A short story by: Roger A Wilbanks
The day was painfully bright and cheerful. It was the worst part associated with this anniversary, that it so often occurred on such a splendid day. Frank stopped the buzzing alarm and got up from bed. The automatic coffeepot had already brewed his coffee for the morning, much to his doctor’s chagrin.
“It will only make you die faster, Frank.” He told him.
Frank reminded his doctor that he was 70 years old. Mother Nature was doing her damndest to make him die faster so he saw no point to denying himself the few things in life that made him feel good. Just because he was getting older, there was no need to punish himself.
He poured himself his first cup and walked to his closet. He wanted to pick out a special suit for the day. It was the 50th anniversary and he wanted everything to be perfect. The black herringbone was nice but it was too warm outside and would make him miserable. The brown tweed just looked too festive for the day. He settled on the navy blue cotton one. It was lightweight and somber enough. After all, it wasn’t a funeral he was going to. That happened half a century ago.
He dressed quietly and returned to the kitchen where he made himself breakfast and enjoyed a second cup of coffee. It was already starting to make his insides rumble but he wasn’t alarmed. There was plenty of time for that later. He was more pleased with the other side effects the coffee was having on him. He was more alert and felt a genuine buzz about himself and his day’s activities. He had a schedule planned for today that he had kept since that awful night. It had become a tradition but that didn’t hold him chained to it. Each act he performed today served its own purpose. He left no thought or movement wasted. His mind was as sound as it was the day she walked into his life 53 years ago. When he closed his eyes real tight, he could see her just as she was then. She was wearing a low-cut dress, the kind that was fashionable with the edgier crowd back then. She wore a lot of make-up too, but she had a quick and kind smile. It was a very practiced one too, and when she aimed it at Frank, he melted immediately. She worked in a bar near the bad part of town and it attracted a wide assortment of patrons from the upwardly mobile to those on the fast downward spiral. She served them all the same. In here, the color of your skin didn’t mean shit. It was only the color of your money that mattered. Frank was one of those on the downward spiral and it was the girl that saved him. They saw quite a lot of each other back then and their romance grew at an alarming rate. He found himself spending more and more time in her bar. He ignored the flirtatious manner in which she worked but still felt that gnawing in his chest from an unnamed beast whenever she leaned too close to a patron. Days flew into months and he found himself wed to the woman. Frank began to doubt her sincerity almost as soon as the couple moved into their new house.
He drained the last of his second cup and finished his breakfast. He looked once more on the framed picture he kept on his bed table. It was his wedding picture. It was the happiest day of his life. He paused and thought to himself for a moment. Had his entire life led to that one moment and halted? Was every moment after that day wasted? He couldn’t fight the feeling that from that day on, he had lived on borrowed time. He shrugged and walked out the door. These days were better spent enjoying the few simple pleasures life was willing to share with him than rehashing existential horseshit. He wasn’t about to spend his Golden Years delving too deeply into his 25 year old self. He had more important things to do with his life, especially today.
He walked to the bus stop on the corner but didn’t have long to wait. After 50 years of practice, he had his schedule committed to memory. He showed his monthly pass to the driver and took his place on the crowded bus. A lot people were going a lot of places here but each was locked into their own petty existence, just as Frank was. No one made any attempt at connection here. No one dared even so much as an unwarranted smile or accidental eye contact. Frank frowned on this aspect of today’s society. He was a genuinely kind and good-natured person who enjoyed the company of others. Though, he had to admit that after her…he wasn’t nearly as trusting as he once was.
He remembered each and every one of those late night returns she made.
“Had to work late tonite, baby…sorry.”
“The bar had to stay open later than normal. Big wig in town.”
The excuses were always fresh and imaginative, just like her. A bump on the road bounced Frank back into the present and nearly onto the lap of another commuter. After a brief apology, Frank saw his stop drawing near. He left the bus and walked the two blocks to the flower shop. The day was painful in its beauty. It was picture perfect. It was a complete opposite to the pain and anguish that flowed through his own heart. He opened the door to the florist, tinkling the tiny bells above him as he did so and walked in.
“Frank! Is it that time again already? Guess so. Orchids right? I’ll go and get them for you.” He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Frank. “The usual card?”
Frank nodded and withdrew the money for the flowers. When the florist returned, Frank reviewed the card. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” he asked. Frank nodded in acceptance of both the card and the statement.
He took his package in his arm and walked back outside. The cemetery was only four blocks away. 50 years ago this part of town was all but deserted. It was calm and peaceful. Time had not been kind to it, however. Urban rejuvenation had caused the downtown area to swell and expand, forcing the poor and the disenfranchised to seek other housing in less expensive areas like land surrounding a cemetery. Frank made the four block walk through half-hearted threats from junkies and fully explained propositions from whores. Even though he was 70, Frank looked virile and healthy. He was always a big man. She knew that back then, he thought. She always respected that aspect of his character even as she tread upon the others. He often wondered if she used the threat of his intervention to keep control of her bar. That would make sense. Frank was always bigger than everyone else and though he was blessed with a kind nature, he was able to turn feral is given the appropriate provocation. Perhaps she gambled too often using him as a chip and found someone willing to call her bluff. He would never know. The only thing he knew for certain was what the police had told him when they arrived at his door to inform him of his wife’s murder. The criminal was caught and justice would be served. “Oh, by the way…did you know her bar doubled as a brothel? Apparently she was the main attraction. Have a nice day.” Funny way to greet a grieving widower, he thought.
The gate squeaked as he opened it. He would have to bring a can of oil with him next year. The caretakers of this cemetery were nothing of the sort. Her grave was clear of weeds and tangle only thanks to his annual visitation. The rest of the area was unkempt and desolate. Her plot was an island…an oasis in a desert of neglect. He arrived at the foot of her grave and stared. All was as he had left it last year. He carefully cleared the small weeds that had begun to take root and made the plot presentable. Then he spoke.
“My sweet, though our time together was a lie crafted in the disguise of love, it was the happiest time of my life. When I heard what you’d done and learned of the full scope of your deceit, I asked God for just one thing. I promised to lead a good life and do everything right in exchange for a long life. By all accounts I’ve done that. I’ve been kind to everyone I met and done my best to be a good person so that I can return here to you every year and speak to you. I miss you more and more each year that passes.”
Frank lay the orchids down on top of the grass that covered his wife and said, “These were your favorites.” He wiped a tear from his face before it had a chance to fall upon this sanctified ground. He looked around to see if anyone was watching his moment of weakness and assured himself he was all alone. His insides rumbled again. The coffee was doing its dirty work. He thought again of the hearty breakfast he enjoyed hours ago. His digestion these days was more like an express train than anything. He glanced around again and undid his belt. He squat down over the area of earth directly over where his dead wife’s face was and shit. He emptied his bowels and his heart with one of the more spectacular defecations of his life as he performed the act of vengeance upon the one woman who had wounded him the worst. He finished his work and took the card from the orchids. He placed the card on top of the pile he had created and cleaned himself. He made himself presentable once more and said, “You deserve no less. You deserve no more. I only regret that I was not there the night the man I sent to kill you did the deed. The sight of your bulging eyes as he choked the life from you would have been a pleasant diversion for me over these last 50 years. Goodbye my love.” He said as he walked away.
“See you next year.”
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Almost Finished – A Short Story
By Roger A Wilbanks
Enrico Fermini was a sculptor of modest renown in Venice during the rebirth of learning or as it is more commonly known, The Renaissance. Though he was a highly skilled sculptor, he was always overlooked in favor of the sexier names from cites across Italy. People traveled miles to see that new sculpture my Michelangelo or Bernini, but his own work drew little or worse no notice because he had no masterpiece to his credit. This was all going to change. The sculpture he was working on now would see to that. It was the portrait of an Angel. She was beautiful beyond words and each time he laid eyes on her a tear melted down his cheek. She came to him in a vision so strong and clear he was inspired the next day to seek out a patron who would share his view to fund her creation. When completed, she would secure his fame throughout the civilized world as the greatest sculptor alive. He had only to finish her, and that was the problem. Every time he came in to work on her, he saw one spot, one more area to work on. His patron grew anxious. Three years he had worked on his Angel and he had refused admittance to his studio to all while he worked. No one was ever allowed to see her until he permitted it. He did not need the added distraction of applause and accolades while he was still cutting and polishing the marble at this stage. He felt like the butcher who waded through the blood, bone and offal to produce the most beautiful piece of meat he was able for the festival. His blood was sweat; his bone, stone. The meat was still much the same. His finished product would be devoured by adoring masses. It would be consumed by hundreds of people from all reaches of the globe daily. This meat would feed his festival forever. He had only to finish it.
Enrico awoke Friday morning and dressed in his best clothes. He loved springtime under the Venetian sky. The morning had a crispness you could experience nowhere else. The breeze coming off the lagoon was filled with oceanic fragrance. The sunlight bounced off of the buildings like a young child just freed from his chores. He made the short walk from his apartment on the Grand Canal to his studio to resume work on his Angel. After unbolting the door and checking his traps to insure no prying eyes had been tampering with his studio, he lifted the tarp from the Angel. She stood well over 9 feet in height and possessed a modest wingspan. His calculations had eliminated the possibility of a more daring full wingspan so the piece was modified to portray the wings in a semi opened state connecting to the body of the Angel at two points, the back and the shoulder.. He despised the compromise, though it did nothing to detract from the beauty of his work. The marble was simply not strong enough to withstand his dreams. Perhaps he would experiment with bronze after this. That would be a strong enough material to fulfill his visions. Enrico donned his coat and grabbed his tools. He positioned his stool in front of the Angel sitting, tools in hand and stared at her. He did this every day as he drew closer to finishing her. This was much more delicate work and required the keen eye of a Master to spy blemishes the average person would never notice. He scanned the intricate featherwork of the wings today for a solid hour before seeing an area that needed refining. His work was swift and precise. The offending marble was removed that the beauty beneath it could shine through. He sat again and resumed his scan. This was the stage that separated the Master from the pretender, he thought. He noticed an errant wave in the Angel’s crown and began at once to correct it. This had to be done with the utmost care. He had to rasp the excess marble away, careful not to snap the crown at the point it attached to the Angel’s hair. He had always worried about this section of the piece. Antiquities from Rome an Athens were notorious for missing limbs and appendages, and their bases were much stronger than the fragile crown’s. Enrico decided to add a wire frame to support the crown and began carving out the channel for it to rest within. This would take the day to complete this change, but he had time. He had trained as a blacksmith in his youth and relied on those skills to fashion his iron wire frame. Once he had made the halo, which was no more than a hoop with a stem that would be sunk within the Angel’s head, he attached it to the crown and topped the channel with a marble cement of his own creation. It would be lacking the beautiful vein that the original stone held, but it was made from the same stone making it indistinguishable save to the trained eye. Besides, it would be positioned atop the Angel’s head. No one in Italy was tall enough to see it. When the day’s work was finally done, Enrico cleaned his studio, reset his traps and bolted the door. During his walk home he thought of a spot or two he would work on tomorrow.
