The 36

Mid-July sun warmed my face as I waited for the 36. The bakery behind the bus stop, Cup These Cakes, caused a lot of drama with the conservative women in town, but filled the air with the delicious scent of fresh-baked bread. It's hard to complain about the name of the place when the gals behind the counter produce some of the best lemon glazed pastries I've ever had the fortune of sinking my teeth into.

I didn't move quickly anymore. I didn't care to hurry, even if I had still been able. I walked with a cane, and I found myself accosted at nearly every street corner by well-meaning girls and boys looking to earn their 'Help A Geezer' badge from whichever group they belonged to.

The bus pulled up, bringing along with it the usual scent of gasoline fumes. Dust coated my tongue when I inhaled, and I coughed violently. The kind of cough that shakes your frame and makes you wonder if you're about to pass out. Or throw up. A woman behind me put her hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay? Would you like some water?"

"No," I said, once I stopped coughing, "I'll be fine. My lungs just don't agree with all the fresh air the bus brings with it."

She laughed. With the aid of my cane, I carefully navigated up the steps of the bus. Swiping my card, I heard the familiar "beep" that meant I was allowed to sit for a few blocks. I moved slowly down the aisle, careful not to trip over anyone's extended foot or poorly-placed backpack.

I sat near the back, asking first to make sure an empty seat wasn't taken. It wasn't. It felt great to be off my feet, even for just a few minutes of a bus ride. My knees felt creaky. I sometimes wished I was a robot so all it would take was a can of oil to fix me up. My granddaughter Leslie would love to be related to a real Tin Man. I chuckled to myself at the image.

The bus began moving once the new passengers all seated themselves. The seats vibrated as the engine worked to bring the bus up to speed. A mother a few seats behind me worked to keep her children from running all over the aisle and other passengers. A man in front of me struggled to keep his music device working; his curses and the broken pieces of a woman's heartfelt lyrics alternated to create a new song entirely.

Before anyone could figure out what had happened, we found ourselves in the middle of a bus crash. Horns blared outside, and the bus jerked sharply to the right. Strangers fell against me, against everyone on my side of the bus. The squeal of metal on metal would have bothered me more, were it not for the fact I was busy trying to breathe. Everything went into slow motion, like it does in the movies.

All I knew was that we'd hit at least one car, and from the sound of it, one had run into the back of the bus as well, probably causing more issues behind them. We came to a stop, and most of the passengers had stopped screaming. One woman in the back continued to wail, in fear as well as in pain. Warm, thick liquid dripped down my forehead, and for a moment, I hoped it wasn't mine.

A sharp pain in my chest warned me that someone's misplaced elbow might have broken a rib. People struggled away from the right side of the bus, and a child began to cry near the front. The smell of rubber and hot metal filled the interior of the bus, and I began to cough again. Sirens filled the air as police cars and ambulances showed up to help the injured from the vehicles involved in the wreck. Hopefully to arrest the asshole who caused it all, too.

My heart beat painfully in my chest. How terrible would that be to die in a bus crash, not because of the actual crashing, but because of a heart attack only minutes later? EMTs helped people out of the bus and checked everyone. No fatalities, thank the Lord, and only a few injuries serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. One medic sat me down on the back of his ambulance. My heart still worked overtime in my chest, and I gripped my cane firmly.

"Are you okay, mister? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"I can't see how many fingers you've got up, son. I'm blind." I said. I smiled, perhaps a little sardonically. "Been blind my whole life."



Writing Exercise: Write a story about a bus crash from the point of view of a blind man. Don't let on that he's blind until the end of the story.

The Many Paths

I'm a drifter, a squatter. I have no life of my own. I hear it happens sometimes; a soul gets displaced, and is able to wander about between realities to see every possible life he or she could have had. If it sounds glamorous, I can tell you that it's most certainly not. You never feel... comfortable, in a life. Or maybe it's just me, because I found love and searched through so many lives to find my happy ending. I'm still searching.

