A Suh-then Gennelmen

The mighty jaw crunched closed like Jason's Wandering Rocks. Hungry lips kissed themselves, parting with the moist pop of a suction cup coming off a frosty window.

"Bill, will you shut yo' dadgum mouth when you chew?!" he shouted down the length of the elegant table. "Makin' me sick! I sway-uh!"

Bill mumbled something through his mouthful of beans that Charles assumed was an apology.

Charles chuckled to himself, twirling the cold metal thoughtfully in his hands. In the crazy, ever-changing world he lived in, Charles knew that he could always be sure that Bill would never get above his raising. If it were any possible to get lower, well, then there might be cause for concern. But good ole Bill, raised by wolves or himself or maybe a far off king (depending on how creative Bill was feeling), was as steady and intelligent as a rock. His undying loyalty to Charles made him a perfect member of the household. Though it was an inadvertent result of Charles’s having once lapsed and shown a fleeting kindness to another soul, he’d never once regretted. Bill’s lacking table manners were insignificant next to the security that came with having such a behemoth around. Plus, though he would never admit it, being the gentleman that he was, Bill usually doubled as the evening’s entertainment.

As if on cue, a slight rumble emitted from the other end of the table. Bill lowered his hand from his mouth and smiled up at him like a small child. His face looked like a distorted reproduction of his plate five minutes ago. Charles couldn’t help but smile back like he imagined proud father might. Billy was learning.

Charles’s father, known throughout the region simply as Senior (even before his one and only son came along), had been a cold man. Charles had never known his mother. Growing up, he’d always heard stories about the delightful man his father had been before the cruel exchange and how immediate the change had been after.

Charles didn’t believe most of what he’d heard. The man he knew had kept his son and everyone else at arm’s length. Charles, who believed that his father somehow blamed him for his mother’s death and sometimes even joined him in this belief, had spent most of his youth at a boarding school far from home, learning all the skills and manners that had gotten him to where he was. He never had time to write to his father, who reciprocated the sentiment. Theirs was a strained relationship.

When a massive heart attack took his father late one afternoon, no one noticed until it was time for dinner almost 6 hours later. He’d been discovered in his study, his personal sanctuary where he was known to disappear for hours at a time. When he was over twenty minutes late for dinner, which he never missed for any reason, the blanket “Do Not Disturb” policy was broken. He’d been slumped over his desk with the last remains of Charles’s inheritance spilled out on the floor.

It’s been a very long time, thought Charles. Upon receiving news of his father’s death, Charles hadn’t even thought of shedding a tear. He immediately left school and came home to sell off his father’s estate and all of the baggage attached to it. He would use the money to finance his new life and a new business venture.

He’d discovered Bill rooting around in the woods at the edge of the vast property. After inviting him in for a warm meal, Charles had found a better business partner than he could possibly have hoped for. Bill’s superhuman size and strength always made negotiations much smoother.

There were voices at the front door. “Aw-right, Bill, ” he announced. “It’s showtime.”

They took their positions as the tumblers in the lock squeaked and popped. They should have tried the backdoor, thought Charles, laughing to himself. It’s open.

The door opened and the two unfamiliar faces were greeted by two unfamiliar faces, waiting for them eagerly in the foyer. The woman started to scream but Charles brought his gun out from his pocket and raised a finger to his lips. Her husband stood in front of her with his jaw hanging open.

Charles’s lines flowed naturally, as if he were saying them for the first time. “Good evening. If ya’ll could please have a seat and speak only when spoken to, then I think we can get this unfortunate ugliness over with rather quickly. Thank you for dinner, by the way. Bill, thank the nice folks.”

Bill stepped from the shadows and nodded with a grunt, pounding his monstrous left palm with the club in his right.

Beneath Your Window

The sweetest pillow my head hath known

Was little more than a humble stone

If only because twas lodged beneath your window

Though sleep resisted and my head did smart

It did wonders for my heart

If only because twas lodged beneath your window

I dreamt of you, my love, for quite some time

Safe, warm, and happy in my mind

Though a coat of frost grew across your window

Cold it was though I slept fine

Until I awoke around midnight

To find blue lights flashing bright upon your window

I swore there had been some mistake

But I felt my heart begin to break

I saw you crying through your upstairs window

You see, the last time that we met in court

I thought it was a joke of sorts

A lovers' game; to keep me from your window

You said you did not know my name

I said loved you just the same

Forever I would wait beneath your window

Yet here I sit in my tiny cell

Wondering if it's just as well

That metal bars encase my only window

Though my time in here may take it's toll

Before you know I'll be up for parole

And with any luck, they'll tell me that I can go

So please, my darling, save the date

I'll see you soon; in six to eight

Moonlit, we'll meet again beneath your window.

