Category Archives: Fiction

Go Read This

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Not only does this blogger quote LTC Dave Grossman, she writes fiction: long windy (not windy as the breeze, but windy like mountain roads) sentences and then short, quick rat-ta-ta-tats.

Here’s a piece:

It has not rained here in months.  The arid desert stretching across al Anbar Province simmers under the radiating sun. The hottest days of summer have passed, but September still yields little comfort.

Our next post is just a hundred meters ahead at the next intersection, where Tin runs into Phoenix.  According to the latest intel reports, this section of our route is hot.  They say to look out for possible small arms and sniper fire near Haqlaniyah Road, to be extra vigilant near cities along the Euphrates, such as Haditha and Rawah.

Don’t stop, my friend. Fiction is a brave road and the only rule is to finish. . .

Ride Fast, Roll Easy

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Fiction, published in the November 2011 issue of Urban Velo

Death made me a man.

I’ll never admit it, not now, not rolling Broadway on my bike, my single-gear. But s’true. Losing my parents last year forced me to grow up. To hunt their killer. The man with the tattooed knuckles. I got nothing on him but those fists and they clobber me, always in my thoughts, my dreams.

Riding Broadway, New York’s Mississippi, I catch green after green. I’m 18 and don’t expect anything less. Life’s forever green, no? John races right behind me. On rollerblades way too fast for him. Which is where I come in.

He reaches and grabs the rattly rack on my fender to slow down, dragging his back brake. Like some bladers, he never learned to stop. Quick-like. No hockey-T, no side edge. Never. We got us all greens, he yells to me. We have this conversation every day. An old married couple, we are. ‘Cept for the old part. And the married, couple thing.

Yup, I shout. A car cuts in front of me, and I let loose. Look sharp, I bellow at the taxi. The driver flicks his bored eyes at me, in his side mirror, and we meet. For a second. Before he riffles them away. Taxis. Me and them do not get along. Me and them. Do not. I got stories.

Read the rest at Urban Velo

Porterhouse and Guacamole

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The air in the gym stank of old and new sweat, socks and athletic tape. Jack “Porterhouse” Jolson ducked inside his opponent’s left jab, unhinging a ferocious uppercut. The punch slipped off Bingo Naylor’s jaw and traveled a good foot past. Bingo juked, somewhat shaken, and jabbed again, his fist connecting with Porterhouse’s mangled nose.

“Alright, boys,” the trainer yelled. “Take two.”

Porterhouse and Bingo tapped gloves and retreated across the blue canvas to a corner worn with stool legs and sweat pools. I knew every inch of that ring. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling caught their outlines, projecting them onto the brick wall behind.

“How you lookin’ for the fights next week in Berkeley?” Porterhouse asked.

“Me? Fine. It’s you, brother, who has gotta look out.”

“Look out, what ‘chou talkin’ ’bout?”

“You and your name. Porterhouse ain’t gonna fly in that town.”

“My name? You gotta be kidding.”

“Nope, I would change it if I were you. In the land of fruits, nuts, and flakes, Porterhouses don’t play.”

“What do you suggest?” Porterhouse asked with a blank stare.

“Me? I would go with something them Cali folks like. Nothing too steaky.”

Porterhouse grimaced. “Hows’ about Guacamole?”

“Yeah, that’ll work,” Bingo replied with a nod.

“Alright, boys,” the trainer yelled again. “Get y’all another round. . .”

Slowly Bingo and Guacamole circled each other. Guac appeared off, a step behind, a punch late. But he’ll get his mojo back. I just knew it. Wait ’til he gets to Berkeley and hears his name being chanted. Guacamole, Guacamole, it does wonders for a fighter. Hell, they used to call me Ribeye. Of course, that was before I fought in California. . .

-Hummus Smith