As the final blog approaches...

The day dawns and is, ironically, a bright sunny one. Fil has died, and apparently Grandma Pearl has found him...

Please make sure that you include Fil's death and a least one other character from this current list of characters. You should have your blog completed by this weekend. Do not maim, or kill off any other character or yourself. Have a nice day.

Robert Yuras

The Frozen World

Silence.

The silence of the piano jolts the man from his zen-like daydream. Sighing, he realizes that his fears and troubles will soon come crashing over him like a throng of angry hornets. Clenching his eyes shut, the man tries to shut out all of his senses. But the voices begin:

-What the hell happened?
-That wasn’t fair!
-I don’t deserve this…
-Why was it them…
-damn, damn, Damn, DAMN!!!

As the voices grew louder and louder, the man screws his eyes as if to shut out all light, all sound, all life from his own sight. The thoughts continue to wash over him, to break over him as waves at the beach disintegrate cliffs into canyons, then…

“STOP!” a single voice yells. Whether it’s his voice or not, the man doesn’t know, but something has happened; all of the voices have indeed stopped. As he sighs with relief, he suddenly notices his computer. It’s frozen again, the mouse pointer on the screen won’t move, no matter how much he shakes the mouse and the file he was downloading has stopped completely. Groaning, the man reaches down to restart his computer and freezes.

Outside of his window, the world has stopped as if someone had pressed pause on the VCR. The smoke coming from the chimney across the street is frozen in mid air like some vertically challenged cloud. The kids from down the street are stuck in the middle of their game of King of the Mountain. The birds hang in the air as if suspended from some ceiling. All of this, the boy takes in and yet cannot believe the very sight before him.

A hobo is hovers in midair as he jumps down from his evening dumpster diving, a newspaper clutched in his hand, a joyous grin exposing his remaining jutting teeth.

Charlie, from the Chinese food shop, is stuck in the air on his bicycle. The handle bars which were previously spinning are now frozen. If he was to come down, he is going to crash horribly. But the man knew that his crash wasn’t from this landing…

“I must be dreaming,” the man says. As he pinches himself, he feels no pain. A tell-tale sign that this is a dream, and yet-

Suddenly movement in his peripheral vision snaps the man to attention. A single woman is walking down the street. Something about the woman makes his spine tremble. He wants the woman to go away. As he watches the woman moving through the timeless world towards him, he catches a glimpse of her face.

At the sight of her face, he yells and falls backwards. As he falls, the entire world around him fades to black.

Slowly opening his eyes, the man wipes the sweat and tears away absentmindedly. Why was he on the floor? What happened? Suddenly the memory of what happened to him begins to return slowly. Looking out of the window, he sees that time has returned to normal; that there is no woman in black walking towards him. He sighs heavily and returns his gaze to his computer screen flashing his completed download. What in the hell happened to him? Who or what was that voice? Who was that man? Why did time…? Realizing that questions were what started this whole mess, the man quickly pushes them from his mind.

“I need to walk,” he murmurs to himself, “Some time to clear my head. Something crazy has happened and I need to fix it. This was just a crazy dream.”

Speaking to no one in particular, the man realized that speaking it out gave him all the encouragement he needed to get his jacket, grab his keys, and head out the door into a world that only 30 minutes ago, he unknowingly stopped completely.

Henry Dupont

A smiling opportunity.

The teapot had been singing for nearly a minute before Henry took it off the heat. He poured the steaming water over the honey lemon tea bag sitting at the bottom of his plastic mug and took a sip. The water burned his tongue; he cringed.

He strolled from the cramped kitchen into the living room, where he gazed out his sliding doors onto the streets below. It was raining again. Henry turned and walked around his meager apartment, looking for something to do. He had no TV. He had no computer. He had no friends. His only entertainment was the seven books he kept on his bedside table and a set of crossword puzzles. Henry kept himself busy most days, dreaming up Dorothy's next adventure or observing people from his teeny balcony. But it was days like today when Henry wished he had some purpose in his life.

Henry sipped his tea cautiously, not wanting to scald his tongue any more, contemplating what to do.

Then he decided, quite abruptly, to go to the grocery store. Maybe he'd find something interesting. He made a list of items – Henry never went to the grocery without a list – and put on his bright yellow raincoat and golashes. Then he headed out.

Inside the grocery story, he began to make his rehearsed rounds – from the produce section through the aisles, and then over to the dairy section. There, he saw quite a sight.

First, he saw a man bending over the milk cartons, his butt crack peeping over the edge of his pants. Henry's eyes drifted to the rather large woman standing next to him. She was dressed in a hideous white dress with pink and green hearts and was quite agitated, it seemed, with the man. "How could I ever have thought we were meant to be if you go off with your dime store floozys? I am a real woman..." Henry walked away. He didn't much care about her problems.

After paying for his groceries, Henry headed back towards Washington Heights. The clouds were threatening rain again. All of a sudden, Henry heard a sound. It was a song, getting closer and closer until it seemed to be right behind his shoulder. He looked onto the road just in time to see a little ice cream truck pass by. He was amazed – he hadn't seen one of those since he was a kid. And what in the world was an ice cream truck doing driving around Baltimore in the fall? There was some strange stuff going on in this place, Henry thought. The more he saw of it, the more he wanted to get out.

Then he saw the lady. She looked like a business lady, dressed up in a nice black skirt suit. She wore makeup and pumps and pantyhose and was standing in the middle of a sidewalk in Washington Heights. As Henry approached her, she approached him. She was holding a small stack of pamphlets and wore a peppy grin. "Hello!" She stuck out her hand. "I'm Lauren Flinn, from the Baltimore School of Fashion and Design. Here's a brochure –" she held one out for Henry to take – "that outlines our classes. Right now we're offering scholarships to anyone who agrees to attend full time for two years..." The woman flipped the brochure over in Henry's hands, pointing with her French-manicured nails to the things she was talking about. But Henry had stopped listening. His mind was spinning.

He loved fashion. Dorothy loved fashion. He wanted to leave Washington Heights, and this woman – this gorgeous, sweet, misplaced woman – was offering him a paid education at a fashion school. Henry almost pinched himself to make sure that this was really happening.

"...and classes for the spring semester begin in January." The woman stopped talking and looked up at Henry, smiling. "Can I have your name and phone number to contact you?"

And so Henry gave the woman his name – Henry, of course, not Dorothy – and told her he would really like to be considered for the scholarship. The woman smiled at him, shook his hand, and told him he'd be hearing from her soon. She turned on her heel and walked down the sidewalk.

