Wet Stone

 

I wrote this for a contest for www.fiction500.com. The prompt was a school bus. And, as most people, it made me think of a hostage situation.

Javier didn’t need to sharpen his knife, but he like the way it sounded--it helped him think. He did it the way his grandfather taught him: with a belt and a wet stone. After mass one Sunday when he was eight years old, Javier’s grandfather took him out behind their small two room house in Jelxaca and showed Javier how to sharpen a blade. The old man’s face wrinkled like sunburnt suede when he smiled and pointed to a chicken for Javier to run after.  It was common on a Sunday, if enough people would come over after mass, to slaughter a chicken for dinner. As Javier struggled with the bird he punched the hen in the sternum to quell her seizing panic. His grandfather handed him the newly sharpened knife and made a chopping motion with his hand. It was the first time Javier felt blood spray on his skin. Even though it was only chicken blood, it still felt like respect.
Behind him, behind the sound of the blade scraping against the wet stone, Javier could hear Hector and Armon ushering the teens out of the bus. Two adults lay dead on the road like freshly slaughtered livestock. In his ever-increasing need for dramatics, Hector told the two of them in broken English that if they cut off their thumbs in less than five seconds he wouldn’t kill them. “Go!” He yelled after handing them knives, cackling with laughter. Bob, the youth group leader had his thumb off in three seconds, Chance--the junior pastor--hesitated and Hector shot both of them in the neck as the young volunteers peered over a banner written in dark pink, rose-scented marker reading, “Willowbrook Lutheran Church loves Mexico!”
Javier thought about what their next move should be. How much ransom would a bus load of Lutheran teens go for? The tearful whimpering behind him blended into the background like a hens clucking in a chicken coop and all he only heard the rhythmic grinding of steel on stone.

Squatter King

           I wrote this piece for a www.fiction500.com contest and did not win or place. The prompt was a picture of a dilapidated house. I wrote this not long after going to NYC for the first time where I did and saw a lot of fun things, but so much of it was overshadowed by a homeless guy I saw eating out of the garbage can at The Met, critiquing the food as he ate.

Write something about California Lunch Room. Now..Go! Now...Lose a contest.

The boom of a wooden slam announced Carl as he barged back in with a grease-stained paper sack under his arm. A few mice scurried out from the pile of blankets and sleeping bags on the floor as he walked by—a few of the brave ones watched with black beady eyes.  

           In the kitchen Sandy woke from her trance watching the shadows of clouds move along the rust-stain sink. She stopped picking at a scar on her chin and looked up at Carl, hungry.
           “Whaddjah find?” she asked in a crackling hag voice too old for her 32 years. Behind her in green, dripping spray-painted letters next to a crudely drawn crown a message read: NO MORE FOOD IN THE LUNCH ROOM.  When they’d moved in three weeks ago they were high and happy and Carl convinced his wife the abandoned old store was safe. She painted a crown and called him a squatter king when Carl stood under it. They laughed hard and violent when it happened.
           “Burgers,” Carl answered.
           “From where?” Sandy attacked the bag. Pulling out one of the burgers, her hand was covered in ants.
           “In the dumpster behind Burger Shack.”
           “There on First Street?” Sandy confirmed, shaking most of the tiny, squirming dots off of her hand.
           Carl nodded. He peeled the thin paper of his hamburger off and dropped it on the wooden floor. The first bite squished in his mouth like cold leftover Thanksgiving stuffing.
           “Oh Jesus!” Sandy yelled, disgusted.
          “Wha’s wro?” Carl asked with a full mouth. He breathed loudly from his nose.
           “It’s got pickles.” She spit out her half chewed bite onto the floor. “Yours have pickles?”
           Carl pulled the wet bun up and shook his head. They traded. As they swapped, an ant quickly ran up Sandy’s hand from her new burger. She blew it off, sending the ant flying to the floor with a delicate bounce.

In the remaining shards of the broken window on the back door, Carl saw the reflection of a cop car pull up on the overgrown front lawn. A lumbering figure pulled himself out and walked the saunder of a man with a full gut. Tired, Carl closed his eyes, the breaths from his nose now whistling and he did his best to savor the sticky, salty mush in his mouth. A final taste of freedom.

“How that one?” he asked Sandy.

           “Better.  I cain’t stan’ pickles.”
           “I know.”
          Knock. Knock.