Poetry-Thing Thursday: Keep It Well-Versed

Pumping Red blood,
like a rushing geyser,
that’s ever-present,
sans accompaniment.

The heart of matters.
The muscle of love.
It beats for you,
believe it’s true.

Inside and within,
your love has been,
well-worn and ridden,
if even unbidden.

Though it is never forgiven,
it breeds love where livin’,
in the hands of another,
the eyes of a lover.

So never fear,
it is always near,
beating and pounding,
reddened and coursing.

Its blood is your life,
no matter your strife,
and it treats you well,
so treat it the same.

And even if, by freak chance
it be only your first,
always in love,
keep it well-versed.

Short Story: Cosmic Dues

He was built like a Mack truck; broad, flat, angry, and more chromed than a luxury sedan. To say he wasn’t intimidating would be more an insult to one’s self than him. He certainly wasn’t winning any personality contests, but if there was anyone a person to want on your side in a fight, it was him. Too bad Harry was on the other side.

The first blow hit his jaw and about knocked him from his chair. The chair even jumped a little. How, Harry wasn’t sure. Probably something about velocities and angular momentum. He’d have known if given time to think about it. Instead, he was only allowed a loud “ow!” It came out sounding like a stray dog’s yelp from being thumped on the nose by a rolled up paper. Not the cleverest opening gambit, but what did they expect from him?

The Mack truck reeled back for another blow. Harry cringed in his chair. He weaseled out some quick words, “Ah-right. Ah-right. Ah-right. I’ll talk.”

The Mack relaxed its bionic, chrome arm. Its fist relaxed. Harry breathed a little easier. Not much more, mind you, but enough to speak normally. He swept a hand backward across his greasy, jet-black hair. His hand moved from the sheen and the room was more reflected there than in the Mack’s bionics.

“I seen your guy,” he said with his weaselly tone.

For a moment, Harry wasn’t focused on the Mack. Rather, he eyed the well-suited guy beside him. He looked more upscale than anyone Harry’d ever seen. More than likely, he’d never been on this side of town, hence the Mack. Something about his bearing said corporate work. That much was clear in his suit. His bearing didn’t need it. So why the show? He was trying too hard to look corporate.

Harry’s suspicion was aroused. He slicked his hair back again, determined to root the Suit’s true nature. He kicked back in his seat, “So. Uh. Yeh. Yer guy. I seen ‘im, but-uh, I can’t just go snitchin’ on people. Bad for business you know?” He gestured widely to the pawnshop around him. The Mack sneered. The Suit’s remained indifferent. “So-uh, what kind’a assurances do I get I’m not gonna’ feel push-back?”

The Suit nodded toward the Mack. Before he knew it, Harry’s head was being crushed against the glass counter beside him. It cracked, splintered. His breath quickened with terror, but he did his best to keep his cool.

“L-look,” he said with more quickly and weaselly than before. “I c-can’t just go g-givin’ up people. I g-gotta’ get somethin’ outta’ the deal.”

The Mack pushed a little harder, but Harry sensed the Suit’s nod. His head was released. He gasped for air in newly calmed lungs and shriveled in his chair. The Suit leaned at him, his hands gripping his wrists behind his back.

“Ensure I find this man, and I’ll see that you’re well-compensated.”

Harry shrugged, “Look-uh, no disrespect, but-uh, I gotta’ see the money. You know? Otherwise– I mean, how do I know if you didn’t find a suit on the street?” The Mack reeled back. Harry cringed. “All’s I’m sayin’s–” The Suit raised a hand to stop the Mack. “I’ve got a business to think about. You know? Business. You understand? Nothing personal. Anyone can say they got the funds. I can’t take everyone’s word for it.”

The Mack relaxed his hand again. The Suit reached into a pocket, tossed a cascade of bills at Harry. Whether or not he was Corporate, it was money. One man’s coin was as good as any other’s in Harry’s eyes. He sifted the cash into a pile. It’d been a long time since he’d seen paper money. All of the people he dealt with nowadays used credit-cards, bit-sticks. Paper money was rare. Especially difficult to counterfeit. Only the super-rich had it, but their money was clean, crisp. Brand-new bills. The Suit’s bills were old, tattered around the edges, soft from decades of handling.

Something wasn’t adding up. Harry knew it. Voicing it was another matter entirely. Even if the Suit didn’t nod to the Mack, and Harry didn’t end up smashed against the display case, calling him out wasn’t the right move. He played it cool. He’d gotten what he wanted anyhow. At the very least, the Suit had been honest about that much.

“Right,” Harry said, cracking his knuckles. “Your guy was here. Yeh. Said something about needing protection. Bought an old reel-gun. Paid with a cred-stick. Took off.”

