It was a rainy day, solemn and quiet, Jules sat beside Sara and wept at his realization.
"Sara?"
"Yes?" she replied, her erratic hair cascading from her angelic golden skin. "I, I have to tell you something," Jules muttered.
"What is it?" she said moving closer towards him, wrapping her arm around him and staring deep into his eyes.
"I think I'm going to-"
"Your going to quit the fucking band!?" she screamed at him, all love lost from her body.
"I have to. I'm going to do it. I'm going to quit the band and move back to Santa Fe," Jules said and walked into the kitchen to pour a glass of milk. He heard an explosion in the backyard and ran to the door.
It was his guesthouse, or "man-house" as he often referred to it. Sara had threatened to blow it up. and she did. Now on their quaffed green grass were white chunks of a previous retreat to solitude and happiness. A love for Jules, now, a paradise lost.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
The Incident With The I.W.F.P.
Luxembourg Repairs
Rue Ravenstein, 23
City of Brussels, Belgium
2 507 82 00
Dear Ms. Rivers,
It has come to our attention that there have been several mistakes regarding your invoice. The Grand Hotel Central only charged you and the three other rooms booked under the International Women Fostering Positivity (I.W.F.P) $37.94 for six martini’s and four pay-per-view movies. It is my greatest regret to inform you that your bill is actually $752,493.78
In case this seems strange to you, I would like to take this opportunity to inform you and the 11 ½ other members of the I.W.F.P. of your behavior over your 27 hour stay:
6:30 P.M. October 26th 2004
I.W.F.P. group arrives. Due to their frequent movement and rampant requests I am unable to ascertain the total number of guests, it is either 11 or 12, no more, no less. Several seem to be visibly intoxicated, but remarkably aware of their surroundings. I help one woman named Isabelle, who introduces herself as the Czar of the I.W.F.P.
6:45 P.M. October 26th, 2004
A woman, who when asked to identify herself, only offers a jagged sketch of a muskrat on a tattered and stained napkin, requests all three rooms the I.W.F.P. booked be upgraded to the platinum suites. I inform her of the surcharge, which was $20,000, and she pays in cash.
6:54 P.M. October 26th, 2004
A special request is made for seven cases of vodka, and 30 “Loopy Lizzies”. I decline the request, but for a woman named Daniella, who comes to the concierge desk with twelve thousand English pounds in hand. She tells me to do whatever it takes to get the Loppy Lizzies and I should keep the change.
7:42 P.M. October 26th, 2004
I return to the Grand Hotel Central and run the deliveries to the platinum suites. Upon entering the middle room I am appalled to see there are no longer any walls separating the three rooms. I am again flustered with requests and demands and am forced to leave in fear of being brutally wounded by one of the many blow-darts being shot. I try to count the number of guests, but I cannot determine whether the number is 11 or 12, but it is no more, no less.
9:45 P.M. October 26th, 2004
Room service is requested, and Walter, our bellhop of forty years goes missing after he runs the 14-table convoy of dinner tables up to the suites.
2:46 A.M. October 27th, 2004
A young man from the street comes in with shards of glass strewn about his clothes. He said that a group of, “Witches” threw several bottles of expensive vodka and strawberries at him. Fearing for my wellbeing and still searching for the whereabouts of Walter, I send him off.
7:30 A.M. October 27th, 2004
The women of the I.W.F.P. are among the first guests to arrive at breakfast and make rash comments regarding the service our waiters provide. One waiter, George, is stabbed with a fork by the woman with no name. He was and still is hospitalized.
Note: The next several hours are a rush of chaos and turmoil at the Grand Hotel Central. A neighbor reports to Interpol that there are no more windows along the top floor of our hotel. As I go up to confront the women of the I.W.F.P. I hear a ritualistic chant, followed by screams, and a thunderous thwack. Thwarted, I run back to the desk where there are several officials prying me for answers.