Guisepi Calperno was a struggling student of another local Master. Guisepi had even met Enrico several times as his Master and he were old friends. He had heard many rumors about the piece Enrico was working on and desired nothing more in Christiandom than to be the first to lay eyes on the work. He waited down an alley as Enrico bolted the door to his studio. After he passed, Guisepi waited a few minutes more and approached the studio. He had to work out how he would gain entrance. He could make short work of the bolt, having been trained by thieves early in his youth to pick locks, but he was more concerned with the traps rumored to lie behind the door. His Master talked of the traps Enrico set with pride as well as the fate that awaited any who would dare risk that door uninvited. He felt confident that his early won skills could guide him past these traps. He tried the bolt and found it secured tightly. It was made of black iron and posed no trouble to pick. He had it opened in seconds. He had often watched Enrico enter his studio from the outside. He always went in quickly and shut the door behind him. Guisepi guessed that there would be a weighted chain of some sort on the other side of the door that would require immediate action lest it set off some sort of alarm. Allowing it to strike its target would be unwise. Enrico, he had noticed always turned to the right as he shut the door. No doubt the weight would be located on a chain along the right side, and as Guisepi closed the door behind him, he immediately faced the right where he was proven correct. A miniature bronze anchor on an iron chain began clanking its way downward. He was able to catch it before it made contact with a bronze plate that had to be a spring-loaded device meant to draw the watchman’s attentions.
He had no idea what effect the device would create but he was certain he had disabled it. The studio was immense. It was dark inside making it difficult to see the walls, but Guisepi was sure it was the largest room he had ever been in that wasn’t a church. You could fit many apartments into the area over several floors. It was more than twice the size of his Master’s modest studio and he knew Enrico took no students. He could see the vague outline of the statue in the center of the room. He had observed the blinds keeping the light outside the windows that lined the upper area of the studio opened a few minutes after Enrico entered the studio. He knew that was where the second trap had to lie, perhaps connected to the strings that controlled the slats. Sure enough, he could make out a rather large cage suspended over the strings in the lofty ceiling of the studio. It was painted the same color as the plaster ceiling, but Guisepi could tell it was made of iron and would be too heavy for him to lift should it fall over him. There was a sequence to pulling the strings. He could see gearworks connected to the cage. Too strong a pull and the cage would fall upon him. He gave the first string a light tug. He could feel clicks at intervals through the string and guessed that the gear controlling the cage had a dummy tooth on it that would trigger it’s decent. The gear would have to be rocked back and forth to open the blinds. He remembered that the blinds always opened slowly. That must be their secret. He worked the string open for a bit then closed, open then closed until he had the blinds open enough to allow light to penetrate the room. It was hours before sunset so the light was bright enough to see clearly by. The statue was enormous. It was situated in the absolute center of the studio and covered by a heavy tarp. Close inspection of this tarp revealed a string that ran through ringlets along the bottom and fed into a hole at in the floor. No doubt the string was attached to bells or chimes of some kind and the fool that pulled the tarp without first addressing the string would bring the watchmen upon him with the improvised aria. He tested the tautness of the string and found it slack. He felt that cutting it was the safest option. He cared not for covering his intrusion, he only wished access. He removed the gilt stiletto from his scabbard and ran the string through. He was now on the verge of realizing his goal. The statue was covered by the heavy tarp, and that alone kept its beauty shielded from view. He began pulling the tarp off the Angel slowly, like undressing a lover, for that’s what he was. He was wooing the virtue of the statue for he and he alone. He wanted to see the entire sculpture all at one time so that he could soak in its full majesty and began drawing the tarp inch by inch. As the bottom of the tarp gained the crest of the statue’s top, one of the ringlets caught on something. Guisepi’s eagerness to be satisfied filled his hands with more energy than he expected and what was intended as a light tug intended to shake the ringlet free became something more horrible than he could imagine and the bottom fell from his world.
*CRACK*
He heard the separation of the marble and closed his eyes awaiting the inevitable crash that was to come. Nothing happened. Guisepi made his escape without laying eyes on what lie beneath the tarp and ran home in tears.
Dawn approached the Venetian canals as the sun’s light crept over the lagoon, burning off the light green velvet fog. Enrico Fermini woke at dawn’s first ray as it slashed through his window. He rose from bed and made his way to the window where he took in the grandeur of the sunrise over the lagoon and thought of his Angel. He was ALMOST finished with her and soon, very soon he would unveil her to the adoring public. He felt this was his holy mission. His Patron had requested a private viewing of the statue knowing full well Enrico would refuse, but to his amazement, he had agreed. The touches he still had to make were minute and cosmetic enough to allow the man who had sat patiently for three years and dispersed funds without hesitation to see this budding masterpiece first. His words would be the spark that ignited the wildfire sure to spread through the city, stoking it into such a frenzy that upon swinging open the door to his studio and allowing them in would secure his fame forever.
He dressed and made his way to his studio. As he rounded the corner to his block, his heart stopped. The door was open. It was only open a crack, but Enrico always shut it firmly and bolted it. He knew he had done that yesterday. Someone had violated his studio. He opened the door expecting to see a thief in a cage but only saw the just awakened sunlight caress the half removed tarp covering his Angel. Enrico was enraged. He removed the tarp via a pulley and chain attached to a ringlet at it’s center and drew it up into his studio’s attic and inspected his Angel. She was unblemished and perfect. He breathed again and his heart began beating once more as his Patron arrived for his agreed upon inspection. Enrico was in such an agitated state that it took several moments to relay what had just occurred.
“Thieves?”
“In your STUDIO???”
“Is the Angel hurt?”
“No? Thanks be to God!”
The Patron calmed down enough to finally be able to look upon the Angel that
sat exposed on the floor at the center of the studio. He wept. The beauty unearthed by the chisels and rasps of Enrico Fermini was pronounced second to none. He graciously thanked the sculptor for his effort and vowed to tell all of the beauty he had just observed as soon as he found words adequate enough to apply. He turned to leave the studio still wiping tears of joy from his face when he heard a sound that broke his heart.
*CRACK*
He spun around to see what had caused the noise in time to see the Angel’s crown fall from atop her head and crash into the arm she stretched out in an offering of peace. The arm snapped clean from her body at the shoulder causing first one, then both wings to separate from her and crash to the floor. All four pieces of immaculate craftsmanship exploded against the unforgiving floor with the force of a letter from a jilted lover. Both men remained motionless and silent for a very long time. Neither was capable of speech. When Enrico was able to move, he approached the destruction that had one time been his masterpiece. He saw that the cement he had applied at the channel in which he embedded his iron halo had broken free. He could only surmise this as the cause for the catastrophic failure. He fell to the floor blaming himself for the destruction and completely ignored the fact that his studio had been violated. His Patron’s tears would not stop. He vowed Vendetta against the scoundrel that had broken into his studio and absolved Enrico of any and all blame in the statue’s collapse. He was fully prepared to pay the balance of the patronage based on the glimpse of beauty that defied words, regardless of how many pieces it was in. Enrico refused this. The Patron begged Enrico to begin anew. He could have all the time he desired to create another masterpiece, but this too he refused. “I am done as a sculptor.” He said “I have tried to touch the hand of the Almighty and God smote me down for my arrogance and presumption.” The Patron begged the grieving sculptor to reconsider his offer and left him alone with the ruins of his masterpiece.
Enrico Fermini eventually rose and regarded his sculpture. He had run out of the tears that his body kept trying to use. He walked to his workbench and paused for an eternity before grabbing the heavy hammer. He turned back and approached his Angel where he smashed every remaining piece of her to indistinguishable rubble. When done, he removed his knife and ended his own life atop the pile that would have been the world’s greatest sculpture.
The news spread fast. The statue the entire city had eagerly waited for was destroyed. The artist was finished. Disaster had struck the city. The cries of vengeance against the thief rose from the mobs running through the streets and canals like black smoke from a fire. These cries awoke Guisepi from his pitiful half sleep. The Master was dead. His greatest work was smashed to pieces. The mob cried for blood. His blood. He began pulling his hair out in grief and rage. He looked about his room for the means with which to end his own life and spied the rope that held back the massive curtains in his bedroom. He secured this rope to the door and fashioned a noose at the other end. When these preparations were complete, he penned a brief letter of admission and repentance before swinging open the double window. The breeze that filled the room swept the hastily scrawled confession away as Guisepi mounted the windowsill. He slipped the noose about his own neck and rose to meet his doom. As he leapt from the 5th floor window he shouted, “I’m sorry Enrico!” before the rope drew taut and snapped his neck, ending his life.
The statue was examined by master sculptors from all across Italy. Some insisted they could piece her back together, but the city fathers refused to allow this. They instead had the remains of the statue made into a pedestal in the Church of the Holy Divination where it was intended to eventually rest and mounted a bronze plate to the pedestal titling the only remaining piece of the statue, the crown, “Almost Finished”.
The End
Enrico Fermini was a sculptor of modest renown in Venice during the rebirth of learning or as it is more commonly known, The Renaissance. Though he was a highly skilled sculptor, he was always overlooked in favor of the sexier names from cites across Italy. People traveled miles to see that new sculpture my Michelangelo or Bernini, but his own work drew little or worse no notice because he had no masterpiece to his credit. This was all going to change. The sculpture he was working on now would see to that. It was the portrait of an Angel. She was beautiful beyond words and each time he laid eyes on her a tear melted down his cheek. She came to him in a vision so strong and clear he was inspired the next day to seek out a patron who would share his view to fund her creation. When completed, she would secure his fame throughout the civilized world as the greatest sculptor alive. He had only to finish her, and that was the problem. Every time he came in to work on her, he saw one spot, one more area to work on. His patron grew anxious. Three years he had worked on his Angel and he had refused admittance to his studio to all while he worked. No one was ever allowed to see her until he permitted it. He did not need the added distraction of applause and accolades while he was still cutting and polishing the marble at this stage. He felt like the butcher who waded through the blood, bone and offal to produce the most beautiful piece of meat he was able for the festival. His blood was sweat; his bone, stone. The meat was still much the same. His finished product would be devoured by adoring masses. It would be consumed by hundreds of people from all reaches of the globe daily. This meat would feed his festival forever. He had only to finish it.