The Suit stiffened, voice like a mortician’s seeking out a stolen corpse. “Where was he going?

“Dunno,” Harry lied.

The pair met eyes. The Suit’s stabbed Harry’s like needles. For a moment, he thought the guy might actually have something shooting out of them. They hurt.

“I do not believe you,” the Suit said.

Shit.

Harry didn’t need to say it aloud. He felt his face slam glass again. It splintered further, began to flex. Small shards pinched and sliced at his cheek. Warm blood flowed.

“Ah-right. Ah-right. Ah-right!” The Mack didn’t let up this time. “H-he said he was going to New-Burg. Place outside town. Little village. Like a cul-de-sac with a few houses. Look there. I swear! That’s all I know.”

The Mack released him. The Suit turned to slink out the door. The Mack followed. The bell over the door rang. Harry was up, headed for the bathroom sink and mirror. He grabbed a rag, wet it, and dabbed at his face.

“You did well,” a voice behind him said.

He half-ignored it, “Yeh. Whatever. Pricks. Comin’ in here like that. You owe me new glass.”

“You’ll have it.”

Harry turned to view the man speaking to him; he was difficult to miss no matter where he went. He looked like some combination of Rastafarian and android; dread-locks, tubes, and chrome glistening beneath, around, and within brown skin. Whatever the Suit wanted him for, the Mack had his work cut out for him. All the same, the meeting had been set. That was all he’d been needed for. That was all he cared about.

“You will find payment, including compensation, on a cred-stick in the office.” He lifted a hood from the back of his billowing, leather coat, hid himself beneath it.

“Y-yeh. S-sure. Come back anytime.”

The man passed by. He drifted more than walked, like some ethereal being. Harry shook off the shuddering awkwardness it forced down his spine. He walked into the office to check his money. The job was simple enough. Moreover, he liked the idea of sticking it to the wannabe-rich folks. The whole thing reeked of bad news though. His only hope was the party that killed the other didn’t come back to involve him further. Corporate warfare was for the corps. It was the last thing Harry wanted to be involved in. He just wanted the cosmic dues even, his shop open, life to be lived.

He may’ve been a weasel, but he was good enough to fool anyone with it. Too bad it always required blood to do so. He dabbed at the wet spot on his face and sighed. At least he’d gotten paid… this time.

Bonus Poem: Possible Realities

There is a face,
that colors my memories,
from a time long-passed,
of childhood vulnerabilities,
but looking back,
the face bears pleas,
for love and attention,
that its owner buries,
so that it might still weather,
the coming, stormy seas.

There was something then,
that I must have sensed;
a touch of daring,
in eyes, courageous, tensed,
of full earthen-hue,
or when red and incensed.
It was something that changed,
as we grew older, condensed,
into creatures arising
to rest in minds, en-fenced.

But age has withered the old,
replaced images with new,
as each passing moment,
becomes fewer and few,
and time marches onward,
ever distancing we two,
These thoughts of what could’ve been,
leave me seeking a clue,
to the truth of past moments,
and whether you see them too.

But we may never know,
what could have been,
and dwelling too long,
keeps us from looking when,
life comes a-calling.
Maybe we shouldn’t imagine,
for the roads have diverged, and in,
the light of the past,
possible realities are broken.

Short Story: Not a Bad Day

The earth heaved with a frightful shudder. Laura’s feet felt the earth-shattering tear. Her teeth rattled. Cement split, cracked. She thought to leap for the sidewalk, but it lurched upward by the quake. A moment of inertia preceded a terrible rumble. It growled to a roar. Car alarms began screaming across the city. All was chaos. Skyscraper-chunks dislodged, tumbled through the air. A car was suddenly flattened. Laura tried to pretend she hadn’t seen the people there, couldn’t.

She’d been running through the park when it began. Her new, daily ritual had put her there. She’d only just found out her weight problem was going to become diabetes. If she didn’t get fit now, she might lose a foot– or worse. The future would only get more difficult. Fortunately, something had woken her up this time. Even though her breath was perpetually ragged that first week, she’d lost ten pounds. Now, breathing was much easier all ‘round.

Somehow those things so present in her mind dissolved when all hell broke loose. Moments ago, she was content, joyous. She should’ve known. She’d feared those emotions from the years of terrible happenings usually succeeding them. Her luck had been bad since childhood: when she first the wonder of life, her parents divorced. Her childhood home was sold off as community property. When she finally recovered, she got her first period. When that was over, the skies cleared just long enough for adolescence to become teenage angst. Cliques excluded her. Her grades fell. She was altogether depressed until college. The first rays of sunshine once more appeared when college dissolved the cliques gone. Even a few boyfriends came around, despite her “unattractive” physique.

