Special thanks to Calcium_Deposit, who proved that people do actually read my stuff and that I should continue writing stories for the forum. Here's to you. Part 1 of my latest.
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A skeletal frame of a building.
It reaches up, in prayer. Some folks were working on it a time ago, but I guess they ran out of funds or motivation. How closely those two are often tied together. Metal pressed against the tender flesh of the pallid sky. Tempestuous mistress. No one can hear your prayers. Maybe a long time ago, maybe when God still took personal calls. Now He just screens ‘em. Lets ‘em go to voice mail. He might check them in the future. Maybe He’s like me, and when the end of the week rolls around He just erases them. No one worth talking to that would call my apartment phone.
I figure, sure, He erases them. We’re made in His image, I’m part of ‘we’re’. Not a huge leap.
The people I want to talk to are the people that buzz my work phone. An old rotary. It was onyx when I set down the cash for it. A ten spot of misuse, and now that paint is all rubbed. The mouth piece is worn down like an antique bit, like I’m some kind of horse chomping every time the bells ring.
It’s calls like that. They bring me out here. Make me open my eyes, stare at the skeleton frame stretched out, in prayer.
There’s no answer.
I’m too far back to really get a good eye on what’s the haps down at the base of the old construction site. I pull my coat tight around me and think of Virginia and when she’s going to get burned. They don’t burn you until your case is closed. They don’t give you the courtesy of a burial until the ducks line up. Six years ago, and she’s still hanging around, state’s evidence. Not a damn thing I can do about it.
I know her scent, and I know it’s gone off the collar of the jacket, but I convince myself some days, cold days, that I can still smell it. That she’s still around me.
A phantom fragrance drifts through, and I hope that I can burn her. That I can let her go.
I know I can’t.
So I’ll help you out. I’ll spin it quick. Jot it down, short hand.
The bulls are raging down at the base of the building, the feet of the angry giant, running back and forth. From the top of the hill, they look like ants, but their hard tops and flashing blues and reds give them away. They’re subtle in the same way a jack hammer at 6:00am is subtle. Or a frozen water main is subtle.
I look back at my car. It used to be onyx. Same story as my rotary.
Once upon a time. There were long drives. There was a passenger. It used to be more than a tool. Ideas come in funny shapes.
The circus is in town and the bulls are just marching along. Moving back and forth, keeping an eye on the body. Time of death hasn’t been established yet, it looks like. They’re talking to some yolk down there, and he’s pacing worse than they are. He’s flailing his arms like he belongs on a used car lot, like he’s trying to draw in customers. Cheap sale.
I’m not buying.
At least, not yet.
Two of the standards are keeping close watch on the dead guy. It’s their job. They got the short end of the stick. Watchers. Stand here, Watch this. Let us know when it moves.
Two forensics people in white suits are moving around the body carefully, trying to get under the nails, I figure. Get some kind of DNA. Any kind of evidence before it gets to dangerous to reap.
In a matter of seconds, it is. The body on the ground starts to pick up. The left hand twitch. I’m a hundred yards away and I can still see it. The Watchers, they’re not doing their jobs. Soon, the movements will lose subtlety. Like the bulls. The standards. They’ll become jerk-like, reflexive. The Watchers, if they don’t pick up on it then, well, that’s when the trouble starts. When the other teams get called in.
After a while, you start to trust people can do 9-5’s right. No hand holding.
It’s always a mistake.
The right arm twitches now.
The car salesman sees it and points. The Watchers have been staring at the clouds pass. The head guy shouts something, and the forensic team backs off. Two guys wearing Mylar vests walk up. The dead guy, the Daisy, he gets up. Clambers to his feet. Disoriented.
Where am I.
How did I get here.
Who are these people.
And like any frightened animal, he will attack.
The Mylars walk over with a muzzle. They slide it over his face before he can react. They pull out a small guillotine that looks like a huge cigar cutter and slide it over his hands, which tumble to the ground.