Enrico awoke Friday morning and dressed in his best clothes. He loved springtime under the Venetian sky. The morning had a crispness you could experience nowhere else. The breeze coming off the lagoon was filled with oceanic fragrance. The sunlight bounced off of the buildings like a young child just freed from his chores. He made the short walk from his apartment on the Grand Canal to his studio to resume work on his Angel. After unbolting the door and checking his traps to insure no prying eyes had been tampering with his studio, he lifted the tarp from the Angel. She stood well over 9 feet in height and possessed a modest wingspan. His calculations had eliminated the possibility of a more daring full wingspan so the piece was modified to portray the wings in a semi opened state connecting to the body of the Angel at two points, the back and the shoulder.. He despised the compromise, though it did nothing to detract from the beauty of his work. The marble was simply not strong enough to withstand his dreams. Perhaps he would experiment with bronze after this. That would be a strong enough material to fulfill his visions. Enrico donned his coat and grabbed his tools. He positioned his stool in front of the Angel sitting, tools in hand and stared at her. He did this every day as he drew closer to finishing her. This was much more delicate work and required the keen eye of a Master to spy blemishes the average person would never notice. He scanned the intricate featherwork of the wings today for a solid hour before seeing an area that needed refining. His work was swift and precise. The offending marble was removed that the beauty beneath it could shine through. He sat again and resumed his scan. This was the stage that separated the Master from the pretender, he thought. He noticed an errant wave in the Angel’s crown and began at once to correct it. This had to be done with the utmost care. He had to rasp the excess marble away, careful not to snap the crown at the point it attached to the Angel’s hair. He had always worried about this section of the piece. Antiquities from Rome an Athens were notorious for missing limbs and appendages, and their bases were much stronger than the fragile crown’s. Enrico decided to add a wire frame to support the crown and began carving out the channel for it to rest within. This would take the day to complete this change, but he had time. He had trained as a blacksmith in his youth and relied on those skills to fashion his iron wire frame. Once he had made the halo, which was no more than a hoop with a stem that would be sunk within the Angel’s head, he attached it to the crown and topped the channel with a marble cement of his own creation. It would be lacking the beautiful vein that the original stone held, but it was made from the same stone making it indistinguishable save to the trained eye. Besides, it would be positioned atop the Angel’s head. No one in Italy was tall enough to see it. When the day’s work was finally done, Enrico cleaned his studio, reset his traps and bolted the door. During his walk home he thought of a spot or two he would work on tomorrow.
Guisepi Calperno was a struggling student of another local Master. Guisepi had even met Enrico several times as his Master and he were old friends. He had heard many rumors about the piece Enrico was working on and desired nothing more in Christiandom than to be the first to lay eyes on the work. He waited down an alley as Enrico bolted the door to his studio. After he passed, Guisepi waited a few minutes more and approached the studio. He had to work out how he would gain entrance. He could make short work of the bolt, having been trained by thieves early in his youth to pick locks, but he was more concerned with the traps rumored to lie behind the door. His Master talked of the traps Enrico set with pride as well as the fate that awaited any who would dare risk that door uninvited. He felt confident that his early won skills could guide him past these traps. He tried the bolt and found it secured tightly. It was made of black iron and posed no trouble to pick. He had it opened in seconds. He had often watched Enrico enter his studio from the outside. He always went in quickly and shut the door behind him. Guisepi guessed that there would be a weighted chain of some sort on the other side of the door that would require immediate action lest it set off some sort of alarm. Allowing it to strike its target would be unwise. Enrico, he had noticed always turned to the right as he shut the door. No doubt the weight would be located on a chain along the right side, and as Guisepi closed the door behind him, he immediately faced the right where he was proven correct. A miniature bronze anchor on an iron chain began clanking its way downward. He was able to catch it before it made contact with a bronze plate that had to be a spring-loaded device meant to draw the watchman’s attentions.
He had no idea what effect the device would create but he was certain he had disabled it. The studio was immense. It was dark inside making it difficult to see the walls, but Guisepi was sure it was the largest room he had ever been in that wasn’t a church. You could fit many apartments into the area over several floors. It was more than twice the size of his Master’s modest studio and he knew Enrico took no students. He could see the vague outline of the statue in the center of the room. He had observed the blinds keeping the light outside the windows that lined the upper area of the studio opened a few minutes after Enrico entered the studio. He knew that was where the second trap had to lie, perhaps connected to the strings that controlled the slats. Sure enough, he could make out a rather large cage suspended over the strings in the lofty ceiling of the studio. It was painted the same color as the plaster ceiling, but Guisepi could tell it was made of iron and would be too heavy for him to lift should it fall over him. There was a sequence to pulling the strings. He could see gearworks connected to the cage. Too strong a pull and the cage would fall upon him. He gave the first string a light tug. He could feel clicks at intervals through the string and guessed that the gear controlling the cage had a dummy tooth on it that would trigger it’s decent. The gear would have to be rocked back and forth to open the blinds. He remembered that the blinds always opened slowly. That must be their secret. He worked the string open for a bit then closed, open then closed until he had the blinds open enough to allow light to penetrate the room. It was hours before sunset so the light was bright enough to see clearly by. The statue was enormous. It was situated in the absolute center of the studio and covered by a heavy tarp. Close inspection of this tarp revealed a string that ran through ringlets along the bottom and fed into a hole at in the floor. No doubt the string was attached to bells or chimes of some kind and the fool that pulled the tarp without first addressing the string would bring the watchmen upon him with the improvised aria. He tested the tautness of the string and found it slack. He felt that cutting it was the safest option. He cared not for covering his intrusion, he only wished access. He removed the gilt stiletto from his scabbard and ran the string through. He was now on the verge of realizing his goal. The statue was covered by the heavy tarp, and that alone kept its beauty shielded from view. He began pulling the tarp off the Angel slowly, like undressing a lover, for that’s what he was. He was wooing the virtue of the statue for he and he alone. He wanted to see the entire sculpture all at one time so that he could soak in its full majesty and began drawing the tarp inch by inch. As the bottom of the tarp gained the crest of the statue’s top, one of the ringlets caught on something. Guisepi’s eagerness to be satisfied filled his hands with more energy than he expected and what was intended as a light tug intended to shake the ringlet free became something more horrible than he could imagine and the bottom fell from his world.
*CRACK*
He heard the separation of the marble and closed his eyes awaiting the inevitable crash that was to come. Nothing happened. Guisepi made his escape without laying eyes on what lie beneath the tarp and ran home in tears.
Dawn approached the Venetian canals as the sun’s light crept over the lagoon, burning off the light green velvet fog. Enrico Fermini woke at dawn’s first ray as it slashed through his window. He rose from bed and made his way to the window where he took in the grandeur of the sunrise over the lagoon and thought of his Angel. He was ALMOST finished with her and soon, very soon he would unveil her to the adoring public. He felt this was his holy mission. His Patron had requested a private viewing of the statue knowing full well Enrico would refuse, but to his amazement, he had agreed. The touches he still had to make were minute and cosmetic enough to allow the man who had sat patiently for three years and dispersed funds without hesitation to see this budding masterpiece first. His words would be the spark that ignited the wildfire sure to spread through the city, stoking it into such a frenzy that upon swinging open the door to his studio and allowing them in would secure his fame forever.
He dressed and made his way to his studio. As he rounded the corner to his block, his heart stopped. The door was open. It was only open a crack, but Enrico always shut it firmly and bolted it. He knew he had done that yesterday. Someone had violated his studio. He opened the door expecting to see a thief in a cage but only saw the just awakened sunlight caress the half removed tarp covering his Angel. Enrico was enraged. He removed the tarp via a pulley and chain attached to a ringlet at it’s center and drew it up into his studio’s attic and inspected his Angel. She was unblemished and perfect. He breathed again and his heart began beating once more as his Patron arrived for his agreed upon inspection. Enrico was in such an agitated state that it took several moments to relay what had just occurred.
“Thieves?”
“In your STUDIO???”
“Is the Angel hurt?”
“No? Thanks be to God!”
The Patron calmed down enough to finally be able to look upon the Angel that
sat exposed on the floor at the center of the studio. He wept. The beauty unearthed by the chisels and rasps of Enrico Fermini was pronounced second to none. He graciously thanked the sculptor for his effort and vowed to tell all of the beauty he had just observed as soon as he found words adequate enough to apply. He turned to leave the studio still wiping tears of joy from his face when he heard a sound that broke his heart.
*CRACK*
He spun around to see what had caused the noise in time to see the Angel’s crown fall from atop her head and crash into the arm she stretched out in an offering of peace. The arm snapped clean from her body at the shoulder causing first one, then both wings to separate from her and crash to the floor. All four pieces of immaculate craftsmanship exploded against the unforgiving floor with the force of a letter from a jilted lover. Both men remained motionless and silent for a very long time. Neither was capable of speech. When Enrico was able to move, he approached the destruction that had one time been his masterpiece. He saw that the cement he had applied at the channel in which he embedded his iron halo had broken free. He could only surmise this as the cause for the catastrophic failure. He fell to the floor blaming himself for the destruction and completely ignored the fact that his studio had been violated. His Patron’s tears would not stop. He vowed Vendetta against the scoundrel that had broken into his studio and absolved Enrico of any and all blame in the statue’s collapse. He was fully prepared to pay the balance of the patronage based on the glimpse of beauty that defied words, regardless of how many pieces it was in. Enrico refused this. The Patron begged Enrico to begin anew. He could have all the time he desired to create another masterpiece, but this too he refused. “I am done as a sculptor.” He said “I have tried to touch the hand of the Almighty and God smote me down for my arrogance and presumption.” The Patron begged the grieving sculptor to reconsider his offer and left him alone with the ruins of his masterpiece.
Enrico Fermini eventually rose and regarded his sculpture. He had run out of the tears that his body kept trying to use. He walked to his workbench and paused for an eternity before grabbing the heavy hammer. He turned back and approached his Angel where he smashed every remaining piece of her to indistinguishable rubble. When done, he removed his knife and ended his own life atop the pile that would have been the world’s greatest sculpture.
The news spread fast. The statue the entire city had eagerly waited for was destroyed. The artist was finished. Disaster had struck the city. The cries of vengeance against the thief rose from the mobs running through the streets and canals like black smoke from a fire. These cries awoke Guisepi from his pitiful half sleep. The Master was dead. His greatest work was smashed to pieces. The mob cried for blood. His blood. He began pulling his hair out in grief and rage. He looked about his room for the means with which to end his own life and spied the rope that held back the massive curtains in his bedroom. He secured this rope to the door and fashioned a noose at the other end. When these preparations were complete, he penned a brief letter of admission and repentance before swinging open the double window. The breeze that filled the room swept the hastily scrawled confession away as Guisepi mounted the windowsill. He slipped the noose about his own neck and rose to meet his doom. As he leapt from the 5th floor window he shouted, “I’m sorry Enrico!” before the rope drew taut and snapped his neck, ending his life.
The statue was examined by master sculptors from all across Italy. Some insisted they could piece her back together, but the city fathers refused to allow this. They instead had the remains of the statue made into a pedestal in the Church of the Holy Divination where it was intended to eventually rest and mounted a bronze plate to the pedestal titling the only remaining piece of the statue, the crown, “Almost Finished”.
