Friday, May 27, 2011

Killing the Devil's Escort Novel Teaser


Killing The Devil’s Escort

Preface: Death penalty

It was an overpriced piece of “New Age Junk,” and the latest substantial gift from boosters somberly praying to evoke an undefeatable spirit. Desperate to hear that once familiar soothing victory chant, “Stallions are the champs,” replaying in their heads, alumni ardently attempted to cast monetary clout with a brand spanking new investment. As one player puts it, “It’s the most kick ass scoreboard ever,” towering over the Stallions’ end zone. This Booster Club raised enough funds to line a hallway of Picasso’s but somehow only managed to conjure a state of the art 1992 scoreboard.

No wins in seven years would make a once spendthrift dominant collegiate football team sink so desperately low that money boosters would resort to brazen budget bubbles in order to gain respect. Have it flaunt it, right? Forgive me. I am not a good narrator. A little back story is due here so let me elaborate.

SWMU, South Mid-Western University, became the first and only recipient of the Collegiate Athletic Associations’ death penalty. The defining rule passed down by a committee made South Mid-Western University’s football team ineligible for competition. SWMU’s football team was banned from any form of competition in the league for four years and placed on probation two years preceding their re-entrance to conference play. The team would be subjected to a bureaucraticly imposed probation resulting in the loss of fifty five scholarship positions over the course of four years.

The Death Penalty was swiftly dealt out as a way to show what would happen to repeat offenders. They get the literal bureaucratic homicide. The NCAA condemned this, “Ivy of the South,” with their harshest blow. The board felt SWMU extensively shattered every rule to sway top ranked graduating high school seniors into their athletics program. Recruiting rumors jumped across campuses until amazingly cultivated tales of white nose-numbing devil powder and big city strippers clashed with the moralizing mentality of 1980 suburbia. Nothing was sacred in, potentially, the worst display of power by money hungry Institutional cowboys longing to create a legacy. These men relied on signing major high-school athletes to join a universities’ athletics department for purely selfish reasons. The players were worth major bread and it was the first time they knew exactly how much.

Stallion players participated in cultish orgies with thousand dollar drug tabs. Extravagant X-rated stories broke like fine china against ears of these prenatal NFL stars. Free exotic cars and all-expense paid trips to gentlemen’s clubs were given out to eighteen year old “Blue Chips” man-boys. These poor guys had the look of yearning for independence and hope of finding a woman that might be the one. Quickly they learn to accept people willing to give and do anything for a win. There is no compromise in winning, just a vending machine dumping out expensive and sometimes sinful goodies for your exemplarity talent. High school seniors suddenly realize how everything works and that it is time to earn their keep. “Stadiums aint free,” as there coach would put it. Four years prior to the obnoxious constructing of team facilities that left teachers asking, “Where is the school?” every building was dwarfed by the massive stadium taking up every inch of its available space.

There was a barrage of complaints to the NCAA followed and a handful of anonymous tips. The best part were the leaked office budgets clearly documenting the amount of several thousands going to one players new Mercedes Benz. All of it was true. The rumors were not audaciously fabricated. The “We are God” Boosters spent more than a quarter of a million dollars on dumb, full of cum, eighteen year old star high school football players.

News paper accounts of the controversy spread extensively until testimonies of former players ratting out coaches and coaches ratting out their superiors bled through the national sports media. The only thing that had to be done was a revamping of the entire football coaching staff to save the schools image and appease the public. That is, almost all of them. The only person spared was Doc, the teams’ veteran sports therapist.

Recruits were forced to testify in court and be publicly acknowledged as eye witnesses to the carnal delights in which they partook. The presence of parents and press made these public acknowledgements compounded the humiliation. Parents and players sat in the witness stand spilling the beans and absolutely admitting to every charge they were accused of in an attempt to save their jobs and reputations. The standing evidence states that SWMU boosters and recruiting coaches went to great lengths to accommodate every star player’s financial needs to the ninth degree these man-boys found that their signature brought physical pleasures and financial stability for life. That alone is enough to convince a player considering multiple college offers to join SWMU’s Stallions.

When a team goes undefeated for several years running, people wonder how the winning machine was created. The answer is money; deceptively simple money that transforms anything into everything as the testimonies of former players and coaches proved. After all it was the evil eighties and America was well aware, “Greed is God.”

Effects of Testosterone: Chapter 1- Urine Sample

Conquered three hundred pound men bumble pass their coaches with noodle legs barely keeping them steady. Soaking wet players are doing everything possible to take in the horizon’s left over fumes. This particular day was the hottest august afternoon the city has on record. Exhausted, the players look up at a hypnotizing cocktail of revelry staring Verdun, the miniature pony and teams’ official gimpy excuse for a mascot plays out above the Stallion end zone.

The touchdown montage ends with the explosion of an atomic hog bladder spheroid. One hundred and thirty eight slides by on the LED as the expanding horizon squelches and radiates into a mirage of fumes rippling under the brutal sun. Mustang football players heave over synthetic fibers that make up the stadium’s new turf field. The sun left colors glistening and vibrating surrounding air. Young and willful men do everything they can to suck and sip in a cool gust that blows by them.

The new arena was surrounded by metal stands that could house about one hundred thousand violently drunk fans. The Stadium was closed at this time of day. Partially to protect the teams’ line up of offensive plays but also to protect the drunk Greek clubs from showing up at practice and distracting the players from opposing teams scouts no one would be caught dead perched in those radiantly glowing perfectly empty stands. The temperature is high enough to set a person’s wranglers on fire and fry any bare skin coming in contact with those steel chairs to a shriveled pork rind.

