No explanation necessary. Some of you will recognize this, and if you came late or not at all, then you can read it now.
The music makes the coffee table vibrate it’s so loud. We learned about this in Physics—it’s called resonance. That’s when one object is so powerful that it causes other objects to be sucked into its frequency. Jimmy has resonance—he approached us at school, gave us a taste of his attitude, and sucked us in. We resonate at whatever frequency he sets. Tonight it’s soft rock and a bit of country, which I think is supposed to be ironic. I can’t tell because I’m not thinking so clearly right now.
“Jimmy Jimmí”, I say with a Portuguese accent (not that I speak Portuguese), “What was in those brownies?” Jimmy smiles and his teeth gleam in the dimmed lights.
“It’s our new product,” he sells. “What do you think?”
There is only one answer: “I love it! But what is it?”
Jimmy starts to answer (or evade the question) but Zweig interrupts. Zweig’s a big guy from Southwest D.C., with the number 14 tattooed on the small of his neck. His real name’s Sheldon. I suspect he calls himself ‘Zweig’ because he thinks it sounds more German. I don’t know where Jimmy met him, and I understand even less why Jimmy lets him hang around. We’re interested in one thing only, and that thing is not neo-Nazi supremacy.
“Hey, man! Can I get you anything?” Jimmy offers. “I just got a new shipment in from Mexicali, it’s supposed to be really pure—” The word ‘pure’ does something to Zweig, and Jimmy, seeing Zweig’s interest, continues his advertising campaign. “Yeah, a bunch of Nicaraguans brought it up from Colombia in swallowed condoms. We lost two grams when one of the rubbers broke. Yeah, I know, isn’t that horrible?” Jimmy asks, misreading the revulsion creasing Zweig’s forehead. I pet Jimmy’s arm—I don’t think Zweig wants any. If it doesn’t involve a heil Hitler, Zweig’s probably not interested. Jimmy may act dense when he’s high, but he’s a genius. We all say he could have paid his way through junior college and gone on to a career in advertising or marketing. Instead he fell in love with chemistry and recruited a group of us to test out his experiments. It’s probably not a smart idea to ingest something invented in a chem lab, but Jimmy’s really smart and I’m sure he wouldn’t get any of us hurt.
“Someone’s at the door,” Zweig reports. Jimmy shrugs.
“So let them in.”
“They knocked funny,” Zweig argues. He stares Jimmy in the face, communicating in a way I can’t understand. Jimmy’s eyes get big, and he nods. He starts weaving his way through the crowd, passing people sprawled on lovesaks, fondling on the couch, swaying to the music. I follow him, unhappy to be left alone with Zweig.
“What’s going on, Jimmy?” I know he’ll tell me—our gang trusts each other unconditionally.
“Just something I may have to take care of,” he says casually, but his lips tighten. He opens a drawer and adds a round into a sleek, polished handgun. His thumb and fingers grip the trigger tenderly. The temperature in the room rises fifteen degrees and I’m perspiring, wetting my disco shirt. It was ridiculously expensive, vintage, and now I’m staining the silk. I don’t want to be here anymore but I don’t want to leave Jimmy. He turns to me with his hand on the doorknob, “Mike, do me a favor and grab those eye drops, will you? Damn dry eyes—“
BAM. BAM. The door is open and Jimmy’s down and he’s got one in the leg, one in the stomach. Screeching tires leave black streaks in the driveway and I see five purple bandanas in a Honda halfway to the intersection. My reflexes are slow, thanks to Jimmy’s brownies, and everything seems to go down faster than in reality. I put my arms out to catch Jimmy but he’s already bleeding over the carpet, fallen in a contorted position, quiet.
“Freeze! Everybody freeze where you are, nobody move!” Zweig’s knees are bent and he’s waving a gun in one hand and a badge in the other. I freeze. Jimmy lets out a little moan. I moan with him. I sink to the floor and mop up some of Jimmy’s blood with my disco shirt.
“Zweig…Zweig, we gotta take him to the hospital, we gotta get him fixed up or he’s gonna die!” Zweig looks me in the eye, his bald head reflecting all the light in the room, and slowly and deliberately he calls 9-1-1 on his cellphone. Then he puts his cellphone and badge in his back pocket and we wait.
Moral of my story: Don’t do drugs if there’s a chance in hell your best friend might get shot by a rival drug gang. Because you’ll want to be lucid so you can save his life, and not the neo-Nazi undercover cop.
Showing posts with label short fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short fiction. Show all posts
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Through the Congo (still working on the title)
Heart of Darkness anyone?