Just as he reached the apartment building, it began to rain again, but even the bleak weather couldn't bring Henry down from his high. He could go to fashion school! He could become successful and have friends and go to parties! He could find a boyfriend! And the best part about it all was that going to fashion school meant leaving Washington Heights. What a novel thought.

Marcus Manuel

The Feds is Watching

Marcus Manuel was holding the pack of ice to his head and laying on his bed. Worse than any hangover he could remember, his head was pounding and felt like it was never going to stop. He was still wondering how they got away from the Feds. From off-roading to going over medians to nearly flipping over twice, the whole night was still pretty much a blur to him. He really questioned whether or not Oscar's unconscious ass would remember any of it, including Manuel and Machelli having to drag his fat ass back to the store and lay him in his bed. What a night. His head hurt too bad to realize that it was a bit suspicious that three felons could simply outrun the Feds and be able to just go back to their homes. It had all subsided quickly. Too quickly. It had gone too smoothly, and something was definitely up. But Manuel was just glad they had survived.

Manuel finally stepped out of his apartment and saw Sloan Waters getting into a taxi. "Where are you going?" Manuel asked, just wanting to hear some semblance of getting away. "Manhattan. I have a lunch date at 12:30." Manuel checked his watch. It was 12 noon. He looked back over to the lady getting into the taxi and she had some strange maniacal grin on her face as she ducked her head into the taxi. "Fucking psycho," he muttered to himself. "Getting to Manhattan in 30 minutes. In a taxi. Stupid bitch thinks she can actually escape this place."

Apparently she had forgotten that this was Baltimore. Washington Heights. Nobody ever escaped. Manuel turned back into the building amidst the sound of thunder.

Manuel woke up from his slumber just in time to hear the rain start back up, round four o'clock in the afternoon. Ice cream truck was pulling up and selling to the kids on the block. Kids standing out there, in that cold rain. Looked like they were having fun though. Better they enjoy their childhood while it lasts, Manuel thought. He knew more than anybody how hard it was to be a grown-up.

Rizzo Sprayberry

Who Says Emotional Breakdowns Are Childish?

"That better not get on my shoes." Rizzo thought to herself as she squeezed past Lulu Lamar on the sidewalk. Lulu was taking her dog to do its business outside the grocery store (which was better than inside the store) but Rizzo had just slipped on her "I look very professional today, don't I?" pumps that matched her power suit, ripe for her impending job interviews. Just as the two women locked eyes, the dog did a 180 degree spin and somehow managed to spray Rizzo with a stream of pee.
"Are you freaking kidding me?!" Rizzo screamed as she jumped back away from the dog.
Lulu managed to look unbothered by the fact that her dog had pissed on Rizzo. "Oh yea, sorry about that," Lulu said nonchalantly.
"This is not ok at all!" Rizzo exclaimed. "This is the only pair of dress shoes I own and I have a job interview for bank teller position in 15 minutes!"
"Ya know, pee washes off," Lulu said with an air of sarcasm.
"Yea, but my shoes are gonna smell like piss for the next six months! You better buy me new pair Lulu, or else I'm gonna take you to The Court of Appeals."
Rizzo had once slept on pieces of a ratty law textbook. Sometimes, to up the intellectual factor, she used the terms in her everyday conversation. Although she didn't know it, she used the terms wrong most of the time-like now.
"Hell no," screeched Lulu, "I'm not paying you back, It was your own fault that you walked into his stream of piss!"
"NOOOOOOOOO IT WAS NOT!!!!!" Your dog has shitty aim!" Rizzo yelled.
"Nuh uh......screw you Rizzo. You think just because you live in a subway car and you are jobless the whole world should take it easy on you. Well fuck that! Guess what, I'm not gonna do that this time because the real world sucks. Get used to it.
By this point in the conversation, the veins were popping out of Rizzo's temples and her face was an abnormal shade of burgundy. "AHHHHHHH!!!! I HATE YOU, YOU BITCH!!!!" Rizzo screamed.
She threw her bagel and coffee into the metal trashcan on the sidewalk, took off her heels, and got ready. Expecting her to charge, Lulu was bent down in a ball on the ground covering her head. Rizzo ran the other way. Away from Lulu. She sped down the street and basically Tasmanian Deviled her way into the bakery. She demanded a blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese. NOW.

Lucy Evans

Take the Good with the Bad

Patients keep their stays in the clinic as short as possible. The people of Washington Heights have many secrets. They don't like all of the questions the medical staff asks. It's a shame that they think that even us could be out to harm them. Many just don't understand that those specific questions are necessary for thorough diagnosis and understanding of why he or she ended up at the clinic. Those prying questions are important, because we treat the physical injuries as well as the mental.

Unfortunately early this morning one of my patients, Mr. Jefferson, came by for treatment for some major bruises and cuts that needed stitches. I asked him a few questions such as if he had a home, any insurance, and a way to contact him. He answered those questions without difficulty, but when I asked him how he got them he didn't answer. I tried explaining to him how important that information was. I left the room to give him his space, but when I returned to clean and stitch up his cuts Mr. Jefferson was nowhere to be found. "Hmmmm...what a shame. Another one gone."

People in this town have to deal with so much. They have to be cautious about their every move, whether it's what route to take to get home safely or even what clothes to wear to avoid getting shot or robbed. In Washington Heights too much crime happens and too little is done about it. The people have no other choice but to look out for themselves, nobody else will.

My own personal experience in Washington Heights has definitely helped me in more ways than one, but even though I'm a beneficiary of it, I still cannot and will not stay much longer. Mark and I have really done some thinking about where we want to be in the future, and we concluded that staying in this dump will not help us get there. We're moving away to the same town, maybe even living together, so we can get on the right track.

RING!!... RING!! The phone on my desk echoed throughout my office.
I answered, "Hello?"

"Dr. Evans?"

"This is she. How can I help you?"

" Hi, this is your real estate agent, Mrs. Johnston. I wanted to call you to
notify you and Mark that I have found two affordable apartments that match your
descriptions."

"Well this is wonderful news." I tried to hide my excitment. I almost
screamed. "Thankyou so very much Mrs. Johnston, Mark and I will look into it."

"Thankyou, Ms. Evans I'll email the pics to you tonight"

"That would be great, I'll talk to you later."

I hung up the phone probably with the biggest smile on my face. I called Mark and let him know the news. He was more animated than me if you can believe it. It was six o'clock. Almost time for me to go home. I reviewed all my paper work and checked up on every patient before I prepared to pack up and go. Today was a quieter day than usual and it was nice being able to get out on time for the first time in a while. I couldn't get my the news Mrs. Johnston divulged to me off my mind...Well that and of course Mark himself. He makes me so happy just thinking about him. He's my angel, the answer to my prayers.