The End
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Worst Vacation....Ever
(Four Days, Three Nights in Hell )
By Roger A Wilbanks
Regarding the events of my life from Monday, September 25, 2000 through Sunday, October 1, 2000 Hurricane Keith
http://www.stormcarib.com/reports/2000/mexico.shtml
Chapter 1 -
It all started innocently enough. I had worked at broadcast.com (Recently renamed Yahoo! Broadcast) for close to three years without taking a single day off for any kind of vacation. I had come to work sick and on holidays because, well, that was my job but the vacation time was piling up and needed to be used. My boss suggested I take the following week off on an early Monday morning and the suggestion was anything but that. You could tell that look in his eye meant it was not a question of would I, rather it was ‘when’ would I. I went online immediately and looked at my options. There was Vegas, Cancun and Hawaii. It was October, the end of the hurricane season in the Caribbean, so I decided on Cancun. I bought one ticket for an all-inclusive hotel with the airfare included and sat back counting the days before my flight departed that Friday. When I told my co-worker Dewitt about the trip, he said, “You’re going alone???” It would not be the last time I heard that. Word soon spread that I was taking a vacation, and while that was strange enough, the fact that I was going solo was simply too strange to be ignored. By Monday’s end, I had counted no less than 12 different persons who felt it their civic duty to ask me the same question my friend has asked hours earlier. “You’re going alone???”
By the time the middle of the week rolled around, the question grew to include, “You’re going to Cancun alone??? And during Hurricane Season, too???”
Needless to say Friday could not arrive soon enough. When Thursday’s end drifted into view, I said my goodbyes to my coworkers and was still asked the ever growing question. I let that go as I envisioned myself calmly sitting on a pool chair in the sand as I sipped Pina Coladas and listened to the sound of the surf. I had done my duty and religiously checked Yahoo! Weather in the days leading up to my departure and saw that there were absolutely no hurricanes or storms anywhere in the area. There was ABSOLUTELY ZERO CHANCE of any severe weather in the area over the weekend, the website said. I want to meet the guy that wrote that. I really do.
Friday morning, I woke at 7am and got my bags ready. My brother drove me to the airport and wished me well with the question, “You’re going to Cancun ALONE? And during Hurricane Season?” I waved him off and headed to the International Terminal to check my bags. The old lady at the Pre 9/11 airport check in was as sweet as they come, really. She asked me the usual “Has anyone handled your bags since you packed them?” questions and upon seeing my ticket and the noticeable lack of anyone next to me followed it up with, “Why are you going to Cancun alone in the middle of hurricane season?” At least she mixed it up, I thought.
As soon as the details were ironed out, I looked at my new watch and saw that I had a full hour to wait for boarding so I went to the bar. You have to understand I am a horrible flyer. That’s why I never got to go on business trips. I have to have at least 3 beers in me before I get on a plane or anxiety takes ahold of me. The type of anxiety that hits you on a roller coaster as you near the top of the first plunge and start fighting the “I gotta get off…NOW!!!” thoughts I know everyone has had at least one time. Well mine hit me on an airplane and because I don’t want to spend the entire flight sedated and with several fat people sitting on me to restrain me, I do the public a service and get lightly hammered preflight. As I bellied up to the bar to order the first of the last Shiner Bocks I would have for the next 4 days, I told the bartender I was going to Cancun. He stopped the tap for a moment and looked around.
“You going with anyone?” he asked me.
“No.” I said.
“Why is that?“ he asked.
“You know what?” I said, finally getting an opportunity to answer for myself, “I have been asked that one all week. I am going on a vacation. I plan on spending the entirety of the following four days dividing my time between lounging on the beach, chasing the tail that appears down there and getting as totally shitface hammered as I possibly can. The LAST thing I need is to go down there with an anchor in tow.”
“Fair enough.” he said. “But a wingman wouldn’t have been a bad idea is all I’m saying.”
Truer words were never, in the history of mankind’s short stay on this planet, ever spoken.
Chapter 2
Heading to my gate with the slightest hint of a stagger, I went to face my destiny. I was fully prepared for the trip. I had my CD player, four days worth of batteries, my PDA (for notes), my one credit card, $300 in cash and enough clothes to last me 3-4 days. I took my seat on the plane and buckled in. I leaned back and relaxed as the plane started it’s lurching motions into the air, calmly reciting the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism and prepared to have the time of my life. The girl with the drink cart walked by and asked if I would like anything just as the plane hit a pocket of turbulence.
“I’ll have a Jack and Coke, please.” I said.
Sipping my carefully mixed drink, I heard the pilot’s speaker come on. This was the part where he, the pilot, came on to thank the people for flying his airline, told you how long the flight would last and wished us all the fun in the world upon landing. That wasn’t quite the way it happened.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the pilot. First, thank you for flying Sun Country Airlines. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there is a hurricane forming just off the eastern coast of the Yucatan peninsula as we speak and is expected to make landfall within the next 2 days. “
There was dead silence on the plane. I pulled out the weather map I had printed off Thursday as I left work. Clear skies…no clouds at all. I looked out the plane’s windows and saw the identical image. I noticed several other people doing the same.
“Aside from that…enjoy your trip and again, thank you for flying Sun Country Airlines.”
I wanted to kill the man.
I opened my backpack to retrieve the CD player to notice that, while it was where it should be, the case of CD’s was missing. That was not bad however as the one CD I was planning on listening to anyway Old 97’s - Fight Songs, was still in the player.
Now, I would have people know this one thing about me before I go on. I am a very resilient man. The fact that I was taking a trip alone reveals a great deal about my character in that I like being on my own. As a result I am able to endure trials and tribulations that most mortals would wither and die from. That said, missing a case of CD’s and flying into an as yet unproven hurricane was nothing to me. I take great pride in the fact that I can endure equally great strain. Where others on the plane were on the verge of revolt, I was calmly finishing my Jack and Coke, turning on my Old 97’s CD and looking at the boats on the Gulf, marveling at how tiny and small they were. I would survive and come out better for the experience.
After an uneventful landing in Cancun that saw me exit the plane on a rolling staircase that emptied onto the tarmac, I realized the fact that I was in a foreign country now. Kansas (and Dallas for that matter) was far behind me now. I walked with the rest of the passengers to the airport and passed on through customs with no problem. Outside of the terminal was the bus that was to take us to our hotel. I was the first one on and positioned myself at the mid point. That’s the safest place to be in a bus accident, I remembered hearing somewhere. The bus driver called to me and motioned to the cooler at his feet. It was open and filled with ice and Mexican beer.
“Help yourself, man. They’re free!” he said.
I helped myself to two and eased back into my seat as the others boarded the bus. Mostly people from my flight, we felt like we already knew each other. A wrestler named “Steve” sat in the seat behind me with his friends “Mitch” and “Josh” sitting across the aisle from him. They were in Cancun for their first time, as well but I wasn’t feeling social enough to talk to them. I sipped my beer and waited as we pulled out of the airport and started the drive to the hotel. The countryside of Cancun zipped past and it became apparent that this was a third world tourist trap in the images I saw on the side of the road, The REAL Cancun. It wasn’t the dreamy oasis I was on my way to but in a way it foreshadowed my future.
The strip of Cancun came into view and we soon pulled into the massive driveway of our hotel, Gran Caribe Real. I strongly recommend this place. It’s décor was classy, the rooms were neat and the food and booze was all included with the help of the yellow wristband I found someone attaching to my arm.
“Do not lose this, Seenyore. It is your only way to prove you are with this hotel.”
I promised to respect the wristband and asked for directions to the bar.
“That’s over there but you must check in first, Seenyore.”
I swear this guy was making the Senor sound like Speedy Gonzalez on purpose but I didn’t care. I checked in, was told my bags would be delivered to my room and went to the bar for my first Pina Colada. I walked outside to see a sky so blue it stung my eyes and ocean so clear it made me cry. The beach was a pristine white and the people playing volleyball were all beautiful. If they ever wanted to capture the essence of Cancun, I thought, this is it. I joined my fellow vacationers in a game of v-ball and won.
This was the life.
Chapter 3
I made it up to my room around noonish to shower the sand and surf out of my crevices and noticed that my bags had not yet arrived. I called down to the front desk and was told that they would be up shortly. I decided a nap was in order and set the alarm for 2pm before dozing off. I woke at the sound of a buzzer but again noticed there were no bags. I decided to walk downstairs and check on this personally. The guy at the desk assured me the bags were en route and not to worry so I decided to eat lunch and get another drink. I helped myself to 3 Shrimp cocktails and 2 margaritas when I was informed that my luggage was now in my room. I walked to the elevator and headed up to change. It was now about 4pm so I decided to go swim in the ocean. My bags were safe in my room and I put all my belongings in their respective places but realized I hadn’t packed a swim suit.
No problem, I thought. I’ll just head down and buy one. The selection was scattered at best but I found one that fit and with the addition of an authentic pair of leather sandals, some sunscreen and 6 Cohiba cigars, I made my way to the beach. The water was a little different this time. I thought it was the tide but overheard someone mention the “H” word. I decided it was best to avoid swimming and instead settled into a chair with my cigars and an endless supply of booze a finger motion away.
After 2 and a half hours of sunbathing, drinking and fake-Cuban cigars, I decided it was dinner time. I headed back up to change and make my way onto the town. My hotel was picked specifically to remove the necessity of driving to get to night life. I put on some snappy threads and headed onto the walk that would change my life. The first place I saw was a steakhouse that advertised the best steak in the city. I tried it and in all honesty, even as a native Texan who has had some pretty good steaks, this place wasn’t bad. I felt a little indigestion but that wasn’t the food. I made my way to the nightclubs as it was nearing 8pm and walked into the first one I saw. It was called Le Boom and it will forever haunt me.
There was a $25 cover to get in, but this was explained away by the fact that it was, like my hotel, all inclusive. All the booze was free! It was love at first sight. I staggered onto my doom smiling. The first thing that greeted my eyes was a tiny Mexican dwarf with a bottle of red colored liquid he said was Tequila. Shorty (as I called him for the duration of the evening) proceeded to pour a healthy dose down my throat like it was Robitussin and I was one sick sonofabitch. It tasted more like fruit punch but I could feel the familiar bite of the tequila so I let that go. I went on into the labyrinthine club guided along by the sounds from the dance floor. There were 3 separate clubs all intertwined into one, the bartender told me. I was currently in the smoking room of one of them. Told this, I pulled another Cohiba from my pocket and ordered a dark Mexican Beer. After the first beer, a group of British guys came in. They were players of some wacky English sport (rugby, I think) and they gravitated to me for some strange reason. We spent the next 3 hours drinking heavily and smoking our fake Cuban cigars and telling the lies that only foreigners in a foreign land can get away with. It was greatness. That’s when SHE walked in. She being a girl from the plane I was on initially, meaning she was from Dallas as well. I motioned her over to join us and her friends came along as well. There were 3 girls and one guy. I thought this odd but who the hell was I to cast aspersions? I came to Cancun alone, during hurricane season.
The Dallasites and the English eventually parted ways and I stayed with my hometown friends. The two single girls and I tore up the dance floor in that drunk white-guy fashion that leaves the white guy feeling like he just climbed Everest and everyone else feeling as if they just watched the Special Olympics. But I was so stinking drunk at this point that I didn’t care. These girls were all over me and it felt good. Shorty walked up and held up a tray of shots. It was The Boomerang Shot. The liquid in these glasses was a white milky colored mixture that he had a very foreign name for. The girls and I took them gladly.
