The Ballad of Josh and the Tragedy of Drew's Apartment Inferno

So this is the true story of the ballad of Josh. So, Josh was smoking the shishah when he tried to move the coal on the hookah. Somehow, using the sophisticated tong movement system, Josh dropped the coal onto the rug. Now, fast forward by about 30 seconds. Josh walks into Drew's bedroom and says, "Drew, I dropped the coal onto the floor." Drew's response is, sensibly enough, "Did you pick it up?"

Josh sadly shakes his head. He then explains what had happened in the preceding thirty seconds.

"Well, it fell on the floor, and before I could do anything it set the rug on fire. So I tried to step on the fire like on the TV, then it spread to the couch which was then totally on fire because I spilled my maitai on it earlier too. So, then I tried to pee the fire out....

...............

..........but I forgot to undo my zipper and just wet myself. Sooooooo.....you need to give me a new pair of pants."

At this point, the fire alarm goes off in the hallway as Drew just stares in abject shock.

True story. I was there. Actually, I wasn't. But Drew was. And he has pictures.

12 Hours in Memoriam

A gray morning.
I can taste the fog in the air.
Hints of grease, oil, and rubber filter through,
The engine turns bringing life to my rig.
My home for the next 12 hours.

Ascelpius's snakes bite me on the hip,
Roused to wakefullness, I grab my pager.
Half awake and rolling off of the gurney,
I make sure my partner in the crew cab copied.
Curse the patient for ruining my nap.

Fifty One Fifty, 72 Hour Vacation, Psych
My partner preps the room,
I get the turn over from the nurse
Pills, stable, doped, quiet, easy call
Wave off the security guard by the door.

The woman's eyes are open, but she doesn't see or care.
She gets out of bed, clutching a worn bible,
She slowly walks to the gurney and lies down.
I pull the gurney forward, I feel like the Ferryman.
Looking back, her unseeing eyes are locked on mine.

She dies by her own hands after her supervised vacation.

Cleaned rig, fast food lunch, new call.
Terminal patient going home to die. Hospice.
She wakes up when we get there, her family surround the bed.
She can't talk anymore. We're gentle and slow for the drive.
We put her on her deathbed. The family thanks us for doing our job.

Before I left, she grabbed my hand as hard as she could. She almost smiled.

Almost time to go home, last sniff, Last Call.
Machines almost drown out the gasps and moans.
I see him start to slip; I watch his heart start to stop.
I scream for my partner to get a medic and the AED.
Bones crack and scrape as I do his heart's job.

The paramedics give him the meds he needs. He has a fighting chance. I finish up the paperwork for the call.

Up late. No one else is awake. Another day. Some live, some don't.
If you remember why you do it, you try for every last one of them.
Eventually they blend together. It almost seems like one long,
Unending call. Still, some stay. Some faces stand out.
Enough to fill a shift, enough to fill a hundred.

I'll do it all again tomorrow. Not for my pride anymore. Not for glory. For them.

- C R Coda

Blight

I am dying.
I am dying of a disease born of myself. This insidious condition flows from treacherous genes or an affliction of the soul. This blight of the mind won't kill me in and of itself. It wants me to do the work. It is like a serpant that slips in the ear and coils around your brain, biting, poisoning your thoughts. It whispers in your ears. It speaks with your own voice. It tells you to end it all.. It tells you of the painlessness on the other side. Of the agonies that have unfolded in your life, of the ones that will surely come. It whispers sweetly. It cajoles. It comforts if you'll only listen. It promises. Sometimes it promises to spite your enemies. It promises vengeance from beyond the grave. It promises that they will know sorrow. Sorrow that you've known. Remorse you've felt. I live under seige as I'm dying. I know I can never defeat the horde. I can never vanquish my affliction once and for all. Its something I'll live with, something that may kill me with my own hands, something that I can only survive for one day more. Only realizes that the voice is not my own. Only remember that the promises are false. Only remember that there is a reason to remember.

Candle

A man
A single candle
A room lit only by the candle
A room with only one man

He stands
Walks to the candle
He stares at it
Then he draws breath

But the breath falters in his throat
And it becomes but a sigh
As he stares at the single
Flickering flame

Conversations in the Desert: The Soldier

The ride down the winding mountain road had been majestic, inspiring, uncomfortable, and terrifying. I spent a couple of nights on the summit, working off the debt I incurred for room and board. Then, I began to look for my next ride eastward. It appeared in the form on a rust colored pick-up truck. It looked as if it hadn't seen a day off since the Great Depression. I sometimes wondered if it was actually made of rust. Othertimes, I deliberately, desperately, tried to keep that thought far from me. Mostly, I did that when I was actually on it. Especially when it was moving. The owner of the almost literal rust bucket was an old man who looked equally as antiquated as his mysteriously still running truck. He didn't say much, only asked where I was going towards. Then he asked me to watch the boxes in the back as he drove down the mountain. He was delivering them, but the rope that was supposed to secure them had frayed and worn. All of that conspired to giving me a free ride down the mountain.