The team’s mascot, a white Stallion, was painted under the temperature on a score board acquired through the school’s most prevalent donor. Somehow, a mustang on the score board looks more like a retarded miniature Pony then the majestic wild horse it’s meant to portray. The Ponies have the worst record in the league for the past three years and one could draw the conclusion a less then authentic cartoony horse has something to do with it.

Paul, a man’s body slapped with the brain of an adolescent, looks at the digital thermometer looming scoreboard. It reads one hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit. Whistles belt out short loud chirps. “Alright, stop for a fifteen second break!” Paul puts his hands over his head and slowly controls a deep breath. His body is grotesquely muscular and his head is shaved cleanly bald. Players struggle to encourage other teammates hunched down huffing and puffing. Paul “come on get up let’s go guys! Two more then we’re done!” Short, rigid and hairy Coach Benet blows his whistle. “Sprint you pussies!” Spit flies out his mouth as he biting down on the whistle and speaking simultaneously, “Move your asses or everyone is getting two more laps.” Benet’s face glows bright red and blood vessels swell on his throat. “I want to see you winning this year.”

Players drag their feet and attempt to stay focused as heat waves ripple off the stadium like a hot cup of Joe. “Oh, yea baby I’m cold! Burrr!” Sidney shivers then transforms into a wild dog. “Ruff, Sidney snarls and barks at the teams’ slowest and chubbiest tackle. A Former Cowboy’s linebacker and it’s easy to see he’s the biggest man on the field. He’s got weird style but wears it well. A tall afro connected to the back by a small rat tail braided and sticking out like a post above three separate sized shiny necklaces that match his gold ear rings. He claps his hands chest muscles bounce and stretch the pink tank top with black tiger paws on it. “Push it! Let’s go!” Sidney runs up to the fattest lineman and slaps the linemen’s slow plump sweaty ass. The whistle gives out one long last chirp.“Alright good job, get in here.”

New story teaser


Killing The Devil’s Escort

Preface: Death penalty

It was an overpriced piece of “New Age Junk,” and the latest substantial gift from boosters somberly praying to evoke an undefeatable spirit. Desperate to hear that once familiar soothing victory chant, “Stallions are the champs,” replaying in their heads, alumni ardently attempted to cast monetary clout with a brand spanking new investment. As one player puts it, “It’s the most kick ass scoreboard ever,” towering over the Stallions’ end zone. This Booster Club raised enough funds to line a hallway of Picasso’s but somehow only managed to conjure a state of the art 1992 scoreboard.

No wins in seven years would make a once spendthrift dominant collegiate football team sink so desperately low that money boosters would resort to brazen budget bubbles in order to gain respect. Have it flaunt it, right? Forgive me. I am not a good narrator. A little back story is due here so let me elaborate.

SWMU, South Western Masonic University, became the first and only recipient of the Collegiate Athletic Associations’ death penalty. The defining rule passed down by a committee made South Western Masonic University’s football team ineligible for competition. SWMU’s football team was banned from any form of competition in the league for four years and placed on probation two years preceding their re-entrance to conference play. The team would be subjected to a bureaucraticly imposed probation resulting in the loss of fifty five scholarship positions over the course of four years.

The Death Penalty was swiftly dealt out as a way to show what would happen to repeat offenders. They get the literal bureaucratic homicide. The NCAA condemned this, “Ivy of the South,” with their harshest blow. The board felt SWMU extensively shattered every rule to sway top ranked graduating high school seniors into their athletics program. Recruiting rumors jumped across campuses until amazingly cultivated tales of white nose-numbing devil powder and big city strippers clashed with the moralizing mentality of 1980 suburbia. Nothing was sacred in, potentially, the worst display of power by money hungry Institutional cowboys longing to create a legacy. These men relied on signing major high-school athletes to join a universities’ athletics department for purely selfish reasons. The players were worth major bread and it was the first time they knew exactly how much.

Stallion players participated in cultish orgies with thousand dollar drug tabs. Extravagant X-rated stories broke like fine china against ears of these prenatal NFL stars. Free exotic cars and all-expense paid trips to gentlemen’s clubs were given out to eighteen year old “Blue Chips” man-boys. These poor guys had the look of yearning for independence and hope of finding a woman that might be the one. Quickly they learn to accept people willing to give and do anything for a win. There is no compromise in winning, just a vending machine dumping out expensive and sometimes sinful goodies for your exemplarity talent. High school seniors suddenly realize how everything works and that it is time to earn their keep. “Stadiums aint free,” as there coach would put it. Four years prior to the obnoxious constructing of team facilities that left teachers asking, “Where is the school?” every building was dwarfed by the massive stadium taking up every inch of its available space.

There was a barrage of complaints to the NCAA followed and a handful of anonymous tips. The best part were the leaked office budgets clearly documenting the amount of several thousands going to one players new Mercedes Benz. All of it was true. The rumors were not audaciously fabricated. The “We are God” Boosters spent more than a quarter of a million dollars on dumb, full of cum, eighteen year old star high school football players.

News paper accounts of the controversy spread extensively until testimonies of former players ratting out coaches and coaches ratting out their superiors bled through the national sports media. The only thing that had to be done was a revamping of the entire football coaching staff to save the schools image and appease the public. That is, almost all of them. The only person spared was Doc, the teams’ veteran sports therapist.