With love,

Larry

The Excluded (a.k.a. The Cyber Dead)

Stephen is disconnected. His high-end laptop is as dead as the proverbial doornail. His artificially intelligent phone is nothing more than an expensive paperweight. It has only been a few weeks but already he's become use to the isolation. He walks down the street as seldom as possible these days, but when he does, he takes the four small walls of his apartment and the cramped space between them with him.

On paper, Stephen is still alive and well. But paper is irrelevant. Social networking pages, portable telephone numbers, television. These are the things that connect a man to the world today. Without them, he floats through his days alone and free. Total freedom. Who knew?

Stephen has a family. Or he did. He hasn't spoken with them (or anyone else, for that matter) in the past few weeks. They might be worried. He hopes they are. But he has disappeared before. Never for this long. But it's happened.

The last time had been for three days. There had been no particular reason for it. Stephen finds that very few actions are motivated by reason today. Instant gratification tastes oh so sweet. And why not? If the book of Genesis is to be believed, it was the want for more than instant gratification, the need for reason, that got us into this whole human mess in the first place.

And what a mess it is! Unless I’ve been misinformed (which we must take a moment to realize is certainly very possible; we’re all so gullible in the long run), we (and I mean humanity as a whole) couldn’t make it two generations into this whole thing without letting our homicidal tendencies get the best of us. Oh to be the logical creatures that we pretend!

Stephen thinks too much. He recognizes and acknowledges all of the above with minimal reluctance. He just can’t help himself. (Thank God Stephen’s not homicidal!) The thinking in and of itself isn’t the problem.

People wouldn't mind, but Stephen has a bad habit of thinking out loud. He'll babble on and babble on and babble on in Babylon. Are you paying attention? No one ever asks him to be quiet but he can tell that they're thinking of nothing else. So he did one time.

Stephen unplugged. He turned off the lights and unplugged the phone. He shut down his laptop and locked the door behind him. He walked outside into the pouring rain with nothing but a bad idea in his head and a few dollars in his pocket.

He'd turned up a few days later physically tired and broke. Yet his heart had been so light. Stephen’s introverted inclinations disappeared for a moment. Walking to his parents’ door, he’d smiled at every person whose path he crossed. He’d even gone so far as to wave and speak to the familiar faces. Every one of them politely waved back and brushed him of as quickly as decorum would allow. The false smiles would disappear before they’d even turned completely around. Stephen had thought to himself that the rain must have washed them away.

Stephen’s heart grew heavy again. He’s been gone for these weeks trying to make a point to the people he loves. He’s not online yet still he exists. The physical interactions let you know you’re not alone in the universe. Prolonged isolation, modernity’s most prized possession, has even managed to convince a few that there is no universe. They just possess extremely active imaginations. It’s an interesting thought but something in Stephen just won’t let him buy into it. Even if he could, the discomfort of being an ineffective god would probably bring him back to the same conclusions he’s already reached.

Stephen is going home now. The wilderness that starts just south of what once was 8^th Avenue has given him the solitude he’s needed. He hopes someone has noticed his absence but that’s not really important.

As Stephen walks into the city at twilight, he sees the sun burn a brilliant red on the horizon like it never has before. He pauses for a moment. It dawns on him, ‘neath the rays of the setting sun, that he hears absolute silence. Yet for once in his life, he hears everything. The city is dark.

As Stephen gets closer and closer to the city, he realizes that something is very different. He begins to see people in the street. Bonfires burn freely in the alleys. People sit in large groups, larger than he’s ever seen, gathered round the fires like the ghosts of cavemen. Then it hits him. He hasn’t seen an operational vehicle yet. Neon advertisements seemed to have disappeared. The streetlights are out. All of the lights are out. Stephen is not alone anymore.