Then the clouds parted, and a downpour flushed her hopes. A car accident forced her into traction, worsened her weight problem. Her then-fiancee stuck around long enough for her to walk again. Since then, her life was one series of disappointments after another and preceding more. Now, when the sun’s rays seemed most likely to shine again, the asinine happened.

She could’ve lived with a broken leg, getting hit by a car, or somehow gaining weight when she meant to lose it, but an earthquake? Really? This was absolutely the most unlikely thing to happen. Sure, the west coast got quakes, but here? In the middle of the park? At the peak of Seattle’s dormant period? And just when she was feeling alright? Seattle hadn’t had a major quake in almost twenty years. They weren’t “due for one,” either. This was a fluke. Of all the times… If she’d believed in God, he was laughing and pointing right now. Asshole.

Her body engaged. She leaped to the sidewalk. It shuddered, lurched. The ground split. A chasm appeared, widened. She bolted at a break-neck speed, raced splitting earth. Her feet bucked and trembled, bounced and skipped against the upheaval of concrete. She felt as if levitating, rather than running, feet never touching ground. Asphalt cracked. Car windows shattered. Something exploded far-off.

All the while the hot sun beat through a cloudless sky as if in a reality all its own of peace and serenity. Bastard.

She sprinted past falling debris, flocked with crowds rampaging the city. They were stampeding in every direction. Fleeing for nowhere in particular. Fleeing just to flee. They were no longer people: scared animals, directed and steered by crashes, cracks. The cluster around Laura grew larger each second. It became a gathering, an assembly, a stadium, so on until everyone in Seattle had joined them.

They fled together. Some manifested only panting terror, fueled by adrenaline. Normally Laura would’ve joined them– panting, wheezing, stumbling and eventually falling back to accept the inevitable. Being heavy and learning to run meant learning to breathe again though. If the quake had hit even a week earlier, she’d have fallen miles ago. She’d have been trampled to death by the crowd surging around her.

Now, she ran.

Her muscles ached. Joints burned. Her heart was a metronome set to insanity. Until now, she hadn’t liked the aches, the pains. Now, it meant she was still alive, intact, still running. She needed that. She managed to pass a few people, push nearer the mob’s front. She could jealous hatred around her:a fat girl outpacing them? Well they never! Jackasses.

Near an intersection, someone fell. People trampled him, unaware of his cracking bones in their terror-flight. He screamed, bellowed for help. Laura pushed her legs toward him, threw her weight around to shoulder and elbow people away. One strong arm pulled him up. His eyes and face were red, wet. He bawled “thank yous.” People tried to shove her away, force her along the current of bodies. Between her new muscles and still-heavy build, she was a boulder in the rapid.

Something exploded, forced them into a half hunch. A half demolished car careened out of control. It ramped off un-level asphalt, arced nearby. Its rear-end caught a fire-hydrant, tore it free. A geyser erupted the persistent swoosh of pure, liquid fury. The car punched through the front of a coffee shop, pinned a few people down inside. The man half-pulled, half followed her toward the still-running car. Its roof was dented from an impact of debris, driver dead. Laura’s adrenaline suppressed vomit and fear. They scrambled over shattered glass, angled nearer the pinned screams.

The man managed to kill the engine, the Earth’s trembling lessening each moment. Laura’s tone– “bitch” as it was often called by, at last count, everyone she met– rallied the people still standing in the shop. Together twenty-five people helped turn the car onto its side. The people still able to walk fled for their lives. Others merely moaned in pain. A few people helped to set bones over screams, a couple ending as their producers passed out. Jerry-rigged splints were fashioned from broke tables and various miscellanea. Someone even managed to loot crutches and from a drugstore nearby.

Laura turned to eye the man she’d saved. A doctor tended to him, an off-duty ER doc in from the street to check the injured. The rest were being carted off for nearby hospitals. The doctor assured the man he had a few broken ribs, some bumps and cuts, but otherwise was fine. The man stepped over to Laura, and as best he could, hugged her with thanks.

Then came a moment of almost total silence. Reality was still. The world had stopped. Laura swiveled: the entire coffee shop eyed her with gratitude. Someone said “thank you.” Someone else clapped. Another person whistled. Laura reddened. A line formed of people wanting to shake her hand or take pictures with her– even though her face was beet-red from exertion and bashfulness, her skin slick with sweat, and her hair wild.

The moment passed and the man pulled his savior aside to slip his phone number over sheepishly. “For, you know, if you wanna’ actually have coffee some time.”

Laura giggled. Then together, they laughed full on. Maybe her luck had changed. Maybe, it wasn’t such a bad day after all…