Have you ever had a moment when your life literally stood still? When time ceased to move? I stood there swaying on a throbbing dance floor in Mexico as the lights shifted to a slow motion strobe and the music muffled as if I were underwater. I marveled in this feeling for what felt like an eternity, certain that this was bliss. What I didn’t know was that it was merely the calm that precedes the storm. A simple digital ticker in my mind’s eye began counting down. I saw this as clearly as I saw the gyrating females and the insane dwarf bartender. 8...7...6...the clock started falling. Time began to acquire a faster pace. My mouth acquired a battery-like taste. 5...4...3.…the lights began to flash faster. My mind’s camera began zooming on the area immediately in front of me. 2...The music came into focus as the lights sped to a faster and faster pace. 1. And thus, the aptly named Boomerang shot earned it’s name. My stomach had had enough. In my best impression of Mssr Creosote from The Meaning of Life, who upon having one final wafer thin mint exploded across the room, I began to vomit in an uncontrollable manner. I clamped my hand about my mouth, but I was the Dutch Boy with his finger in the Dike. I ran to the restroom and went to town, looking up occasionally to see my reflection laughing back at me in the mirror above the urinal with an ominously worded warning about illegal drugs. My face was a crazed maniac’s. That damnable shot was the first rat off the sinking ship, followed by a stream of red that initially frightened me before the realization that it was the fruity tequila sank in. That good Mexican dark beer followed, barging its way out like an angry soccer hooligan only to be trailed by that delicious steak and potato dinner, which did a fine impersonation of a couple involved in a high-stakes dine and dash. I think my kidneys tried to leave but I was able to reach down and nail those buggers before they could bolt free. Total elapsed time for all this, from initial shot to vomit-soaked misery? 2 seconds.
When I returned to the dance floor I was a changed man. An experience like that will do that to you. The Dallasites were still there and very concerned, but I reassured them well and was able to continue the fun. Shorty announced later that the bar was closing, and the 5 of us left the bar. The couple decided to take a walk back to their hotel while the 2 other girls and I were to head back to my hotel to enjoy the still open complimentary bar. I just needed to get some pesos for the cab ride. I walked across the street and used the ATM at the hotel. I pulled out a few extra pesos to buy some more cigars later and turned on my heel to get in the cab. My credit card and sole source of funds waved back at me.
When we arrived at the hotel, I walked in with the girls. The doorman stopped me at the door.
“The girls, Seenyore…they can no come in.”
“Why?”
“They no have the wristband.” he clawed at my yellow shackle.
“We just want to hang out.”
“That will be $100 per person for them to come in for the day.”
“Put it on my tab.”
“No problem Seenyore. Just give me your credit card and I will handle it.”
I pulled out my wallet and began the futile search for the credit card.\ I had left dangling from an unknown hotel’s ATM machine. I pulled everything out of the wallet to no avail.
“I seem to have misplaced it.”
“Then the girls…they can no come in, Seenyore.”
At this, the girls pouted and left. I walked to a couch in the lobby and sat as the realization that I was now without money in a foreign land crept over me. I was still too drunk to process this, so I went upstairs and went to sleep in my room with the ocean view, as long as you lean out the window and look around the air conditioners.
Chapter 4
The morning walked in through the closed curtain and pistol whipped me. Sunlight pierced my head as if it were daggers as the sounds of fun being had beat upon my head. The hangover equaled the night it its sheer excess. I showered and put on clean clothes and went downstairs to the concierge’s desk. I called Bank of America and told them what happened. The operator told me it was no problem, that sort of thing happens every day. I was so relieved to hear this that she almost slipped it past me.
“We’ll have a new one sent out to you on Monday. It should arrive by Tuesday.”
It was Saturday.
“You do understand what I’m telling you, right? I’m in a foreign land for the weekend, and I have no money?”
“Yes sir, but we can only send you a new card via the mail, and they have already picked up today’s outgoing. The earliest I can get one even sent out will be first thing Monday.”
“Don’t you have a branch IN Cancun for emergencies?”
“Um, SIR? We are the Bank of UH-MARE-UH-KUH, not the Bank of Mexico.”
“Ok, understood. How about wiring me some funds from my account?”
“That will take a manager’s approval.”
“Fine. I’ll wait.”
“He’s out till Monday.”
“Ok. Let’s distill this down to the basics. I need money. Money that YOU have in your bank. Is there ANY way YOU can get some of THAT money to ME in Mexico?”
“No sir. I’m sorry. But isn’t there a hurricane heading that way?”
“Honey, that’s the LEAST of my worries.” I hung up the phone.
My first phone call was to home. My parents would be able to wire me money. They lived in a part of Dallas that is predominantly Hispanic and there are locations on every block advertising JUST that service. I knew that making that phone call would be admitting defeat. It would be me standing up in the Town Hall assembly and saying loud and clear for all to hear that “Yes. Yes I am a moron.” But I also knew that without the buffer of a few hundred dollars I could well wind up in jail in this godforsaken hole. My all inclusive hotel meant that as long as I ate, drank and did whatever I could do here, it was covered so I wouldn’t go hungry. I was just screwed when it came to gifts and extras like cigars. I figured $500 would cover those plus any extra fees the hotel decided to tack on at the end. So I pulled the calling card I almost left behind from my wallet and made the call.
“Hello?”
“Hi Dad, it’s me.”
“Hey Boy! How is Mexico? Is that hurricane there yet?”
“Nah. It’s a day or so away. Look, here it is. I got shitface drunk last night and lost my credit card. I need you to wire me $500 so I can have some money to spend here and cover any extras the hotel charges.”
I fully expected my father, whom I have known my entire life, to laugh at this with uncontrolled glee, even though he is a man that laughs very little and smiles even less, but to his credit, and I love him more every day for this, he didn’t.
“Where do I need to send it to?”
I gave the address of the Western Union office the hotel had given me and told him I would call back in 20 minutes. When I called, he gave me the confirmation number and I walked off to get that money. The rain was just beginning. The morning started off Sharp and Clear, but the clouds had started swirling in and the little stinging rain had begun. I think the walk was 4 blocks but to be honest I don’t remember. I had no trouble getting the money and went outside to the payphone to call my Dad with the news.
“Hello?”
“Hey Dad. I got the money. It was no problem. Just gave him the number, my ID and he handed over the cash.”
“You think $500 is going to be enough?”
“If it isn’t, I promise you will hear from me tom……”
At this point I stopped speaking in a very abrupt manner.
“Roger? ROGER??? You There? Hello? Hello?”
The sound of a large engine passing coincided immediately with my sudden conversational embargo, and my Dad thought I had been hit by a bus. I had, but not in the physical sense.
“uh……I’m here.”
“Dammit Boy! I thought you got hit by something!”
“Dad…you’ve been to Tijuana, right? When you were in the Navy?”
“Yeah….why?”
“You told me about the busses there. I remember that…the crazy ones. You remember those?”
“Yeah. Watch your ass around those. Did one almost hit you?”
“Nah. I’m off the street a good 12 feet. But one did just drive by.”
“Yeah? And?”
“It had chickens on it, Dad.”
“That’s normal. I’ve seen those.”
“NO, Dad. It had Chickens ON IT. The top of the bus had a foot high fence of chicken wire and there were 12-15 chickens just walking around on top of it as it screamed by at about 40 mph .”
It was at this that I can say with all honesty that I made my father laugh till he almost wet his pants.
I walked back to the hotel as the rain began to pick up. I still had some pesos so I flagged down one of these chicken busses and rode it the remainder of the way. This bus had a hole in the floor where the gearshift poked through. This hole was 2ft by 3ft in area and was in no way shielded from the people. I missed stepping into it by the Grace alone. I looked down at the road as it screamed beneath us and heard the tap tap and cluck cluck of the chickens atop the bus. This memory still haunts me to this day but in the occasional nightmare that visits me, the driver is laughing a mad little laugh and the bus is lit with candlelight.
I got out a block from the hotel and walked back in a now driving rain. The darkened sky at 2pm spoke of danger and despair this night, and I laughed at this. Back in the hotel, I discovered a cigar roller in the lobby and purchased 12 hand rolled Churchills from him for $2 each. They had the Hotel’s logo on the wrapper and were quite good. At 3pm, I changed and went to the pool. My hangover demon had been exorcised by the surreal day so I was ready to begin my vacation in earnest. The rain was doing a fine job keeping everyone indoors, but I went to the poolside bar anyhow. Miguel handed me a frozen Pina Colada and I leaned back and sipped it slowly. He and I talked of many things over Pina Coladas and Cigars. We spoke of poor timing, poor judgment and even poorer luck. I told him about Shiner Bock beer and he mentioned a special Corona in the brown bottle, only available at the lobby bar. I promised to try one after dinner. As our conversation dragged on, we were both distracted by the ever darkening skies and the ever increasing wind. Both of these eventually forced Miguel to shutter the bar and I went to shower and change for dinner. I had a reservation at the finest restaurant in the 5star hotel. When I got there, I was asked to put on a jacket, so that I would not offend the other guests. This I refused on the grounds that I was the ONLY person IN the place. I won that argument, but decided to eat on the patio anyway. I ordered steak and lobster that were made to absolute perfection. I smoked my fake Cuban over dinner and an Irish Coffee of Colombian dark roast and Irish Whiskey as the wind slapped me for my cheek. The waiter, God bless him, made enough trips outside to visit this crazy man on the patio to earn the larger than necessary tip I left him, but with dinner done, It was time to head indoors. I went to the lobby bar where a handful of the remaining guests sat all glued to the game on television. NCAA College Football. The University of Miami vs. Oklahoma. I really liked neither team, but with nothing else to do, ordered a drink and joined the group. I ordered a Hurricane. The waitress handed me my drink as the announcers came back from commercial break, while on a separate television, the weatherman was giving the details of our future. It was at this point that the irony of my situation hit me with a brutal shock and I laughed so loud and with such a release of pent up rage, indignation and shame that I scared all of the people around me. I calmed myself down and said in as slow and sane a voice as I could muster, “I’m drinking a Hurricane, while Watching the Hurricanes, in the MIDDLE of a GodDamn Hurricane!”
This handful of people around me cheered and exchanged high fives with each other as they all ordered hurricanes and the entire staff joined us. This was one of those “Who’s coming WITH me?” moments, and I treasure it to this day. I have no idea who won the game.
Chapter 5
The night ended as uneventful as it had begun. Sunday morning greeted me with a black sky and horizontal rain that looked like an out of tune television on my patio glass door. I packed my belongings and walked down to the lobby to await the bus that would take us to the airport. I exited the elevator to the sight of two women in satin dresses, one pink, one gold, crying and holding each other. The girl in pink was doing her best to console the one in gold.
“There is no way you could have known 6 months ago.”
“Bu bu bu but someone should have warned mu mu mu me!!!”
“It was impossible for you to have seen this coming, sweetheart….”
