Springdale

He didn’t know if he used his head the right way, but Lom Graski didn’t mind battering down doors. The boys back at the station called him “The Ram” or “Ram” if they got even lazier. Coming out of a miserable D3 mountain town college, Lom transitioned quicker from fullback to traffic cop than you could say “first down!”

The city of Springdale didn’t have a crime problem. Hell, Lom wondered why they even had a police force most days. The population of nine hundred and thirty eight seemed more set on tending to backyard gardens and supporting the local football team than causing mischief. 

That’s why no one was ready for the fourteenth of October. The day the gate appeared. It stood at the edge of main street— in the middle of the single road in and out of town. It was fifteen feet tall and had sprouted from the earth. Ivory carvings decorated the sides of the dark metal structure. And in the middle was a tattered curtain that kept flapping on a phantom wind. 

The first person to approach the gate was the old Lutheran minister, Jens Brunell. A dowdy figure at seventy three, Jens had not as much interacted with a Ouija board. As he shuffled towards the gate— he clutched his cherrywood cross that hung around his neck. His daughter, Matilda, had bought it for him years ago on a trip to Denmark. He didn’t want to be brave— but sacrifices go hand in hand with responsibility.

A giant, scarred hand shot out of the gate and snatched Jens in the blink of an eye. It pulled him back into the gate. The crowd that stood back scattered like rats. What dark deed had called such an evil to their town? Who was responsible? Why had it taken Jens? These were all whispered amongst the citizens as they kept as far away from the gate as possible. 

Eventually Lom found himself planning in the bunker under the police station. It was really a basement, but the times had necessitated a safer name for their dreary dwelling. Lom and two others, Peter Stauvil and Kenny Sherwood, were the only ones left with any courage after they saw poor Jens stolen away. They knew they had to destroy that gate if anyone in the town had a chance at survival.

“Kenny, your dad still has some blast charges after he had to close the mine up last year, right?” Lom said. 

“I bet he has a couple left. Tough bastard hated giving anything back to the drilling company,” Kenny said as he polished a shotgun. Lom looked over at Peter who was reading through a Bible.

“You find anything yet?”

“Nothing about giants. I don’t think we know what it’s gonna be until we see the whole thing,” Peter said.

“I’m not sure we want to.”

“I don’t doubt that. But it sure seems like we’re headed that way. How much longer is that thing going to be satisfied with only grabbing Jens?”

“Hopefully long enough for us to get more firepower,” Kenny said. 

The three men stood in the center of Main Street after digging through Kenny’s family farm for explosives. The band of dynamite was slung over Kenny’s shoulder and Peter carried the detonator box. Lom had a shotgun and a pickax with him. Not that he thought it’d do any good to that giant hand. 

“Do either of you feel like The Three Musketeers?” Peter asked as he looked between Kenny and Lom with their worn wranglers and dirt caked t-shirts. 

“Not even a little bit. I feel fucking terrified there’s a giant hand that stole our priest and we’re standing with dynamite in the middle of our town,” Kenny said. 

“And no one else wants to help,” Lom added. 
He looked at the once idyllic town— now cast with a dark shadow of fear. “Let’s get after it,” he said and started towards the gate.
They got within fifty feet and the street began to rumble. The asphalt beneath their feet churned as the gate began to grow taller.
The three men shared a terrified look— it was more than a hand that they were going to face.
“Place the sticks! We gotta blow this thing right now!”

Kenny ran towards the gate— he slid to a stop and planted the dynamite before turning back to Lom and Peter. That’s when the hand shot out of the gate again. Just like that, Kenny followed Jens into the breach. Peter looked at Lom and then bolted. He ran towards the opposite end of town leaving Lom by himself.
“Shit.”

Lom stared at the fallen pile of dynamite and the disconnected cord to the detonator in his arms. He knew the town only had one shot at getting out of this nightmare. He ran towards the gate— feet flying over the uneven pavement as shades of D3 glory returned to his running form. A long, gangly, grey leg crept out of the gate and the hint of a torso followed as Lom slid to a stop by the dynamite and hurriedly reconnected the wires. He looked up to find a rotten amalgamation of sewn flesh and mismatched bones loom over him. He whispered a prayer and pressed down on the detonator box.

