Archive for January, 2010

– Concrete Reactions –

Posted in Uncategorized on January 26, 2010 by writemywrong

Standing over a limp body, Sam Hayes stares at the back of a shaven head, and feels the blood streaming through his veins.  The tunnel vision begins to fade, his fists unclench.  The people surrounding him on the sidewalk outside of Barnes Bar stare at him with their jaws slack.  Sam’s head swivels slow, left and right, seeing the people for the first time since he felt the push from behind.
Moments earlier as he was leaving the bar, a heavy hand pressed into the middle of his back and shoved him out into the cold.  He didn’t hesitate, spinning around with his fist already in flight.  As the knuckles of his right hand connected with the jaw of the much bigger, burly man he balled his left fist and landed a devastating punch to the right temple.  The man dropped immediately to his knees without a chance for rebuttal.  His eyes rolled back into his skull.  But Samuel Hayes never noticed.  His right fist was already dialed in to the helpless mans face.
The sound of the bridge of his nose cracking was like a tree branch snapping under the weight of heavy ice.  The mans nose exploded with a rush of red blood.  The man, unconscious, dropped forward to the pavement, his forehead splintering against the concrete sidewalk and scraped forward as the weight of his body forced itself flat.

Sam’s natural instincts tells him to run.  The cops would surely be just a shout away on this crowded downtown street.  The last thing he needs is another scrape with the police.  His rap sheet began at the age of fourteen and has continued to accrue a bevy of minor misdemeanors, with a few felonies sprinkled in for seasoning, ever since.

His feet stay in place though.

A strong arm grabs his wrist and a forearm wraps around his neck from behind, pulling him to the ground.  Sam does not resist.  His face is pushed against the sidewalk as his wrists feel the familiar cold steel wrapping around them.
The face of the unconscious man, lying just a few feet away, screams itself into his brain.  He recognizes the mans face from somewhere in the haze of the liquor-fueled night.  Clips flash through his mind:  the man toasting the group around him at the bar; singing at the top of his lungs to every classic rock song blaring from the jukebox; from down the bar, ordering the bartender to fill Sam’s shot glass, declaring that no one drinks alone on his watch.
Someone shouting the mans name.
The mans name is Alex.

Amidst the noise of the street and crowd, Sam hears the voice of a man speaking with one of the police officers.
“Alex saw him as we were paying our tabs and said he was going to see if he wanted to come back to the house and party with us for the rest of the night.  He just wanted to make sure the guy wasn’t alone.  Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and Alex wanted that guy to have a good time tonight even if he has no one else in his life.  He just wanted to show him a good time… he just wanted to party with him… next thing I knew… fucking bastard.”  The word bastard drips with disdain.
” What kind of person…”  The voice trails off, losing itself in hate and disbelief.

Paramedics, with flashing lights, arrive.  They begin assessing Alex’s state; checking for a pulse, for breathing, for signs of consciousness.
Hesitantly, Sam asks the nearest E.M.T., “Will he be ok?”

“We don’t know yet,” the woman responds, “but you better hope so.”

The police officer lifts Sam to his feet, and forces him towards the black and white cop cruiser at the edge of the sidewalk.  The cop places a hand on top of Sam’s head and guides it into the backseat, closing the door once he is fully inside.

Sam’s eyes keep transfixed to the motionless body of the man named Alex, so big in both size and personality, who only wanted to be a friend to Sam.

As the officer gets in the drivers seat, turning the ignition, the paramedics lift Alex’s body onto the white and metal stretcher.  The paramedics strap his body onto the gurney for support, and begin wheeling him to the open doors of the ambulance.  Just as Sam feels the lurch of the cop car beginning to pull away, he takes a last glance at the face on the stretcher.

Alex’s eyelids lay half open, his mouth moving just slight as he responds to the questions from the female E.M.T.

Sam silently offers his apology, knowing that no one can hear it and that, probably, no one would care if they could.


Just Leave

Posted in Uncategorized on January 25, 2010 by writemywrong

A leaf, at the bank of a lake, wiggles back and forth. All she sees is the clear cool water and the green leaf resting on top, trying to float away. With the ripples and the wind, it moves left and right but never breaks free. There is nothing surrounding it, keeping it in place, yet it remains.
Young, shy, Anna sits entranced. The waves of a lake have always been a great source of solace for her. The rhythmic lapping of the waves, the sweet kiss of a breeze, and the simple pleasures that show up only when they are meant to (like today’s featured leaf) serve to calm her and clear her head, no matter how hectic the rest of her world may be.

Or how much she feels that it’s collapsing in around her.

Unhappy in her relationship, she comes here to think. Her family doesn’t understand her. She is the black sheep. So different from the rest of her family, surrounded by nature she feels finally that she fits in somewhere.

And she continues to stare at the leaf. Specks of red and yellow give life to the otherwise mundane piece of foliage. Much like her life. Bland and vanilla, with just a few bright spots here and there.

She thought she was in love once. She left him and moved on. Found someone new and tried so hard to convince herself that this is what true love feels like. He is her soul-mate, he, the day to her night; the Jim to her Pam.

But she realizes more and more now how wrong she was. His decisions are her decisions. But she never would have made the same decision that he did. Her heart is too big and full of good things to leave behind the one thing that mattered most in her life, and made her happier than she’d ever known….

A feeling like nausea hums inside her head and gut.  Realization.

That is exactly what she did.

She hangs her head.

She doesn’t cry though. That isn’t her way. Holding the pain in and sealing it in an endless pit like a timeless time capsule is her way of coping. And she is good at coping. She just sits. And watches that leaf.

The leaf that won’t move. The stubborn little leaf. Green and yellow and red glinting in the sunlight that jumps off the clear cool waters. It refuses to float away and leave her in peace.
That little bastard of a once proud family of tree canopy, swaying back and forth as if it is completely content in its world of failure and mistakes.
Goddamn that little leaf, she thinks. Just go. You can go. You have the whole lake to play on and waves abounding to ride. Go.

She can’t see underneath though. She can’t see the tiny pebble that the little leaf has marooned itself on top of, holding it there against its will. It’s like the Ark on top of a mountain after the receding of the flood. It’s just to scale. No less trapped with no way to run, no matter how badly it wants. No matter how much it may wish that the starry faced shy girl sitting on the bank would help, instead of sitting and sulking in her pathetic self-involved delusions of how her life came to be so completely fucking empty.


Posted in Journal on January 23, 2010 by writemywrong

I really love the winters cold, and don’t understand those that don’t.
Nothing cools me, nothing wakes me, like an open window in January.

Well, except for the beautiful girl lying next to me tonight. She sleeps like snow falls. She smells like flakes’ scent: nothing and pure and home and embrace.

I love the winter.
January, take me home.

“Nate, you suck. No, seriously…”

Posted in Uncategorized on January 22, 2010 by writemywrong

I write… to breathe.
This pen is my lungs; it’s ink, my oxygen.

I love feedback.  Tell me I suck ass if you think that I suck ass.
I just want to know what people think.