In this piece Marlowe (our narrator) encounters Sir Henry Morton Stanley's last expedition through Africa. The fiction written below - including cannibalism - is based on what actually occurred during Sir Stanley's last expedition.
In this piece Marlowe (our narrator) encounters Sir Henry Morton Stanley's last expedition through Africa. The fiction written below - including cannibalism - is based on what actually occurred during Sir Stanley's last expedition.
Rivets, rivets, anything for some bloody rivets! But once again, it seemed the universe was against me, and every foolish gorilla in the Congo knew nothing and had nothing. By then, of course, Kurtz was no more and we had no urgency to progress downstream, but we were madly exhausted and even the shabby outer station seemed like Buckingham Palace. A bed, a bed, oh anything for a bed! Alas, our steamer had not taken well to my previous repairs – as I had been forced to use parts that did not quite fit – and we were stranded in the banks of that blasted river. We waited for weeks, depending on wild animals to eat, which thankfully pacified the cannibals and their desire for fresh meat.
Finally a passing expedition stopped nearby, providing us with all the materials necessary for the repairs. I shall admit it was one of my oddest encounters in the heart of darkness. Their captain was the renowned Sir Henry Morton Stanley, whose fame, especially in those parts of the world, I need not recount. The man lived up to my very last expectations; he had a hard black gaze, stood proud, and knew exactly what he was doing and how he would go about it.
“Sir Stanley, I presume!” He answered with a hearty laugh.
“Indeed sir! I see you lads are in a bit of rut here, no? We can help with your repairs; you need not worry, my boy.”
“Thank you, sir! I must say this is quite a surprise. Are you exploring past Stanley Falls?”
“We will be passing through those lands. You see, I’ve been hired to rescue a man by the name of Emin Pasha, and my regular contractor, King Leopold of Belgium, has ordered me to pass through these lands. My true concern is over my European companions. I doubt very many will endure the journey.”
Only madmen would travel the Congo, but there is a certain kind of madness that few possess that allows you to survive - the release of your inner savage.
“You should be careful, sir. We’ve just come back from the innermost station along the river, and the head there, Mr. Kurtz, who kept the natives sedated has just died.”
“I’ve fared worse, my boy. I’m just glad finally to meet another Englishman out here. Seems as though the Queen has you lot tied up in India, eh? … Never mind, not to worry, not to worry, I’ve had a fair share of experience here if I may say so myself. Now, would you care for some fine Irish whisky? One of my companions, an Irishman, owns the brand and he’s been quite generous.”
That night we gathered on their ship’s deck enjoying a few rounds of whisky. The Irishman, James Jameson, seemed like a neat sort of fellow, quite self-satisfied, polite, and very jovial – something I suspect had more to do with his flask and less with his personality. I was surprised to hear that such a rich man had never traveled beyond the British Isles, which explained his curiosity about that place. Jameson was fascinated with the savages; in fact, he spent the next couple of days chatting up the cannibals on board our steamer. Had we known his real intentions, I would not have permitted this. Naturally, he was quite interested in Kurtz and his relationship with the tribes, hoping I could tell him more about their behavior and how Kurtz had achieved his status. How had I come to recruit cannibals on our expedition? Why hadn’t they eaten us yet? Despite my hesitance to answer, every word I spoke was registered in his little white journal – strange how he could keep it so clean – where he would record our conversations.
Our fourth day into repairs, he returned with a small native girl, perhaps ten years old, whom he had purchased. Even at her young age she stood proud and unafraid, surrounded by strange looking people she couldn’t understand, but she held her head high. We believed Jameson had depraved intentions with the poor child, which Sir Stanley would not allow on his ship.
“Whatever your intentions might be with an eleven-year old slave-child, I will not allow it on my ship. This is a rescue expedition and there is no room for children!”
“But Sir! I think she would make an excellent house-maid for my wife, and she could surely help with chores on the ship.”
“Codswallop! She’s a savage, man! Do you think I’ll believe that ridiculous excuse? You’ve bought her for something else and I shall have nothing to do with it. Have her gone by tomorrow, and that’s the end of it.”
The next day, the little girl had vanished. The scandal had been prevented and the pilgrims onboard my ship resumed conversing with Jameson; we gathered on the deck of Stanley’s ship that very night. Something was different that night, James Jameson was solemn, and he drank more than I thought possible for a man, even an Irishman. Soon enough he began to drivel about savages and England and other drunken poppycock; the man began to cry. I looked away, for his sake rather than mine. I couldn’t imagine the shame he’d feel after this display. Sir Stanley, a no-nonsense man, took the liberty of reading the little white journal to discover what was wrong with the bloke.
