June 13, 2005
Aaaargh!!!
More fun over at 100 Words or Les Nessman.
This time it's a Tale of Piracy
“Pray for the mercy of the almighty”, my father bellowed as swarthy feet pounded on the deck. My eyes burned from the smoke and the air was filled with the screams of God fearing folk. A hairy rogue rose before me like a demon. My nostrils were assaulted with the stink of urine, rum, and sin as my father stove in the pirate’s skull with a table leg. I stood and ran but my feet slipped in the blood. My father hauled me up by an arm and in one smooth motion, flung me over the side of the ship.
I can see this becoming a rather habitual time waster...
Posted by RobF at 01:46 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 01, 2005
100 Words
Things have been pretty sparse around here lately and, for the few regular readers that I may have, I'm sorry for that. However, the Red Sugar Momma has come to my rescue with a little bit of much needed inspiration. Thank you Tanya, I've been so sick of news and politics, it feels good to write something just for fun.
See the first of my efforts on 100 Words or Less Nessman.
I wonder if anyone will get it?
Posted by RobF at 09:56 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 15, 2005
The Hendersonville Mule
The Toyota’s engine whined as Doug Brutcher downshifted and released the clutch. He swung the car into the parking lot bathing trees in the yellow light of the headlamps. He killed the engine, climbed out of the driver’s side door, and walked to the back of the car. He removed the clamps on his bicycle rack and set the tires of the gleaming aluminum framed mountain bike on the gravel dust of the parking lot. He strapped his helmet to his head, slid his water bottle into the cage on the bicycle, and poked the toes of his right foot through the peddle straps. With an expert kick of his left foot Doug set off down the Montour trail at a comfortable clip. Having once been a railroad track, the Montour was straight and flat. He shifted the bike up to the big ring and enjoyed the breeze on his face and chest. The combined crunch and hum of the bikes knobby tires mixed with the musical chirping of a million insects as Doug raced down the trail. The temperature changed rapidly from warm humid to cool damp as the trail cut through a hillside. Sheer rock rose on both sides and Doug inhaled the smell of water, moss, and decaying plant matter. His breathing began to increase with the effort of his pumping legs and his right hand left the handle grip and groped in his pocket for his flashlight. He pulled it out, switched it on, and gripped it between his hand and the handlebar illuminating a dull swatch of limestone dust directly in front of his tire. The cool air of the valley turned into surprisingly cold air as Doug plunged into the pitch black of a train tunnel. The shock of the chilled air on his sweaty skin made him inhale sharply and his pace slowed down to a crawl as he struggled to keep the bicycle in the middle of the tunnel. The dampness intensified and an occasional drop fell from the ceiling to soak through the mesh of his shirt. He sawed the handlebars back and forth and skillfully guided the bike around the occasional mud puddles that fell under the feeble rays of the flashlight. At last the air warmed as he popped out the other end of the tunnel. He switched off the flashlight, shoved it back in his pocket, stood up on the peddles, and accelerated. He felt the collisions of a thousand tiny bodies as he passed through a cloud of gnats. Fence posts appeared on each side of the trail and the smell of cow manure permeated the air. He could make out several dark looming shapes that were piles of cut hay in the farmer’s field beyond. He coasted to a stop, pulled his water bottle from the cage on the bicycle frame, and drank deeply.
Doug rode the Montour often, but rarely at night. Neither his wife, nor any of his usual riding buddies dared venture onto the trail after dark. He slipped the bottle back in its cage and continued down the trail. The farmer’s fields ended and the trail was immediately hemmed in by the shadows of trees on either side. In some places the trees were so close that the branches touched overhead and the light of the stars was blotted out entirely. After some time, the trail began to become less and less groomed. Doug recognized the familiar landmarks along the way that told him that the marked section of the Montour was coming to an end. The Montour Trail Council funded the creation and upkeep of the trail and, being a profit free organization, it was still struggling to raise enough money to connect the various sections of the old railroad tracks and turn them into useable trails. Usually, the biggest obstacle was the refurbishing of old railroad bridges. The groomed trail slowly petered down to a path in the woods, and eventually stopped abruptly at a chain link fence that blocked access to a long railroad trestle. Doug got off his bike and turned on his flashlight. He threw the top tube of the bicycle over his right shoulder, gripped the outside pole of the fence and swung out and around the barrier. He placed the bicycle on the trestle on the other side and began the arduous journey across, careful to illuminate the timbers in front of his feet so as not to step in a gap. He could hear the babbling of Chartiers Creek fifty feet below as his bike tires bounced along the railroad timbers. It took a good four minutes to carefully make his way all the way across the long curving trestle and he swung around the chain link barrier on the far side. The trail had entirely disappeared and the only thing left was the slag rock of the old railroad tracks. The mountain bike, however, handled this rougher terrain without difficulty and Doug continued.