Unfortunately the Grand Hotel Central cannot disclose the happenings of the remaining hours of the I.W.F.P.’s stay, for it is classified and currently under investigation. Enclosed is a 30 page document guaranteeing our claims and the labor fees for the repairs made. If payment is made, we at the Grand Hotel Central and Luxembourg Repairs will never contact you again, in return for the known whereabouts of our dear friend Walter.
Thank you,
The Management.
Rue Ravenstein, 23
City of Brussels, Belgium
2 507 82 00
Dear Ms. Rivers,
It has come to our attention that there have been several mistakes regarding your invoice. The Grand Hotel Central only charged you and the three other rooms booked under the International Women Fostering Positivity (I.W.F.P) $37.94 for six martini’s and four pay-per-view movies. It is my greatest regret to inform you that your bill is actually $752,493.78
In case this seems strange to you, I would like to take this opportunity to inform you and the 11 ½ other members of the I.W.F.P. of your behavior over your 27 hour stay:
6:30 P.M. October 26th 2004
I.W.F.P. group arrives. Due to their frequent movement and rampant requests I am unable to ascertain the total number of guests, it is either 11 or 12, no more, no less. Several seem to be visibly intoxicated, but remarkably aware of their surroundings. I help one woman named Isabelle, who introduces herself as the Czar of the I.W.F.P.
6:45 P.M. October 26th, 2004
A woman, who when asked to identify herself, only offers a jagged sketch of a muskrat on a tattered and stained napkin, requests all three rooms the I.W.F.P. booked be upgraded to the platinum suites. I inform her of the surcharge, which was $20,000, and she pays in cash.
6:54 P.M. October 26th, 2004
A special request is made for seven cases of vodka, and 30 “Loopy Lizzies”. I decline the request, but for a woman named Daniella, who comes to the concierge desk with twelve thousand English pounds in hand. She tells me to do whatever it takes to get the Loppy Lizzies and I should keep the change.
7:42 P.M. October 26th, 2004
I return to the Grand Hotel Central and run the deliveries to the platinum suites. Upon entering the middle room I am appalled to see there are no longer any walls separating the three rooms. I am again flustered with requests and demands and am forced to leave in fear of being brutally wounded by one of the many blow-darts being shot. I try to count the number of guests, but I cannot determine whether the number is 11 or 12, but it is no more, no less.
9:45 P.M. October 26th, 2004
Room service is requested, and Walter, our bellhop of forty years goes missing after he runs the 14-table convoy of dinner tables up to the suites.
2:46 A.M. October 27th, 2004
A young man from the street comes in with shards of glass strewn about his clothes. He said that a group of, “Witches” threw several bottles of expensive vodka and strawberries at him. Fearing for my wellbeing and still searching for the whereabouts of Walter, I send him off.
7:30 A.M. October 27th, 2004
The women of the I.W.F.P. are among the first guests to arrive at breakfast and make rash comments regarding the service our waiters provide. One waiter, George, is stabbed with a fork by the woman with no name. He was and still is hospitalized.
Note: The next several hours are a rush of chaos and turmoil at the Grand Hotel Central. A neighbor reports to Interpol that there are no more windows along the top floor of our hotel. As I go up to confront the women of the I.W.F.P. I hear a ritualistic chant, followed by screams, and a thunderous thwack. Thwarted, I run back to the desk where there are several officials prying me for answers.
Unfortunately the Grand Hotel Central cannot disclose the happenings of the remaining hours of the I.W.F.P.’s stay, for it is classified and currently under investigation. Enclosed is a 30 page document guaranteeing our claims and the labor fees for the repairs made. If payment is made, we at the Grand Hotel Central and Luxembourg Repairs will never contact you again, in return for the known whereabouts of our dear friend Walter.
Thank you,
The Management.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Fiction
If fiction isn't real,
Then how far does fiction go?
How much can authors and publishers lie,
to the untrained and uninquisitive eye?