Ima Jean

She had a plastic skeleton sit in her motorcycle sidecar. She draped it with hula flowers and kept an empty bottle of Sailor Jerry’s taped to it’s right hand. She rarely drove it— but managed to disappear from view the moment she left the apartment building. She could have rivaled Houdini in another era.

She had hand tattoos that spelled out “Nox Lupus” across her knuckles. I wanted to call her Ima Jean, but the last person that did is still swimming from her slap. 

Her Olympic weight lifting exploits meant she had a firm “Don’t fuck with” vibe. Even when she smiled like a benevolent Saint giving benediction. I’d pray at her feet— but I’m not sure if she wouldn’t break my knees for me to do it. 

I hate being scared. And being around her makes me feel like a Wall Street banker during an IRS audit, but I wouldn’t back down. Not after I saw her shot a rattlesnake out of a tree. 

I had to understand the forces that go into creating a living legend— even if I might die trying. 

The first time she talked to me— I was moving into the walk up above her. She looked at my boots and frowned. “You’re going to wear sneakers or socks from now on. No heels over my head.” I put my boots in storage thirty minutes later. 

She cooked almost every meal on the charcoal grill in the backyard. She’d stack pallets of ribs in the basement freezer. I gave up trying to store my frozen berries down there. Some battles aren’t even worth beginning. I’d say hi, but I only ever managed to squeak since I was too scared to use her name. I’d heard someone else call her “J” but I didn’t think I could pull it off. 

The girls that did have that familiarity trailed her into the building like she was a leather clad siren. I’d lay against the wood floors and hear the huffs and grunts of sweaty work being done. I’d run my hands through the thick wool carpet next to the bare wood and imagine it was her short, spiked black hair.

Later, I sit with my cracked, teal avian review mug and squirm at the thought of her finding out I ease-dropped on her intimate encounters. I wanted to write a poem for her— but I was scared she would have anything to say if she read it. I could bear the ignorant silence— I don’t know if I’d survive a knowledgeable one.

Dark Corner of Hope

A Lithe Hope— An unexpected name for a rocket ship, but it was the one Alden Connors settled on. It should be called “A Ragged Hope” now, but Alden wouldn’t besmirch his cosmic slagged beauty with a cosmetic touch up— she was beautiful the way she was. Alden had survived thirty seven skirmishes, eight ambushes, and two galactic wars. He followed the rules passed down to him from his grandfather after his time in the Crimson Legion.

1) Never turn your back on Deep Space.

2) Your first mate is your best hope.

3) Don’t die with any ammo left.

Alden hadn’t had to test the third one yet, but he hoped he’d get another run at the Chavirari tentacle tank before that happened. He had four million galactic chits to win back. He stilled owed his first mate, Suhel, for the Vinaldi race that put him in the hole in the first place. Alden knew he shouldn’t bet against a crewman— even Suhel. But he couldn’t ignore the feeling he had in his gut— turned out to be the rancid Tengiri flakes in his rice.

The most recent job took Alden and A Lithe Hope into Grenden territory. Long known as the gnolls of the dark spots of space, the Grenden cannibalized any craft they managed to hunt down. Alden knew of an old federation pilot that survived a Grenden raid by hiding in the water tanks before being jettisoned to the closest planet— thankfully he was returning from a space op— so he was still suited up. He claimed the Grenden spoke a language not found in the galactic codex. He tried to record it— but his translator and recorder were damaged in his initial escape. Alden wasn’t sure if the account held water, but he knew it couldn’t be ignored. If the Grenden were capable of hiding an entire language from the federation— what else were they capable of? Alden worried about the settlements on the outer rims— they wouldn’t find salvation— even if they managed to fire their beacons. The federation would never reach them in time— not for the threat a secretly coordinated Grenden posed.

Alden’s sister still lived on one of Farrix’s moons. Her small family was embedded with the local militia that repelled the Voron threat after the lax Grenden years. Lia was tougher than Alden— he knew she’d be fine. He still fidgeted with his family signet ring when he thought of her though. She was the only one left after their grandfather passed away. He still wondered why she let him take the ship. It was her birthright— but she passed it over to him and he never looked back. After he realized no one was tracking his movements— Alden drifted off the galactic map and found the pockets of space dust and mischief he was searching for.