Evidence guys, they pick this up, put ‘em in a bag, pat each other on the back.
The Mylars escort the Daisy, the Shunt, the dead guy to the back of their van. They open the doors slowly, and shove him inside a Plexiglas box. The chief gets in the passenger side door.
Dust trail.
Things start to wind down. Another forensics team comes in to look at the actual crime scene. The Mylars, the white suits, they have to do what they do fast, get as much as they can before the body disturbs itself. You can lose huge amounts of evidence that way.
From up here, from on the hill, leaning against my car, I can already tell it was a professional hit made to look amateur. There’s not a killer in this town that doesn’t know you destroy the brain. Sever the spinal chord. Obstruct the medulla.
Unless you’re trying to pass for open mic night. Heat of the moment crime.
Time of death was a little over an hour ago. They don’t move until about an hour. It’s different for each person. Each race. Each hair color. But it’s always around an hour.
I pull up to the site, shutting my steed off, and kicking out. The standards, they don’t look happy to see me. They never are.
Hello, boys.
They don’t look up.
At least the yolk looks happy to see me. He’s stopped his pacing.
I look at him.
It’s a good think you stopped walking back and forth. At that rate, you’d have cut yourself clean through to the other side of the world. China Syndrome, but with feet.
The yolk, he’s not a smiler. He doesn’t smile at what I say.
The standards, they’re not smilers, either. Maybe once upon a time. Maybe when I called myself a standard. When I would get pissy that I was on Watch duty, before I traded in my badge for Mylar and my Mylar for a pack of smokes.
Virginia. She would puff away like a chimney.
I started so I would have a reason to talk.
I don’t puff away anymore. I keep them in my right breast pocket, next to the small arm I keep holstered. These days, it’s the only thing that feels the beat of my heart.
So, fellows. What’s the sit? Anyone care to spill?
No one moves. The yolk looks like he’s interested in talking. I have him figured. He’s the one that called me, but something has him spooked now. He might have raised me before the bulls, but I can’t tell. My jurisdiction is severely limited once they establish perimeter. They only have to tolerate me.
Often times, I wish them the best.
No one talking?
No one answers. I sigh, and walk over to the yolk. He’s wearing a 1920’s news editor vest. His tie has come out of the neck line. It flaps in the wind.
You’re the guy that called.
He nods, but his eyes are off. I can’t trust them. They’re bouncing back and forth, marbles inside an industrial washer. Whatever he saw, it’s sent him clean off.
You find the body, and called me.
He shakes his head.
You find the body, and called them.
He shakes his head.
So you did call me first.
Nod.
A little over an hour ago.
Nod.
The timeline starts to form in my head. I wonder if the bulls have put it together yet. Probably not.
That means you saw who did this.
Nod.
He takes a step back onto a mound of dirt, and puts his arms up. He’s doing an impression of the building. His frame is just as skeletal. His skin is as pallid as the sky. As of this moment, he is the horizon.
“Sideways green eyes,” he mutters.
“That’s all he’s said the entire time. Varies his tone like an opera singer, like he’s spinning some kind of wicked tale, but that’s all he says.”
Whatever he saw has him spooked good.
“Great work, detective.”
I shrug.
Not much to work off.
“Looks like a robbery just gone wrong.”
Do you want to tell me what you know, or am I going to have to look at the Daisy myself?
“You can look at the Daisy,” the bull calls out from behind me. He’s walking over to his ride. His partner follows suit. They’re packing up the show. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along. Play crossing guard to the river of information, make sure people pass safely.
“Always hope that the muzzle’ll fall off,” the partner calls. “Maybe you’ll get bit.”
I’m already a Shunt and I’m still smarter than the lot of you.
The partner looks none too pleased with my words.
I’m smarter than the lot of you because I’m in a coat, and you’re still in jumps. Those dark blues that just won’t fade.
But they’re gone. They left the yolk behind, the salesman, the poet. Mover of hot air. He’s still on the dirt pile, staring at me, arms up.