Recruits were forced to testify in court and be publicly acknowledged as eye witnesses to the carnal delights in which they partook. The presence of parents and press made these public acknowledgements compounded the humiliation. Parents and players sat in the witness stand spilling the beans and absolutely admitting to every charge they were accused of in an attempt to save their jobs and reputations. The standing evidence states that SWMU boosters and recruiting coaches went to great lengths to accommodate every star player’s financial needs to the ninth degree these man-boys found that their signature brought physical pleasures and financial stability for life. That alone is enough to convince a player considering multiple college offers to join SWMU’s Stallions.

When a team goes undefeated for several years running, people wonder how the winning machine was created. The answer is money; deceptively simple money that transforms anything into everything as the testimonies of former players and coaches proved. After all it was the evil eighties and America was well aware, “Greed is God.”

Effects of Testosterone: Chapter 1- Urine Sample

Conquered three hundred pound men bumble pass their coaches with noodle legs barely keeping them steady. Soaking wet players are doing everything possible to take in the horizon’s left over fumes. This particular day was the hottest august afternoon the city has on record. Exhausted, the players look up at a hypnotizing cocktail of revelry staring Verdun, the miniature pony and teams’ official gimpy excuse for a mascot plays out above the Stallion end zone.

The touchdown montage ends with the explosion of an atomic hog bladder spheroid. One hundred and thirty eight slides by on the LED as the expanding horizon squelches and radiates into a mirage of fumes rippling under the brutal sun. Mustang football players heave over synthetic fibers that make up the stadium’s new turf field. The sun left colors glistening and vibrating surrounding air. Young and willful men do everything they can to suck and sip in a cool gust that blows by them.

The new arena was surrounded by metal stands that could house about one hundred thousand violently drunk fans. The Stadium was closed at this time of day. Partially to protect the teams’ line up of offensive plays but also to protect the drunk Greek clubs from showing up at practice and distracting the players from opposing teams scouts no one would be caught dead perched in those radiantly glowing perfectly empty stands. The temperature is high enough to set a person’s wranglers on fire and fry any bare skin coming in contact with those steel chairs to a shriveled pork rind.

The team’s mascot, a white Stallion, was painted under the temperature on a score board acquired through the school’s most prevalent donor. Somehow, a mustang on the score board looks more like a retarded miniature Pony then the majestic wild horse it’s meant to portray. The Ponies have the worst record in the league for the past three years and one could draw the conclusion a less then authentic cartoony horse has something to do with it.

Paul, a man’s body slapped with the brain of an adolescent, looks at the digital thermometer looming scoreboard. It reads one hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit. Whistles belt out short loud chirps. “Alright, stop for a fifteen second break!” Paul puts his hands over his head and slowly controls a deep breath. His body is grotesquely muscular and his head is shaved cleanly bald. Players struggle to encourage other teammates hunched down huffing and puffing. Paul “come on get up let’s go guys! Two more then we’re done!” Short, rigid and hairy Coach Benet blows his whistle. “Sprint you pussies!” Spit flies out his mouth as he biting down on the whistle and speaking simultaneously, “Move your asses or everyone is getting two more laps.” Benet’s face glows bright red and blood vessels swell on his throat. “I want to see you winning this year.”

untitled as of Now


The Grip

Slight twists of Big Brother’s vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The white part of his eyes burned from perspiration magnifying radiant sun beams bursting through the ’88 Durango windshield. He blinked rapidly in attempts to activate his tear duct. Soothing tears roll down his face as he takes the bottom of his worn and holy Mall of America T-shirt stretches it out even more stretching the cotton material over his face smearing down a mix of perspiration and tears. His squinting brow could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. Closing his eyes again Big Bro focuses on the thin layer of skin pumping networks of cascading blood cells. Gazing inside his mind he recognizes the familiar “floaters,” a word he made up for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. This had to be the most brutally sweltering day in the history of earth Big Bro said to himself in a low whisper as he recollected a truck stop television mentioned something about the sun being closer than normal. That was the last he had seen or heard the news in a little over forty eight hours.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of a magazine article pertaining to futuristic utopias. Everything about this current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Mansions on the street contained three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few dwellings on the freshly paved cul-de-sac without these walls and Big Bro was nestled next to one. It had a babied flower bed striping with inviting mix of vibrant colors leading up to the front door. The door contains hand blown glass mounted in its’ cherry oak stained finish.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hammering hangover from his temple. It was a long haul across the panhandle fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed came in the form of pills and cans purchased in a Gun Barrel Texas gas station. Yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko stuck on pennies lining the cup holders. This sweet aroma slid up his nose accompanied by a heavy waft of some rotten elixir. The ingredients coursed through his mind; chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered on both sides of the passenger door. The orgy of scent conjured memories of the night before which bubbled to fruition an epiphany, the street’s name: Edgefield.

Proud that the wheel in his brain finally started turning he smiles glancing at Lil Bro who’s exuding auras of supreme tranquility. His faint whispering breathes let Big Bro know he’s still fast asleep. Avoiding any sudden sounds that would disturb the little guy’s slumber he slowly slides back in the driver’s seat and listens to peculiar sounds. He could’nt quite put his finger on it but was positive that the distant back and forth tweets echoed more like a whistle. The pattern of noise continued in occasional steady repetitions for two to three minutes. The whistling intensified like a distant approaching train and this perplexed him because there were no birds anywhere in sight. Forty eight hours behind the wheel, Big bro was convinced he was either hallucinating or mistaking insects for birds. Any noise was better than the loud siren of a cop car. To Big Bro a cop was just a reminder of what he was, poor and on the run. Somehow this always sounded better than where they were coming from.