Now, he found himself short of credits and full of experience— which meant another trip to Jago’s boards. Long reputed as the least trustworthy man in the galaxy— Jago Ventura owned the trading rights to seven galactic ports. Running a job for Jago meant violence and delays— but the man paid in full. And even worse, his daughter was Alden’s favorite midnight wish amongst the stars. Vox forbid Jago learn about him and Mayte. He only had one starship and couldn’t afford to have it destroyed by a blackmarket kingpin.

Pillory

Rowena Jackson didn’t have many problems with her name, but she did detest the Harry Potter comments. She figured it was inevitable living in a suburb. The series had been held up as a pillar of great storytelling after being initially pilloried by the conservative groups. Ultimately everyone wanted to believe in magic powers— just not that everyone else could have them.
Rowena didn’t feel special— she just felt different. It wasn’t the solo bike rides or investigating the skin patterns of newts in the streams. It felt deeper. It was the lack of curiosity that her peers had for well… anything. Rowena wanted to know the whys of life. And everyone around her and as focused on “why not?”

Into Reach

Oft into space with intentions of mischievous deeds, the young Leandro felt he should be in line for the crown and not the isle of Corransca. His brother, Mauro, was the heir to their family’s title, and he knew that his gentle demeanor wouldn’t lead to any gains amongst the other seafaring clans.

Deep Space

There’s an oxygenated gel that kept us alive during the stasis. Throwing it up brought me back to my Jell-O shot days. I was a long way past that now as the emergency deployment alarm blared in my ears. Something had gone wrong on the ship— and it seemed like I was the only one woken up. 

Barstool

I drove with my knees on my to visit a bartender named Rita. A revery flowed through my achy Subaru. The bumps of bustles of the road didn’t soothe its ailing frame— nothing short of death would. 

Rita hides brand new bottles of Miller High Life behind my almost empties. The golden hue blends together and offers a nice surprise as I’m kept malted. This isn’t the drink or place I’d think I’d be a regular at. But fried chicken is an oily mistress that calls to the dueling powers of hunger and inebriation within my soul. I’ve spent enough time at the bar top to dally with the rotating cast of beverage guardians.

I wonder if this is the place I’ll miss when I don’t live in Portland any longer. That’s the type of question that pulls at the back of my head— I don’t know how the next adventure goes. I believe I’m already in the beginning of it. 

Alice in Wonderland

Dust clouds leapt into the air behind me. The drought-stressed earth made it easy to kick up dirt as I walked along the trail. The mountain hadn’t seen rain in over two months, but that didn’t keep me from enjoying my daily walks among the manzanita and madrona trees. I kept turning over thoughts of leaving this tiny little town and finally adventuring in the big world.

I’d listen to Sylvan Esso and Elliot Smith as I walked through the trail system with my camera. I’d stop to take photos of the distant peaks and wonder if I was in the right place. I’d wonder why I had a gnawing hunger rumble in my soul like a kid before lunchtime. Even more, I’d wonder why nothing I did seem to sate it.

Undeclared

Larsen Lewis knew that Jaeger meant “hunter” in German but he had no desire to rough it in the bush for venison. The only thing Larsen Lewis cared about was the hunt for a good party. 

Technically a pre-post graduate student, Larsen had amassed a whooping three hundred credits from Essington’s college right outside of Minneapolis. 

He lived for the collegiate camaraderie & day drinking lifestyle his half day elective heavy schedule allowed. 

His blonde mustache was combed to silky perfection as he readied himself for yet another night out. He’d pop over to Tin Kitty’s for a quick vodka soda and a peep at the cabaret dancers. He fancied the wildly boisterous & utterly disarming, Bella Spanx. Her fiery story counteracted a midwest, Polly pocket charm that sent many a head spinning & hearts broken. Still, Larsen gave her a near daily smile— hoping that she might return it eventually. 

Moving on, he sauntered over to Jim Wrigley’s for a ferocious debate on the ethics of corking a bat and who deserves the all time home run title with the cadre of decorated veterans that kept Jim plush in stimulus cash and light in Miller High Life’s. 

As the night begins to ramp up, Larsen affixes a trademark Celtic braided band on his left ring finger— in the hopes he’ll attract the tabooed glances and halted sanctity of his fake marriage. He hadn’t succeeded yet, but he knew he’d hit his windfall soon. 

