Month: April 2011

Little Men

Snow White thought it was strange that the little men in the cabin were so eager to help her and give her a home, and that all they asked in return was for her to tidy the place up, wash their floppy hats, clean the grog mugs. She sat on the front steps and smoked American Spirits after they left in the mornings to dig up their stones in the mine, waiting for all the forest creatures, who also loved her, to show up. When they were gathered around she told them to go inside and clean everything up, and they did so dutifully. The hummingbirds fluttered about, dusting things with the furious beating of their wings. The raccoons too care of the dishes. The bear made the beds and the foxes ate the food off the floor and licked up the beer, which they greatly enjoyed. All in all, it was a sweet deal while she waited for that asshole prince to come back for her. When she was done with her morning smoke Snow White liked to wander off to the pond hidden in the reeds, where she felt she would not be intruded upon. The water was sometimes murky, but she found it relaxing to be alone for a while. Sometimes, though, she thought she heard noises. Breathing, rustling in the tall grass, and one time she swears she heard someone whisper “scoops of vanilla and two hard cherries”, which could have only been the wind playing tricks on her mind.

There’ll Be Time Enough for Sex and Drugs and Heaven

Little Red Riding Hood went out into the woods, met up with the wolf, and the hunter was too drunk to get his ass off the john. But as it turns out the wolf had a MA in creative writing and spoke several accents of German with precise fluidity, so she got to liking him and changed her name to Mirna. They spent their days eating deer, berries, and mushrooms, and making pups of course, and the world just kind of kept going because it’s everyday that a Little Red Riding Hood winds up in the woods with a wolf but no one knows just what goes on out there and, frankly, they don’t want to know.

There’ll Be Time Enough for Sex and Drugs and Heaven

Little Red Riding Hood went out into the woods, met up with the wolf, and the hunter was too drunk to get his ass off the john. But as it turns out the wolf had a MA in creative writing and spoke several accents of German with precise fluidity, so she got to liking him and changed her name to Mirna. They spent their days eating deer, berries, and mushrooms, and making pups of course, and the world just kind of kept going because it’s everyday that a Little Red Riding Hood winds up in the woods with a wolf but no one knows just what goes on out there and, frankly, they don’t want to know.

Little Men

Snow White thought it was strange that the little men in the cabin were so eager to help her and give her a home, and that all they asked in return was for her to tidy the place up, wash their floppy hats, clean the grog mugs. She sat on the front steps and smoked American Spirits after they left in the mornings to dig up their stones in the mine, waiting for all the forest creatures, who also loved her, to show up. When they were gathered around she told them to go inside and clean everything up, and they did so dutifully. The hummingbirds fluttered about, dusting things with the furious beating of their wings. The raccoons too care of the dishes. The bear made the beds and the foxes ate the food off the floor and licked up the beer, which they greatly enjoyed. All in all, it was a sweet deal while she waited for that asshole prince to come back for her. When she was done with her morning smoke Snow White liked to wander off to the pond hidden in the reeds, where she felt she would not be intruded upon. The water was sometimes murky, but she found it relaxing to be alone for a while. Sometimes, though, she thought she heard noises. Breathing, rustling in the tall grass, and one time she swears she heard someone whisper “scoops of vanilla and two hard cherries”, which could have only been the wind playing tricks on her mind.

an agent of sorts

This time, I was an agent of sorts, possibly with the DEA. We were one of those rogue units that doesn’t play by the rules, gets results, and skims some off the top because the money gets burned anyway. I even wore the aviator glasses so that fuckers could see themselves in my eyes when I shot them dead.

We were driving up the highway to a cantina on top of a deserted hill in a town in Texas. It was dry, like the hairy skin on my sun baked arm was dry, like my lips were dry, like the bones of a long dead man are dry. When we arrived it was silent, but we could see the back of a lifted pick-up truck poking out from behind a stucco facade.

“Arms up,” I told them. I may have been the leader of these bad ass motherfuckers.

We strolled to the entrance and called out, “Afuera, cabrones!” When we looked inside, it was empty.

But we didn’t see that they had set up on the roof and were pinned against the walls by a hail of gunfire. As hardened and solitary sons of bitches, we didn’t give a fuck. We strutted out, nines in each hand, perhaps a shotty up front, and took them all out. A shower of blood, bits of skin, the occasional spilling of intestines.

When we were done, we walked away.