The going became much more difficult and Doug found himself standing up on his peddles more often. The perspiration was now standing out on his arms and it dripped into his eyes from under his helmet. He skillfully hopped the bike over a steel rail that rested half across the trail and savored the satisfying sound of spraying slag as he cranked the peddles hard and his rear tire spun before he accelerated. He reached back into his pocket for his flashlight and switched it on. After peddling for another hundred yards he made out the yawning black mouth of a second tunnel before him. He again felt the intense shift in air temperature as he rode into the total darkness. This tunnel was almost never used and the floor was scattered with debris. Rotting railroad timbers and piles of slag were scattered throughout but the tunnel was much shorter than the previous. Doug pocketed the flashlight as he popped out the other side, rode another fifty yards and came to an overgrown pile of logs and railroad timbers that completely blocked passage. This was the end of the line for this section of trail and Doug hopped off his bike, took off his helmet and drank from his water bottle. He could hear the faint dribbling of the stream that ran alongside the old tracks and he could smell the earthy aroma emanating from the pile of rotting logs. Doug jumped as something scurried through the underbrush off to his left. He pulled out the flashlight and shined the feeble light into the thick brush. His heart leapt into his throat as the foliage exploded with violent sound and activity. It took a full five or six seconds for him to realize that his light had simply spooked a turkey in the underbrush and the panicked bird made a terrifying commotion as its wings beat against the thicket and it flew up out of its hiding place. H could feel his heart hammering against his chest and he was thankful that there was nobody around to witness his momentary panic.
Doug dispatched the rest of his water bottle and put his helmet back on his head. A mosquito buzzed annoyingly in his ear as he threw his leg over the bike. He reached up and swiped the air around his head and as he did he thought he heard a sound coming from beyond the pile of logs. “Pffff-shuuuuuuuuuuuuush”, kind of far off and faint. He stopped shooing the mosquito and listened but didn’t hear it again. Cursing himself for letting the darkness get the better of him, he kicked off down the trail. He rode the fifty yards to the last tunnel, switched on his flashlight and plunged inside. Just as he did he heard the noise again, he was sure of it this time. “Shuuuuuuuuuuuuush”, like the exhaling of a huge animal. It reminded him of the comic bull in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons puffing steam out its nose and fogging up Bugs’ tail. Doug chuckled to himself as he made his way through the obstacles of the tunnel and out the other side. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder just in time to hear it again, “Shuuuuuuuuuuuuush–shuuuuuuuuuuuuush”. That was the sound of a steam locomotive, a little bit louder than before. He tried to think of where the closest railroad tracks were and he could think of several crossings on local roads in the area. “What the hell is a steam locomotive doing around here”, he asked himself aloud in the dark. All of the trains around Pittsburgh were huge modern diesel engines. He shook his head as if trying to remove the cobwebs and began to peddle. “Shuuuuuuuuuuuuush”, he guided the bicycle over the rough slag a little unnerved by the sound, “Shuuuuuuuuuuuush”, but not sure why. At last he came to the chain link unsuccessfully barring his access to the railroad trestle. He jumped off his bike and swung around the fence as he had before. “Shuuuuuuuuuuush–shuuuuuuuuuuush”, it was definitely closer. Doug swallowed hard and peered back through the fence the way he had come. “Shuuuuuuuuuush”, he turned and took a half dozen steps in a panic before his right foot slipped off the front side of one of the timbers and he shrieked as his leg plunged through the gap. His fall was stopped by his kneecap grinding painfully into the next timber in line and his bike clattered against the side of the trestle as he scrambled to pull himself back up. White hot pain lanced through his knee and up his leg. He forced himself to stand, at least partially on the sore leg in order to navigate the railroad timbers and pick up his bike. Sshuuuuuuuuush”, it was much closer now, there was absolutely no doubt about it. There were no other railroad tracks that close. Doug struggled to check his rising panic and he curbed the urge to drop his bike and run the rest of the way across the dangerous trestle. He carefully placed each step directly on every other timber limping badly on his injured knee. He could already feel the knee swelling and becoming stiff. The alkaline taste of adrenaline flooded his mouth, “shuuuuuuuush–shuuuuuuuush”. His bike tires bounced over the timbers as he carefully picked his way across. After what seemed like forever he reached the other end of the trestle, shouldered his bike, and painfully placed all of his weight on his bad leg as he swung out around the fence post. Just before he removed his foot from the trestle, he could swear he felt the iron bridge hum, as if a train were approaching. He looked through the chain link fence and could see a single dull yellow light in the distance