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Scotty Proper
Scotty Proper’s job was to sail the boat
Antonio’s job was to pick up the phone
Matilda transferred the money
It’s not every day that an opportunity drops into your lap like the one offered to Scott P. Levork yesterday. A music student at the prestigious University of Miami, Scott was struggling with money and looking for a job. As a resident advisor, he got his room and board for free in exchange for taking care of some of the students on his floor, and most of all, keeping them in line.
Day after day, slaving away practicing scales, Scott heard his floor mates tales of flying to New York, Abu Dabi, and Switzerland—all for the weekend. “Where do these kids get all this money?” Scott asked himself, checking his waning bank account with only $37.43 left.
As a child, Scott grew up on boats and was quite skilled at sailing. Hearing this and seeing many of his sailing posters, one day Antonio, one of his floor mates, stopped by his room, “Hey, you still know how to sail?” To which Scott modestly replied, “Yes.” Scott had won the Junior Harbormaster Championship when he was 19, and was still coasting off the success and fame this had brought him back home.
“I may have a job for you,” Antonio said. Scott’s eyes shot at Antionio, “A job, hey man, I’m really strapped for cash, what is it?” Antonio didn’t answer, but put his finger over his lips and said, “Meet me at Clark’s Marina at 7 p.m.”
Scott showed up at 6:55 and waited 45 minutes for Antonio to stumble out of the Marina’s bar, sloppy drunk, “Hey, you never checked at the bar man!” Scott didn’t find any of this funny, “I thought you had a job for me.”
“Oh, right,” Antonio says with a smile. “My family,” Antonio stops to pick his brain, making sure he doesn't reveal too much,“is a very large one.” Scott nods his head, waiting for more, which takes some time and effort given Antonio’s state. “We are in the business, of,” he laughs, but catches himself, “square grouper, comprende?”
Scott shook his head, “I’m not doing that man, I’ll end up dead, or in jail.” Antonio’s eyes popped open wide, “No, no, no, no, my friend. We will pay you $500 for each square grouper you catch, and give you a boat, I promise, this is a legitimate business we have set up here.” Scott was astounded at the prospect of $500, his mind raced through of all the things he could buy with that much money.
“Scotty, what’s your last name?”
“Levork.”
“Hey, your classy man, how about we call you Scotty Proper?”
“Alright, say, Antonio, how many square groupers are out there tonight, you think?”
Antonio chuckles so hard he vomits in the back of his mouth, “About 30.”
Scott could barely do the math with all those zeroes involved, but remembered these kids flew all over the world, bought cocaine every weekend, and drove brand new sports cars. “That’s $15,000 you’ll give me, if I can ‘catch’ them?”
“Scotty, Scotty P, Scotty Proper, if you can get all of them tonight, I’ll get Matilda to give you $25,000.”
“Who is Matilda?”
“You’ll see.”
The next morning at 5 am, Scott met Antonio on the pier, Antonio again was very drunk, his eyes crazed with a poisonous glare, “Good morning,” Scott said. Antonio ignored him and walked to a pristine 50 foot yacht and tossed Scott the keys, “Drive.”
Scott ignored all of the ornate luxuries the boat had to offer; a full size bar, dining room table, gold plated silverware, for he knew it was drug money. He got a text message from Karolina, his girlfriend: hey, how’d your concert go? Lets hang out!
“Scotty, what, what the fuck was that?”
“This?” Scott says holding up his phone, “just a text message.”
“From who?”
“My girlfriend.”
Antonio showed him how to operate the GPS that would guide him to the drop points. “Turn your phone off,” he said. Scott turned it off. “And take the battery out.”
The work was easy for Scott, after Antonio got a call on his phone confirming the ‘fish’ were his, he would drive the boat, which drove itself, over to the spot, retrieve the lobster pot and load it into a hidden compartment underneath the toilet in the bathroom. After about three hours they were done, all 30 packages secured.