I met him for the first time when I was 24. We met through work in the life I'd chosen to settle in. I'd known since I was little that no life was truly my own, but by my mid-twenties, I'd decided I had enough skipping about alternate lives.

When we met, it was a taste of destiny. I can't say that there was an angelic chorus, but it was close enough. An immediate connection, the way he looked at me, everything was perfect. If you could overlook the ring on his finger. I wanted to, and maybe on some level he did as well, but that's not the way things work out. It only took a few weeks before I decided to look for a life in which things could have been different with him.

I found him again when I was 14 years old. I was out shopping with my mom, and saw him at the food court with his friends. I stopped by his table, my mom went ahead to order us some food. We made eye contact, and a subtle bell tone played at the edge of my hearing. Deja vu, soul memory, whatever you want to call it. We stared at each other, he smiled slightly, and I turned my head and walked away. 14 was too young for what I wanted from him, and you can't really explain to a man that you've loved him in other lives.

I found him in a life where he wasn't so perfect for me. We were together for a few years before alcohol convinced him it was okay to be verbally abusive... physically abusive. With tears, I left to search for another time in which we could be together.

I found him in lives where I died young. I found him in lives where tragic accidents took him away only years after we'd met. We remained faithful to each other, that was a constant. There was passion, always. I'd never met anyone like him, and didn't care to look further than him. I skipped past lives where we'd never met at all. I wondered, how long can I keep this up? How long will I be allowed to jump between lives until whatever higher power there was decided I'd had enough fun?

There's no real passage of time, for me. I don't know when I'll be satisfied. Maybe when I come to a life where we get at least fifty, sixty years to love each other. Maybe then I'll let my soul move on, die happy as an old woman with spoiled grand children.

I met him again today. I'm in my mid twenties again. His eyes are the same, intense brown that the have been every other time we've met. The sky is a little bluer in this life, not sure why. The sun burns with a warmth that seems more fierce. Maybe some catastrophe will strike us in a few years, and I'll move on again. But he introduced himself in the coffee shop, a script of his spread out before him on the table. His hand was warm, and familiar in a way he'd come to recognize, and a way I'd known from life times spent holding it.

He told me he felt like he'd met me somewhere before, and asked if he could see me again. I smiled, wrote down my phone number, and kissed him on the cheek. He was surprised, pleased, by my confidence. We were meant to be, and I'll look until I find our life together.

A Sketch

She walks into the parlor, admiring the decor and the lighting of the place. It's not too bright, nor too dim. The candles on the walls are numerous enough that they match the light from any bulb she's seen, and there is something to be said for the mellow flickering of fire verses the almost harsh light of a lamp.

"I've heard so much about you," she says, clasping the artist's hands. They aren't calloused hands of a worker, but neither are they the soft hands of a man who spends too much time avoiding work. She smells something faint, and pleasant, coming from an adjacent room. "They say there's no one better with a pencil."

He smiles, and it reaches up to his eyes. She feels a little more at ease with what she's signed up for. He's pleasantly surprised by what he sees. He expected another high society woman; haughty, her hair pulled back too tightly, her face covered by too much paint. With this woman, he sees he won't even need to ask her to take her hair down. It's already in gentle curls around her face and resting on her shoulders.

"I'm flattered. I just find there's peace in drawing, and if I can make someone else happy while I do it, so much the better. Please, have a seat."

She sees the small table covered with various artists tools, and the easel that's waiting for its paper. She seats herself on the chaise lounger while he sits on the stool next to his station.

"I do have a privacy screen I can put up while you undress, if you'd like. Once you're in a comfortable position, I'll need you to be as still as possible for the duration. Don't worry too much about needing to scratch your nose, I understand that the body does strange things when required to stay in one place."

"I understand, and..." she blushes, "I'd like the privacy screen, please."

He smiles again.

"Of course."

He stands the screen between them, looking away politely as she begins to remove pieces of her clothing. She notices that he's mentioned nothing of the reason she's there; the fiance she knows will love this surprise. She wonders if this is standard practice, and finds that she doesn't want to be the one to bring him up. While looking into the artist's eyes, she'd all but forgotten the reason she called on him in the first place.