"Well, I'm about to leave now. Is there anything else anybody needs before I do
so?"

The only response I recieved was a shaking of heads. I smiled, grabbed my breifcase, put on my goat, and started my journey out the door and made my way down the streets of the town. As I was on my trek home, Mark called...

"Hey sweetie, what's up?" He said.

"Oh nothing much besides the news I told you earlier. I'm just walking home at
the moment. I'm going down Baker Street, did you know that Washington Heights
has an ice cream truck now?"

Of course he was aware of that fact. He's always aware of changes and figuring stuff out, Mark is the guy to go to if anyone wants to know anything. Me and him talked about what a nice addition to the town it would be if it wasn't for drug deals. Haha! Why is it that evil takes every opportunity to tarnish this place? The possible good is supposed to prevail over the bad! We continued our conversation as I walked up the stairs. I noticed the heavy steel door of the second floor open then shut. A young guy still in his teens stumbled down the stairs. I stopped and waited for him to pass me. We made eye contact. He had red glossy eyes. His hair was everywhere. As I stood on the side, I could see that he carried a glass that appeared to contain orange juice. The odor from the cup and his breath reeked of alcohol. I would have done something for Barnheart, but from past experience, my interferrance doesn't do any good. The only thing left to do is let him be. Allow him to do what he wants. Brone is a kind, funny guy. He keeps his wits about him even while intoxicated. "I JUST WISH HE KNEW HOW MUCH POTENTIAL HE HAS."

I made it to the rickety apartment I call home, put my keys in the bowl sitting on my coffee table, and went straight to my computer. I accessed my email and quickly searched for the message from the real estated agent. I looked at them and smiled.

Holger Vollsunger

Leere Flasche

Holger war im Bäckereizimmer, aber Maria hat nichts arbeiten. The red-stained studs of dough were still on the floor. Hearing the soft song of an ice cream truck through the pitter patter of the rain, Holger added to the city noise symphony the soft brushing of a broom. After sweeping every single bite of dough and bit of paper on the floor out of the door onto the street, Holger went over to the gas station, not bothering to close the door.

With hundreds of empty bottles Holger bought from the homeless war vets, Holger started filling them with lard to make a lamps. Distrusting the Butcher to put quality meat on the table, Holger got his own meat when he went to West Virginia to visit his childhood friend. In his 1951 Red Willy's M-38 Jeep, Holger piled, strapped, and tied any dead road-kill he could salvage every possible place in the red jeep. Using Odin's Sword, Holger would butcher the road-kill slicing through the slabs of meat and lard, making two mounds on the bakery counter.Holger melted the lard in a large cast iron vat he found on the side of the road on one of his trips. He poured the hot oil into the bottles with candles.

Holger knew that the mess he made in the bakery was never going to be cleaned by Maria. Holger often considered firing her because she was just too fucking weird. And she grew progressively weird, too. When he first hired her, he thought she was just neurotic, but now on top of that less-than-desirable trait, her mind also began to be wander when she was working. She burned the bread more and more. Somehow the strength of her wandering mind overpowered her inherent woman's instinct on how to cook - she never had to one to clean.

Perhaps this was to be his life. Maybe he was destined to live a life of solitude, although through no fault of his own. Perhaps he should stay out of any fighting for control of the neighborhood...


...unless the fighting came to his own territory.

Naublus Croseman

VI

Naublus eventually tumbled into the train tracks, still rhythmically blurting out, "Wassup! Wassup! Wassup! Wassup!" His head jerked back and forth, and green, foamy pus started to ooze from his ears. He jangled uncontrollably on the tracks, like a Parkinson's-ridden hand, until his companion Snazy took charge of the situation.

"Alright, everyone, make a chain of four.
We'll pull him out of that dungeon horror!"

A 40-something year-old man in a red bandana, a 19-year-old girl, and a seven-foot giant who seemed to span all ages, joined hands with Snazy. She dove into the tracks, still hanging on to the chain, and she jostled her way to Naublus' scarred arm. She grabbed hold, and up and out they went, back to safety. It was such a close call that Lady Liberty almost shit her pants. Which would've made the situation worse because she would not have been able to rescue Naublus.

But Snazy was there, and she was all Naublus ever needed.

She skipped away to find her love. She never came back.

Naublus forgot all about her, and he went back to his spinning -- his mental spinning, that is. Down he went, riding the grey, rusted-iron spiral that moved up and down, like a cow-milking machine. Oh Naublus, why again? Why this needless anguish that only shreds your heart? Naublus began to sob. He went on for the next three hours, until about 8:00 p.m.. His head shrunk a couple of inches because of the sadness draining out of him. A smaller head, but feeling oh so much better.

Tap, tap, tip, tap, tap, tip, tip. His ears deceived him, Naublus thought. No, it was not rain. Diamonds. Diamonds! Naublus had not bathed in a diamond shower since he was a little girl in his homeland. He ran out, giddy and slobbering with excitement, into the United States of America. The diamonds tapped on his skin, stuck to it, didn't fall. On his shoulders, diamonds. On the tops of his feet, diamonds. On his tongue, diamonds. He needed more. He slid into a puddle, filling his whole being with the glimmering beauty. Oh, the satisfaction, the satiation, the fulfillment! The grey sun's light made the diamonds look like demon-fairies. They had come to rescue him from his depression. They lasted a lifetime.

Five minutes. One second. Three half-seconds. A century. The diamonds flattened out into cardboard circles. Covered in them was Naublus. Drowning in cardboard was Naublus. He thought about the murdered trees. Slashed trunks, branches made into dust. Sap spilling everywhere, baptizing the forest with the sins of industry. He flailed his arms outward, grunting a scream, ripping the cardboard off his body (it was everywhere).

"What the hell? You did not just bump into me! You did not--just bump--into ME!" A woman with a sun dress and an expression to match it was clouded by Naublus, a cloudy man himself. It was time to rain on her little parade.

Feverishly, gone mad, Naublus asked the simple question:

"Where the diamonds went?"