Sideways green eyes?
“Sideways green eyes,” he confirms.
-
A skeletal frame of a building.
It reaches up, in prayer. Some folks were working on it a time ago, but I guess they ran out of funds or motivation. How closely those two are often tied together. Metal pressed against the tender flesh of the pallid sky. Tempestuous mistress. No one can hear your prayers. Maybe a long time ago, maybe when God still took personal calls. Now He just screens ‘em. Lets ‘em go to voice mail. He might check them in the future. Maybe He’s like me, and when the end of the week rolls around He just erases them. No one worth talking to that would call my apartment phone.
I figure, sure, He erases them. We’re made in His image, I’m part of ‘we’re’. Not a huge leap.
The people I want to talk to are the people that buzz my work phone. An old rotary. It was onyx when I set down the cash for it. A ten spot of misuse, and now that paint is all rubbed. The mouth piece is worn down like an antique bit, like I’m some kind of horse chomping every time the bells ring.
It’s calls like that. They bring me out here. Make me open my eyes, stare at the skeleton frame stretched out, in prayer.
There’s no answer.
I’m too far back to really get a good eye on what’s the haps down at the base of the old construction site. I pull my coat tight around me and think of Virginia and when she’s going to get burned. They don’t burn you until your case is closed. They don’t give you the courtesy of a burial until the ducks line up. Six years ago, and she’s still hanging around, state’s evidence. Not a damn thing I can do about it.
I know her scent, and I know it’s gone off the collar of the jacket, but I convince myself some days, cold days, that I can still smell it. That she’s still around me.
A phantom fragrance drifts through, and I hope that I can burn her. That I can let her go.
I know I can’t.
So I’ll help you out. I’ll spin it quick. Jot it down, short hand.
The bulls are raging down at the base of the building, the feet of the angry giant, running back and forth. From the top of the hill, they look like ants, but their hard tops and flashing blues and reds give them away. They’re subtle in the same way a jack hammer at 6:00am is subtle. Or a frozen water main is subtle.
I look back at my car. It used to be onyx. Same story as my rotary.
Once upon a time. There were long drives. There was a passenger. It used to be more than a tool. Ideas come in funny shapes.
The circus is in town and the bulls are just marching along. Moving back and forth, keeping an eye on the body. Time of death hasn’t been established yet, it looks like. They’re talking to some yolk down there, and he’s pacing worse than they are. He’s flailing his arms like he belongs on a used car lot, like he’s trying to draw in customers. Cheap sale.
I’m not buying.
At least, not yet.
Two of the standards are keeping close watch on the dead guy. It’s their job. They got the short end of the stick. Watchers. Stand here, Watch this. Let us know when it moves.
Two forensics people in white suits are moving around the body carefully, trying to get under the nails, I figure. Get some kind of DNA. Any kind of evidence before it gets to dangerous to reap.
In a matter of seconds, it is. The body on the ground starts to pick up. The left hand twitch. I’m a hundred yards away and I can still see it. The Watchers, they’re not doing their jobs. Soon, the movements will lose subtlety. Like the bulls. The standards. They’ll become jerk-like, reflexive. The Watchers, if they don’t pick up on it then, well, that’s when the trouble starts. When the other teams get called in.
After a while, you start to trust people can do 9-5’s right. No hand holding.
It’s always a mistake.
The right arm twitches now.
The car salesman sees it and points. The Watchers have been staring at the clouds pass. The head guy shouts something, and the forensic team backs off. Two guys wearing Mylar vests walk up. The dead guy, the Daisy, he gets up. Clambers to his feet. Disoriented.
Where am I.
How did I get here.
Who are these people.
And like any frightened animal, he will attack.
The Mylars walk over with a muzzle. They slide it over his face before he can react. They pull out a small guillotine that looks like a huge cigar cutter and slide it over his hands, which tumble to the ground.
Evidence guys, they pick this up, put ‘em in a bag, pat each other on the back.
