Prison Etiquette

What was it like, you ask? Well let me tell you one thing: everyone was nicer in prison.

For example, today, some bitch collided into me as I made my right turn, the one after the second drinking fountain, into the lunch room. Her mocha-latte-frappa-chino-whatever spilled all over my new suit. It was new because I had lost 40 pounds while serving my eight months. I thank God they gave me this job back.

But yeah, this bitch. Splatters her coffee all over my person, and you know what she says to me? "You're lucky I'm late to my executive (she enjoyed stressing that word) meeting, otherwise you'd be buying me a new one, asshole."

And that was the extent of our interaction. No apology, no help cleaning myself off, nothing. That's the one thing I miss about prison: everyone one was polite. Here's a story that will knock your D & G socks off. One day in the lunch room, something like what just happened to me, happened. Except it was between a Crip and a Neo-Nazi. That's right, you heard me. But you know what they did? The Neo-Nazi apologizes and help the Crip clean the mess up!

Not here, though. Out here, everyone's a fucking animal.

Agent Goldie and the Baer Brothers

Write a story that takes a children's story or fairy tale and put it into the contemporary adult world.

"Wake up, bitch."

Goldie's eyes twitched open as the obviously male hand patted her face. She felt heat from the single light bulb drifting on its string above her, a stark contrast to the cold steel of the table on her back. The stiff resistance from the straps around her arms and legs said she wasn't going anywhere for a while.

"Well, Well, Ms. Goldie. No surprise to find you here," said a Russian voice so deep, the man sounded hollow. "We find you in duct. Try to kill Ivan."

"You pinko commie bastards have been terrorizing this state long enough!" spat Goldie, hoping the words would stick to the giant, scarred face hovering inches above her own. She had read every file the organization had on Vlad Baer and his brothers, but that didn't make the situation any less terrifying.

"And American embassy only send itty bitty girl agent?" mocked Vlad. "Is insult. Too easy to stop you. Igor's audio equipment pick you up right outside. You come for Ivan, yes?"

"Of course she would," said Igor, his accent more of a flourish than an impedance. "He is our public face, our political side. Without him, we Baer brothers are nothing more than simple terrorists. It seems you are well aware that we have so much more planned than simple bombs and robberies."

Igor accompanied his voice in the room with his presence. His slender, pale form was exaggerated standing next to the mountain called Vlad.

"Oh, good to see you, Igor," Blondie said behind a wry grin. "Or should I say 'Isabella'."

"Wha-?" gasped Igor.

"Yes, I read about your operation. Seems Ivan didn't want a female on the team; would make you seem weak. So a slice and a stitch later, you've all got matching equipment."

"Poshyol ty' shalava!" cried Igor as his soft, white knuckles connected with Goldie's face, forcing a squirt of blood out her nose.

"Enough," said a voice in perfect King's English. Ivan entered the room, and his shined shoes clacked to a halt at the edge of the interrogation table. "We have more interesting things in store for Miss Goldie," said Ivan, his voice trailing off, as if it was being absorbed by the golden lock of hair he twirled between his fingertips.

Shadow People

Little confusion over this blog entry, so it's a day late. I'm also not sure if the previous post was done right or even necessary. Oh well.

I know we were supposed to combine one of our mini-stories with an urban legend, but my imagination got so carried away with the idea of "Shadow People" that I ended up writing about an experience with them. Info on the legend here.

- - -

We are smoking our first menthols behind a cheap gas station when the buzzing halogen above our heads pops bright blue and dies.

"Woah, shit," Hunter observes from behind a cloud of smoke.

My eyes adjust, and I notice how dark the rest of the block had become. The only light comes from the waning moon and the porch light above the stoop of my house.

"We should start heading back," states Hunter. He kills the last drag on his cigarette and drops it in a puddle. "Snatch oughta be done downloading."

"Yeah, dude," I say. "I love that movie. 'I don't want that dog dribbling on my seats.'"

"'Your seats?'" Hunter quotes back. "'Tyrone, this is a stolen car!'"

Our laughter echoes down the street, bouncing between the line of symmetrical houses until the sound is absorbed by the woods that circle my neighborhood. We continue walking down the street toward my house, the lone light near the front door like a light house.

"Hang on a sec, dude," I say, "I gotta take a leak."

I walk between two houses up to the tree line. No need to worry about the neighbors; most of the people left this street over the past couple of years. It's a bit unnerving, though. Standing behind me are two empty husks of life. There should be a family sleeping inside, filling the rooms with soft breath. Nightlights illuminating flower-covered curtains. Instead a dead, cold black stares at my back through the glass panes. A quote from Mark Twain drifts to the top of my thoughts, something about staring into an abyss and having it stare back at you, but my mind is interrupted when I turn around and Hunter is gone.