George Jefferson

The Car Than Almost Finished Him

Jefferson's string of Robin Hood-like robberies had been successful up until that night. He had amassed a small collection of riches hidden under his floorboards that he had purloined from undeserving drug lords, which he intended to distribute to the poor somehow. But he made a mistake; he had to have the car. It was a beautiful yellow Lamborghini Miura he had found in one particularly well-off drug dealer's garage. The Lambo was pristine and collecting dust, proof its owner didn't use it. Jefferson didn't know how he would return it to the community; he just knew that its current owner didn't deserve it in the least. So Jefferson stole it. The theft wasn't difficult; cars that old didn't have that much of a security system. The garage, on the other hand, did.

As soon as Jefferson started up that glorious engine, three thugs with machine guns ran out of the dealer's crib. Jefferson gunned the Miura in reverse and broke through the garage's wooden wall. He slung the car around and flew down the street. The thugs peeled out of the garage in two black Cadillacs. The Miura was much faster than the Cadillacs, but the thugs had machine guns, and he couldn't outrun a bullet. The thugs fired at him; his car was riddled with bullets, and his rear window shattered. Jefferson swerved left and narrowly missed hitting a minivan. The Cadillacs followed easily. Jefferson weaved through traffic wildly, but the thugs still kept up. Then he saw flashing red and blue lights in his rearview mirror - three police cars had not surprisingly taken notice of their activities. Two of them rammed the Cadillacs and forced them off the road. The third followed Jefferson. Jefferson floored it. The police car could barely keep up, and Jefferson almost got away. Then it began to sleet.

The sleet made a sound similar to the bullets as they hit his car. Jefferson could barely see. A truck pulled out in front of him and he swerved into the left lane, then back into the right as another car almost hit him head on. Jefferson spun out of control, but regained it and sped down an adjacent street. The police car was still hot on his tail. Jefferson slowed down; the Miura's speed was no use to him if he couldn't see. The hail grew heavier. Jefferson looked in his mirrors. More cars had joined the chase. This would have to end soon. The lights of Washington Heights stood out in the darkness. He would have to ditch the car; he knew this now. At least it wouldn't be in the hands of a drug dealer. Suddenly, a black van pulled out in front of Jefferson. He swerved right. He didn't see the small coupe until it was too late.

The coupe backed out of the garage. The Miura's headlights illuminated it suddenly. Jefferson didn't have time to think. He slammed the brakes. It was useless. The Miura slammed head on into the coupe's trunk. The trunk was obliterated. The Miura lost contact with the ground. It flipped over several times. It landed in an abandoned storefront. Everything stopped.

Jefferson came to. The hail had stopped. He was lying upside down in an upside down Miura in the front of an abandoned building. Everything hurt; something was bleeding. Cars that old didn't have much of a safety system. Jefferson laboriously pulled himself out of the wreck. He knew he didn't have much time before the police got there. He peeked out of the gaping hole in the front of the building. The coupe was sitting in the middle of the street, its rear end completely smashed in. A trail of glass and metal lay between it and the Miura. The coupe's owner was climbing out of his car. Jefferson recognized him as Ryan Ford, one of the tenants of Washington Heights. He looked shaken but mostly uninjured. Then Jefferson saw the police cars zoom around the corner; they must have been stopped by the black van. Jefferson stumbled out the back of the abandoned building and into the street.

He was able to evade the police as he limped back to his apartment. He walked behind the Chinese restaurant near Washington Heights so that he could get in through the back entrance. He saw the kid who worked there speed away on his bike. He hoped the kid didn't see him. Jefferson snuck in through rear entrance of his building and into the elevator. He pressed the button to his floor. He felt terrible. His mind raced and he couldn't think straight. He pulled a shard of yellow metal out of his bulletproof vest and dropped it on the elevator floor. The doors opened and he walked awkwardly into the hall. He stumbled to his room, opened his door, and fell straight onto his bed. He felt terrible. Sirens sounded throughout the night.

Chapter

Once again, the weather is rainy and overcast. There is also, strangely enough, an ice cream truck that passes through the neighborhood around 4:00 in the afternoon -- just in time to catch the children coming home from school.......

Henrietta Flogsbottom

Chapter Five: Getting Angry at Achilles because that is how it goes.

As Mrs. Flogsbottom trudged up the windy street to Manny's Grocery, she couldn't help but notice a black van circling the street every once and a while. It must be a group of people who are utterly in love with me, she thought, watching the van slowly pass her. They know what I am about to do, but in my rage I will not go to their waiting arms! I must fight with Achilles but I will not betray him to people who ride around in a rather ugly van....
Mrs. Flogsbottom almost dreaded seeing the faint sign of Manny's come to view; this was going to be a very tricky chapter. She had to fight with him, but not too much. He couldn't be so very mad that he would not ever forgive, or take more than 2 chapters to get over- Chapter seven was fast approaching, and she needed everything to be perfect! Walking into the creaking door of the store, Mrs. Flogsbottom looked around for her love.
The annoying girl at the counter was smacking her loud pink gum and smirked slightly as she saw Mrs. Flogsbottom's dress. Green and pink plaid hearts littered the the white dress she wore with her matching hot pink cat shaped bag. Mrs. Flogsbottom had no time to flirt with that floozy, so she walked down aisle. Achilles was on his knees putting milk back on the shelves. His lily white butt crack peeked over the rim of his pants, but Mrs. Flogsbottom averted her eyes, pain before pleasure. Achilles looked up and smiled. "Why hello Mrs. Flogsbottom! What a perfect day to see such a lovely lady." He said.
Mrs. Flogsbottom stopped... He wasn't supposed to be nice, didn't he know the chapter??? She flicked her nose up sexually but also angry. "It's a horrible day, is the day all you think about?" She asked, folding her arms in front of her. Achilles looked at her confused.
"No, I like the night too-" He started, trying to make a joke, but Mrs. Flogsbottom cut in.
"Yes, I'm sure you would, I have heard about you Achilles Manus! I know the type of man you are! How could I ever have thought we were meant to be if you go off with your dime store floozys! Well I cannot take this anymore, I am a real woman and I need something only a real man can give me. You know where I live when you finally decide to be a man!" Mrs. Flogsbottom said, storming out of the grocery store.
It was perfect, better than she could have hoped. They had fought, very briefly, but she said all she had to say, now it was only waiting for another chapter or two for him to come around. Henrietta wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and began to walk home.
Her attention was distracted by the ever present black van, and she nearly ran over Snazy Filazy.
"Oh I'm sorry dear!" She said, wait, this is the girl that rhymes... "My eye sight was not clear!" Henrietta smiled at her clever rhyme. "Now, uh, what are you doing out here?"
Snazy looked thoughtful for a moment before speaking. "There is a man, fine as can be, but I acted like a cat too scared who climbed up a tree. He plays the guitar, I think he can go far. But I cannot even talk to him, he makes my mind and heart swim!"
Henrietta thought Snazy was simply trying to cover her feelings for Henriette- everyone had them, why not this peculair rhyming girl?
Henrietta patted her hand. "Dear, there are other fish in the sea, if yours is taken, which I know 'he' is, than maybe you should look for another one." With a final wave Mrs. Flogsbottom left Snazy and continued her way home.
Snazy opened her mouth as if to say something but stopped. Poor girl, I broke her heart... Well, that is life. Now, I must wait.... oh dear, I do hate waiting... But Mrs. Flogsbottom knew she could wait, she would have to. Love could wait a long time... but not too long. She turned her head as the van passed again.