He's seen more beautiful women than his client, but there's something about her he can't quite put his finger on. Perhaps in drawing, it'll come to him.

She stretches out on the chaise, feeling vulnerable, embarrassed, and a little excited. She tries not to think about how many other women have been here before, just as naked, waiting to be studied by him.

"I'm ready... I think." She giggles, then cuts it off abruptly when she hears the obvious nervousness in the laugh. It's just a drawing, for pity's sake! She hears him chuckle in return, and he slides the screen to the side.

She's laying on her side, head resting on an outstretched arm. Her other arm is stretched down the length of her, with her fingertips resting lightly on her thigh. "Is this okay?"

He nods once, taking in every detail of her body... for his sketch, of course. He tries to be purely objective, this is a job, after all. But he thinks it would be foolish to deny what the candle light does to her skin, the curve of her hip and the swell of her breast. He takes out his pencil, and a fresh piece of parchment.

"I hope you're comfortable, you're going to be here a while."


There is no time when there are no clocks ticking. There is no night and day when the only light is candle-born to begin with. He starts with basic curves, gentle lines. He stops every few seconds to make sure the angles are just right, that he's bringing her to life on paper. He's trying desperately to forget why she first came to him, and instead focuses on the slight smile that keeps creeping to her lips, then disappearing. He's drawing the smile whether or not it's on her face when he looks at her, for it does something beautiful to the rest of the picture.

He's studying her. He's drawing her. He's falling in love with her.

She's never been looked at this way. She's wondering if coming here is the mistake, or if the mistake is her plan to marry someone else.

Neither of them know how many minutes or hours have passed once he drops his pencil for the final time. He continues to stare at her. She knows he's finished, but can't bring herself to look away. She wants to approach him, be close to him without the privacy screen coming back to bring her to her senses. In her hesitation, the moment passes, and he's left her to dress. In his hesitation, he's stopped himself from a potential embarrassment and serious breach of etiquette. The screen divides them.

He memorizes the picture on his easel as best he can. He knows she'll come back to his dreams, but will her image be this clear in his waking life? She pulls the screen aside, tucked safely within the confines of her clothing. Her cheeks are still a bit flushed, and she looks a little sad. She's feeling as if something is missing, and doesn't want to admit what it is.

He shows her the sketch, and another nervous giggle escapes her. She takes the drawing and hastily looks away. "It's... well, I've never seen myself this way."

"You hardly looked at it," he teases, fighting the urge to tell her she can't have the drawing, that he wants to keep it for his own. He doesn't want another man, who's probably seen her naked dozens of times, to see this picture.

"I'll look at it more closely when I'm not being looked at. I can't stop blushing."

She's already paid him ahead of time, so there is no exchange of money. She stands at the door, and sees that night has closed in around them. They stare at each other again, and the air is thick with everything they aren't saying to one another. "Thank you." She whispers, turning to leave his home.

He says nothing as she disappears. He waits another few endless moments, plagued by indecision.

"Oh, hell." He says to the silence. He grabs his coat and dashes out the door.

Less Writing, More Pictures

I haven't been writing in my blog lately (clearly), but I've been doing some writing in a story I'm working on. Instead, I thought I'd share where I've been posting the pictures I've been taking with my new camera. Specifically the albums from my Oregon trip, Mt. Rainier, Testing 123, and Markets and Bars. Enjoy!

http://s42.photobucket.com/home/FookinPikey/allalbums

A Missed Flight

Stars twinkled overhead, dulled much by the city's light pollution. It seemed worse than usual, and the smell of garbage overtook the man standing in front of his apartment complex.

"God... I hate this city," Steve muttered to himself. He checked his watch, impatient for the cab he'd called fifteen minutes previous. The cab was the first step to a glorious vacation; a cab ride, an airplane, and then all the tropical drinks he could stand. He was excited, too, for he was going ahead of his wife to surprise her. The thought of the clues he'd left behind to lead her to her ticket cheered him considerably.