I looked down the hallway and saw it gaily decorated on flowers of milk and gold colors with occasional pink roses woven in every 5th or so bunch. There were streamers of silk and satin along the hall as well, all leading to a dias outside now being beaten by the hurricane winds as if it owed them money. Three men in tuxedos leaned against a wall out of earshot of the crying females.
“No way I could get the money back. Travel Agent said it was a lock. I would have eaten all 12 grand. Shit. SHE’S the one that wanted to come here anyway! I fuckin wanted to go to Vegas. But Nooo. The water here is ‘soooo beautiful’ It’ll look so much better in the wedding album than ‘some stooped casino‘.”
“Well, at least we all got a trip to Cancun out of it.”
“Yeh. Well HER old man paid most of it. Go thank him.” He drank his beer in one gulp and pointed to something in the distance.
I followed his finger to the lobby bar where I saw an older man of about 60 stooped against the bar, sitting in a tall chair. His arms were crossed immediately in front of him as he stared at a glass of dark amber colored liquid and mumbled to himself. The man had a look of inconsolable grief, like his favorite dog just got hit by a garbage truck. I looked from this miserable old man to the laughing groom and the weeping bride-to-be and at that very moment came to grips with the fact that there are people in this world worse off than me.
I dropped my bags down in the lobby and sank into the couch. The hotel announced that they were to begin evacuation procedures within the next three hours. I had just enough time to get a drink and get some last minute shopping in.
I picked up knick-naks for my coworkers, a chess set for me and a few more Cubans for home. I took the hotel wrappers I had saved and put them over the Cubans just in case Customs got up in my business when we landed.
The bus driver that dropped me off in Dante’s Vacation Spot announced that they would be leaving within the hour to, and I quote here, ‘Try to be beating this hurry cane with the plane.’
I walked back to the sofa my bags were in front of and noticed the rock sculpture next to it. I looked at this rock with an intensity I would look an a suitor who visited my daughter if I had one. It had taken my attention by force. It was then that I had a moment of Zen smother me and a sense of enlightenment so clearly focused settle my thoughts. The rock was not a rock. It was a mixture of grit, sediment and minerals at it’s base and at it’s core, simply a collection of atoms, but it was precisely because of this collection of atoms that it could be nothing other than a rock. The rock is not a rock. And that is why it is a rock. I wrote this on the wooden rail around the sculpture and boarded the bus.
Chapter 6
I was hungover. I was miserable. I was completely embarrassed. I, by all rights, should have been suicidal. But I wasn’t. Not until Tina’s friend started speaking on the bus. The trip to the airport was long, made even longer by the elemental barricades the driver was navigating. Trees were falling and the rain made it almost impossible to see through the almost pitch black sky.
“Teeeeena?”
The voice seemed to come from the wheels of the bus behind me, as if some part had worked itself loose and was trying to get the driver’s attention.
“Teeeeena? Why don’t you come back here and talk to me?”
The voice became barbed wire, and wrapped itself around my brain, tightening with each and every single…
“Teeeeeena?”
I pulled out my CD player, and pressed play. The batteries were almost gone, but I could buy more at the airport. The Old 97’s began to sing Jagged.
“Teeeeena? I’m lonely. Come back here!”
I wished that Teeeena would come back there. With a heavy section of lead pipe and bash the living shit out of…
“Teeeena! I need another beer. Would you get me one?”
I turned the volume up as loud as it would go, infuriating my hangover, but like a drunk in a jail cell when another bum is introduced, it just grumbled and made room.
“Teeeeena? How far till the airport? I’m homesick!”
I began fiddling with my armrest. I attempted to pry it free, imagining myself beating Teeena’s friend about the skull until tiny little bits of shaky grey jelly came…
“Teeeena? I need food. Do you have any candy bars left?”
It is amazing, the human response to torture is, when you really think about it. The human body has a way of compartmentalizing itself and shutting off the bad parts when it finds itself in danger of being….
“Teeeeeena? How far to the airport? I need to peeeeeee.”
“Tina don’t wanna talk to you stooped lady!” One of my bus mates just earned a free drink on me.
“Will you come back and talk to me then?”
“”Baby…if I come back there, I’m gonna shove something in your mouth you ain’t gonna like much. And I ain’t had a shower today.” My new hero just earned lunch when we landed.
This seemed to do the trick, and Teeena’s friend ceased her audio attack. The words still reverberated in my head, however. “Teeeeeena…..teeeeeeeena….teeeeeeena.” I think my ears were bleeding.
When we arrived at the airport, I prepared for the assault on Customs with my illegal Cuban cigars. This never happened. They never even checked. I got to the airport and was whisked past everything to get us on that plane. No Customs, no nothing. We were allowed 10 minutes in the Duty Free shop before boarding and I swear to you if you ever take a trip abroad, this is the reason for doing it. They allowed you a specific amount of each (alcohol, cigarettes, etc) but there was no tax on it at all. When you take a second to consider how much we tax alcohol and tobacco in this country the removal of those penalties has a very odd effect on you. I equate it to that feeling I got on Christmas Morning when I opened the Six-Million Dollar Man Action Figure I wanted so damn bad. You remember that one? He wore an orange jumpsuit like he was in county lockup and had a rubber I-Beam girder he could bend. It was THE SHIT. Well I went to town playing with that action figure and I knocked the dust off of that cash register at Duty Free. I bought 5 bottles of tequila for $20, the good stuff, not that golden crap we Americans like. I got a carton of Camels for a dollar, I think. I needed a new bag for most of this but managed to stow it in the carryon luggage anyhow. The plane began boarding and you could feel the tension in the air. This was a make or break moment. We had a short window to get out of Cancun before the full force of the Hurricane hit. Miss that and we’re in Mexico indefinitely. To the credit of the airline, and all involved, we all got on the plane and the pilot was able to begin his take off. I had the tween seat on this trip, between the window and the aisle. On either side of me were muscle builders. These guys were huge. I’m not a tiny man by anyone’s assessment, but these guys made me look like Michael J Fox sitting between Shaq and Ahnold. The plane sped up as it flew down the runway and I leaned to the window to watch as we left the ground and while no one will back me up on this, I will swear to this day the clouds formed themselves into a giant foot and literally kicked my ass out of Mexico.
The flight was standard after that. The roiders and I had a nice chat. They were supposed to sit next to each other, but that would have been too tight a fit. I saw the logic in this and gladly maintained my middle seat. This earned me a “Sympathy 5!” from them both. These guys were very into high fiving things and naming the high 5 when appropriate. I saw this activity replayed in a character on Scrubs named The Todd. Whether these guys were gay or not tho, I could really care less at this point. The Gulf of Mexico, while so inviting on our journey South had transformed into a woman after 10 years of marriage. Gone were the garters. Gone were the high heels and suggestive winks. All that was left was frump and bleak dreary, with one hell of a stormy sea. Texas could not make it to the window fast enough, and it was magical, but almost as soon as we saw land, I spotted Dallas. 10,000 feet in the air is a magical place. I saw downtown, and my home from the window and the highway where I knew the plane would make its turn for a landing. The plane banked hard to the left as I put the CD player ion for one last song. Old 97’s: “Crash on the Barrelhead” was this song.
Now I think I said it before but it bears repeating that I am not by nature a good flyer. I have some nervous twitch that begins whenever I am inside of either airplanes, roller coasters or elevators that I cannot explain, but it exists, and I acknowledge this. I make it a point to drink to a certain point before getting on a plane, but in the hurried state of our departure, I missed this important step. My nerves began to play the familiar tricks on me as the song began. “Yer gonna Crash….” as the plane began the steeper than usual banked turn that almost slammed me into the guy on my right. “…on the barrelhead, son.” The plane began its decent. “You’ll regret the thiiiiiiings….that you done.” The plane hit a small pocket of turbulence that shook every passenger awake. “One of these dayyyyyys you’re gonna rue.” Another pocket of turbulence slammed the plane. The guy to my left began to show signs of panic. “All the messed up things you do” The plane shook so hard that people were falling out of their seats. I saw them rapidly fastening their seat belts, having previously ignored the request to do so. “You're gonna die….” the plane lurched towards the ground as if all air pressure holding us aloft vanished without a trace. The guy on my right screamed “WE’RE GONNA DIE!!!” I elbowed him. “…the way you live.” The plane righted itself. Remember this point. The skies were clear. The storm was hundreds of miles away. There was no storm in Dallas this day.
“And the way you drink….” I pulled out a bottle of Herradura Silver tequila and opened it. I drank easily 7 ounces of it in one gulp. “…you're like a ri-
ver…” I passed the bottle between my 2 new friends who repeated my action. “…bound for falls and not much fun…” I looked out the window at the rapidly approaching ground. It was easily a few hundred feet away, but suddenly the plane lurched to the right and I saw the wing and the ground almost scrape. I vividly recollect seeing the dust swirl at the tip “You're gonna crash…” The plane shifted back to the left and we bounced into a landing, “…on the barrelhead, son.”
I gathered my belongs and looked around the plane. Every single person was visibly shaken, even the flight attendants. I left quietly and went to customs where I wasn’t in the least worried about getting pinched for the dozen Cuban stogies. They ignored them here as well. My mother picked me up at the airport and commented on the smell of tequila on my breath. She knew of my flying mini-phobia and when I explained the landing offered no argument or further conversation till I arrived home where first I hugged my dog and then threw up.
The end.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The Devil Came Back to Georgia - My Halloween Story, 2007
By: Roger A Wilbanks
The din of the audience was still ringing in Johnny's ears when he finally got to sit alone in his dressing room. This was his most memorable show to date, his resurrection. He had performed before larger crowds, but the 3000 screaming fans here had paid in excess of $200 a piece for the sake of seeing his first public concert in 15 years.
He was lucky enough to score back to back nights at the Bijou Theater in his hometown of Birmingham, AL. He couldn't bring himself to look at the case that held the Golden Fiddle, but he could most definitely feel its presence. He always felt the presence. When the knock came at his door, he was almost expecting it.
'Come on in and get it over with." He said.
The door slid open and Johnny's visitor walked in, smiling.
"Haven't had a room THIS big in quite some time, eh Johnny? Return Performances always make the public pull out all the stops. Sure beats that backwater shit-hole you crashed into in Billings that one time. What was that place called?"
"The Whistle Stop." Johnny answered.
"AH Yes…The Whistle Stop. Man was that place a dump. That's where you caught that case of crotch rot from that lot lizard, wasn't it? Your manager warned you about them, didn't he? What is old Vern doing these days, anyhow?"
"He's dead. Cancer in 02." Johnny said.
"Riiiiight." The words leaked out through a barely concealable grin. "Old Vern always tried to look out after you. You really have to hand it to him on that one. You just shoulda paid him better."
"That ain't the reason he stole from me!" Defiance flashed in Johnny's eyes. "You got to him some how. I KNOW you did!"
"Johnny….Johnny. Ever since you 'beat' me in our little contest at that hickory stump I have been getting to you and everyone around you. You have been quite a source of entertainment for me for some time. To laugh."
The Devil looked longingly into Johnny's eyes, searching for something.