As the brakes screeched their discontent at the base of the mountain, I took a moment to look out over the vast dry plain. As the sun set behind the mountain, a true shadow extended to fill the space of the peaks' invisible rain shadow. And there, appearing for all the world as if it was the last outpost on the edge of the world was a single weathered building. The large-esque building was slightly raised from the desert floor. The wood that composed it had the faded, worn look common to anything that defiantly withstood solar glare, shimmering air, and scouring gale. Simple graying letting proclaimed "Desert Inn and Bar". I thought to myself that it was an imaginative name as the old main asked me to help him move the boxes to the back.

Afterward, I asked him what he wanted to be paid with. He insisted that he needed nothing in return. While his back was turned, I placed my pen in the passenger seat of his car. He had eyed it a moment longer when he first appraised me in my worn coat and carrying my canvas travel bag. He wished me luck and returned to the summit. I walked across the threshold of the Desert Inn and Bar.

The air was hazy with smoke, and likely dust, but I couldn't smell it over the smoke, alcohol, and people. With only a few cars in the parking lot, I was surprised at the number inside. I was only mildly surprised at the amount who appeared to already be feeling their drink. I approached the bar and took a seat on a stool whose vinyl had seen far, far better days. I looked to my left and saw a man in his early 20's who appeared to be wearing the uniform of the country's army. He was hunched over his small glass. The bartender asked me what I would have.

"A beer," I responded. She didn't ask what kind. I didn't care, and it seemed like she knew as much. At least, that's what I like to think about my bartenders. I turned to the man next to me, "What're you doing out here, soldier?"

His throat made a noise that was almost a cough, almost a grunt, and thoroughly derisive. "I'm no soldier," The bartender returned with an open bottle for me and disappeared. "But, to answer your question: I'm waiting. Thinking, but mostly waiting."

"Waiting for what?" I asked, getting down to the serious business of drinking.

"Well, if I knew that, I probably wouldn't be waiting anymore," He said irritated. Then the man sighed. It resounded with resignation, "I'm no soldier, but for the longest time I thought I should be. Thought I was. Now, I don't know. So, I'm waiting. I come from a line of fighters, soldiers, even the old tribal warriors. My friends are in the service, but I'm not."

He took a large swig of the brown liquid in his glass, emptying it. He pointed to his right sleeve. More specifically he pointed to the place on the khaki uniform there were feather patches going from the middle of his forearm up to his shoulder. "Reasons to leave," He said simply, then pointing to individuals he added, "Friends, family, duty, honor, service..growth...believing that being there could help protect my loved ones, believing that being there I could protect my other friends serving their country," Then he turned so I could see more than his profile. His left ear had a heavy earring in it. Then there was another ring hanging from that, and another, and another.

"My shackle," He said pointing to the earrings, "Knowing that I can't protect my loved ones from everything, already finding love here and not wanting to give it up or test it to a breaking point, commitments, objections to this war, qualms about the military psychology, ...even fear. Right now, there's as many links in the chain binding me here as there are feathers wanting to fly me into harm's way."

Turning back to his drink, he said, "So, that's why I'm no soldier. That's why I'm waiting here. I'm waiting for something to tip the balance so I can go one way or another, but until then, there's nothing to do but wait."

Sunset

The old man stared into the west
The dying sun washed the old man
and the rural porch he sat on
in a deep, ethereal crimson

He looked at the rolling hills
The grass had grown dry in the summer heat
The small mountains rose on the horizon
Though green, the experianced, discerning eye
could see that it was a lighter, drier green

The man rose through
the weight of years
that had soeaked into his bones
Before returning inside, he looked north
Lights of the cities he had watched over
for years turned on for the night

The guardian opened his closet
He pulled out a dark blue shirt
Standing in front of the mirror
he meticulously buttoned each button

The watchman stood in front of the mirror
His eyes inspected every inch of the reflection
The very corner of his lips twitched down
The uniform no longer fit

Returning to the closet
he produced a small key
The key opened a safe
The soldier removed the gun
contained in the safe

The weapon was meticulously cared for
Its metal shone in the dying light
The man's old hands fit perfectly
He held it like an old lover
The hands never forget

The old man returned
to his seat on the porch
The sun had almost finished
sinking beneath the horizon
No a shadow reached toward the house
Extending from the mountains

The man, the warrior, the soldier, the watchman
He glanced again at the city that he had served
He returned his gaze to the dying star on the horizon
He barely acknowledged the approached shade
His hands readied the weapon that they had lovingly cared for