"Dude? Where'd you go?" I call out. "Quit dicking around, man, I'm hungry. Let's go."

Silence. Something moves in my peripheral vision, a figure, I think. I turn to see what I think is a head and shoulders but there is nothing but space between me and the curb. I step out to the street and strain my eyes looking for a sign of my friend.

Hoping he just got bored and went to my house without me, I start walking towards my house. Something drops on the asphalt behind me, making a wet, meaty noise I'd only heard in a butcher shop.

I twist around and gasp, "Hunter?"

Darkness answers instead, a darkness so thick and deep that my mind thinks to reach out and touch it. The moon is shoved aside by clouds and black shrouds the streets. The world has shut off, it seems.

I turn back towards my house and do not see the porch light. Instead I see a figure in the center of the road. A faint glow circles his frame, highlighting him against the darkness brought. I again feel the sensation of something empty and dead staring at me, staring within me.

Panic pushes blood to my legs and I run. I can't see anything past the fog of darkness in front of me, but still I run. I must. I can feel him staring at my back. Suddenly I trip, and I'm falling, falling, falling. Past the ground I was running on. Past my sense of consciousness. I fall deeper into the darkness I ran from, and black slithers into my brain and I sense no more.

"Dude, you ok?"

I wake up to Hunter standing above me. I'm laying in someone's front lawn.

"Where'd you go, man?" Hunter asks. "You went for a leak, and then you didn't come back for like fifteen minutes. I wondering around looking for you and finally found your lazy-ass sleeping right here."

"Sorry, Hunter," I apologized. "I'm really tired, man, let's just go home."

I look down the street at the light above my front door. It's on and it's bright. Good. We continue on down the street, and I can't shake the feeling that something I can't see is staring directly at my back. I remember the rest of that Twain quote: "And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

Hoax test 1: 8/10
Hoax test 2: 4/10

The second test seemed to rely more on technical aspects in the photos rather than knowledge of what was in the photo. Like with the tall woman: yes she existed, but her photo was altered; that makes her a hoax?

What the writer can take from this and understanding of how far the bounds of our expectations for reality have been pushed. We're really not sure what to believe today; a photo that looks like an extra terrestrial turns out to be a fish that's lived at the bottom of the ocean for a very long time. The writer can combine elements of science fiction or even fantasy with a realistic fiction story, and our "gullibility" contribute greatly to the "What if?" aspect.

One Lie, One Truth.

1. Mosh pits. I'm sure everyone's got a story about a mosh pit. Mine comes from a Dropkick Murphys concert I attended back in 2007. The Murphys announced the next song, their rendition of the Irish classic "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya." Thousands of voices combined to push one massive roar of approval. Ken Casey's sandpaper vocals began the song. A mandolin joined him, the strumming telling of a much older era of music.

The band exploded into auditory chaos. Distorted guitars ripped the air. The bass of the drums shook the space inside my chest cavity. The music controlled the crowd like a puppeteer living vicariously through his performers. The tornado of the master's hands pushed and pull their bodies in unison. A sea of flesh and concert t-shirts engulfed me. I was pushed, punched, and body slammed. I tasted sweat, and blood at times. My left foot stepped around the leg of another and threw me off balance, but before my ass could touch the ground, arms and hands from all around flung me to my feet. It was a mob of brothers, hurting and looking out for each other simultaneously.

The ringing in my ears lasted three days, longer than most of the bruises. The sensation of philanthropic violence has yet to fade, and I hope to God it never does.

2. My first cigarette was a menthol. My buddy had swiped two from his mom during the week, and we met behind the gas station down the block from his house to smoke 'em. Butts from previous visitors were strewn on the ground. The way the dull orange tubes congregated around a nearby bench reminded me of spent bullet casings around a machine gun nest. I wonder how many lives the rounds had claimed.

I put the filter to my lips and licked it. The taste of rotten toothpaste tugged at my stomach. I pulled out the lighter my mom uses for her scented candles and lit the cigarette. Smoke made its way down my virgin windpipe and I could feel the cold burn tightening the internal tissue. Before I could fully exhale I stared coughing. The smoke caught in my lungs prolonged the fit and ripped at my esophagus. I could sense the wet ash taste of phlegm hacking its way up the back of my throat, pushing the threshold of my nasal passages.

But I had to impress my friend. I suppressed my whooping and finished my cigarette. We walked back to my buddy's house and he put an arm around me.

"Don't worry, dude. Next time, we'll get regulars."

Mmmmmm...... dental hygene

You wanna lose weight? Get a cavity. This morning I took oatmeal over Lucky Charms. I love those Lucky Charms, but the dull pressure of phantom pain at the back of my mouth said no.

It's almost a psychological conditioning. I see a sweet food, and thoughts of pain drive me away from it. Hooray for negative reinforcement dieting techniques.