Maria

Apartment #982: Manholes and Countertops

The frozen dinners in my freezer were surrounded by ice and made me cold just looking at them. The cheese was sticky so I had thrown it out. The broccoli had a brown spot and was no good anymore. With no food in the fridge, I was forced to look elsewhere.

"I hope that the diner isn't sticky," I muttered as I hopped the sidewalk outside of the Washington Heights apartment building and moved quickly across the street. My shoes made an odd hollow sound as I stepped onto the manhole, so I stopped and looked down. The cover was black and shining in the dusk, the streetlights bounced off the melted sleet at strange angles. I shivered, thinking about all of the germs and animals and... gross things... that lived under the cover. It terrified me, and yet I couldn't step away. "Rats, sludge, germs, gross, sticky, bugs, roaches, old food, rats..."

A horn honking suddenly made me look up and jump out of the way of an oncoming van that didn't slow at all for me. I hopped out of the street just in time to watch it skid past, black against the streetlamps. I heard a siren in the distance. "Vans and sirens, great place to choose to live, Maria," I chastised myself, yet again. Sigh.

A man jostled past me, glass bottle in his hand. Although it glistened prettily in the dimming light, I thought he probably had had enough since the smell of alcohol drifted off of him already. I raised my eyebrows realizing it was my neighbor, the man who had given me the crisp ten. "Happy hour's over," I said quietly, glancing away. He paused to look at me for a moment; I wasn't sure if he had heard my words.

"I thought you didn't like sidewalks," he smirked, and walked away.

I looked down and nearly jumped out of my skin. "Ah!" I cried, louder than I had intended. I hopped off the sidewalk and back into the street. "I'd rather be here with the threat of vans then on the dirty sidewalk."

I stepped out of the night and into the fluorescent lighting of the diner, jumping the sidewalk on my way inside. I was pleased to see that it looked rather clean. The table nearest me even sparkled contentedly. A girl at the counter was wiping down the table with a white rag. "That looks clean, too," I commented to no one in particular. But the girl heard me and looked up from her work. "What can we do for you tonight?" she asked pleasantly enough, but something in her look made me think of caution and fear.

"Just here to get some dinner," I muttered, looking up and down the counter for something to distract her attention from me. I hated it when people stared at me. Like I was some freak. Like there was something obviously wrong with me. But i had always thought that my oddities were only visible when actually talking to me... maybe I was wrong?

"Sit anywhere you like," the girl said, and went back to cleaning. I sighed quietly.

That was when I saw him. Seated in the last swivel chair at the counter, hunched over a half-empty plate of relatively edible-looking food. He was engrossed in his dinner, eyes down to his plate, feet propped up on the rail of the stool. The waitress seemed to be avoiding him, but he didn't even seem to notice.

I did, though. I noticed him, much more often than he realized, probably. When sitting in my living room at home I was always conscious of the sounds from across the hall, doors opening and closing, footsteps up and down the hall. I awaited his quiet smiles when we passed in the halls. Hearing him say "Good morning, Maria," whenever he hurried past me, off to school, was often the best part of my day. Even if I was in the middle of freaking out or calming down about something or another, his presence always made me pause.

I took a step across the linoleum and towards him. "What are you doing, Maria?" I asked, almost silently. "What are you doing? He doesn't even notice you. He just smiles to be polite. He doesn't notice you." I was still walking slowly towards him. I slid into the seat next to him, and it was only after a moment that he looked up from his plate. That small smile spread across his face in recognition, and my stomach dropped a few inches. "Hey, Maria," he said quietly, "I wouldn't have taken you for the diner type."

I actually grinned in reply before I realized what I had done. I blushed. His smile widened as he looked back down to his food and continued to eat.

Sloan Waters

I am standing on the Pier, looking at the ocean that is spread out in front of me. It is such a gorgeous picture, I am breathless. The skirt of my white dress billows in the wind, my hair is flying everywhere. I am so entranced by the ocean I do not hear him come up behind me. All of a sudden his big, strong arms incase me, making me feel so safe. He kisses the top of my head and says, " I love you so much. You know that, right?" I turn around and look at him. At his beautiful face. "Yes."

I wake up to a loud noise that is going on outside of my window. Damn. I hate this place.....is there construction going on somewhere?
I look out the window and see that the sleet is what is making so much noise.
I am surprised to see some crazy lady running down the street, chasing after something that must've gotten caught in the wind...
that's why you don't go outside when the weather is THIS bad....duh.

I finally ate something today....an apple. I must say, it wasn't as good as I thought that it would be. i had to drink a beer to get rid of its after taste. I guess that my body needs something, though. I have been feeling so weak, lately.

I hate this weather. It has been so miserable outside for the past couple of weeks. I peer out of my window again, this time seeing a black van making its way slowly up Baker Street. Hm.
I close the curtains.
I hate this weather.
I am cold......blankets?
Where are my blankets?
I find one underneath the bed and wrap it around me. I go and sit on my couch.....I find a cigarette squished between the cushions. My lighter is on the coffee table. God. I love smoke.
I look at my wrists. They are looking a little better today. After my cutting frenzy, they began to swell and turn purple. Thank God they look better. I hate doctors.
I finish my cigarette and smash the butt on my cushion...a bad habit.
I close my eyes, the rhythmic noise of the sleet is now putting me to sleep.

I look in the mirror. My hair is in its usual messy ponytail, my teeth are brushed, make-up is on. I have on my new sun dress that hugs my naturally thin body.
I smile.
Today is the day.
I leave my apartment at exactly 12:00 p.m. We are meeting at a little restaurant in Manhattan called Imagio's at 12:30. We all know that New York traffic is a mess.
My red pumps click as I skip down the stairs. I am so excited.
The weather outside is gorgeous: sunny, cloudless, in the high seventies. I love this weather.
I wave hello to Victor, the bellman. He blows me a kiss and calls me a taxi.
"Have a wonderful day, love," he smiles at me.
"Why thank you," I smile back.
He tells the taxi driver where I need to go as I look out the window onto the streets of New York city. In this beautiful weather, in this beautiful city, all I can think of is how today is the day.