framed by the opening of the tunnel on the far side. “Shuuuuuuush–shuuuuuuush”, Doug gave in to panic. He dropped his bike and began to limp forward before thinking better of it and going back to pick it up again. The sweat dripped out from under his helmet and stung his eyes as he struggled to get his lame leg over the bike. He didn’t bother with the peddle straps, he ignored the pain in his knee and stood up on the peddles. The breath tore from his chest in ragged half-sobs as he strained to propel the bicycle forward. “Shuuuuuush-shuuuuuush-shuuuuuush-shuuuuuush”, the trail ahead became finished limestone dust again as he flew through the night air. Trees flew by on either side and their shadows lapped menacingly on the trail surface. The once happy sound of his tires humming on the groomed surface now sounded like a scalpel being scraped over bone. He retched and looked back over his shoulder. “Shuuuuush-shuuuuush”, the light was just coming around the last lazy bend in the old tracks and he could make out a trail of steam rising from the stack of a racing locomotive and stretching up and behind the engine like a great black billowing noose. He turned back around and continued to peddle, almost refusing to believe that the dark monstrosity bearing down on him was real. He knew that he could simply ride off the tracks and wait for that thing to pass but he could not bring himself to slow down. There was no way he wanted that monster near him, even if it was just passing by. He needed to get back to his car and get the hell out of here. Panic and exertion were beginning to take their toll and his lungs felt like they were on fire. “Shuuuush-shuuuush-shuuuush-shuuuush”, he plunged into the tomb-cold air of the first tunnel and didn’t bother to reach for the flashlight. His tires hammered through mud puddles and Doug struggled to keep a straight line in the utter blackness of the tunnel cavity. His handlebar suddenly lurched to one side as it scraped against the side of the tunnel. He went down in a heap and rolled a few yards. For a few incredibly frightening moments he couldn’t locate his bicycle in the dark but at last his fingers came down on the spokes of a wheel. “Shuuush-shuuush-shuuush-shuuush”, he jumped back in the saddle and willed his spent legs to crank the bike forward, faster and faster. At last he could see the dim outline of the end of the tunnel ahead and he raced for it. “Shuush-shuush-shuush-shuush-shuush”, he glanced back over his shoulder and could see the oncoming train, already halfway through the tunnel and approaching at a maddening pace. The headlamp stared dully at him like a cancerous yellow sore in the dark. He could see hellish flames leaping in the front windows of the engine and out through the side windows. Bathed in the flames was the silhouette of the engineer reaching up to pull on the whistle. A wail of unspeakable pain poured forth from the awful apparition shaking Doug to the very core of his being and drowning out his scream. The bicycle began to stagger and rattle violently and he struggled to stay upright and in control. Looking down he was aware of rails and timbers where before only well groomed limestone dust had once lain. “SHUSH–SHUSH–SHUSH-SHUSH”, the front tire of the bicycle pitched sideways and became wedged between two of the timbers. Doug was thrown over the handlebars of the bicycle and was dimly aware of an ugly splintering sound in his right forearm as he slammed, face and arms first, into the tracks. Heedless of the agony he hauled himself to his feet in time to see the roaring, burning, black abomination of a machine tear through his body.
Sissy Macyk pulled on the leash of her six year old Golden Retriever, “come on Bo, let’s go”. The old dog finished peeing on the fence post, dropped its leg and looked up at Sissy expectantly. She turned to continue her walk up the trail and then saw something that froze her blood. Jody, her three year old daughter was standing over a man laying next to the trail and she was slapping him on the chest. “Get up! Get up you. Get up Mr. Man”, she said and then giggled, obviously proud of herself. Sissy ran forward and grabbed Jody by the hand. “Get away from there, leave that man”, the words died in her throat as she looked down. The man was dressed in bicycle shorts and jersey and one arm sprawled out to the side bent and obviously broken. His face was absolutely white and there was dried blood from his nose smeared down over his mouth and chin. Somewhat panicked, she leapt back and pulled Jody with her. Bo, always one to investigate, began to sniff the man around his ears. He didn’t move a muscle and as Sissy again approached, she reached down and was shocked at the feel of cold clammy flesh still wet with morning dew. She stifled a sob and pulled Bo and Jody back to the nearby fence post that Bo had so recently relieved himself on. She tied the dog’s leash to the post and bent down to talk to Sissy. Her voice shook more than a little, “you stay right here and hold on to Bo’s leash”, she said as she gave the child a section to hold. She reached into her fanny pack and rummaged for her cell phone as she walked back over to the body. About fifty feet up the trail she could see the man’s bicycle and, strangely enough, both of his sneakers in the middle of the trail. Next to the trail, previously unnoticed, was a granite marker, resembling a gravestone with an engraved brass plate.