The Mylars escort the Daisy, the Shunt, the dead guy to the back of their van. They open the doors slowly, and shove him inside a Plexiglas box. The chief gets in the passenger side door.
Dust trail.
Things start to wind down. Another forensics team comes in to look at the actual crime scene. The Mylars, the white suits, they have to do what they do fast, get as much as they can before the body disturbs itself. You can lose huge amounts of evidence that way.
From up here, from on the hill, leaning against my car, I can already tell it was a professional hit made to look amateur. There’s not a killer in this town that doesn’t know you destroy the brain. Sever the spinal chord. Obstruct the medulla.
Unless you’re trying to pass for open mic night. Heat of the moment crime.
Time of death was a little over an hour ago. They don’t move until about an hour. It’s different for each person. Each race. Each hair color. But it’s always around an hour.
I pull up to the site, shutting my steed off, and kicking out. The standards, they don’t look happy to see me. They never are.
Hello, boys.
They don’t look up.
At least the yolk looks happy to see me. He’s stopped his pacing.
I look at him.
It’s a good think you stopped walking back and forth. At that rate, you’d have cut yourself clean through to the other side of the world. China Syndrome, but with feet.
The yolk, he’s not a smiler. He doesn’t smile at what I say.
The standards, they’re not smilers, either. Maybe once upon a time. Maybe when I called myself a standard. When I would get pissy that I was on Watch duty, before I traded in my badge for Mylar and my Mylar for a pack of smokes.
Virginia. She would puff away like a chimney.
I started so I would have a reason to talk.
I don’t puff away anymore. I keep them in my right breast pocket, next to the small arm I keep holstered. These days, it’s the only thing that feels the beat of my heart.
So, fellows. What’s the sit? Anyone care to spill?
No one moves. The yolk looks like he’s interested in talking. I have him figured. He’s the one that called me, but something has him spooked now. He might have raised me before the bulls, but I can’t tell. My jurisdiction is severely limited once they establish perimeter. They only have to tolerate me.
Often times, I wish them the best.
No one talking?
No one answers. I sigh, and walk over to the yolk. He’s wearing a 1920’s news editor vest. His tie has come out of the neck line. It flaps in the wind.
You’re the guy that called.
He nods, but his eyes are off. I can’t trust them. They’re bouncing back and forth, marbles inside an industrial washer. Whatever he saw, it’s sent him clean off.
You find the body, and called me.
He shakes his head.
You find the body, and called them.
He shakes his head.
So you did call me first.
Nod.
A little over an hour ago.
Nod.
The timeline starts to form in my head. I wonder if the bulls have put it together yet. Probably not.
That means you saw who did this.
Nod.
He takes a step back onto a mound of dirt, and puts his arms up. He’s doing an impression of the building. His frame is just as skeletal. His skin is as pallid as the sky. As of this moment, he is the horizon.
“Sideways green eyes,” he mutters.
“That’s all he’s said the entire time. Varies his tone like an opera singer, like he’s spinning some kind of wicked tale, but that’s all he says.”
Whatever he saw has him spooked good.
“Great work, detective.”
I shrug.
Not much to work off.
“Looks like a robbery just gone wrong.”
Do you want to tell me what you know, or am I going to have to look at the Daisy myself?
“You can look at the Daisy,” the bull calls out from behind me. He’s walking over to his ride. His partner follows suit. They’re packing up the show. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along. Play crossing guard to the river of information, make sure people pass safely.
“Always hope that the muzzle’ll fall off,” the partner calls. “Maybe you’ll get bit.”
I’m already a Shunt and I’m still smarter than the lot of you.
The partner looks none too pleased with my words.
I’m smarter than the lot of you because I’m in a coat, and you’re still in jumps. Those dark blues that just won’t fade.
But they’re gone. They left the yolk behind, the salesman, the poet. Mover of hot air. He’s still on the dirt pile, staring at me, arms up.
Sideways green eyes?
“Sideways green eyes,” he confirms.
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