Lulu Lamar

Another Dreary Day

Lulu had yet another boring uninteresting day. Nothing of any significance had happened to her. Her job hadn't picked up. Absolutely no one wanted flowers and it looked like the job at grocery store was her last chance. Lulu looked blankly out the window. The weather was as usual crumby. It was cold, wet and dark. She could see the sleet falling in the beams of light from the street lights. People ran by on the sidewalks trying to get to where ever they were going. Suddenly Lulu felt a warm wet tongue on her arm. Sinclair was by her side and had a longingly look in his eyes. She knew that look Sinclair needed to use the facilities. So, Lulu begrudgingly got up to take Sinclair down to the patch of grass by the building. She put on a raincoat, scarf and gloves grabbed Sinclair and his leash and headed out the door. They walked slowly down the hallway to the elevator and she pressed the button. It lit up and she watched the numbers above the door come down from the tenth floor. The doors opened and an angry woman stood tapping her foot with an annoyed look on her face. She gave Lulu a half hearted smile as she and Sinclair walked on, then pressed the door close button. Lulu recognized the woman. She had seen her before in the elevator and always came down from the tenth floor. She never seemed to be in a good mood, but living in Washington Height's alone could account for that feeling. She thought that her name started with an 'm'. Marilyn, no. Martha, no. Mary, no. Mandi, well maybe that's it. Yes Mandi that's it! The elevator had reached the ground floor and the two walked out and went to the front door. Mandi went left and Lulu went right toward the grassy patch with Sinclair. She walked carefully along the sidewalk avoiding the icy patches. They reached the grass and Sinclair did his business. As he was going, Lulu looked back toward the building yearning to be back in the warmth. A black van slowly pulled up to the sidewalk by the entrance and a man got out of the passenger side. He looked nervous and young. The van pulled away and he looked back to watch it pull away than he walked into the building. Sinclair had finished and they headed back. Warm filled Lulu's body as she walked through the door. Washington Height's may be old and broken down, but at least it was warm. As Lulu walked in, the man from the van got on the elevator. Lulu walked over to the elevator just as the doors closed. She pressed the up button and watched the numbers above the door go up and stop at floor eight. They continued up to ten then eleven and then slowly came back down. Lulu and Sinclair walked onto the now empty elevator and headed to the fifth floor both ready to go to bed.

Chloe Parks

recycling.

Chloe got up early. It was not an staggered awakening like most, laying in bed for a while before deciding whether to actually wake up or just go back to sleep. She sat upright quickly, pulled back the covers, and got in the shower. She scrubbed at her dull, dry skin, lathering it with thick, rich soap over and over again.
As she walked down Baker Street she thought of the old Gerry Rafferty song, and smiled. She was unobservant of passerbys. She walked without a purpose for hours until her feet hurt and she needed a cigarette. When she got back to her apartment she almost ran into a girl with take out food under her arm. The girl had a bruises on her face which only reminded Chloe of what a dump Washington Heights was.
Chloe apologized, but the girl seemed unconcerned:
"No problem. Taking the elevator?" She said putting her hand on the door.
"Eh, no, the stairs actually. Thanks though." Chloe walked up to her apartment and began to clean her kitchen, pausing periodically to lit her cigarettes in the gas stove.
In her cabinets she found more expensive glassware, this time from her grandmother's wedding gifts. It was a glass shoe that looked like the elves and the shoemaker could have possibly made it. She found a whole box full of them mixed in with her silverware. Hideous she thought. She took the box and placed it outside her room door, far enough that someone could take it without feeling guilty, but close enough so that they would know it belonged to her.
After her sudden spurt of cleaning, Chloe uncorked a bottle of wine and sat silently by the window. The sun was setting, and the sun was blinding. Chloe shut the window and pulled the shades down. She crawled back into bed and laid there for hours in a contented thoughtfulness. She knew she didn't like the way she lived, but she didn't know how to change it, so instead she stared at the fan blades and pulled the covers up over her chin like she was a little kid.

Bron Barnheart

Brone Barnheart Apt. 223

I was not walking in the rain, today it was sleeting. My feet decided it was a wonderful day for a walk, and there was really no point in arguing. “It didn’t have rabies in its life, I swear!” the tiny taxidermist trying to hustle me, as always. “Nah, it’s just not for me” I responded, and shuffled on. As I passed the laundry mat the owner shot me a look. I rolled my eyes and continued on, figuring I was not welcome. The glass doors retracted as I entered. I smelled that distinctly sickening smell of purified air and pine tree scent. Capitalism at it’s finest. “Welcome to Manny’s,” A pimply faced teen said with complete apathy, smacking her gum. Suddenly I felt as if I had the urge to go somewhere. I quickly turned left walked a ways and then turned left again. “Oh, of course.” I was staring at Manny’s shoddy looking Alcohol section. “Hmmm, a 7$ no name-brand vodka….” It was tempting. I went back and got a basket. After gabbing 3 bottles of the no name vodka I went and got 2 cartons of orange juice. I may be able to hold my liquor but I’m no maniac. Besides, it will make it last an extra day, maybe. I approached the teenager at the register. She looked at my basket, and then she looked at me, frowning.
“Sir, are you 21?” My expression turned cold,
“I’m 28.”
“I need to see some proof.” It was at this point I realized that Michael was currently changing the name on my I.D. for no particular reason. This was going to be a pain.
“Have you ever tried to clean up shards of window pane with a broom?” I said.
“You don’t scare me,” she retorted, blowing a bubble.
“…”
“…” It popped.
“…I have a gun.” I finally said.
“Re-Really?!” her face brightened up.
“Uh, ya.”
“Can I see it!!” she was way too excited.
“Huh?”
“Come on, lemmie see you gun!” She got louder. I hate kids.
“Calm down asshat”
“PLEEEEAAAASE?” People were starting to stare.
“Alright look, ring up my stuff and I’ll wave it around for you.” I said.
“Really?” She was like a puppy that needed to be kicked.
“yeah….really.” I said.
“AWESOME” She finally rang up my stuff.
“That’ll be, 35.31.”