That was exactly the state their parents left the brothers in after they passed. There was nothing left to take after paying bills that had piled up. The house was auctioned off to the highest bidder. They took what they could from the childhood home and watched as recollections disintegrated to a highest bidder. California was the promise land and in his thoughts exactly where he would find his new job and hopefully he would be able to afford a low rent apartment for him and Lil Bro to share. He knew for a fact the child protective services in his state would end up shuffling a troubled child’s paper work into the wrong hands again. The people designed to protect the brothers only had the great idea to separate them until Big bro warned that he would runaway if they where taken to separate homes. They spent a year in the wrong hand of a state run foster home and there was no way in hell him or his little brother was going back.

The brothers were not going to jail and sure as hell not heading back to that halfway house for children. Big Bro knew he couldn’t lose the only link to his past. Little bro had been through it all with him. They were together when they heard of their parent’s death the shit house they were heading to. He suffered the same beatings under the hand of Charlene’s circle of biker boyfriends. He’d been planning to get out west ever since Billy, a former foster brother, sent him a letter leaving him elated about nights on Venice beach. He was absolutely convinced that Lil Bro was better off with him.

Deep in his gut he had a certainty that they were going to make it once they got out there and yet, there was a thought something was missing. He had climbed over the thoughts of his mother’s death like a precious mountain examining each rock with every step until reaching the peak of that mountain with the mental images of his mother’s open casket. That thought was quickly shunned as he descended the mountain of bad memories with blizzard winds that morphed into a howling Harley straddled by piss filled leather wearing demons. He ducks reminiscing about being beat and feeling helpless with now where to go. That was then this is now he thought. He was a man now and it was time to put the nightmares of the past aside and try to focus on a better life and live in the moment.

These houses enchanted him in a way their run down foster home never did. Anything was better than that garbage dump. After the death of their mom the state placed him and Lil bro with a foster mom who was already housing five kids some with mental disorders. Their foster mother’s name was Charlene, and her two front teeth were missing leaving a large gap in the middle of a mouth consumed with brown and green teeth that noticeably showed as she spit words out with a lisp. Any kid living in that shanty pig pen he knew this because she kept no positive influences hanging around her. The selfish woman was using adopted children for benefits then spending what she got mostly on herself. It was so bad at her place they couldn’t sleep many nights due to loud pipes and shouting. Bikers liked to climb up the stairs when they were pickled and antagonize him and Lil Bro for sick sport. Most of his years at the foster home were spent roaming the streets at night.

Big Bro rolled his neck feeling a ripple of pops explode as flashbacks takes over. The two shared the same room with four other temporary siblings and a leaking roof that dripped on Big Bro’s twin size mat on the floor by the room’s only small window. He remembered the first night and having to share a bed with his brother. Their nights were restless and clouded with moans of mentally challenged foster brothers unable to express his bad dreams. Many of the nights’ sounds were drowned out under the heavy thundering motorcycle engines and drunken fights. The two peaked through curtains and watched as a brutal shooting took place. The biker gang ended up beating an undercover cop hopelessly to death and had to leave state.

The day the gang left he started lifting weights. He vowed no man would ever touch him or his brother that way ever again. They associated with at Charlene’s ghetto orphan shack. That was the old rat’s name, Charlene and he vowed every Charlene would have her same Karma. The place they lived in with her sat on a block was mischief prevailed and shadows of addicts and pimps occasionally formed under street lights. Reaffirmation of his past situation was enough for him agree twice that this would be a better life.

He hadn’t been to church in a while but still believed and liked to think If God would help them live like two thieves on the run until he could meet up with his L.A. buddy with a living room where the two could crash until he found a job that would let him get his own place. He was now more than ever convinced this must be the promise land they would make a new start.

Big bro had just turned eighteen and his fifteen year old brother he dubiously calls Lil Bro, stands six foot which at the age of fifteen towers over most his peer. They were the definition of boy-men, old enough to know but not know better than. A phrase his father would say and one of the few things he could remember about him. He would say that after they did something wrong. Wrong and right are often blurred by what is socially normal. Currently he felt they were far from anything socially stereotypical. He thought they were a couple of boy-men with so much to learn just yearning to be free.

They had robbed a grocery store to stock up before their road trip and Big bro wasn’t too proud of the fact that they had looted through two states because it was the only way to get to the final destination. The remainder of funds had been spent on gas and food to get them by for now. They walked out the store with a total of two hand held baskets stuffed to the brim with lunch meat bread and cheese. Lil Bro managed to fit some beer in the basket as the two casually strolled out of the front doors of a gourmet market in Downtown Dallas Texas. That was their first stop on the way out of the bayou state.

Big Bro explained to his smaller sibling that stealing from major corporations is not the same as stealing from a mom and pop’s store. These store where multinational with billions of dollars and could afford to lose some food. It was insured he told Lil Bro and that just meant that money was set aside for lost or damaged goods. He explained the company expects to lose a certain amount of food due to contamination and most the food will rot before it is even eaten. He didn’t think this was true but it helped Lil bro go along with the plan and it worked somehow justifying the obvious wrong.

Their close call came in El Paso when they nearly escaped arrest after pulling away without paying the large gas tab. They were on half a tank and now he guessed the needle rested on the last peg below a red dash designed to tell when one was running on pencil fumes. Big bro concluded they had a mile and couldn’t waste it until they knew exactly where more could be easily stolen. The rations were low and this extended road trip was near its end and they both knew it. Lil bro starts to rustle from sleep and yawns with a quick bicep stretch.