“Good God, man! What has this brute done?”
Reading over his shoulder we learned of Jameson’s true intentions with the girl.
Cannibals ate her.
My cannibals.
The last ten pages of his journal were filled with notes and sketches of the process, of how the cannibals cooked and ate her. Jameson killed her and then offered her body to them ‘in the name of science,’ after the first two pages I had to look away.
“What a repulsive man!”
“How could anyone? … So cold-bloodedly …”
“What am I to do with the cannibals? They didn’t kill her, and I had known they defiled human bodies before I hired them. Should we continue on? Should our crews hear of this?”
“This expedition has been a bloody disaster since we left England! Sometimes I feel these Englishmen are greater brutes than the savages themselves. I can’t continue my journey with that man on board.”
“The men at the Outer Station will simply let him go. Their only interest is ivory, not justice.”
“You are two days’ journey from the Outer Station. Do you think you can manage without the cannibals?”
“I believe so. What is your plan, Sir?”
“I say we leave Jameson stranded out here with the cannibals, and let them do each other justice.”
When the repairs to our steamer were completed a day later, the Irishman and my cannibals were left behind; in effect, we left Jameson to experience cannibalism first-hand. Regardless of the incident with the child, I still felt sympathy for the cannibals, perhaps was because they refrained from eating us during the journey; perhaps they were simply efficient workers I appreciated, but having the pilgrims shoot at them filled me with rage.
Sir Henry Morton Stanley continued in his journey, but the atrocities that occurred during that expedition, even beyond the incident with the Irishman, tarnished the man’s reputation.
That was to be his last, and most grievous, expedition.
Finally a passing expedition stopped nearby, providing us with all the materials necessary for the repairs. I shall admit it was one of my oddest encounters in the heart of darkness. Their captain was the renowned Sir Henry Morton Stanley, whose fame, especially in those parts of the world, I need not recount. The man lived up to my very last expectations; he had a hard black gaze, stood proud, and knew exactly what he was doing and how he would go about it.
“Sir Stanley, I presume!” He answered with a hearty laugh.
“Indeed sir! I see you lads are in a bit of rut here, no? We can help with your repairs; you need not worry, my boy.”
“Thank you, sir! I must say this is quite a surprise. Are you exploring past Stanley Falls?”
“We will be passing through those lands. You see, I’ve been hired to rescue a man by the name of Emin Pasha, and my regular contractor, King Leopold of Belgium, has ordered me to pass through these lands. My true concern is over my European companions. I doubt very many will endure the journey.”
Only madmen would travel the Congo, but there is a certain kind of madness that few possess that allows you to survive - the release of your inner savage.
“You should be careful, sir. We’ve just come back from the innermost station along the river, and the head there, Mr. Kurtz, who kept the natives sedated has just died.”
“I’ve fared worse, my boy. I’m just glad finally to meet another Englishman out here. Seems as though the Queen has you lot tied up in India, eh? … Never mind, not to worry, not to worry, I’ve had a fair share of experience here if I may say so myself. Now, would you care for some fine Irish whisky? One of my companions, an Irishman, owns the brand and he’s been quite generous.”
That night we gathered on their ship’s deck enjoying a few rounds of whisky. The Irishman, James Jameson, seemed like a neat sort of fellow, quite self-satisfied, polite, and very jovial – something I suspect had more to do with his flask and less with his personality. I was surprised to hear that such a rich man had never traveled beyond the British Isles, which explained his curiosity about that place. Jameson was fascinated with the savages; in fact, he spent the next couple of days chatting up the cannibals on board our steamer. Had we known his real intentions, I would not have permitted this. Naturally, he was quite interested in Kurtz and his relationship with the tribes, hoping I could tell him more about their behavior and how Kurtz had achieved his status. How had I come to recruit cannibals on our expedition? Why hadn’t they eaten us yet? Despite my hesitance to answer, every word I spoke was registered in his little white journal – strange how he could keep it so clean – where he would record our conversations.
Our fourth day into repairs, he returned with a small native girl, perhaps ten years old, whom he had purchased. Even at her young age she stood proud and unafraid, surrounded by strange looking people she couldn’t understand, but she held her head high. We believed Jameson had depraved intentions with the poor child, which Sir Stanley would not allow on his ship.
“Whatever your intentions might be with an eleven-year old slave-child, I will not allow it on my ship. This is a rescue expedition and there is no room for children!”