I wonder if my wallet has any money. I checked. A new 100 was staring me in the face. “huh…” I gave the twerp the hundred, and she quickly returned my change.
"Now can you show me?”
“Nope, Bye!” I grabbed my grocery bag and sprinted out of the door. She couldn’t even react, all just part of the job. I kept running though for fear she would chase me down.
Then I saw a little girl skipping ahead,
And without a second thought I jumped high overhead.
As I landed my bottles clinked and rattled.
She looked surprised so I thought it best to skedaddle.
Back in my apartment I drank many drinks.
Then I fell asleep, me thinks…Hic.

Elements that should be included in your post

There, apparently, is an unmarked, black van riding around the streets of Washington heights. Sleet is intermittent during the day. The time of day is dusk leading into night. Police sirens pepper the evening hours.

Ryan Ford

After a long day's work

After a long, hard day's work Ryan decided to take himself on an excursion to the local strip club owned by Big Rick. There he relaxed in the smoky air admiring the young and pretty hispanic woman working the pole. She was of a medium height with long, dark brown hair. For some reason that Ryan couldn't place, she didn't seem like she belonged there. Suddenly Ryan realized that the same chick he passed in the bar was there in the club. He worried that she would get the wrong impression of him in that place. But what was she doing there? Her body looked so perfectly shaped. Ryan decided that such a perfect figure should not go unacknowledged. He was still so angry he was worried it might interfere with any relationships he might try to forge. Oh well, he would try anyway.

MAndi Mac

The Boots

Clunk. Mandi dropped her white bag with the red "thank you" letters on it as she went to chase her hat that was flying accross the street. The wind was crazy that day and that was the third time she had lost her hat to the wind.
"Are you serious?" Mandi uttered as she walked back towards the box of take home food for her dad. The box was completely smooshed in the center, and about six yards past the box was a woman walking quickly in her big boots. "Well, gee, thanks boot lady," Mandi sarcasticly mumbled. She picked up the crunched box, turned the corner and entered Washington Heights. She knew that there was no time to go back to pick her dad another sandwhich up before she started her next shift.
"Now you better remember to bring me some food tonight. I ain't waitin around all damn night starvin cause you forget it or somethin. Since you've obviously been too lazy to make it to the grocery store," Mandi's dad told her earlier that morning.
Mandi didn't want to bring her father food at all, in fact she considered spitting on it somewhere for every time she thought about how much she hated him that day, or she would have liked for him just to not have a dinner at all. Mandi knew what her consequences would be if she didn't do as he asked... and unfortunately she knew what was going to happen for bringing home a squished sandwhich box; almost worst than no sandwhich at all.
Mandi rattled her keys in the door and walked in to her father passed out, as usual, on the recliner. He was awakened by her enterance. His eyes were immediately gleaming at the squished box Mandi was holding.
"Damnit girl. You can't even bring your own father a decent dinner? You have to go and let someone smoosh all on it. Huh. Like that was an accident. You probably did that yourself you little wintch," he said as he rose from the chair walking towards her. "You know after all I do for you... huh. Can't even bring be a decent SANDWHICH," he screamed as he slapped the box out her hands. The red katchup container cracked open and splattered on the walls. "Now look what you made me do," he said grabbing her wrist with one hand, shaking her back in forth with the other.
"Well why don't you just go ahead and hit me for it, save you the trouble, save me the time, and let me..."
"You are more like her every day. Just can't shut your trap, now can ya? And she wondered why I abused her. Huh! Its not that hard to see woman!"
Mandi wiggled loose and went to pick up the trash. As she was bending down to grab the white bag, he pushed her with his foot, making her lose balance and splat right into some of the spilled katchup. "Quit it!" She screamed up at him. "Look what you've made me do!"
"Me? Me? Look what I have made you do? Huh! If it weren't for you trying to screw up my super, if you could just do one damn thing right then none of this would have happened." He slowly bent over, grabbed her shirt on each corner and pulled her off the ground. His hand reached back and swung full throtle at her left cheek; knocking her back to the red sauce. "Now maybe next time I ask you to do somethin, you'll think twice about screwin it up."
Mandi stabalized herself and stood up, then walked out the door. "Stupid peace of shit," she heard through the muffling of the door. No time for make up to cover what had happened.
She walked in the enterance of the back of the dinner and began to put on her uniform peaces.
"Darlin, what is that on your face. Has your father..."
"I'm fine, thanks Mable," Mandi replied, avoiding making eye contact.
"Now Mac, come here darlin, you look like you need a hug," Mable said walking over towards Mandi. Mandi turned and embrased the welcoming arms. "Shh... it's alright dear," Mable said, trying to calm Mandi's crying. "Darlin, there are just some days when the sky is gray for a reason."

Mamie Wainwright

Locked Out

I woke up this morning itching to get out. Finally the week-long rain had stopped, and my old legs needed to walk. So I thought I'd go to church. My mama raised me Catholic, and although I don't practice anymore, I miss the morning service. It gives me something to think about during the day. Unfortunately, there is no church on this side of the interstate except the synagogue down the street. My mama always warned me to stay away from places like that, but I was desperate, so I got all gussied-up and took that rickety old elevator downstairs. The sky was casket gray and the wind was chilly. By the time I crossed the street to the synagogue, my toes were numb and my skin was translucent. But I trudged on, determined to attend the morning service. I walked right up to that front door and yanked on the handle. No one was going to keep me out--regardless of my religion.

The door was locked. Those rabbis wouldn't let me in, and the other parishioners hid inside. I didn't see a single soul. Just as I turned to make the long walk back to my apartment, a small grocery receipt flew by on a gust of wind. I watched it bounce up and down the street, jerking this way and that, like a marionette pulled by unseen hands. The wind suddenly quieted. The paper dropped. Right in front of a hole-in-the-wall store I'd never seen before.

A cheap sign out front advertised THE WRATH. I peered in the store window and saw a small woman bent over an oven. She was holding a few weeds and a cylindrical bar of something melty and white. All around her loomed cases of odd objects: old playing cards, odd candles, crystal balls. . . . Not the sort of place a woman of my age and upbringing should enter, but I was tempted. After being rejected by the people at the synagogue, a new friend like this might be nice. As I squinted to see into the shop, the receipt that brought me there blew up in my face and bounced down the street. I followed it, wondering where it would lead me next. It bounced down to the corner by Washington Heights, ricocheted off the traffic light and fluttered all the way to Manny's Grocery.

I looked up, and there in the window was a sign. NO ALCOHOL SALES ON SUNDAY.

Marissa Bancroft

Gusty day

It was a gusty day. Fresh with excitement. Invigorating right to the bone, chilling the heat, and jump-starting the mind. Marissa awoke this morning with a rejunevated spirit, and as always, she couldn't explain why. It was just a windy, gusty, intense sort of day.