Big Bro returns the yawn innately and sinks deeper in his reclined grey leather. He watches Lil Bro and wonders if he feels the drop of perspiration rolling down his adam’s apple and settling in the soft dip between the clavicle bones. He turns his head to gaze at mechanical water sprinklers popping out of the earth to shower perfidiously edged St. Augustine matted yards. They had made it to Arizona that he was positive but, something about the current surroundings looked nothing of the sort of neighborhood one would associate with L.A. residents. It was different in the since of having more room to roam and safe for residential for suburbs. They were out of L.A. that’s what it is he thought. Failing to make contact with his friend who promised a couch to crash Big Bro decided to head north and find a secluded place to park. He must have driven further away from the city than he previously thought. To him the community was like a swimming pool full of chlorine in the middle of a desert you can walk to the edge but it wouldn’t be worth jumping in.

“I want to stand under those sprinklers,” Lil Bro surprised his brother with the sudden out loud thought. “We better not,” Big Bro responded ardently. You awake bro? Lil bro asks from the lowest voice he could muster in the heat. “You got a smoke?” Big bro,”We’re out.” I feel like shit. I’m so hung over. I need a cigarette right now so bad me head if fucking pounding. Big Bro shared the same ringing in his head and didn’t want Lil bro that squares were on the list of things to lift from the last truck stop. They were both just glad as hell to have gotten the pigs off their trail after the last heist. He knew that now there ride had been compromised and there would be no major more frivolous spending if they any hope of reaching LA by the end of the week.

The two glanced up at the sun and realize the desert of America was the back drop to suburbia they found themselves in. Big Bro, “better find a place to get cool or they’ll cook for the rest of the day. Well we got about a few miles left in the tank. “Where the fucks are we?” “Phoenix but, I’m not sure what part.” The two decided to drink every beer in the two thirty packs they had boosted the night before. This was their belated reward for a night of instant gratification. “I can’t believe we didn’t get arrested last night. I don’t know how that cop did not spot us.” In truth big bro didn’t know the cop had to have passed right by them and make his way out of the dead end road.

“God Damn it I’m burning up!” Lil Bro rustles and adjusts his chair. “So you’re awake now? You passed out pretty hard last night” Lil Bo looks around him then in the back seat were the cooler sits. “Is there any booze left?” Big Bro adjusted his seat to a driving position. “Yeah, three more bottles.” Taking off his sweat soaked shirt Lil bro reaches back and opens the cooler. “Say How about a little hair of the dog?” Lil bro pulls out a bottle of beer from the cooler. “Its still cold.” He watches his brother pull a floating bottle from the still chilled water. “You need a shower, you’ve been sweating in that shirt for three days.” “Do I smell that bad?” Your starting to ferment I think it is time to change shirts.”

Little brother had slowly awoken Easter Jesus arms above his head's and breathes deep then lets a yawning sound a we have got to get in some shade the hell is this suddenly a knock comes in on the window.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Now wait a lil while


The Grip

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The white part of his eye burns from perspiration magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. A squinting brow could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. Closing his eyes again Big Bro focuses on the thin layer of skin pumping networks of cascading blood cells. He also recognized the familiar “floaters,” a word he made up for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. A truck stop television mentioned something about the sun being closer than normal. That was the last he had seen or heard the news in a little over forty eight hours.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of a magazine relating to futuristic utopias. Big Bro thought everything about this current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Mansions on the street had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few dwellings on the freshly paved cul-de-sac without these walls and Big Bro was nestled next to one. It had a babied flower bed striping with inviting mix of vibrant colors leading.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover hammering in his temples. It was a long haul across the panhandle fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed came in the form of pills and cans purchased in a Gun Barrel Texas gas station. Yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko dried to collected pennies lining the cup holders. This sweet aroma slid up his nose along with a bad whiff of a dried elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

Glancing at Lil Bro, he avoids any sudden sounds that would disturb the little guy’s tranquil slumber. His Big Brother also referred to as Big Bro, sits back in the driver’s seat and listens to a peculiar sound coming from the street. He was not certain but they were low distant back and forth tweet with a long whistle. The pattern continued in occasional steady repetitions of for about two to three minutes.. This perplexed him because there were no birds anywhere in sight. Forty eight hours behind the wheel, Big bro was convinced he was either hallucinating or mistaking insects for birds. Any noise was better than the loud siren of a cop car. Being poor and on the run always sounded better than leaving his little brother in a foster home. That was exactly what the state wanted after their mother passed the bills piled up until the house was auctioned off to the highest bidder. They took what they could from the childhood home and watched as recollections disintegrated to a highest bidder.

California was the promise land and in his thoughts exactly where he would find his new job and hopefully he would be able to afford a low rent apartment for him and Lil Bro to share. He knew for a fact the child protective services in his state would end up shuffling a troubled child’s paper work into the wrong hands again. The people designed to protect the brothers only had the great idea to separate them until Big bro warned that he would runaway if they where taken to separate homes. They spent a year in the wrong hand of a state run foster home and there was no way in hell him or his little brother was going back.

The brothers were not going to jail and sure as hell not heading back to that halfway house for children. Big Bro knew he couldn’t lose the only link to his past. Little bro had been through it all with him. They were together when they heard of their parent’s death the shit house they were heading to. He suffered the same beatings under the hand of Charlene’s circle of biker boyfriends. He’d been planning to get out west ever since Billy, a former foster brother, sent him a letter leaving him elated about nights on Venice beach. He was absolutely convinced that Lil Bro was better off with him.