“On April 6, 1887 The Hendersonville Mule, a steam locomotive hauling coal on the Montour Railroad from New Eagle to Pittsburgh, exploded at roughly this location. All three engineers aboard The Mule perished. Exact cause of the boiler explosion is unknown, although there were rumors surrounding striking steam fitters angry over bitter labor disputes. Nobody was ever implicated in the tragedy.”
Posted by RobF at 09:58 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 07, 2005
Lipstick in the Lamplight
Ray was a dead man. He jumped down from the fire escape, and started up the alleyway toward the street. He was no stranger to desperation, as he had been in the exact same situation before. Bones was obviously in the hole with somebody else. Maybe that guy was in the hole too. Probably was… All Ray knew was that he owed Bones a lot of money and there was a sore spot in his ribs from the barrel of the gun. He saw splotches of maroon blossoming on his t-shirt. He’d jack a couple of cars, drive them upstate and sell them. He had tried to reason with Bones, he told him to relax and that got him a lump on his head to go with the bruised ribs.
He buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his right hand found the cold metal butt of the revolver Bones had let him take. It didn’t have any grips, just an empty frame with no cylinder. He gripped the front of his jacket with his free hand and pressed the barrel of the busted revolver against the material until it tore through the pocket and out the front of the jacket. That would do just fine.
Ray made his way up the street past barred windows and empty storefronts. His stomach roiled and flopped over in knots, and the sweat stood out on his forehead despite the chilly November air. With the exception of the occasional drunk in an alley and crack house above an empty shop, the street was deserted. As he headed west toward the warehouse district, the setting sun blazed in his eyes and made his head pound. He passed an Asian market and the store owner glared at him as he pulled the metal grate down over his storefront. He walked another two blocks and turned into a familiar foul smelling alcove. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his dirty jeans and produced a ring with a half dozen keys. He fumbled for the right one, and began to fish around in the keyhole. After a short struggle he heard a satisfying click and he tugged the door open and stepped inside. Orange light shone through the two remaining glazed over windows in the store front. It created a sickly yellow pall on the heaps of broken shelves and rubble inside. Ray kicked a mattress out of the way and the smell of stale piss and filth wafted up at him. He pulled a broken wooden stool to the corner of one of the plywood covered windows, sat down and began to wait. He shuddered and fought the urge to puke as goose bumps rose on his arms.
The warehouse district had ceased to be a viable center for commerce long ago and the only businesses that still existed there were nightclubs and bars that took advantage of the cheap space and lack of restrictions. Ray sat in his spot on Fifth Avenue, the razor edge between ghetto wasteland and the warehouse district. He peered out through a gap between the plywood and the window frame and across the street at the ATM machine. He fought the symptoms of his addiction and he waited.
When he awoke, he could hear the hum of a distant streetlight and the deserted room was filled with dark masses and crazy shadows. In the far back corner he heard the squeaking and scurrying of a rat but his focus was on the sound of a car idling outside. He jammed his eye to the gap in the plywood and peered across the street. A silver Mercedes sports car sat silhouetted in the light from the ATM machine. Ray cursed under his breath and stood up off the stool so he could peer as far as he could up and down the street through the crack. Nobody, the street was empty.
