Swoop Goes the Train

Puttalam, Sri Lanka.

Sasha called it again and again: Si ku raa daa! Si ku raa daa!* -- and -- Who wants to race the train?

*Friday! Friday!

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Small Talk, I

"Why don't all CIA agents give themselves the codename 'Heisenberg?'"
"I doubt they'd get anything done. All the other countries would have a heck of an easier time spying on us, too."
"Maybe so."
"Damn it."

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Wears The Pants

It looked like a fight. Henry had gotten out of his car, one in a line of a honking seven, and ran up to the four-way intersection. "What the hell's going on here?" It had looked like a fight, but was instead a series of drivers of varying ages dancing and poke-pointing with their arms, who all turned to his voice, regained their composure, and began to walk away. "Wait, wait," Henry called. "Stop!" They turned around in hopeful expectation. He had yet to see the sign.

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Before The Zombies Go

"Hello?"
"Yes?"
"Hello?"
"Yes?"
"I would like to place a collect call, and then order some brains."
"All right. Can I ask for the phone number?"
"564 - 43 ... Jerry, what's the number for the Steve's place?"
"Braaaaugh."
"Thanks. 4322."
"Righto."
"Can't remember numbers like I used to."
"Oh, I know the feeling."
"That's good to hear. Say -- what's your name?"

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Errand

Nathan ran down the street with an armful of violins, slowing when one or the other began to slip out of his grasp. Nine for twenty-two dollars, he still wanted to preserve the bundle for the performance that was sure to start before he got there. No one would stick around for the symphony without the strings.

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Bushido Guitar

Hitting their stride. They met at dawn, choice of instruments evident from the size and shape of their cases.


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Look at the Sun, Sinking Like a Ship

Fists Of The People were right into the let-the-crowd-crest part of their set in the Unitarian basement while Carl and Edgar were entering the final third of their game. Edgar's King was on the run.


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By the Roadside, II

Lenny came out of the phone booth. Jonathan was running after a valet, who had already gotten into their car.

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Lugged About

R, T, O, and A: these are the missing letters, worn out by the most use. Down in the basement, amongst the knackeries. Open garage door and passing colored leaves.

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By the Roadside

Lenny spoke to Jonathan. "I thought you called the mechanic." Lenny stared at the cat, and walked over to the AAA truck, double-checking to see if he missed any obvious signs of human presence, even one as large as a body.

Jonathan pocket-dipped his hands and checked the business card once again.

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One Time Only!

"Kid! Chap! Laddy! Right behind you! Up a ways, now. Yes, the head, the one and only Ocean City Talking Head ... Since 1933 ... By a man named Walter P. Thorndrake. Lived in Egg Harbor for a while before skipping further up toward Atlantic City. One of those old townhouses [...]"

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Ian Writz

Ian's shadow couldn't be happier when Ian himself went riding at sunset. He described it to all his shadow friends as something like a piggyback ride. New Haven wasn't a car town, and with minimal obstructions Ian's shadow would swell to a size that could see for miles: all the undersides of shoes and what they'd stepped in, which drop of rain was going to hit what or whom, and all these other elses.

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Tales From The Speed Date, I

Slippers on. Curtains for Verona, kid. Bright as all beacons today. Keys, keys: should put little motorized feet on the keys, all scamper across the apartment. Kafka had a bouncing ball, knowing, of course, it would lead to children show sing-a-longs. To meet and greet: Diplomats on Speed Negotiate. My country this, your country that. Little knobs under the desk. Might as well be chewing gum. Self-contained vs. rambly vs. socio-economic hooplah vs. cocky or as the Madre says swaggery vs. woman secretly in costume. Michael Palin's Glittersuit. Interviews. Telly. Cold shoulder to old hugs, best friend, all the pictures, still in the same apartment. There's the escapee, tower guards. Lights on her. Roof access. Trash bag over the albums, rain-safe. Abbey Road over the ugly, comrades! Pistachios over the edge!

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Caesar's Downfall

Cinna stood quiet, placed his hands on his hips, and turned to the others. "Well, I'll be."

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The Great, Big Son Of A Bitch In The Sky

No one says "oughta" anymore, or "I'll sock you one." I guess there was too much John Huston in the world, and not enough Matthau and Lemon. Wasn't too bad a film, I suppose. Makes me miss Marilyn. Even the Munsters.

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I Know I Have Lost

Tom Marsault was cutting through the alley one Monday morning on the way to work, looking up a name on his cell phone, when he passed a sign on the wall that read "I Know I Have Lost," and slowed his feet down to a drag. Slight pangs of a small breakfast, couldn't remember the weekend, and he had only seen a pint-sized sparrow hopping from guard rail to guard rail outside the Jerry Watkins Insurance Building down by New York's Supreme Court down in the Business District, a few wrappings, plasticine and otherwise, wind-blustering about the small park outside the Court's steps, a homeless man on the benches, students on the morning B line, and he realized he was cylcing through the images to figure out if he had, too.

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Townies

Max sips his soda. "I wish party lines still existed."
Jerry's nearly finished his. "I wish there was a pool table out here, 'cause I'm certain I'd kick your ass."
"We've done basketball," and the object in question deflated further in acknowledgement.
"And soccer, Monopoloy, Risk, baseball, and whatever the hell else is out here."
Max takes another. "We're about to be bored, aren't we?"
"And I hope you do become bored, you entertainment addict."
Max balks. "I'm the entertainment addict? You're the one who's won every single game, monkey massager."
"Come on. Focus up. Let's say -- you and me -- that phone booth over there's a lady."
"A call girl?"
"No, a lady. Be nice. How would you pick her up?"
"Well, literally."
"Oh, you're a son of a bitch." And the two begin to push and slap.

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