“But Sir! I think she would make an excellent house-maid for my wife, and she could surely help with chores on the ship.”
“Codswallop! She’s a savage, man! Do you think I’ll believe that ridiculous excuse? You’ve bought her for something else and I shall have nothing to do with it. Have her gone by tomorrow, and that’s the end of it.”
The next day, the little girl had vanished. The scandal had been prevented and the pilgrims onboard my ship resumed conversing with Jameson; we gathered on the deck of Stanley’s ship that very night. Something was different that night, James Jameson was solemn, and he drank more than I thought possible for a man, even an Irishman. Soon enough he began to drivel about savages and England and other drunken poppycock; the man began to cry. I looked away, for his sake rather than mine. I couldn’t imagine the shame he’d feel after this display. Sir Stanley, a no-nonsense man, took the liberty of reading the little white journal to discover what was wrong with the bloke.
“Good God, man! What has this brute done?”
Reading over his shoulder we learned of Jameson’s true intentions with the girl.
Cannibals ate her.
My cannibals.
The last ten pages of his journal were filled with notes and sketches of the process, of how the cannibals cooked and ate her. Jameson killed her and then offered her body to them ‘in the name of science,’ after the first two pages I had to look away.
“What a repulsive man!”
“How could anyone? … So cold-bloodedly …”
“What am I to do with the cannibals? They didn’t kill her, and I had known they defiled human bodies before I hired them. Should we continue on? Should our crews hear of this?”
“This expedition has been a bloody disaster since we left England! Sometimes I feel these Englishmen are greater brutes than the savages themselves. I can’t continue my journey with that man on board.”
“The men at the Outer Station will simply let him go. Their only interest is ivory, not justice.”
“You are two days’ journey from the Outer Station. Do you think you can manage without the cannibals?”
“I believe so. What is your plan, Sir?”
“I say we leave Jameson stranded out here with the cannibals, and let them do each other justice.”
When the repairs to our steamer were completed a day later, the Irishman and my cannibals were left behind; in effect, we left Jameson to experience cannibalism first-hand. Regardless of the incident with the child, I still felt sympathy for the cannibals, perhaps was because they refrained from eating us during the journey; perhaps they were simply efficient workers I appreciated, but having the pilgrims shoot at them filled me with rage.
Sir Henry Morton Stanley continued in his journey, but the atrocities that occurred during that expedition, even beyond the incident with the Irishman, tarnished the man’s reputation.
That was to be his last, and most grievous, expedition.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Experiments in Experimental Short Fiction
!) once i was a strip of wallpaper that was listlessly saying hello to the door and goodbye to the window. i miss the sunlight even though it dried me out.
@) a red ball launched, rebounding, bouncing off doors and lockers. aglets of chuck taylor sneakers click clacking their way down to the principal's office. a ferret runs free in the hall.
#) bubblegum snapping and girls deciding who is in and who is out. black is the new orange they say. who made them god?
$) oncewheniwasyounger
itriedtocirclemyarmsaroundtheoldelmtreeintheyard
andilaughedandsmiledandsquealed
butthenranawayattherattlingscamperofsquirrels.
%) his arms became fatigued earlier than he expected, and he starting getting short of breath. with every new lift of his increasingly heavy arms, he struggled to grasp those blessed vines. with the strength of atlas he managed not to ever ever look down to the ground where the little people lived. he had bigger dreams of the sky, but it was getting hard to breathe. the air is thinner in the clouds.
^) crash i never want to see you again whack bang thwok i mean it don't you ever step foor in this house again you bastard crash bang crash but i love you
peace,
~mr_schwartz
@) a red ball launched, rebounding, bouncing off doors and lockers. aglets of chuck taylor sneakers click clacking their way down to the principal's office. a ferret runs free in the hall.
#) bubblegum snapping and girls deciding who is in and who is out. black is the new orange they say. who made them god?
$) oncewheniwasyounger
itriedtocirclemyarmsaroundtheoldelmtreeintheyard
andilaughedandsmiledandsquealed
butthenranawayattherattlingscamperofsquirrels.
%) his arms became fatigued earlier than he expected, and he starting getting short of breath. with every new lift of his increasingly heavy arms, he struggled to grasp those blessed vines. with the strength of atlas he managed not to ever ever look down to the ground where the little people lived. he had bigger dreams of the sky, but it was getting hard to breathe. the air is thinner in the clouds.
^) crash i never want to see you again whack bang thwok i mean it don't you ever step foor in this house again you bastard crash bang crash but i love you
peace,
~mr_schwartz
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