The engine died and the interior light came on inside the car as the driver door began to open and it illuminated a woman’s dark hair and red lipstick. A long leg reached out from the driver door and a high heeled shoe clicked down on the pavement. Even in the half light, Ray ogled the flash of cleavage as the other leg followed and the woman rose up out of the sports car, turned, and pushed the door shut. His heart began to rage in his chest and he could taste the adrenaline in his mouth as the corners of his jaw began to ache in anticipation. He moved over to the door and listened to the unmistakable sound of the woman’s shoes as they tapped smartly around the front of the car. As soon as the sound stopped, he opened the door, stepped outside and began to cross the street coolly, without making a sound. The woman was facing the ATM, she was a full six feet in heels and her dark hair poured down over the back of her black leather trench coat. She had what looked to be a flashlight tucked under one arm and he cursed to himself when he heard the jingle of keys in her hand. Having reached the car, he ducked down next to the driver door, reached into his pocket, gripped the revolver, and poked the barrel out of the hole in the front of his jacket. He carefully stole a peak through the car windows and saw the woman’s long red fingernails caress the buttons of the ATM. He was close enough to smell the perfume from where she had gotten out of the car only seconds before. He watched as she grabbed the bills that the machine offered, waited for a receipt, and stuffed them both in an inside pocket of the trench coat. Ray ducked back down as she turned from the machine and the irresistible sound of high heals came closer. He waited until she walked around the front of the car then he stood up and lunged. His left hand closed on a handful of silky black hair and inside his pocket his right hand poked the barrel of the revolver cruelly into the woman’s ribs. “Gimme the keys lady, gimme the money too”… The woman reached back with the flashlight and swung. Inside his head it sounded like a hammer striking an empty wooden bucket. The vision in his left eye exploded in what looked like a shower of sparks as his head rocked back on his shoulders. Ray stumbled backwards with his fingers still tangled in her hair. She was dragged toward him and they both went down in a heap. Ray struggled to remain conscious and lurched back to his feet retaining his grip on the pretty black locks and pulling the woman up with him. Everything on the left side looked broken and leaned at strange angles.
“Let me go”, the woman grunted through gritted teeth. Rage replaced the nervous anxiousness that was in Ray’s belly, he let go of the gun in his pocket, balled up his fist, and let loose with a wild roundhouse punch that connected with the side of the woman’s head. It snapped to the side, her teeth clicked together loudly and the flashlight clacked to the ground and skittered away. She grunted and her bare knees smashed down into the pavement. Ray turned toward the door, wound his fingers deeper in her hair, and began to lurch toward the black gaping hole of the doorway. At first the woman resisted but the pain in her scalp forced her to struggle back to her feet and stumble after her captor. Ray quickened the pace as he expected the woman to scream but, to his surprise, the only noise she made was to curse at him and say, “let me go, I said let me go, I’ll kill you, do you understand me”. He reached the door, let go of her hair, gripped the leather of her jacket with both hands and shoved her through the doorway. The woman stumbled drunkenly on her high heels through the doorway, hit a pile of furniture and went down in a heap. Ray cursed and stammered as he came through the door.
“Shut up bitch, shut up now or I’ll kill you!” He reached down with his left hand and grabbed another handful of hair yanking her back up on her feet. He reached in his pocket with his right hand, pulled out the revolver and swung it toward the woman’s head. She saw it coming in time to put her arm up. The blow glanced off her forearm and she stumbled backward out of his grip and fell sprawling on the dirty mattress on the floor. Her dark hair was in wild disarray and in the dim light Ray could make out red lipstick on lips that were pulled back over teeth in a snarl. In the struggle, the front of her suit jacket was pulled open and he could see her lacey white bra and her heaving breasts. The woman’s long legs lay out in front of her enveloped in dark stockings that were torn and bloody at the knees. Her heavy breathing was the only sound she made.
Ray moved back to the door, closed it and locked the bolt. He rubbed his hand across his eye and the agony in his head intensified. He looked down and saw that his fingers were slick with blood. As he turned back around he saw her pulling her skirt back down over her thighs. “You’re gonna pay now”, he grunted as he lurched across the room tossing the useless revolver to one side where it thumped on the floor. He reached down to tear her bra away and the woman's left hand shot around to grab his wrist. He was surprised by the strength in her grip and as he yanked on the bra strap she held on tightly and he pulled her right up to her feet. They stood momentarily nose to nose and he became aware of a sound in the room. It was a grating sound like granite on granite. The woman stared back at him coolly. Their eyes locked and Ray realized that the prehistoric sound came from his victim. He glanced down and saw teeth gnashing and grinding together between sneering red lips. Suddenly cold steel poked hard into his left temple. Ray fell to his knees and found himself staring at the woman’s middrift. Her black pinstriped business suit was now completely open and the streetlight danced dazzlingly off a diamond stud in her navel and the sweat droplets glistening on her belly. The concussion rocked through the side of Ray’s head. He was aware of the searing heat, and a deafening roar. His head slumped forward and for the last two or three seconds of his life he was dimly aware that his brains were spilling out his mouth and into his lap.
Hands shaking slightly, the woman hiked her skirt up and slid the .45 back in its holster on her thigh. She buttoned her jacket as well as she could, threw the bolt, opened the door, and stepped out into the lamplight.
Posted by RobF at 08:19 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