The crack of artificial thunder echoed off the rolling hills
Birds flew from their nests, startled by the roar
The grass was painted with the crimson of the dying sun

The man's eyes watched horizon without sight
The last of the disc slipped beneath the edge
The shadow overtook the old man
Darkness covered the hills, punctuated only by the lights
and siren calls of the successors

Illusions and Nightmares

He sat straight up. The pale orange light of the street lamp outside reflected off of a coating of sweat on his forehead and chest. A thin, stylized silver key that hung from a silver chain was stuck to her chest by the moisture. He took a couple of deep breaths and then ran his fingers through his black hair. With a very faint sound, the key swung free of the skin. Another deep breath, this one more of resolve than a desire for control, and the man swung his feet over the edge of his bed.

The hardwood floor felt cool and reassuring. It was a fairly warm night so he didn’t bother putting on a robe in addition to the pajama pants he already wore. He grabbed a bottle of water from on top of his refrigerator. The green numbers on his microwave proclaimed it was 2 AM. The man groaned; he knew he wouldn’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon. Crossing into a carpeted room, he pulled a chair out from a desk which held a computer. He pressed the power button with his big tow. The computer began to come to life. Lights came on, fans whirred, a few beeps issued forth from the plastic casing. Then, it died.

The man sighed, bent down and took a look at the computer. It was old and had been acting up lately. He swore he would buy a new one when he had the time, money and inclination. Problem was the computer worked fine when all of those three were in cosmic alignment. He tried pressing the start button a few more times with no result. He checked the plug and all the other connections. Standing up he muttered, “In man against machine, machine will conquer all.” He half wondered whether he was cursing his own dependence on them or the fact they were just so frustrating.

He gave the box a not so gentle kick. As if awakened by the physical violence, or appeased that it had a destiny of conquest, the computer started to boot up again. Settling once again into his chair, he watched the screen come to life. He took the mouse and double clicked his instant messenger. There weren’t a lot of people online, Jinx was idle (Never could track her down…), Glyph had some archaic quote (Probably asleep), but Sarabi was online.

Veritas: Hey, Sar.

Sarabi: Morning, Veri. You’re up early.

Veritas: I could say the same.

Sarabi: I’m usually awake. Insomnia, you know.

Veritas: They have doctors, Sar.

Sarabi: I know, I like the early hours.

Veritas: *Shrug* Takes all sorts, I guess.

Sarabi: So, what dragged you out of bed tonight?

Veritas: Isn’t it technically tomorrow?

Sarabi: *shrug* Splitting hairs, and trying to change the subject.

Veritas: You caught me, Sar. I’ve just been having weird dreams lately.

Sarabi: Hmm?

Veritas: Well, tonight, for instance, I was dreaming that I was in class, at my desk. I remember the board said the “John of Patmos”. Kinda weird, now that I think about it. I was dreaming of a class about a dreamer. Anyway, these guys in government suits kicked in the doorway.

Veritas: They said that I was wanted for sedition or something. No one else in the class moved, the prof didn’t even stop lecturing. It was like I was the only one who could see.

Veritas: Then suddenly, I was in another room. There was a woman I’d never seen before and she told me that nothing was what it seemed. That I was special, important. You know, the kind of thing every 20 something year old guy with delusions of grandeur and a dead end job wants to hear. Then another guy in the same suit walks in and shoots her. I looked him dead in the eye, I think he looked like the German from Enemy at the Gates.

Sarabi: Never saw it

Veritas: Real pale blue eyes. Well, the dream ends that I hear a click and then I wake up.

Sarabi: Yeah, I could see how that would keep you up. Think it means something?

The man, Veritas, snorted. That wasn’t exactly the answer he was expecting. But, then again, Sarabi always made for an interesting conversationalist/

Veritas: Yeah, right. Next you’ll be telling me to follow some white rabbit.

Sarabi: What? You never took PHIL 1? We could all be living in a dream, Plato’s Cave. Maybe you woke up.

Veritas: Huh, I suppose. I’m guessing it was some bad Chinese and a flashback to philosophy class. Besides, if I figure out I’m in the cave, aren’t I supposed to achieve nirvana or something?

Sarabi: What, do I look like a prophet? You’re probably right. Most people go through their day to day lives their entire life. We don’t live in a movie. Still…we can dream can’t we?

Veritas: Sure.

Sarabi: Knock Knock, Neo ;)

Veritas was startled when a knock actually sounded at his door. He stared at the door for a few seconds in near-incomprehension. It wasn’t possible, was it? He looked back at the computer screen.

(Sarabi has signed off)

Whoever it was knocked on the door again. As if deliberating the reality of the situation, the man haltingly got up from his chair. Then, with trepidation and hesitation, walked to the door and glanced out the peephole.