"To think that I could actually lose at something to…well, to YOU. That goes down as one of my finer moments there. In THIS corner, you have Johnny Tucker, hard working fiddle player, practicing for the time when he finally gets his big break, spending all his time waiting to be discovered…and in THIS corner, you have Old Scratch himself…meanest, evilest sumbitch on the block with a little contest for ya. And you take the bait."
All of the light in the room was drawn into the cold blackness of the Devil's eyes.
"Hook."
His eyes bored a hole into Johnny.
"Line."
He opened the case holding the Golden Fiddle with a snap of his fingers.
"And Sinker."
"I was better than you." Johnny said. "I worked my ass off every day on my music. I was the best there ever been. Then you come along and lose this fiddle to me, proving I was right in the process and just walk away with your pointy tail tucked between your legs like a whipped dog."
The Devil stopped smiling. "I pick up this fiddle you lost to me and I play it, just to see what it sounds like and start playing music I never heard before. Effortlessly. Like it was coming outta the fiddle itself. I stopped practicing, stopped writing altogether. The fiddle wrote all my songs for me. Ten number one hits it give me. But all along you was just sitting back watching me. Waiting and laughing."
"Of course I was laughing at you, Johnny. When I wagered with you for your soul…it was already mine. You were willing to do whatever it took to succeed and I was more than willing to help you along your way. All you had to do to save yourself was to just walk away from me. Tell me 'No'. Say 'Mr Devil, sir, maybe you ARE better than me, maybe you ain't but I'm ok either way' And go about your business and keep practicing. But Pride is a bitch, ain't it Johnny? You allowed me in through that crack in your door and you have been mine ever since."
The devil sat down across from Johnny and looked around the room.
"Those people out there tonight? Your adoring fans? How did they like your performance? 'Not like it used to be.' I heard them saying. 'Lost a step.'" With a twitch of his finger, he summoned the Golden Fiddle to his lap. "I bet THIS woulda come in handy, ya reckon?"
Johnny looked away, still holding the shabby fiddle he had used onstage that evening.
"Gold spray paint, Johnny? I'm the Prince of lies and you just topped me, boy! You don't think they noticed the difference?" The Golden Fiddle floated in the air and started playing a soft, slow tune. "You don't think they feel cheated?"
Johnny didn't answer. Instead he placed the fiddle he held on the dressing room table before him. Compared to the Golden Fiddle playing in midair before him, it DID look shabby. It was a sad imposter.
"These people here came tonight to be entertained by MY fiddle, Johnny, and how did you thank them? By trotting on out there with some spray-painted shoebox with strings? Shame on you. You realize you were never the star of the show here, don't you?"
The Devil's words tickled Johnny's ears and the fiddle started playing a faster song.
The Devil rose quickly and began to dance across the room, leaving black oily footprints wherever he trod. The music stopped abruptly as the Devil wheeled around to face Johnny one last time.
"Now that you have proven who is the Star here, Johnny, here's what I want you to do for me. Take this fiddle you've been masturbating with and toss it into a slag furnace somewhere. Then I want you to grab Lulu here (Yes that's right, she has a name. You wrote a song about her and never even knew it.) Take old Lulu here and get back out there tomorrow night and tear that audience a new hole. Lulu's got songs in her you never heard before and tomorrow night she's gonna share them with you. Then when you get done with the audience, you and I got some unfinished business. I can't have your soul on accounting of you 'winning' and all, but you bet your bottom dollar your ass is one hundred percent mine."
With that the Devil turned on his heel and left Johnny alone. Lulu flew into her case and remained quiet.
Johnny opened the bottle of Old Crow he started on before the show and downed it in one drink. He remained in his dressing room until morning when the manager of the Bijou awoke him for his breakfast.
"Gonna be one Hell of a show tonight, sir. You're going to need your strength."
Johnny laughed at the irony and ate his eggs. "Yeah. A helluva show indeed."
That night Johnny and Lulu made their final appearance. True to the Devil's word, songs never heard before came crying from Lulu. Music so diabolical and evil that over half of the audience was driven insane Seventy three people died from the fighting that erupted in the crowd.
People were hung, stabbed, beaten, strangled and smothered as the audience absorbed the music. When the show was over and the police were able to break their way past the suddenly unlocked doors the scene that greeted them would forever be etched into their memories as simply the 'Most Evil."
Writhing insanity gripped the hall.
Johnny had been impaled on his own microphone stand and parts of his road crew dangled from the rafters. Of the three thousand fans at the show, none left without a scar or stitches. The county hospital psychiatric ward opened up its doors to hundreds of cases of dementia and psychotic behavior.
Lulu was never recovered, but at Johnny's funeral she was rumored to be heard playing "Welcome Home Johnny" from off in the distance.
The Hallway - My Halloween Story, 2008
By Roger A Wilbanks
I'm walking blind, feeling my way down this hallway. Moments ago I was in a room surrounded by friends when the lights went out and the screaming started. The sounds coming from the darkness touch off some ancient survival instinct in me and I got out before whatever that thing is could get me too.
Charlie found this haunted house on a flyer he picked up on Greenville Avenue last night and brought us all out here. I think he was the first one that screamed when the lights went out. I had a funny feeling that this was some elaborate prank on his part; he has been known as a trickster in the past,H but that sound that came from his mouth was not one that could be easily faked. It was the sound of a man that has just come face to face with his absolute worst primal fear and seen that he was nowhere close to realizing how bad it really was. That was followed by something that was a combination of a dog crunching a chicken bone to splinters and the sucking sound congealed soup makes as it struggles to leave the can.
No. That wasn't faked. I know it. I feel it deep in my shivering bones. It was convincing enough to get me out of that room quick, fast and in a hurry and moving my way through the darkness hand by hand in search of the exit. The darkness here has a physical sensation to it, like a blanket thrown over my head. I almost feel it drape over my outstretched arms as I grope my way through the hallway.
That noise. There is something behind me. It sounded like a tree branch scraping a window on a windy night. It was some distance away from me down the hallway, but I am going to stop moving anyway. There is no need giving myself away here. I don't hear screaming coming from that room anymore. There is no noise now except for faint dripping and some soft rustling sound. That scraping sound just stopped. It sounds like it's pivoting…turning away from me.
My heart is a machine-gun inside my chest. It feels like it's pounding its fists against my ribcage, trying to get out. I tell it to calm down. It's no safer out here than it is in my chest. If it keeps this racket up, that scratching noise will know I am here and we're both screwed.
It begins scraping itself along the floor again but it sounds like it's moving away from me. I begin silently feeling my way down the hall again. I walked down this hallway just a minute ago in the full light. I know where the exit is. I just have to get to it before that scraping noise spins around and comes this way. If I can get outside in the moonlight, I know I'll be safe. I refuse to die in this moldy hallway…my insides slurped and my bones crunched to splinters.
I know this hallway was about thirty feet long and I have probably made it half that distance so far. I have fifteen feet to go to safety. The wall is wet here. It's a strange wetness. It was dry earlier, I'm certain of it. I remember the dusty mold on the wallpaper right where I am feeling now. The wall feels thick and cold, like old, curdled milk. I wipe my hand on my pants as the smell that wasn't there a second ago hits me. I've driven country roads before. I know what roadkill smells like, but this was worse by far than anything I ever passed on even the most brutally hot August afternoon. What I smell now is so strong and visceral it should have its own name. I'm sure it does, and I don't want to know what that name is. I retch and vomit where I stand.
The scraping behind me stops. I stop also. Tears swell my eyes shut as I choke down on my own vomit. I lose a moment of my faculties as my body struggles to recover from this revulsion. I turn my head as I wipe my mouth and aim my good ear in the scraping noise's direction as I try to gauge its location. It has stopped moving.
Tense seconds tick by in slow motion as I imagine both me and my shapeless foe waiting for the other to make the first move when I remember my cell phone. Many nights of stumbling have ended injury free because of that small but intense light. This is one of those times.
I have a decision to make now. Shining that light will give my position away. Do I illuminate my unseen foe or do I use that light to expose my exit to safety? I reach into my pocket and pull the phone out. I decide to reveal my foe first as I think it's better to deal with the devil you know rather than an unknown entity. I turn to face the source of the scraping noise and open the phone.
What sight greets me before I drop the phone out of sheer horror is soft and bruise-colored. It has several eyes of varying sizes and is covered with holes, some lined with sharp tiny teeth. There are appendages snaking from its ambiguous form that resemble tapeworms with suckers for mouths.
The light from this momentary illumination causes it to shrink back for a moment, but it recovers with unimaginable speed to grab the phone as it hits the ground and crush it into unintelligible pieces and once more drapes the hallway in dark. The scraping noise starts inching its way towards me, stopping a few feet from my shaking awestruck body.
My eyes are so wide now I am sure I can see even in this wet blackness. But still my unseen foe remains cloaked in darkness. I imagine it squatting before me as a lonely man with a dollar would before a nubile topless dancer who wants one. I then feel cold breath on my neck. It is breath exhaled from a body that doesn't know the warmth of life. The smell of rotting meat lingers as that soft hiss says, "So glad you…could… join us."
As the many unseen mouths that surround me surge into me and begin to gnaw and bite, the shock and severity of my flesh being torn from my body is nowhere near as surprising as the fact that that cold breathy voice that whispers to me is that of my good friend Charlie.
I'm walking blind, feeling my way down this hallway. Moments ago I was in a room surrounded by friends when the lights went out and the screaming started. The sounds coming from the darkness touch off some ancient survival instinct in me and I got out before whatever that thing is could get me too.
Charlie found this haunted house on a flyer he picked up on Greenville Avenue last night and brought us all out here. I think he was the first one that screamed when the lights went out. I had a funny feeling that this was some elaborate prank on his part; he has been known as a trickster in the past,H but that sound that came from his mouth was not one that could be easily faked. It was the sound of a man that has just come face to face with his absolute worst primal fear and seen that he was nowhere close to realizing how bad it really was. That was followed by something that was a combination of a dog crunching a chicken bone to splinters and the sucking sound congealed soup makes as it struggles to leave the can.
No. That wasn't faked. I know it. I feel it deep in my shivering bones. It was convincing enough to get me out of that room quick, fast and in a hurry and moving my way through the darkness hand by hand in search of the exit. The darkness here has a physical sensation to it, like a blanket thrown over my head. I almost feel it drape over my outstretched arms as I grope my way through the hallway.
That noise. There is something behind me. It sounded like a tree branch scraping a window on a windy night. It was some distance away from me down the hallway, but I am going to stop moving anyway. There is no need giving myself away here. I don't hear screaming coming from that room anymore. There is no noise now except for faint dripping and some soft rustling sound. That scraping sound just stopped. It sounds like it's pivoting…turning away from me.
My heart is a machine-gun inside my chest. It feels like it's pounding its fists against my ribcage, trying to get out. I tell it to calm down. It's no safer out here than it is in my chest. If it keeps this racket up, that scratching noise will know I am here and we're both screwed.
