Characters and Settings

The story starts and it does not end
It does not end when you or I do
It continues long past us
In fact the story had begun
long before us
In this brief window of years
we bloom under the sun
and bask in the warmth of life
We ask ourselves if there is more
beyond this life
There are many different ideas
about this but they must
be taken on faith
This works for many
but not everyone
I have a hunch of what I believe
but it probably wouldn't work
for everyone
I am living this story as I write it
and hoping I get it right
on the first try
There are no second drafts
Every day we carry on
even on days we have believed
to be impossible
Every breath is an unspoken prayer
Every day is a promise made and kept
This story
Our story
This life
Our lives

Waiting

He was leaning against the wall out in
front of the building waiting for every
one else to arrive. That's what happens
when you make it a point of getting
twenty minutes early to every meeting.
The cigarette was almost down to the
filter. He took a final drag and felt the
fire press close to his skin. The butt
flew into the street like so many bodies
forgotten at the morgue. Out of the
corner of his eye he could see a woman
approaching from his right side. She
was carrying what appeared to be small
pieces of luggage in each hand. Each
of her steps felt hurried. She got close
to him and stopped. She set the cases
down and and wiped the sweat from
her brow with her left hand. "Excuse
me" she said, "Do you know where
1421 is?" "This is 1460 where we're
at right now. Maybe if you walk down
the block that way you'll hit it. It can't
be too far from here."he said. "I'm
running late to do make-up for a
video shoot and can't seem to find
the place." "Yeah, I haven't seen any
one else that looks like they're part of
some shoot. It's been pretty quiet
here since I've been waiting." he said.
"Would you happen to have a
cigarette?" she asked. He reached into
his coat pocket and pulled out the
pack. She looked inside and asked
"Are you sure? It's your last one?"
"Of course it is. Go ahead, take it."
She took his last cigarette and pulled
out a neon green lighter from her
right pants pocket. It quickly caught
the spark as she took a long drag.
"I know I'm already late but at this
point I sorta don't care. I got a flat
tire on my way over and now I can't
find the damn place. But thanks for
the smoke." she said. She seemed
to be around his age, young enough
but older than some. "Of course."
he said. "My name is Rand. I'm just
waiting for some friends. They'll be
here in a few minutes unless they're
running late." She was finishing the
cigarette and flicked it out into the
street. "My name is Cathy but you
can call me Cat." She reached into
her pocket and pulled out a card.
"Look me up sometime. If you ever
need a make-up artist or know
someone who does just let me
know. I swear I'll be more punctual
than this gig." "Thanks. I'll look
you up sometime." he said. " I should
get going. Don't want to be later
than I already am." she said. "Well,
good luck finding the place, Cat."
he said. "Thanks. See you around."
She grabbed her two cases and kept
walking down the street. Around
the corner he could swear that Brian's
car had just turned onto the street.
Now it was time to get down to
business.

Kacie and Death

She's hanging out with Death 

and they get on just fine

Sitting on her stoop drinking 

forties and smoking cigarettes

Evening wind blowing between

them 

He's got to get back to work

he says 

             I don't mind just do your

job and don't be long 

                                  she says 

He takes up to leave and looks 

at her and wishes he didn't have

to go He takes a long pull off

the forty bottle 

                        She gives him

a hug and he dissipates into 

evening

             The embers of her

cigarette burning still

Bethany

Bethany was awake
She listened to the church bells
toll through the calm morning
How many times in her life
had she heard that sound
How much longer would
she hear them
She tried to not think
of the answer
She thought of all
the little things she had
to do today
and understood that
life is really nothing but
little things punctuated on
occasion but larger events
that were the exceptions and
not the rule
She looked at the clock on her
nightstand and thought it odd
when she looked at it's face
Turns out it just needed
to be wound up again
Time didn't matter
The hour didn't matter
Only her own actions mattered
In this long and vast life
those moments of small joys
were what mattered
She thought this and
was pleased with herself
She looked at her clock
and even though
the time was wrong
she pulled the sheets up
over her body
and let her eyes close