Deep in his gut he had a certainty that they were going to make it once they got out there and yet, there was a thought something was missing. He had climbed over the thoughts of his mother’s death like a precious mountain examining each rock with every step until reaching the peak of that mountain with the mental images of his mother’s open casket. That thought was quickly shunned as he descended the mountain of bad memories with blizzard winds that morphed into a howling Harley straddled by piss filled leather wearing demons. He ducks reminiscing about being beat and feeling helpless with now where to go. That was then this is now he thought. He was a man now and it was time to put the nightmares of the past aside and try to focus on a better life and live in the moment.

These houses enchanted him in a way their run down foster home never did. Anything was better than that garbage dump. After the death of their mom the state placed him and Lil bro with a foster mom who was already housing five kids some with mental disorders. Their foster mother’s name was Charlene, and her two front teeth were missing leaving a large gap in the middle of a mouth consumed with brown and green teeth that noticeably showed as she spit words out with a lisp. Any kid living in that shanty pig pen he knew this because she kept no positive influences hanging around her. The selfish woman was using adopted children for benefits then spending what she got mostly on herself. It was so bad at her place they couldn’t sleep many nights due to loud pipes and shouting. Bikers liked to climb up the stairs when they were pickled and antagonize him and Lil Bro for sick sport. Most of his years at the foster home were spent roaming the streets at night.

Big Bro rolled his neck feeling a ripple of pops explode as flashbacks takes over. The two shared the same room with four other temporary siblings and a leaking roof that dripped on Big Bro’s twin size mat on the floor by the room’s only small window. He remembered the first night and having to share a bed with his brother. Their nights were restless and clouded with moans of mentally challenged foster brothers unable to express his bad dreams. Many of the nights’ sounds were drowned out under the heavy thundering motorcycle engines and drunken fights. The two peaked through curtains and watched as a brutal shooting took place. The biker gang ended up beating an undercover cop hopelessly to death and had to leave state.

The day the gang left he started lifting weights. He vowed no man would ever touch him or his brother that way ever again. They associated with at Charlene’s ghetto orphan shack. That was the old rat’s name, Charlene and he vowed every Charlene would have her same Karma. The place they lived in with her sat on a block was mischief prevailed and shadows of addicts and pimps occasionally formed under street lights. Reaffirmation of his past situation was enough for him agree twice that this would be a better life.

He hadn’t been to church in a while but still believed and liked to think If God would help them live like two thieves on the run until he could meet up with his L.A. buddy with a living room where the two could crash until he found a job that would let him get his own place. He was now more than ever convinced this must be the promise land they would make a new start.

Big bro had just turned eighteen and his fifteen year old brother he dubiously calls Lil Bro, stands six foot which at the age of fifteen towers over most his peer. They were the definition of boy-men, old enough to know but not know better than. A phrase his father would say and one of the few things he could remember about him. He would say that after they did something wrong. Wrong and right are often blurred by what is socially normal. Currently he felt they were far from anything socially stereotypical. He thought they were a couple of boy-men with so much to learn just yearning to be free.

They had robbed a grocery store to stock up before their road trip and Big bro wasn’t too proud of the fact that they had looted through two states because it was the only way to get to the final destination. The remainder of funds had been spent on gas and food to get them by for now. They walked out the store with a total of two hand held baskets stuffed to the brim with lunch meat bread and cheese. Lil Bro managed to fit some beer in the basket as the two casually strolled out of the front doors of a gourmet market in Downtown Dallas Texas. That was their first stop on the way out of the bayou state.

Big Bro explained to his smaller sibling that stealing from major corporations is not the same as stealing from a mom and pop’s store. These store where multinational with billions of dollars and could afford to lose some food. It was insured he told Lil Bro and that just meant that money was set aside for lost or damaged goods. He explained the company expects to lose a certain amount of food due to contamination and most the food will rot before it is even eaten. He didn’t think this was true but it helped Lil bro go along with the plan and it worked somehow justifying the obvious wrong.

Their close call came in El Paso when they nearly escaped arrest after pulling away without paying the large gas tab. They were on half a tank and now he guessed the needle rested on the last peg below a red dash designed to tell when one was running on pencil fumes. Big bro concluded they had a mile and couldn’t waste it until they knew exactly where more could be easily stolen. The rations were low and this extended road trip was near its end and they both knew it. Lil bro starts to rustle from sleep and yawns with a quick bicep stretch.

Big Bro returns the yawn innately and sinks deeper in his reclined grey leather. He watches Lil Bro and wonders if he feels the drop of perspiration rolling down his adam’s apple and settling in the soft dip between the clavicle bones. He turns his head to gaze at mechanical water sprinklers popping out of the earth to shower perfidiously edged St. Augustine matted yards. They had made it to Arizona that he was positive but, something about the current surroundings looked nothing of the sort of neighborhood one would associate with L.A. residents. It was different in the since of having more room to roam and safe for residential for suburbs. They were out of L.A. that’s what it is he thought. Failing to make contact with his friend who promised a couch to crash Big Bro decided to head north and find a secluded place to park. He must have driven further away from the city than he previously thought. To him the community was like a swimming pool full of chlorine in the middle of a desert you can walk to the edge but it wouldn’t be worth jumping in.