The cab pulled up in front of the building as if his complaining had teleported it from locations unknown. The driver stepped out, a small man with a large bald spot on his head, and an almost obscenely bright orange shirt.

"Evening, sir! Can I take your bag?" The man asked, sounding pleased to be of service. Steve smiled, handing the bag to him. He walked around to the left side, letting himself into the back seat. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed, but there was another man slouched in the seat next to him. The smell of too many air fresheners made Steve's nose burn slightly. As the driver returned to his seat, a flurry of chaos hit the car.

The man next to Steve, with one deft movement, dropped a black bag over his head. He struggled in vain, for the bag reeked of something that was causing him to feel as if he were swimming through molasses. The driver was shouting something unintelligible in the front seat, and the man to his left was also shouting. Steve thought he heard the words "wife", "money", and "gun". He felt the barrel of something cold press against his neck, and his already pathetic struggles ceased.

"I don't have much money..." he said thickly, getting the taste of whatever pungent chemical they'd used in the bag all over the inside of his mouth. This caused another chorus of yells from both strangers in the cab.

He felt the car take many twists and turns, and found himself praying to a God he wasn't sure existed. All he'd wanted to do was take a vacation with his wife! Would he ever see her again? The car stopped, and Steve was pulled unceremoniously from the cab. He was marched a few feet, dropped into a chair, and had his ankles and wrists bound. He heard the distinct sound of a knife being sharpened, and his heart pounded with a fear he'd never known in his life. Not during any horror movie, or stupid stunt when he was a kid, had he ever been so frightened.

Now it sounded as if 20 men were yelling at him, and he heard the sound of a metal door being pulled shut. The bag was yanked off his head, and he shut his eyes against the light pointed directly at his face.

"Please, please! I have a wife, I don't want to die, I'm too young..." Steve was shaking from head to toe, and was thankful that the ropes binding him weren't cutting into his skin. He felt as if he were about to lose his dinner.

"Die, Steve Geller? You won't be dying here tonight. But... you will be on CANDID CAMERA!"

The light shut off, and he found himself staring into the grinning face of a tall man in a business suit. There was a crew behind him, laughing and cheering. He noticed the two cameras, one in front and one to his left. The camera's red lights blinked, taking in the wet spot on his khaki pants, and the lack of color in his face. The taste of that chemical was still in his mouth... and Steve threw up all over the front of his nice Hawaiian shirt.

Candid Camera: Extreme Edition, was terminated after the pilot was previewed by a select panel of viewers. Steve Geller won his lawsuit, and is now living comfortably with his wife on his own private island. The show's host Martin Adams sustained only a fractured arm and a bruised cheekbone once Steve had been untied.

A Forest Full Of Lies

I still believe in love at first sight, because I experienced it when I was too young to be a cynic. Most people would call it puppy love, or infatuation. But no; at age 11, I saw a glimpse of the future I was meant to have. Could have had. Maybe in a different life time we'll meet again and things will be different.

I can count the times I've seen you on both of my hands, and maybe a toe or two. The times we spoke, however, would require a lot of other people's digits to count. The times you were honest with me, maybe just one hand. I think you did love me, in your own way, but you were too broken to know it and too entrenched in the mire of your own making to see that I would have been the best thing for you. I would have done anything for you, short of dying for you. I wouldn't have done that, because I wanted to live for you.

It took me two years to tell you how I felt about you, and at 13, I didn't really have the words for it yet. Some flowery poetry about passion I had no idea about, phrases from books I probably read and mimicked. The love was genuine though, and I treasured the times I saw you more than you can know.

You jerked me around, you used me, and you took away things that were precious from me. You made me the cynic I am today, you were the first heart-breaker, and even somehow managed to steal what was meant for you that day in your bed. I offered it willingly, so how did I come away feeling robbed and empty? But it's easy to ignore that sort of thing when you love someone, isn't it?