Look To The Stars

Aeons ago, just after the beginning, there was a man who couldn't sleep. He suffered from what was at that point the worst case of insomnia this world had ever seen. It had nothing to do with financial or social responsibilities. The world was young enough that man had not yet learned to be afraid and nightmares suffered from lack of source material. Though entirely a possibility, the historical record does not mention a woman.

Night after night he fought with his pillow, turning it this way and that. He tossed and he turned on the ground. Like all of the people, his dwelling protected him from the cool night air. Yet still sleep did not come. Days passed and each morning the flaming sky taunted his bleary eyes. The days became longer and longer until he no longer knew the difference between day and night. The nightly fire became to him the evening sun until the darkness chased them all inside.

He lay alone staring at the ceiling again and again. At times, the man would reach out his hand and feel nothing. It would fall down by his side again, empty.

One night, the man’s fatigue became something more. Within himself, he felt desperation when he reached out his hand and then a solemnity settled upon him that could only be described as final. He got up from his dwelling place and walked outside into the darkness. The embers in the circular fire pit still glowed softly around the edges; their warmth and light imprisoned in their ashen shell. The wind blew like a strike to the face.

In those days, all men still spoke with God. There were no set apart orders or charismatic leaders. In a time before distraction, God’s constant presence was felt by mankind, gifting them with a personal faith that they have sought to reclaim ever since.

The man bowed down and began to pray, saying, "O My God, why has sleep departed from your servant? My bones ache and my mind races! After seven days even You rested from your labor.”

There was no answer.

“Lord, what would you have me do?” he asked, keeping his face to the ground. “If it be your will, grant your servant understanding.”

Still there was silence.

“Please, Almighty God!” he pleaded, pounding his fists on the ground. “If nothing else, grant your servant a reprieve! I can take no more!”

The man rose to his knees, “Since I was a boy, I have learned to walk in Your ways. All of my days, I’ve done my best to walk the path of righteousness, yet I know that tonight you have something to say to me. I pray please! Say it! For I fear this might be my last night to hear it.”

Exhausted, the man began weeping. “My Lord, I give myself over to you. I have lived in the world of light and darkness for too long! I see you each day in my brothers and sisters, yet at night it seems that You depart from me. I beg that You let me hear what You speak to me. Quiet my mind! Open my eyes and ears! Let me know that you hear me!”

He rubbed his watery eyes and looked up. With the fire dead where it lay, he saw, for the very first time, the night sky unobstructed. He gasped in wonder at the countless stars above, sprinkled densely across the wide open sky. In the uninhibited darkness, their light shone even brighter.

It's Christmas, Dear Readers...

I've never been the type to get worked up over Christmas. My mother has loved Christmas ever since she was a kid and my sister inherited both our portions of this trait. To this day, I ask every Christmas Eve to be left alone until everyone else is up to open presents. Each and every year, I've been awakened by a soft knock on my bedroom door and excited whispers. I love my baby sister.

But this year has been different. I usually get as much out of watching my mom, sister, and, after he came along, my little brother enjoy the festivities as I do from my own participation. But finals ran late this year and my roommate, who's become like a brother to me, had to move for reasons out of his control, leaving me far more time alone than should be permitted. With the TV on for background noise while studying or resting from studying, it's easy to get misanthropic when being bombarded by unrepentant commercialism and praying to GOD Almighty that the folks on Maury are really paid actors.

Driving through the city streets to class, work and home again, it's hard to imagine anyone being justified in waking up to a new car Christmas morning when there are homeless people selling newspapers on every street corner, trying to work their way out of their situation. I often wonder what the man behind the holiday would think of what it's become.

When you're single and beyond exhausted, these things become readily apparent. The idea of suffering through one more jewelry commercial is enough to stir up thoughts of violence. X-Mas often seems (to me anyway) a much more appropriate name for the season. But then I moved home.

On my mother's side of the family, it's a tradition that the extended family will draw names out of a hat at Thanksgiving and an act of charity will be performed in whoever's name one has drawn. On Christmas Day, we gather together for a large meal and take turns reading the good that was done in everyone's honor. Skeptical though I was at first (I was a child when the tradition started. The presents were everything.), it has become a moving and often tearful experience every year. For example, two or three people will often join together to adopt an area family for Christmas, making sure there is plenty of food on the table on Christmas and the children will have something to unwrap in the morning.