“I want to stand under those sprinklers,” Lil Bro surprised his brother with the sudden out loud thought. “We better not,” Big Bro responded ardently. You awake bro? Lil bro asks from the lowest voice he could muster in the heat. “You got a smoke?” Big bro,”We’re out.” I feel like shit. I’m so hung over. I need a cigarette right now so bad me head if fucking pounding. Big Bro shared the same ringing in his head and didn’t want Lil bro that squares were on the list of things to lift from the last truck stop. They were both just glad as hell to have gotten the pigs off their trail after the last heist. He knew that now there ride had been compromised and there would be no major more frivolous spending if they any hope of reaching LA by the end of the week.

wow

The Grip

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The white part of an eye burns from perspiration magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. A squinting brow could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. Closing his eyes again Big Bro focuses on the thin layer of skin pumping networks of cascading blood cells. He also recognized the familiar “floaters,” a word he made up for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. A truck stop television mentioned something about the sun being closer than normal. That was the last he had seen or heard the news in a little over forty eight hours.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of a magazine relating to futuristic utopias. Big Bro thought everything about this current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Mansions on the street had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few dwellings on the freshly paved cul-de-sac without these walls and Big Bro was nestled next to one. It had a babied flower bed striping with inviting mix of vibrant colors leading.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover hammering in his temples. It was a long haul across the panhandle fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed came in the form of pills and cans purchased in a Gun Barrel Texas gas station. Yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko dried to collected pennies lining the cup holders. This sweet aroma slid up his nose along with a bad whiff of a dried elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

Glancing at Lil Bro, he avoids any sudden sounds that would disturb the little guy’s tranquil slumber. His Big Brother also referred to as Big Bro, sits back in the driver’s seat and listens to a peculiar sound coming from the street. He was not certain but they were low distant back and forth tweet with a long whistle. The pattern continued in occasional steady repetitions of for about two to three minutes.. This perplexed him because there were no birds anywhere in sight. Forty eight hours behind the wheel, Big bro was convinced he was either hallucinating or mistaking insects for birds. Any noise was better than the loud siren of a cop car. Being poor and on the run always sounded better than leaving his little brother in a foster home. That was exactly what the state wanted after their mother passed the bills piled up until the house was auctioned off to the highest bidder. They took what they could from the childhood home and watched as recollections disintegrated to a highest bidder.

Teaser to Something totally different honest

The Grip

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The white part of an eye burns from perspiration magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. A squinting brow could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. Closing his eyes again Big Bro focuses on the thin layer of skin pumping networks of cascading blood cells. He also recognized the familiar “floaters,” a word he made up for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. A truck stop television mentioned something about the sun being closer than normal. That was the last he had seen or heard the news in a little over forty eight hours.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of a magazine relating to futuristic utopias. Big Bro thought everything about this current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Mansions on the street had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few dwellings on the freshly paved cul-de-sac without these walls and Big Bro was nestled next to one. It had a babied flower bed striping with inviting mix of vibrant colors leading.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover hammering in his temples. It was a long haul across the panhandle fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed that came in the form of pills and cans and were purchased in a Gun Barrel Texas gas station. A yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko dried to collected pennies lining the cup holders. This sweet aroma slid up his nose along with a bad whiff of a dried elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Teaser intro to The Grip


The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera, the white part of an eye, burns from perspiration magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. His squinting brow could not block out harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He closes his eyes again and focuses on the thin layer of skin pumping networks of cascading blood cells. He also recognized the familiar “floaters,” a word he made up for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. A truck stop television mentioned something about the sun being closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of a magazine relating to futuristic utopias. Big Bro thought everything about this current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Mansions on the street had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few dwellings on the freshly paved cul-de-sac without these walls and Big Bro was nestled next to one. It had a babied flower bed striping with inviting mix of vibrant colors leading.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover building up in his temples. The brothers’ long haul across the Texas panhandle was fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed that came in the form of pills and cans were purchased in a Gun Barrel gas station. A yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko lining clustered pennies collected in cup holders. This sweet aroma slid up his nose along with a bad whiff of a dried elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

Teaser intro to The Grip


The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera, the white part of an eye, burns from perspiration magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. His squinting brow could not block out harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He closes his eyes again and focuses on the thin layer of skin pumping networks of cascading blood cells. He also recognized the familiar “floaters,” a word he made up for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. A truck stop television mentioned something about the sun being closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of magazine relating to futuristic utopia. Big Bro and everything about the current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Homes on the street had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few homes without these walls and one such had a babied flower bed striped with inviting colors. This house was at the end of a freshly paved cul-de-sac which Big Bro is nestled next to.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover building up in his temples. The brothers’ long haul across the Texas panhandle was fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed that came in the form of pills and cans were purchased in a Gun Barrel gas station. A yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko lining clustered pennies collected in cup holders. This sweet aroma slid up his nose along with a bad whiff of a dried elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Grip

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera, the white part of the eye, burns from the perspiration magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. His squinting brow could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He closes his eyes and focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” a word for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of magazine relating to futuristic utopia. Big Bro and everything about the current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Homes on the street had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few homes without these walls and one such had a babied flower bed striped with inviting colors. This house was at the end of a freshly paved cul-de-sac which Big Bro is nestled next to.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover building up in his temples. The brothers’ long haul across the Texas panhandle was fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed were purchased in a Gun Barrel gas station that came in the form of pills and cans. A yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko lining clustered pennies collected in cup holders. This sweet aroma is then combined with an elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

Grip (Start of the story)

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera, the white part of the eye, burns from the perspiration magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. His squinting brow could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” a word for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of magazine relating to futuristic utopia. Big Bro and everything about the current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Homes on the street had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few homes without these walls and one such had a babied flower bed striped with inviting colors. This house was at the end of a freshly paved cul-de-sac which Big Bro is nestled next to.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover building up in his temples. The brothers’ long haul across the Texas panhandle was fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed were purchased in a Gun Barrel gas station that came in the form of pills and cans. A yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko lining clustered pennies collected in cup holders. This sweet aroma is then combined with an elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