It’s not until midnight that he truly finds his stride— that’s when Larsen arrives at the holy trinity. Top Elks, Mowers, and Skyland— the top three bars in the hip district of the Ovold neighborhood. Skyland was the finish point with its heavy pours and wide dance floor. 

On off nights, he’d sit on a stool and wonder why he hit on girls who couldn’t tell their syllabus from a silly bus, but the soaked heart wants what any rapidly aging late twenties’ ne'er-do-well wants. A woman that finds his beer laden breath enticing as his aimless scholastic adventure. 

If he struck out— which he never did because he’d refuse to get up to swing, Larsen would head to the best late night pizzeria in the twin lakes— Pete’s Pies. One Alfredo chicken with extra bacon and artichoke hearts was the necessary salve for another night alone— but Larsen didn’t worry too much. He knew once he picked a major the ladies would see he had his life all figured out.  

Trucking

There’s a demon that skulks beyond the shadows of truck stops in the far reaches of the American West.
Firsthand stories are hand to come by— and secondhand are voluminous, if timid. The creature that stalks the lonely road warrior is mentioned only in barroom whispers. None want to draw its attention.
The men from the North claim knowledge of its name— they call it Wendigo.

Red Door

The last candle flickered before the void. An alien melody trickled through the stale air— haunting our hearts before we could escape its attention.

Overhead hung the inky splotches of hungry wings and carved beaks— waiting for a final fall. We tread slowly like words over numb lips. I clasped your clammy palm and prayed for a light down the tunnel. Not realizing the cavalry wasn’t coming— we were alone.

The errant drip of foul, unseen liquid unraveled our nerves. A ticking, uneven rhythm to the descent into the abyss.
Whatever we had been promised— it wasn’t worth the sight of the creature that stood before the Red Door.

A tangled, slithering mass— it blocked the woven intricacies of the final passage between living realms. The creature played guardian with a languid spite— it’s eyes rippled with anticipation as we moved into reach. Our legs a foreign concept to the creature. It struck at speed— reaching for your limbs. Only the stubborn torch you clutched like a newborn child kept you unharmed. A sharp hiss rattled through the chamber— it didn’t enjoy the pain. The fire stood between its first fresh meal in ages— and it was hungry.

Underbelly

For a man named Milan, you’d be correct in believing he’d be more fashionable than he was. Milan Gravensen stood a lanky six foot four and had an unsightly leer to him. The locals had taken to calling him “Milan the Menace” even at times to his pinched face. The ramshackle tent he lived in was hidden by an intricate wreath of vines that he had woven together. It was widely known that he lived in the park, but no one save himself knew where. It wasn’t uncommon for Milan to suddenly appear on a park trail or outside the restrooms without warning.

People in the underbelly of the city knew that darkness that Milan spread. He was known as an evil man. One that kept escaping the detection of police. Some believed he made a deal with them to prey on other vagrants. Others simply believed in the indifference of any authority figure. Neither side was wrong. The cops kept a black box of Milan’s crimes for an eventual sentencing. But until he lived past his usefulness, he operated with the blind eye of the authorities behind him.

Overboard

“You said it was a ‘lost cause.’”

“I didn’t mean let go of the rope while she was still in the water!”

“Then what did you mean?!”

“I meant the trivial nature of life means the infinite will always be beyond us as finite, mortal beings.”

“… Greg, this is the last time I tell you to stop with the unneeded existential crises. That was the third boat hand we’ve lost out here. What is the marina going to think?”

“That life is ultimately meaningless and we should explore the thrills of life through substance based debauchery?”

“No. They’re going to think we murder these poor people. Instead of what actually happens— which is that we’re just fatally incompetent.”

Denny’s for Dying

“I need you to look me in my eyes.” A gaunt cowboy says to a young, confused waiter. “Now spit in my mouth.”

“What?!”

“Oh, shit. My bad! Thought we were headed that direction.”

“Sir, this is a Denny’s.”

”Listen, bud. I’ve just driven thirty-six hours straight. I’ve got a six horse trailer behind a one and a half ton truck. I’m about to splash hot sauce on my eyes to say awake and I’ve been sucking on coffee grounds like I’m my own personal Keurig. Do you think I know where I am?”

“… To be honest, I’m surprised you’re not dead.”

”Fucking-A, me too, bud.”