“You can turn your phone back on,” Antonio said, “and take this number down.” It was the number for Matilda, the woman who would be paying Scott. “Call her in an hour and do exactly what she says.”
Back in Scott's dorm room, Karolina was waiting for him in his bed. “Hey where have you been all this time?” Scott flicked off his shoes and laid next to her in the bed, “I was out in the bay with Antonio.”
“You’re hanging out with Antonio now, doesn’t he sell drugs?”
“How did you know that?”
“Everyone does, that’s why he flies all over the world and has a safe full of cash in his dorm room," Karolina pauses, "among other things.”
“How do you know so much about him?” Scott asked, but Karolina began kissing him on the neck and flicked off the light.
Antonio is pounding on the door, its 3:30 am. Scott opens the door and Antonio motions for him to follow, blasting away in Spanish over the phone. He slams his flip-phone shut, “Scott, we have a big shipment coming in my friend,” he smiles, “300 packages at 3 drop points.”
“You know Antonio I was thinking, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Anymore? What you think you can make some money and then just leave, you are part of this family now, don’t you see? You want me to tell Matilda this?”
“No, please don’t tell Matilda I said that.” Matilda was very beautiful, but insane. While she handed Scott a brown paper bag with $25,000 in cash, she made him watch as she killed a man, thought to be an informant, in mid-sentence, sitting in the chair next to his in her office.
“Are you coming or not Scotty Proper,” Antonio says, a decision that could very well cost him his life, “Yeah, I’m in Antonio," jumbling his words he gets up, "whatever you say.”
They go to a different pier this time, with a brand new boat, Antonio pulls into a parking space, “You go, I have to stay here and lookout for the Police.”
“What? I don’t even know which boat to go on,” Scott says and Antonio points to the biggest boat on the dock, “That one.”
Scott gets on the boat, turns its engine on and puts it into reverse when he hears a gun cock behind his head, “Don’t move another inch, this is Captain Yossarin with the DEA, you are under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics connected with the Oturo crime family, and the towing and bodywork company associated with your new friend Antonio. You have the right to remain silent anything you say can and will be used against you…
Antonio’s job was to pick up the phone
Matilda transferred the money
It’s not every day that an opportunity drops into your lap like the one offered to Scott P. Levork yesterday. A music student at the prestigious University of Miami, Scott was struggling with money and looking for a job. As a resident advisor, he got his room and board for free in exchange for taking care of some of the students on his floor, and most of all, keeping them in line.
Day after day, slaving away practicing scales, Scott heard his floor mates tales of flying to New York, Abu Dabi, and Switzerland—all for the weekend. “Where do these kids get all this money?” Scott asked himself, checking his waning bank account with only $37.43 left.
As a child, Scott grew up on boats and was quite skilled at sailing. Hearing this and seeing many of his sailing posters, one day Antonio, one of his floor mates, stopped by his room, “Hey, you still know how to sail?” To which Scott modestly replied, “Yes.” Scott had won the Junior Harbormaster Championship when he was 19, and was still coasting off the success and fame this had brought him back home.
“I may have a job for you,” Antonio said. Scott’s eyes shot at Antionio, “A job, hey man, I’m really strapped for cash, what is it?” Antonio didn’t answer, but put his finger over his lips and said, “Meet me at Clark’s Marina at 7 p.m.”
Scott showed up at 6:55 and waited 45 minutes for Antonio to stumble out of the Marina’s bar, sloppy drunk, “Hey, you never checked at the bar man!” Scott didn’t find any of this funny, “I thought you had a job for me.”
“Oh, right,” Antonio says with a smile. “My family,” Antonio stops to pick his brain, making sure he doesn't reveal too much,“is a very large one.” Scott nods his head, waiting for more, which takes some time and effort given Antonio’s state. “We are in the business, of,” he laughs, but catches himself, “square grouper, comprende?”