As I opened the door to the Bronco I noticed that one man in a federale uniform with a single briefcase and an uzi ran out and sprinted for the truck. I brought out my nine and unloaded in his direction, but oddly, he didn’t fall dead. He in fact managed to raise his weapon and aim, and more surprisingly, he got off a few shots, and against all odds hit me square in the chest, twice. Two holes, two sharp hits, right around the heart. I stumbled back and said nothing. I could no longer speak. I wanted to tell them, after they killed that bastard, to tell someone something. I wanted to tell them to relay a message, but they could not hear me and I could not hear them. Eventually, they disappeared.

I could not speak. Darkness was coming in from all sides, like the edges of a worn film reel. I was coming to a close.

I dipped my left index and middle fingers in the pool of blood forming beneath my waist. As I began to fade I wrote this in the dusty concrete:

L O V E

Y O J

And then I died.

an agent of sorts

This time, I was an agent of sorts, possibly with the DEA. We were one of those rogue units that doesn’t play by the rules, gets results, and skims some off the top because the money gets burned anyway. I even wore the aviator glasses so that fuckers could see themselves in my eyes when I shot them dead.

We were driving up the highway to a cantina on top of a deserted hill in a town in Texas. It was dry, like the hairy skin on my sun baked arm was dry, like my lips were dry, like the bones of a long dead man are dry. When we arrived it was silent, but we could see the back of a lifted pick-up truck poking out from behind a stucco facade.

“Arms up,” I told them. I may have been the leader of these bad ass motherfuckers.

We strolled to the entrance and called out, “Afuera, cabrones!” When we looked inside, it was empty.

But we didn’t see that they had set up on the roof and were pinned against the walls by a hail of gunfire. As hardened and solitary sons of bitches, we didn’t give a fuck. We strutted out, nines in each hand, perhaps a shotty up front, and took them all out. A shower of blood, bits of skin, the occasional spilling of intestines.

When we were done, we walked away.

As I opened the door to the Bronco I noticed that one man in a federale uniform with a single briefcase and an uzi ran out and sprinted for the truck. I brought out my nine and unloaded in his direction, but oddly, he didn’t fall dead. He in fact managed to raise his weapon and aim, and more surprisingly, he got off a few shots, and against all odds hit me square in the chest, twice. Two holes, two sharp hits, right around the heart. I stumbled back and said nothing. I could no longer speak. I wanted to tell them, after they killed that bastard, to tell someone something. I wanted to tell them to relay a message, but they could not hear me and I could not hear them. Eventually, they disappeared.

I could not speak. Darkness was coming in from all sides, like the edges of a worn film reel. I was coming to a close.

I dipped my left index and middle fingers in the pool of blood forming beneath my waist. As I began to fade I wrote this in the dusty concrete:

L O V E

Y O J

And then I died.

the end of the block

I’m going to stop when I reach the end of the block. I’m going to turn on Avenida de las Pulgas and walk down the hill, I’m going to pray to no one. The trees are going to shade me, the sky is going to shame me, the people in the cars are going to blame me. The two children, the little dark haired girl with hazel eyes and the little dark haired girl with brown eyes, they’re going to hate me. My feet are going to fail me, I’m going to cry, I’m going to want to die. In the heavens they will curse me and in hell they will laugh at me, when they see, when they rip my pitiful sins from my chest, from my head and hands, from between my thighs. At the bottom of the hill, in the valley, in the world I used to know, they will find me frowning, loading gobs of fear into my belly, one by two by three. In my mind they will see the angelic witch’s singing and hear her belled hat jingling, bent over on the rug in front of the fireplace at Christmas, in the cabin by the winter moon. I will hum into the pillow. The sky will darken soon. I will not go back to where we dreamed. The air will be flat and stink of sweat. Crows will laugh when they find me sleeping on the asphalt. When I wish for death they will shake their conkled heads and fly.

the end of the block

I’m going to stop when I reach the end of the block. I’m going to turn on Avenida de las Pulgas and walk down the hill, I’m going to pray to no one. The trees are going to shade me, the sky is going to shame me, the people in the cars are going to blame me. The two children, the little dark haired girl with hazel eyes and the little dark haired girl with brown eyes, they’re going to hate me. My feet are going to fail me, I’m going to cry, I’m going to want to die. In the heavens they will curse me and in hell they will laugh at me, when they see, when they rip my pitiful sins from my chest, from my head and hands, from between my thighs. At the bottom of the hill, in the valley, in the world I used to know, they will find me frowning, loading gobs of fear into my belly, one by two by three. In my mind they will see the angelic witch’s singing and hear her belled hat jingling, bent over on the rug in front of the fireplace at Christmas, in the cabin by the winter moon. I will hum into the pillow. The sky will darken soon. I will not go back to where we dreamed. The air will be flat and stink of sweat. Crows will laugh when they find me sleeping on the asphalt. When I wish for death they will shake their conkled heads and fly.