Due to an inclement forecast, our Christmas dinner was bumped up o Christmas Eve this year. After a delicious turkey dinner and an hour of people telling tales of good deeds scrawled inside Christmas cards, we all parted ways to beat the coming snow and possibly for a nap. The snow began falling like it meant it as my immediate family pulled into our driveway and it hasn't stopped yet.

As a white blanket coats everything I can see, I turn out all of the light inside save those on the Christmas tree. You can almost hear the snowflakes crunch when they hit the ground. My baby brother (Note: Unlike my 18 year-old sister, he's close enough, at 9 years old, to still be considered universally my "baby" brother.) has set out cookies for Santa and is so excited for Mr. Kringle's impending arrival that he's already been to bed twice but couldn't sleep. (Another note: My "baby" sister, the one who is notorious for waking the family as early as possible each year, is also having trouble sleeping.)

Dear Readers (for I hope there are at least two of you), this is what Christmas is about. X-Mas hasn't won out yet. Seeing a young man ponder over whether Santa would prefer chocolate chip or sugar cookies, and then baking both with his older sister, just to be on the safe side brings a happiness that doesn't come around any other time during the rest of the year. I don't know exactly what the "Christmas spirit" is (though I sincerely hope they don't mean ghosts like Dickens') but I've got to believe this is what they mean.

And so, Dear Readers, I want to take the opportunity to wish you all a very Merry Christmas. I hope you can all enjoy this time with loved ones and that your every wish may be granted (if you've been good this year.) Thank you for your readership this year and I hope we can continue on this journey together far into the future! God Bless!

-Langford Milestone V

Stray Cats Go To Hell

My eyes scream open as one bottomless breath tears through my lungs. I try to exhale, but it’s frozen in my throat. I’m hurting, drowning in anguish. I smell blood. I taste blood. Between the alternating throbbing and fleeting numbness, I realize that I can’t move. The world around me is nonexistent in the blinding light overhead. A dense fog swirls and spins and churns and rolls until it settles upon my shoulders.

As the instantaneous panic of realizing that I am indeed alive fades, I grope wildly for the things hidden in the back of my brain. Who am I and what am I doing here, in this brutally well lit room? And I begin to remember things. Things jumbled together from random memories. Things that slowly sort themselves into logical sequences. Things that I haven’t thought about in a long time. Things that tell the story of how I and why I became me. And how I came to be in this hospital bed.

I was raised in a good, Christian household, taught good, Christian morals, and made to adhere to them with good, Christian discipline in my old Kentucky home. I always minded my mama and respected my father. I was a good student and (I would like to think) well liked among my peers. But that was all before I met them.

Graduation came and went and I set out to find my fame and fortune. Within a year and a half, I decided to hell with the fame. The fortune would be enough for me. Another year and I’d decided that my treasure map was broken and I just needed to find a new one. And that’s when they called. They chose a close friend of mine from high school to make the initial contact. One brief meeting for lunch changed my life forever.

The Bosnian mafia doesn’t play as I soon found out. “Delivering some packages for a friend of my dad” turned into a decade of moving nondescript cardboard boxes from one location to another, no questions asked. The compensation suffered minor variations from time to time, but it was always more than enough for me to keep my nose out of business that “didn’t concern me”. The phone would ring and a deep voice with a heavy Eastern European accent would rattle off times, addresses, and instructions before a faint click echoed in the receiver. I never asked what I was transporting. Something in the back of my mind told me that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

Early on, the money was enough to convince me that I had a good thing going. But as I aged and gained more (near-death) experience, I began to contemplate deeper things than pizza money and utility bills. My thoughts continuously drifted back to my childhood and the good people I had known. Many hours were sacrificed to the deceptively simple question of what constituted a good person? I knew what I was doing was wrong. Thinking about it left an acrid, metallic taste in my mouth and emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

And so I got out. Not really “out”. But as close to “out” as one could. I ran. But they found me. Our reunion wasn’t a pleasant event, but my friends higher up in the ranks had arranged it so that I would be allowed to retire with the stipulation that if they called, I would answer. I readily agreed, happy to be the exception to the “body bag rule”. (e.g. “The only way out is in a body bag.”)

And so I rode off into the sunset, to live out my life in relative peace with enough financial resources to allow me to keep to myself. Until yesterday.