Scott shook his head, “I’m not doing that man, I’ll end up dead, or in jail.” Antonio’s eyes popped open wide, “No, no, no, no, my friend. We will pay you $500 for each square grouper you catch, and give you a boat, I promise, this is a legitimate business we have set up here.” Scott was astounded at the prospect of $500, his mind raced through of all the things he could buy with that much money.
“Scotty, what’s your last name?”
“Levork.”
“Hey, your classy man, how about we call you Scotty Proper?”
“Alright, say, Antonio, how many square groupers are out there tonight, you think?”
Antonio chuckles so hard he vomits in the back of his mouth, “About 30.”
Scott could barely do the math with all those zeroes involved, but remembered these kids flew all over the world, bought cocaine every weekend, and drove brand new sports cars. “That’s $15,000 you’ll give me, if I can ‘catch’ them?”
“Scotty, Scotty P, Scotty Proper, if you can get all of them tonight, I’ll get Matilda to give you $25,000.”
“Who is Matilda?”
“You’ll see.”
The next morning at 5 am, Scott met Antonio on the pier, Antonio again was very drunk, his eyes crazed with a poisonous glare, “Good morning,” Scott said. Antonio ignored him and walked to a pristine 50 foot yacht and tossed Scott the keys, “Drive.”
Scott ignored all of the ornate luxuries the boat had to offer; a full size bar, dining room table, gold plated silverware, for he knew it was drug money. He got a text message from Karolina, his girlfriend: hey, how’d your concert go? Lets hang out!
“Scotty, what, what the fuck was that?”
“This?” Scott says holding up his phone, “just a text message.”
“From who?”
“My girlfriend.”
Antonio showed him how to operate the GPS that would guide him to the drop points. “Turn your phone off,” he said. Scott turned it off. “And take the battery out.”
The work was easy for Scott, after Antonio got a call on his phone confirming the ‘fish’ were his, he would drive the boat, which drove itself, over to the spot, retrieve the lobster pot and load it into a hidden compartment underneath the toilet in the bathroom. After about three hours they were done, all 30 packages secured.
“You can turn your phone back on,” Antonio said, “and take this number down.” It was the number for Matilda, the woman who would be paying Scott. “Call her in an hour and do exactly what she says.”
Back in Scott's dorm room, Karolina was waiting for him in his bed. “Hey where have you been all this time?” Scott flicked off his shoes and laid next to her in the bed, “I was out in the bay with Antonio.”
“You’re hanging out with Antonio now, doesn’t he sell drugs?”
“How did you know that?”
“Everyone does, that’s why he flies all over the world and has a safe full of cash in his dorm room," Karolina pauses, "among other things.”
“How do you know so much about him?” Scott asked, but Karolina began kissing him on the neck and flicked off the light.
Antonio is pounding on the door, its 3:30 am. Scott opens the door and Antonio motions for him to follow, blasting away in Spanish over the phone. He slams his flip-phone shut, “Scott, we have a big shipment coming in my friend,” he smiles, “300 packages at 3 drop points.”
“You know Antonio I was thinking, I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
“Anymore? What you think you can make some money and then just leave, you are part of this family now, don’t you see? You want me to tell Matilda this?”
“No, please don’t tell Matilda I said that.” Matilda was very beautiful, but insane. While she handed Scott a brown paper bag with $25,000 in cash, she made him watch as she killed a man, thought to be an informant, in mid-sentence, sitting in the chair next to his in her office.
“Are you coming or not Scotty Proper,” Antonio says, a decision that could very well cost him his life, “Yeah, I’m in Antonio," jumbling his words he gets up, "whatever you say.”
They go to a different pier this time, with a brand new boat, Antonio pulls into a parking space, “You go, I have to stay here and lookout for the Police.”
“What? I don’t even know which boat to go on,” Scott says and Antonio points to the biggest boat on the dock, “That one.”