Found

It had been a long day and now he was home.
He made himself a sandwich and grabbed a
can of soda and sat by a window. It was night
as the hangnail moon shone down it's sliver of
light. A breeze as light as an exhale gently
touched the leaves of the trees. He took a bite
of the sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.
There was nowhere else to go. This was
where he needed to be. The crack the can of
soda made as he opened it cut the stillness
with it's metallic pop. The carbonation made
his throat burn ever slightly, he tried to avoid
drinking too much soda. His dad had told him
to not have too many when he was growing up.
Normally he would have put a record on to
listen to but not tonight. Tonight he allowed
the stillness of night in. It was so much more
peaceful here than growing up in the city.
He loved the city, he supposed he always would.
As he grew older he felt it to be a bit much.
As much as the city could bring people together
it could also foster a great sense of isolation
among people. Perhaps it was not the city
itself that caused the isolation, it was more the
result of the people living in it. The small town
he lived in was the kind of place he would have
avoided as a teenager or young man but now it
gave him comfort. He was no stranger to his
neighbors and the clerk at the general store knew
him by name. He took another bite of his sandwich
and let his mind empty for a moment. It was easier
for him to do this since he began living in the town.
The ability to slow thought down to a crawl was
never something he could afford to do in his old home.
Here it was not only possible but expected. What
good is a human mind that can not let itself be
empty from time to time? It would be summer soon.
The evenings would be a little warmer and humid
but no less pleasant. There would be nights when
he would put on his records and let the music
waft from his windows and into the calm night.
There would be nights when family and friends
from afar would visit and he would play host as
they marveled at the place he now called home.
They would wonder if he had gone mad or at
last found the thing they had all been looking for.

Not Enough

She stumbles in through the front door
and sits at the stool next to me
I take a pull off my bottle sitting next to
my whiskey on the rocks.
She looks at me and looks to her left,
her body lurching like someone
whose blood has grown too dizzy.
Her and the bartender make eye contact.
She tries to order a drink. The bartender
isn't having it. She's cut off before a first
order. "I'll serve you but I'll only serve
you water. You're already too drunk."
I take a small sip of whiskey.
She's mad. She's belligerent. She's the
kind of drunk where memory has ceased
to function, where reason has been
overwhelmed and surrendered
to an invading force. The replay
of the days games are playing
on the TV's around the bar. Rap music
is playing on the jukebox. Voices
and cigarette smoke blend together
effortlessly. She wants her drink.
She wants her drink now. She looks
at the bartender and says
"Is it my hairy cunt?"
For a moment the bartender says
nothing. "No, it's because you're
drunk." She walks away to take
care of an order on the opposite
end of the bar.
My drinks are sweating.
I listen to the sounds blend together
so seamlessly that soon enough
I hear nothing at all.

Implying the Sky

The story begins as many stories do, not with a
beginning of it's own but as a thread from another
story. It is as if saying 'Sky' and implying both
the state of day and night. And so it is. Waking
up early or on time because of the simple fact of
ones body having become used to the routine.
The body wakes the mind and tells it that it is
time. Time to open eyes, time to engage in
routine functions, time to stand and live and
breathe and find a place for itself once again.
These mornings seem as though they themselves
are endless in their succession, and in their own
way, they suppose they are. The mornings
do not know what it is to be bound to passing
years. They exist perpetually and gaze upon
the passing of our lives. They witness our many
similarities in action and temperament as we may
witness the myriad of light at dawn. In between
these wakings occurs so much. The normal
routines of work and relaxation, the falling into
love, the falling out of love, the tides of the sea,
the rains, the desert feeling the touch of a cool
wind, a child laughing, a grandmother cooking
for her grandchildren, a dog falling asleep in the
mid-afternoon. Do you believe in immortality?
It is not necessary to believe in it if one looks
beyond the patterns beneathe this life. There is
much that will outlast us and thrive. Our import-
ance is self-derived. How beautiful and perfect
this world is without our hands to meddle. This
story does not need a narrator. It does not even
need an audience. This story requires so little
that we are little more than an aside. And so it is.

I don't want to see your beauty fade 
and see you become an old waitress. 

Everything becomes fiction 

either by want

or necessity

William

I pulled up to the gas station by my house
when I saw a man about my age
start walking towards me
with a squeegee in his hand.

He looked at me with the sense of recognition
that takes a moment to load properly
in your mind. He said "Hermosa?"
I looked at his face and remembered.

Some time back I was walking back
from the Hermosa Beach pier at the end
of my lunch break. As I made it through
one of the side streets a young looking man

walked up to me and asked if I could let him
use my phone to make a quick call. I said yes.
When he was done he began to tell me of how
he moved to the area and was trying to find work.

He had no place to stay except for the hostel
he was at that night. He asked if there was any way
I could help him out with some money. I'm not sure
what compelled me about him or what he told me

but I opened my wallet and gave him all the money
I had- forty dollars- and wished him luck.

That night at the gas station I could see the struggle
in his hands, in the way he spoke so as to sound
most kind. Before I left he asked me
"You've never been homeless, have you?"