Noodles

“You would offer me your unmade bed and I’d swear you could reinvent infinity,” Marcos said as he relit a melted candle. He placed it in a broken coffee mug and set it between the two plates of steaming linguini. “But that’s when we were kids, Gia. Why are you bringing this up now? I thought we were good.”

The woman snuggled in a recliner gave a pouty look before huffing a sigh and sitting up.
“Why do you always act like this is over? I know you, Marcos. You’re the only person who can really see me. You’re the only person that makes me nervous. Because once I say something— it’s like you etch it into stone. As if there’s some stone tablet of our relationship and you’re Plato. Can’t you see that I love you? Can’t that be enough?”

“It might be if you were with me. But you’re not. Maybe we aren’t the star crossed lovers you think we are. Maybe we were the comet’s tail— brilliant, brief spark across the sky. And that’s it.” He stuck his fork into the clumped pasta. It resisted his weak efforts to pull it apart. He stopped and looked up at Gia. “You can’t have everything. There’s always a trade off.”

”I wished you believed in love like you used to. It makes me sad that you lost the part of you I found most beautiful.”

“And I can’t hold out hope for a light when it helps you to keep the blinds shut.”

”Nothing in life is fair. But some of it hurts a lot worse than other stuff. And hoping in vain is the worst of it all. That’s the poison that will kill you with a smile on your face. It’s like climbing down from a peak— the view is beautiful, but you can’t live there. And one wrong move on the way down and it’s done.”

Gia got up and blew out the ragged candle in the mug. She looked around Marco’s loft and laughed. “You’re going to end up all alone. And even worse— you could have had me back, but you didn’t even ask.”

”Shouldn’t be the one asking if you’re the only one that can make the decisions that matter. Goodbye, Gia. Don’t forget to be kind to yourself.”

”Fuck you, Marcos,” Gia said as she swept out of the room.
“Fuck me, indeed.” Marcos drained his glass of wine and stared at the linguini. He was sure there was a metaphor tangled in the noodles about fate— but he was too hungry to care.

Plots

Delilah graves loved her grandson as all grandmothers do. But seven hells, his whining tested her love daily.

“Festus, you either get busy living or get busy dying. No time for all this salty spray riff raff. Pull yourself together and tend to the alfalfa.”

“Yes, Nana,” The young boy said.

Useless boy, but it wasn’t his fault fate saw him tended to by a woman not made for family. IN the years past, the burial plots called to Delilah in her idle moments. People speak of legends surrounding buried treasure— but never cast their eyes upon their own cemeteries. Delilah thought that was a damn shame.

If you didn’t mind the rotted soil, you could change your life overnight with one payment delivered in sweat and spade. Delilah’s daughter might have guessed at the nature of her mother’s business— but she was taken with other deviant adventures. As if on cue, a James Dean lookalike appeared in their lives and Delilah’s little girl, Isabel, transformed into a mistress. Of danger, that is.

Delilah couldn’t help but laugh. Karma was a newfangled thing in her part of the world, but she had overheard enough toga clad hippies to understand this was a cosmic adjustment of the scales for her. Besides, the only way to learn from young love is to experience it.

Now for Festus, Delilah had concerns that he would never experience passionate embraces. He was a special boy— one who couldn’t seem to get out of his own way. His legs contained a life of their own and pitched him forward into the world like a drunk giraffe.

Tending the grounds didn’t take enough time out of the day for Delilah to avoid poking through the fresh grave dirt. Old habits die hard, but everyone who died here was her habit.

Even the varnished silver of a worn pocket watch could spark some life into Delilah’s crusted heart. The thrill of discovery hadn’t grown old for five decades and she knew it wouldn’t fade by her sixth.

Sod it

“You look like you’d pay to lick the sweat off her body, you swamp donkey.”

Java Dripped Dreams

Have you ever woken up to an impending sense of doom? Where the sheets beneath you are stained with sweat and your mind could vie with F1 drivers because it’s racing so fast?

You might spend some time flipped over on your stomach as you comb through the files on your phone. Discovering old photos and voice memos that you forgot about. You might even find a voice memo from an old girlfriend who explains when she first realized she loved you. It might even be eight minutes long. You’ll lay there on your stomach. The two pillows under your chin cause you to clench your jaw as you listen to the breathless whisper of a former partner moon over a lost dream.