The phone rang around noon and a distantly familiar voice instructed me to be at the Minit Mart down the street at seven o’clock that night. A black BMW would be waiting with a man inside named Bob. This would be the last time they would ever call me, the voice assured. And then the familiar click. I was glad. That rotten feeling in my gut had returned. I felt sick.

I arrived at the Minit Mart three minutes ahead of the appointed time. The BMW was already waiting. It was immediately apparent that “Bob” was more likely a Vlad or a Piotr from the former Yugoslavia judging by his accent. I got in the car after a brief introduction and gave Bob the directions I had received over the phone as to where our shipment was waiting. Bob, apparently a rockabilly enthusiast, nodded knowingly, and turned up radio as we sped away. As “Summertime Blues” blared shamelessly, we rode in silence with intermittent breaks of Bob howling along with whichever Stray Cats or Brian Setzer tune caught his fancy. I gazed out the window as the world rolled by, stationary in my tiny universe consisting of the forward passenger seat. The feeling had not gone away and now my head was throbbing as well. I turned to ask Bob if he wouldn’t mind turning down the radio when a sudden burst of oppressive heat and a massive concussive force threw me in every direction. The last thing I remember seeing was Bob disappearing into a cloud of fire and smoke.

I wish now that I’d listened to my mother and become a minister. But I didn’t. So here I am. I don’t even know where “here” is. But I figure since all dogs go to heaven, then Stray Cats (and their listeners) must go to hell.

Until You Tire of Me

He took her by the hand and looked deep into her eyes. In the sunshine, everything seemed so dreamlike. She smiled a weak smile at him before turning away with the wind.

There was a lump in his throat, suddenly parched to the point of cracking. He cleared it as best he could.

"I'm here," he said. "And I will be."

She turned back to him with eyes a million miles away. Yet he knew she was listening.

"Regardless of anything else, I want you to remember this: we're friends. Not in a casual, polite, superficial way. But in the true sense of the word. I'm here for you. And I'll always be. You'll get tired of me for one reason or another; probably sooner than later. I'll watch you slowly slip away when the time comes, pretending that I don't notice, because I know it's what you want. You'll tell me otherwise again and again. But that will let me know without a doubt that you're as good as gone. But I'll still be here. I'll watch as you walk away from here and get in his car. I'll feel the rhythmic thump in my chest as he drives by and flashes me a triumphant grin while you're looking the other way.

I'll sit here for a while and wonder why I do this to myself. I'll wish that I was someplace or somebody else and wallow for a while. I'll get so angry at you and then I'll take it out on me. I've never been a fighter (which I guess is why we're here in the first place). I mean, after all, anything you've done, I let you do to me, right? I'm a man for God's sake! Shouldn't I be strong enough for you, me, and anyone else that might come along?

I know I'm not the easiest person to be around. God knows I can't do it somedays. You say you feel like we don't talk anymore. The silence is deafening, you say. But what I can't explain is how those silences are when I get to take you in. The music of your breath, in and out and in and out; your scent dancing through the room and melting me away to nothing; the statuesque beauty and grace of you just existing on the sofa next to me.

But I know. I've always known. Good things aren't meant to last. You'll go on without me and I'll stay here and pray for some kind of sleep. Anything to make that aching go away. I'll find a way.

You'll think about me from time to time. You'll feel guilty. But you should know that, if I could, I would take that burden from you. Because I knew. I always knew. I simply loved you too much. My heart told my head that it misremembered. Nothing could really hurt that badly and the set-up makes it worth suffering the punch-line.

So please don't think of me in the past tense. Because I also know that one day he'll be gone and you'll think of me. And I'll still be here for you. Always.

I can only imagine that once, in some lifetime long ago, our roles were reversed and now I'm here to make make up for my sins against you. Or maybe I've chosen this. Either way, I know you won't always need me. I have accepted that. But when you do, I'll be here.

And you will. I'll welcome you back. You'll find the same person you left here. Then eventually, whether it be the dry humor or the lackluster domestic performance or any multitude of other peeves, I will start to wear on your nerves. You'll tire of me once again."

He saw a tear well up and she smiled sadly before rising, hugging him, and silently walking towards the man waiting in his car.

"And it will all begin one more time."