It begins scraping itself along the floor again but it sounds like it's moving away from me. I begin silently feeling my way down the hall again. I walked down this hallway just a minute ago in the full light. I know where the exit is. I just have to get to it before that scraping noise spins around and comes this way. If I can get outside in the moonlight, I know I'll be safe. I refuse to die in this moldy hallway…my insides slurped and my bones crunched to splinters.
I know this hallway was about thirty feet long and I have probably made it half that distance so far. I have fifteen feet to go to safety. The wall is wet here. It's a strange wetness. It was dry earlier, I'm certain of it. I remember the dusty mold on the wallpaper right where I am feeling now. The wall feels thick and cold, like old, curdled milk. I wipe my hand on my pants as the smell that wasn't there a second ago hits me. I've driven country roads before. I know what roadkill smells like, but this was worse by far than anything I ever passed on even the most brutally hot August afternoon. What I smell now is so strong and visceral it should have its own name. I'm sure it does, and I don't want to know what that name is. I retch and vomit where I stand.
The scraping behind me stops. I stop also. Tears swell my eyes shut as I choke down on my own vomit. I lose a moment of my faculties as my body struggles to recover from this revulsion. I turn my head as I wipe my mouth and aim my good ear in the scraping noise's direction as I try to gauge its location. It has stopped moving.
Tense seconds tick by in slow motion as I imagine both me and my shapeless foe waiting for the other to make the first move when I remember my cell phone. Many nights of stumbling have ended injury free because of that small but intense light. This is one of those times.
I have a decision to make now. Shining that light will give my position away. Do I illuminate my unseen foe or do I use that light to expose my exit to safety? I reach into my pocket and pull the phone out. I decide to reveal my foe first as I think it's better to deal with the devil you know rather than an unknown entity. I turn to face the source of the scraping noise and open the phone.
What sight greets me before I drop the phone out of sheer horror is soft and bruise-colored. It has several eyes of varying sizes and is covered with holes, some lined with sharp tiny teeth. There are appendages snaking from its ambiguous form that resemble tapeworms with suckers for mouths.
The light from this momentary illumination causes it to shrink back for a moment, but it recovers with unimaginable speed to grab the phone as it hits the ground and crush it into unintelligible pieces and once more drapes the hallway in dark. The scraping noise starts inching its way towards me, stopping a few feet from my shaking awestruck body.
My eyes are so wide now I am sure I can see even in this wet blackness. But still my unseen foe remains cloaked in darkness. I imagine it squatting before me as a lonely man with a dollar would before a nubile topless dancer who wants one. I then feel cold breath on my neck. It is breath exhaled from a body that doesn't know the warmth of life. The smell of rotting meat lingers as that soft hiss says, "So glad you…could… join us."
As the many unseen mouths that surround me surge into me and begin to gnaw and bite, the shock and severity of my flesh being torn from my body is nowhere near as surprising as the fact that that cold breathy voice that whispers to me is that of my good friend Charlie.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
My 24 Hour Comic
I decided this year to give the 24-Hour Comic thing a try. For those of you blissfully unaware of the concept, it is when a creator such as myself writes and draws a complete 22 (or 24) page comic from initial conception to completed product in one 24 hour period. That doesn't sound like a hard thing to do on it's face until one understands that I take just over 2.5 hours now to just draw a page, and I work WAY faster than the average guy. This includes the many stages I go through from thumbnailing the page, doing a larger breakdown to play with the panel layouts and the pencil/lettering/inking that makes up the finished page of art. Almost 3 hours a page, and you have to do 22 of them in 24 hours. It is the comic creator's marathon.
I decided to 'document' the creation of this comic via my facebook page using the status update feature. It wound up being a look into the tedium and creation process so I decided to post the updates in their entirety here.
The comic can be seen here:
http://powcomics.com/comic/87/kevin039s-ghost-a-24-hour-comic
and here until Oct 26th (when it closes down)
http://www.geocities.com/rorshach_85/freecomics/index.html (click on the 24 hour comic link.)
Dallas is surprisingly bare on the 24 hour comic venues. I guess I'll have to do my own. It just seems like a rip off, robbing me of a prime networking and farting around with like-minded folk opportunity. Sometimes this city is TEH SUCK.
October 3 at 11:14am
OK...Doing my own take on the 24 hour comic. It'll be 22 pages, 4 stories, all intertwined. (When possible) Aiming for a Halloween feel, but not 100% sure yet. The writing commences at 2pm.
October 3 at 1:46pm ·
Started officially at 2:45pm. 3 pages completed so far. Story I started with has modified a bit, but it's still a ghost story.
October 3 at 4:38pm
At the 6:30 mark, 6 pages down. I'm averaging 30 min per page...from start to finish. This is by far the fastest (AND crudest) I have worked....ever! But the story is a good one.
October 3 at 6:27pm
Taking 5 to watch the Stars game. I guess I can spend the next few hours writing and doing thumbs.
October 3 at 7:10pm
(Note - Fucking Stars.....grumble grumble)
Done through page 9, all the pages are plotted and most are thumbed in my head. Not getting too far ahead of myself, but I like where this story is headed. Not gona post anything till I'm done. The shitty cell pic I took at the page 6 stage still hasn't appeared on the interwebs.
October 3 at 10:55pm
Up to 11 now. The big halfway point, and it's been just at 10 hours. Starting to get sleepy now and sluggish. This is a marathon tho, baby....and I'm in it to win it!
Sun at 12:37am
Page 15 is in the bag. Only 7 more pages to go. They are all thumbed out. As fatigue seeps in, I have to decide to pencil all and ink last or keep the pencil/letter/ink conveyor belt running. Got to admit though, the lack of clear focus is adversly affecting the art. This is good for a challenge, but ABSOLUTELY unacceptable for professional work.
Sun at 4:28am
Hitting the last 5 pages now! I can see the finish line!
Sun at 5:23am
Page 20! I see the yellow tape!!!!
Sun at 6:42am
Aside from the sleep deprivation, I would have to say the biggest challenge so far has been in the actual writing of the piece. The sheer speed necessary to draw the pages makes it a one-off deal with the dialogue. Editing has to be done on the fly... and the story will change. You just have to keep your ear open to hear where it's taking you and be prepared to take that drastic left turn when it presents itself.
Sun at 6:42am
Done. Now I'm goin to bed. I'll post it when I get up for the Cowboy's Game.
Sun at 7:36am
The 24 Hour Comic is done, posted and ready for you all to laugh your asses off at (even tho it's not a comedy piece) It's crude, even by MY standards, but I got it done well within the 24 hour mark, so WOO HOO!
Sun at 2:06pm
I decided to 'document' the creation of this comic via my facebook page using the status update feature. It wound up being a look into the tedium and creation process so I decided to post the updates in their entirety here.
The comic can be seen here:
http://powcomics.com/comic/87/kevin039s-ghost-a-24-hour-comic
and here until Oct 26th (when it closes down)
http://www.geocities.com/rorshach_85/freecomics/index.html (click on the 24 hour comic link.)
Dallas is surprisingly bare on the 24 hour comic venues. I guess I'll have to do my own. It just seems like a rip off, robbing me of a prime networking and farting around with like-minded folk opportunity. Sometimes this city is TEH SUCK.
October 3 at 11:14am
OK...Doing my own take on the 24 hour comic. It'll be 22 pages, 4 stories, all intertwined. (When possible) Aiming for a Halloween feel, but not 100% sure yet. The writing commences at 2pm.
October 3 at 1:46pm ·
Started officially at 2:45pm. 3 pages completed so far. Story I started with has modified a bit, but it's still a ghost story.
October 3 at 4:38pm
At the 6:30 mark, 6 pages down. I'm averaging 30 min per page...from start to finish. This is by far the fastest (AND crudest) I have worked....ever! But the story is a good one.
October 3 at 6:27pm
Taking 5 to watch the Stars game. I guess I can spend the next few hours writing and doing thumbs.
October 3 at 7:10pm
(Note - Fucking Stars.....grumble grumble)
Done through page 9, all the pages are plotted and most are thumbed in my head. Not getting too far ahead of myself, but I like where this story is headed. Not gona post anything till I'm done. The shitty cell pic I took at the page 6 stage still hasn't appeared on the interwebs.
October 3 at 10:55pm
Up to 11 now. The big halfway point, and it's been just at 10 hours. Starting to get sleepy now and sluggish. This is a marathon tho, baby....and I'm in it to win it!
Sun at 12:37am
Page 15 is in the bag. Only 7 more pages to go. They are all thumbed out. As fatigue seeps in, I have to decide to pencil all and ink last or keep the pencil/letter/ink conveyor belt running. Got to admit though, the lack of clear focus is adversly affecting the art. This is good for a challenge, but ABSOLUTELY unacceptable for professional work.
Sun at 4:28am
Hitting the last 5 pages now! I can see the finish line!
Sun at 5:23am
Page 20! I see the yellow tape!!!!
Sun at 6:42am
Aside from the sleep deprivation, I would have to say the biggest challenge so far has been in the actual writing of the piece. The sheer speed necessary to draw the pages makes it a one-off deal with the dialogue. Editing has to be done on the fly... and the story will change. You just have to keep your ear open to hear where it's taking you and be prepared to take that drastic left turn when it presents itself.
Sun at 6:42am
Done. Now I'm goin to bed. I'll post it when I get up for the Cowboy's Game.
Sun at 7:36am
The 24 Hour Comic is done, posted and ready for you all to laugh your asses off at (even tho it's not a comedy piece) It's crude, even by MY standards, but I got it done well within the 24 hour mark, so WOO HOO!
Sun at 2:06pm
Friday, September 18, 2009
Ode to the Reunion Arena
I stand facing the East
On a hill built by man
To hold back the water,
Deny Earth flood's hand.
I watch Glass Olympus
Fall before my eyes.
Past excess not enough
To answer tradition's cries.
Where once Champions bled,
Muscle, sinew and blood coin spent.
That the mob be well fed
With sweat, pain and bones rent.
Where once Gods lived aside
Mortals, clowns and wild beast.
Reverberations and Chaos'
Echoes fade and cease.
Where once Triumph held sway
Only a Golden Arm reigns.
To pull down the memories
And Rowdy ghosts that remain.
My line will return to this land.
They will pause and cup their ear.
As the sad ghosts from the past
Cry in vain for Yesteryear.
Fare thee well Reunion.
On a hill built by man
To hold back the water,
Deny Earth flood's hand.
I watch Glass Olympus
Fall before my eyes.
Past excess not enough
To answer tradition's cries.
Where once Champions bled,
Muscle, sinew and blood coin spent.
That the mob be well fed
With sweat, pain and bones rent.
Where once Gods lived aside
Mortals, clowns and wild beast.
Reverberations and Chaos'
Echoes fade and cease.
Where once Triumph held sway
Only a Golden Arm reigns.
To pull down the memories
And Rowdy ghosts that remain.
My line will return to this land.
They will pause and cup their ear.
As the sad ghosts from the past
Cry in vain for Yesteryear.
Fare thee well Reunion.
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