Grip (Start of the story)

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera, the white part of the eye, burns from the perspiration upon opening his right eyelid, magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. His squinting brow could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” a word for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of magazine relating to futuristic utopia. Big Bro and everything about the current moment contrasts the bottom bucket town he and his brother grew up in. Homes on the street had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few homes without these walls and one such had a babied flower bed striped with inviting colors. This house was at the end of a freshly paved cul-de-sac which Big Bro is nestled next to.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover building up in his temples. The brothers’ long haul across the Texas panhandle was fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed were purchased in a Gun Barrel gas station that came in the form of pills and cans. A yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko lining clustered pennies collected in cup holders. This sweet aroma is then combined with an elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

intro

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera, the white part of the eye, burns from the perspiration upon opening his right eyelid, magnifying a radiant sun bursting through the windshield of his ’88 Durango. His squinting brow could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” a word for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten, as they slowly grow and fall, following veins to a plastic armrest. With high noon approaching, every glowing car on the block with dark paint could cook a steak. Inside his midnight blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an Easy Bake Oven™. Just one more hour parked without shade, thought Big Bro, causing him to turn in his seat and shield his face from invisible bon fire winds.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood resembled something out of magazine relating to futuristic utopia. Big Bro and everything about where he is at the moment contrasts the small town where he and his brother grew up in. Every house had three or more levels with high walls tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few homes without these walls and one such had a babied flower bed striped with inviting colors. This house was at the end of a freshly paved cul-de-sac at the end of which Big Bro is nestled on the curb.

Determined to remember what street they were parked on he uses his thumb and middle finger to rigorously message a hangover building up in his temples. The brothers’ long haul across the Texas panhandle was fueled with Yellow Jackets and Fourloko. These legal doses of speed were purchased in a Gun Barrel gas station that came in the form of pills and cans. A yawning, Big Bro casually fills his lungs with the syrupy odor of evaporated Fourloko lining clustered pennies collected in cup holders. This sweet aroma is then combined with an elixir of chili cheese bean burritos, onion dip, mac salad and cheap booze plastered to the outside of the passenger door. The orgy of smells brings the memories of the night before to fruition as he suddenly remembers the street’s name: Edgefield.

written by jacob jones

edited by matt and jacob

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Grip (Start of the story)


The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burns from parting the right eyelid to perspiration magnified by a radiant sun bursting through the windshield. His squinting brows could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” a word for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in a little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside his dark blue sedan items were coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The ideas of spending one more hour parked without shade spawned Big Bro turn in his seat and shield his face from an invisible bon fire wind.

The upper middle class suburban neighborhood was futuristically utopian to Big Bro and everything about where he’s at contrasts the small town he and his brother grew up in. Every house had three or more levels with tall fences tucked two feet from the sidewalk. There are only a few homes without a fence and Big Bro was nestled beside one. The house had a babied flower bed that striped inviting bright colors leading up to it. It was the last house at the end of a freshly paved cul-de-sac.

Monday, May 9, 2011

The process of formulating my grip on the story


The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burns from parting the right eyelid to perspiration magnified by a radiant sun bursting through the windshield. His squinting brows could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” a word for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in a little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside the dark blue sedan everything was coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The idea of spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his seat as he shields his face from an invisible bon fire wind.

The process of formulating my grip on the story

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burns from parting the right eyelid to perspiration magnified by a radiant sun bursting through the windshield. His squinting brows could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” a word for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard any news in a little over forty eight hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside the dark blue sedan everything was coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The idea of spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his seat shielding his face from an invisible bon fire wind.

Grip

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burns from parting the right eyelid to perspiration magnified by a radiant sun bursting through the windshield. His squinting brows could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” a word for the hardly visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard of the news in a little over twenty four hours.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside the dark blue sedan everything was coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The idea of spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his seat shielding his face from an invisible bon fire wind.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Grip

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burns from parting the right eyelid to perspiration and magnified radiation bursting from a windshield. Before leaving his house a forecaster mentioned something a closer than normal sun. That was the last he had seen or heard of the news in a little over twenty four hours. Squinting brows could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” his for the barely visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside the dark blue sedan everything was coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The idea of spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his seat shielding his face from an invisible bon fire wind.

The Grip


The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burns from parting the right eyelid to perspiration and magnified radiation bursting from a windshield. They had mentioned on the news before leaving his house. The forecaster said something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last they had seen or heard of the news. Squinting brows could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” his for the barely visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue.

Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside the dark blue sedan everything was coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The idea of spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his seat shielding his face from an invisible bon fire wind.

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burns from parting the right eyelid to perspiration and magnified radiation bursting from a windshield. They had mentioned on the news before leaving his house. The forecaster said something about a closer than normal sun. That was the last they had seen or heard of the news. Squinting brows could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He focuses on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” his name the name for barely visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside the dark blue sedan everything was coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The idea of spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his seat shielding his face from an invisible bon fire wind.

Grip

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burned from parting the right eyelid to perspiration and magnified radiation bursting from a windshield. They had mentioned on the news before leaving his house about a closer than normal sun and that was the last they had seen of the news. All the radio stations were down and he didn’t understand how it had gotten this hot in only twenty four hours. Squinting brows could not block out the harsh light projecting odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He tried to focus on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” his name the name for barely visible clear strands of protein making up pupil tissue. Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside the dark blue sedan everything was coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The idea of spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his seat shielding his face from an invisible bon fire wind.