherwise lost to the ages. The bookshelves - affectionately called the stacks by the students - are lined up in perfect military precision, like soldiers awaiting deployment - or giant dominos just waiting to be knocked over, to cause a miniature earthquake and an explosion of dusty pages and creaking leather bindings. The desk tops, the carpets, they’re all a mottled shade of greys, blues, and whites, the desks like faux granite, the carpets as if someone had drawn a rhomboid labyrinth in white chalk on blue-grey granite and then smudged it all, leaving the lines fuzzy and indistinct. The windows overlook the parking lot, a sky that is grey with winter and city life and a a smattering of students, dashing to and fro, all bundled up to ward off the cold. Libraries are too quiet and best viewed with music playing in one’s ears for none of the world to hear, and then it’s easy to imagine the opening panning shots of a film across the grandeur of a stately library in a mansion.
And then comes the scent of studious desperation.
(299 words - and yes, I was totally in the library when I wrote this)
And then comes the scent of studious desperation.
(299 words - and yes, I was totally in the library when I wrote this)
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