Scott gets on the boat, turns its engine on and puts it into reverse when he hears a gun cock behind his head, “Don’t move another inch, this is Captain Yossarin with the DEA, you are under arrest for the trafficking of narcotics connected with the Oturo crime family, and the towing and bodywork company associated with your new friend Antonio. You have the right to remain silent anything you say can and will be used against you…
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Fill Her Up
“Tanks empty, we’ve got to stop here,” my brother Jonas says and pulls into a gas station.
“Looks sketchy,” I say, eying the old man working the cash register. His hair is white and oily, exploding from the leathery, tanned skin of his head. He takes breaks from staring at me by emptying the brown sludge of his chewing tobacco into a spittoon.
“Looks sketchy,” I say, eying the old man working the cash register. His hair is white and oily, exploding from the leathery, tanned skin of his head. He takes breaks from staring at me by emptying the brown sludge of his chewing tobacco into a spittoon.
“Crazy old bastard,” Jonas whispers. The old man, with a faded blue shirt, thin muscle shirt underneath, wiry chest hair, and perma-stained greasy fingernails sits atop his chair, staring at us as subjects in his next anthropological essay, Cross Country Yuppies.
I hear a dusty red pickup scream off the interstate, swerving into a parking spot beside the shop. The trucks door swings open and two pointy cowboy boots grind their soles in the gritty dirt. I see a man hop out, tall and slender, with slicked back hair underneath his ten gallon hat. “He’s holding a gun,” I whisper to Jonas. Twenty feet away from me the man fingers his wild-west style revolver, loading the chambers with ammunition. I hear him click the hammer and start towards the old man. “Give me the cash!” he says pointing his gun at the old man. “Hell no!” the old man replies, staring straight into the distance, poised, ready to reach for his gun.
“Is he going to-”
“Hey,” Jonas says, “be cool, or,” he stops and runs his pointer finger across his neck.
“Last time,” the man yells.
“I already told you,” the old man says. The robber fires and I hear the shot echo over the flat, shrubby plains. I see it hit the old man in the head. His body, skin sagging off his bones, falls off his chair, and hits the ground with a thump. I look into his dead eyes, staring off to infinity, now forever.
Jonas still has the gas pump in the car, “Leave! Now!” the man says, firing two shots in the air. Jonas pulls the pump out, nozzle locked open, spreading gas everywhere. “I said, get out!” the man shouts, firing another shot, now running towards us.
“Quick,” Jonas screeches, and we manage to scramble into the car, the man’s cowboy boots clicking ever closer to us. I slam the door shut, “Go, go, go!”
He fires again, blowing out our back window and we peel out onto the interstate. I look in the rear-view mirror. The station is up in flames. “Look,” I say to Jonas and the engines wine turns into a sultry purr.
“The gunshots provided the spark,” he says, staring into the rearview, “he’s burning alive.” I turn my head around to see the inferno with my own eyes.
“I’ve never seen a dead man before.”
“Or a robbery.”
“Should we report it?” I ask.
“You think that place had cameras?”
“No, I don’t,”
“Let it be,” Jonas reassures me, “Let it be.”
Friday, March 11, 2011
A Ramble and A Rebel
A ramble a rebel, a fight without a cause.
A starship a luger, a man and a piece of gauze.
A starship a luger, a man and a piece of gauze.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Perusing In Darkness
A weeping willow whips through the night,
stabbing at its vengeance,
and home hope to heavens plight.
Some may be angry or up for a fight,
but others be weary and stay out of sight.
stabbing at its vengeance,
and home hope to heavens plight.
Some may be angry or up for a fight,
but others be weary and stay out of sight.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
A Bridge
Perception is a memory,
of the times you've spent in reverie.
Swallow the paper,
and walk through the doors.
Knowing forever,
you'll be different forevermore.
of the times you've spent in reverie.
Swallow the paper,
and walk through the doors.
Knowing forever,
you'll be different forevermore.
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