You’ll lay there in bed thinking about how the formula you’ve used isn’t working. That there’s also some singular problem that can’t be resolved that you’re running into. You wonder if it’s you— as you’ve been in 100% of the scenarios you’re thinking about.

And then you’ll remember the advice to follow your intuition— how it’s on the money, even when you’ve tried to place other bets. You remember that the house always wins. And you wonder who the house is. You wonder if you should have held onto other photos— ones where you were out adventuring. The ones that can’t be replaced now.

You think about how this one girl remains as a sun spot in your vision. Blurring out the edges, but making sure that no one else is in focus. Even if they themselves aren’t there. You think that’s almost like magic. That someone can be so far away— and still live within you.

You wonder if the four horseman of caffeinated stress will start to falter and let you slip into a dreamless sleep. You haven’t had a night without dreams in a long time. You wonder if that’s another part of the puzzle. If the menagerie of lost gods, magical places, and batshit lunacy are little signal fires in your mind— sending out the alarm that you should attend to some calmer moments amidst the daily hubbub.

You forget your worries as your eyelids start to tug downwards. You find yourself wrapped in a tapestry of melded thoughts as the conscious cedes to the subconscious. The dim echo of self casts itself upon the still waters between the two states. You sink without a trace— questions forgotten as a path of stardust emerges beneath your feet.

Claws

The adage "Ain't no laws when drinkin' claws" turned into a loophole legal defense as Samantha Bixby tore through the heart of downtown Portland.

The stress of working for a high powered shoe company directed her towards liquid comfort. White Claw seized the hard seltzer market from Zima and never looked back. Sorority girls, homemakers, and non-alcohol enthusiasts found themselves bound together under the banner of White Claw. The bright white cans held the power of bad decisions and legal immunity. It wasn't until the legendary bachelorette party of Samantha Bixby that the public learned the extent of the rallying cry "Ain't no laws when drinkin' claws."

It was at the start of the night after an opening salvo at Mary’s strip club that Samantha and her posse discovered the miraculous loophole. They had just exited the club when they jaywalked across Burnside street during a green light. A traffic cop flashed his lights, but stopped when he spotted the cans in the party’s hands. Sam’s eyes lit up with a devilish understanding— and her night took a debaucherous turn.

As long as Sam maintained possession of a filled Claw at all times, she operated within a gray area of legal immunity. She rallied the girls behind her and they soon started tearing through the city like a locust through fresh crops. A band of cops trailed the group, waiting for them to drop their cans and immunity. It wasn’t until Sam’s bridesmaid, Ginger, tried tickling a male stripper and dropped a can that the first person in the party fell victim to a flying tackle and handcuffs. Sam retaliated by duct taping full cans into the left hand of every member of the bachelorette party a la Edward Fortyhands.

The events of the night started piling up in a scorched earth manner that would have rivaled the coke fueled binge by Charlie Sheen during his “tiger blood” stage. The local media broadcast that followed her moves soon found itself on the national stage as the public began a plea to the White Claw company to come and stop Samantha themselves. They argued that her Godzilla level destruction (vandalized parks, wrecked cars, rampant ass slaps, etc) were all the company’s fault. When attempted to reach for a statement— silence hung in the air. The public learned what young men in war do once they cross the breach— there’s no cavalry coming to save you.

Ultimately, it took thirty seven hours and fifty five cans of White Claw to slow Samantha Bixby down. She disappeared into the Shanghai tunnels below Portland after discovering a hidden speakeasy in one of the Chinatown clubs. The rest of her bachelorette party were found to be innocent of the charges they faced, but new legislation was brought forward to invalidated the now infamous “Ain’t no laws when drinkin’ Claws,” adage that saw an untoward level of mayhem.

Legend has it, you can hear the cackles of seltzer filled madness if you explore the tunnels alone. May mercy find your soul if a Claw filled hand appears in your eyesight.

Introduction

“You’re going to die.” Laurence said as his grip tightened around Harold’s throat. “That’s the first lesson you need to be taught. Because it’s what’s going to keep you alive. You can’t pretend you can go out there, play hero, and not know death is on the line.” He let go of Harold and let him stumble away. 

Laurence turned to the rest of the class. “Welcome to your first day of the Academy. Let’s see how many of you succeed.”

***