The last time I saw you, I finally saw first hand the damage you'd done to other people, and the damage you'd done to yourself. A woman, pregnant with your child, who was a year younger than me and crying because she was so alone. That could have been me... and I would have allowed it, too. I saw what was on your computer, and got her to admit to me that she'd known for much longer, the things you looked at when you thought you were invisible. When she went away to work, you visited me in the guest room and told me you loved me. You said the things that took me back to being 13 again, standing in the forest, looking up into your guileless eyes and seeing what should have been.

I find myself thinking about you all the time, and my heart aches every time I do. I've burned the bridge between us; burned it, got rid of the remains, and stand on the other side of it longing for you still. I see you over there, destroying yet another life, and I hate myself for how I feel. I should have left when I heard the first lie cross your lips. There's a place in my heart for you still, and I have a feeling I won't really ever say good bye.

You Don't Miss It Til It's Gone

Noah's eyes opened slightly, and he winced as a bright light was shone into his face. His arms were bound before him, and he found that he was sitting cross legged. As reality came back into focus, he noticed he was sitting on grass, and what bound his hands at the wrists appeared to be shimmering.

"Where..."

"SILENCE." A chorus of voices spoke in unison, startling him out of finishing the question. He looked around and saw that he was in a ring of mushrooms, out in the forest, and a full moon appeared in the sky high above him. How had he been stolen from his bed without waking up? Why in the world had he been abducted in the first place?

"Noah Avenford, you're here to answer for the death of your Fae companion. What say you?" It was a single voice that questioned him now, and it sounded as if it were directly behind the light. Interrogation tactics, hah! He wouldn't answer the lunatic's questions. Instead, he focused his efforts on breaking apart the gossamer threads that bound him. He found them exceptionally strong, and they were causing his skin to tingle as he rubbed his wrists together.

The light seemed to float closer to his face, causing him to squint. Then the light dimmed, and he found himself staring directly into the face of a small, angry looking man. With wings.

"I must be dreaming." He said aloud, knowing how cliche it was to say such a thing in this sort of circumstance. But what else could it be? Certainly there wasn't a fairy floating a few inches from his face...

"Noah Avenford, this is no dream. The evidence is clear; you murdered your Fae companion. Have you anything to say in your defense, Human?"

"My what?"

The fairy man, more quickly than Noah could follow, had pulled a small knife from his side and poked him in the nose.

"The innocent Fae, Awen-alore, is cold and dead this eve, because of your careless words."

"I don't believe in..."

A loud cry rose from the group of winged people behind the speaker, and the tiny man poked his nose harder to stop him from finishing his sentence.

"That is exactly what got you here, Human. And as you've attempted to murder one of our kind again, there will be no verdict other than the obvious. Guilty!"

"GUILTY!" The voices cried in unison. Noah's heart raced. Would they kill him? If this was real... would they really be so cruel in the face of his ignorance? No one believed in fairies!

"Noah Avenford, for killing your Fae companion, we charge you to a life without a Fae presence. You will receive no replacement companion, you will be as yesterday to us, forgotten and unimportant. You will be judged, once more, upon your death."

He woke up the next morning in his bed, drenched in sweat. He immediately checked his wrists, noticing no trace of the threads that had bound them before. In his dreams? His mouth moved uninhibited, and a quick search of the bed turned up no grass, dirt, or anything else to indicate that he had traveled. He laughed to himself. Fae companion indeed!

But his breakfast that morning tasted like cardboard. No matter how much seasoning he dashed on his eggs, he couldn't make them taste better. He found nothing on TV to amuse him. The sun traveling through a clear blue sky didn't cheer him, or make him feel anything at all, really. When he went out to the city center, people moved around him as if he were a dirty, homeless man, begging for change. He noticed he couldn't smell any of the usual things around him; the bakery, the pizza shop, car exhaust.

Noah returned home, wondering if maybe he had caught a cold. Maybe the dream had bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He decided to lay down and take a nap, hoping that would clear his head. It didn't.

That night, he discovered that he no longer dreamed.