Her day off from work, too. That was always a plus. And combined with the inspiring wind, the day's atmosphere was breathed cooly and easily. It was a Wednesday, no, maybe, a Thursday? -- it didn't matter. Marissa grasped the ball, handed to her by a mysterious force deep within the gloom of Washington Heights, and ran with it.

She slipped on her pink Chucks, remnants of her high school days. Before the baby, before getting kicked out, before Washington Heights. And off she skipped, spritely toward the Metro and then off to the University. She had her one morning class of the week, and she was excited.

Wait a second, what day is it again? Oh, Thursday -- good, she did have class and breathed a sigh of relief. And plus, tomorrow is Friday. She always appreciated Thursdays, though. The anticipation for the weekend always caught her senses -- she almost enjoyed the eager waiting more than the actual weekend. She lived by hope.

But not everyone did, and Marissa received a stark reminder as she saw Fil scramble around to repair his roof. He offered her a paper, and though she almost replied in the affirmative, she couldn't bring herself to it. New York Times, only. Not the Baltimore Sun. She had enough of Baltimore. In her mind, she dreamed of Broadway, Wall Street . . . Baker Street was the present, and she wanted none of it.

As her mind wandered off into the future, her past came back to shock her. No, not anyone or anything directly related to Hyannisport, Massachusetts. That didn't even matter. The past came to her in the form of Molina Rose, who shared her story. Once normal, even affluent, but then took a turn for the worse.

Worse? What am I thinking? she pondered. This is a great life, she retorted. This is freedom. No parents, no yacht clubs or tea parties -- no expectations. At least, none from anyone else. As Marissa hopped on the train to downtown, the only things she expected came from herself and herself only. All the cute boys at school, just distractions. All the foolish people in Washington Heights, all just distractions.

The future lay waiting at the other end of the subway line, at the other end of a college diploma, at the other end of a cul-de-sac, with a happy house, a happy family, and a happy life.

Finn Maersky

O, O, O...

said worrying. Then Boredom settled down into the kitchen, and the the knife cutting through carrot made the sound that a knife makes when it cuts through an onion through a pepper through cabbage. When the world (everything,) is under a blanket, it is impossible to feel intimate with anything at all, because there is too much detail. The cloud were a blanket. Worrying finally realized it had no place in the kitchen and left. What a relief for everyone involved it started raining.

When his father came smiling and dripping home, he glowed by the fire. His father was always coming home, he never left home, but was always coming home. When the gray of the short winter days came, his father became much more intimate with his surroundings because they were all he knew, he wasn't ignorant, he was so aware and then content.

"I am not unlike my father," the words spoke to a spice rack that came from places he'd never seen,but that was before Worrying left. when Worrying left, there was a solemn serenity within Finn. and he realized he was quite unlike his father.

down from the cliffs, the sea mangled in itself and magnetised the oceans of Finn's heart to churn and lapse and digress as well. Down, from the widow, onto the street. The sea of the people ready to catch the rain in their hair pushed and pulled nothing within him. Happiness had walked past outside his apartment door, but had not even knocked, and was accompanied by the managerie of other wet sentiments that had drowned and were slowly draining out of Finn's heart.

Snazy Filazy

What right things lead to

A small sound was buzzing so light, yet so clear,
Becoming a tune as Snazy approached near,
The old busted bar with the dim, blinking sign,
Some song there was playing, one hard to define.
A voice with a pitch so pure, loud, and new,
Like a crack in the silence, a sudden breakthrough.
She glanced at the window and right there she saw,
The sweet southern cowboy, eyes closed, singing tall.
But before she could move, the man looked up to see,
Two bright gleaming eyes staring back from Snazy.
The butterflies jumped in her stomach that turned,
Right upside down for the man whom she yearned.
Her feet moved so fast without thought, she then ran,
Away from the bar, far away from the man.
"How embarrassing!" Snazy shouted out to the sky,
But her smile grew bigger without quite knowing why.
A glimpse of the sun, peaking out from behind,
The usual grey clouds that she grew to not mind,
Made her realize how fast her heart skipped a beat,
For that country boy singer she was dying to meet!
She sat in the diner, her thoughts scattered far,
After ordering her blueberry pancake she saw,
A man crouched and lonely on the bench right outside,
She noticed his weakness, his hunger that cried,
From beneath the dark shadows that set on his face,
Something had to be done in order to replace,
The emptiness lurking above and beneath,
The man filled with nothing but deep sighs of grief.
In half of a moment she walked out the door,
Giving food to the homeless man, needing it more.
"I overlook all the things that I have here,
Taking good life for granted, not facing my fear,
A great opportunity to see what could be,
I can't run away from a true love story."
So she turned right around and thought it all through,
Following her heart toward the love that she knew.

Charlie Slicks

THE PIECE

Charlie came up with a lame excuse to miss work the morning after he bought his tool.

"I gotta go to the doctor, I gotta stomach ache and I need medicine," Charlie lamely said to Ms. Wong.

"Okay Charlie! You make noodles when you come back though," Ms. Wong replied.

"Alright. The noodles, I got it." Charlie replied.

Charlie stepped out the noodle store and jacked the nearest bike he could find. He came upon a beautiful BMX bike with the black mags so nice, and he had to have it. Charlie whipped out a pair of metal cutters, busted the lock, and was rolling out in under 30 seconds. He popped a few bunny hops and wheelies, trying to look natural on his newly stolen bike.

Then Charlie remembered he had to stay focused. He scanned the worn out dump of a town that laid out in front of him, it wasn't New York and subways, but it would have to do. He had to throw up one of the biggest graffiti pieces he had ever done. All for her. He rolled down several roads but couldn't find the right spot to sketch out his master plan.

Soon, Charlie came upon a local, but lovable bum named Fil. He bought a couple of soggy newspapers from Fil, and inquired about some of Fil's favorite chill spots. Charlie knew bums always knew where straight spots to sleep were, and where there were bums, there was always a good spot to do some graffiti.

"Well, I don't know mister, some times when it gets really cold I will climb into the old warehouse at the edge of downtown and sleep in there," Fil replied, leaking out a breath that smelled of raw sewage and rat piss.

"Thanks Fil, I can always count on you," Charlie said.

Charlie popped a ill barspin of the curb and quickly pedaled away. As he looked at the sky's overcast clouds he could almost make out his mother's face smiling down onto him. He was surprised and felt chills go down his spine, Charlie looked up for one more glance; but didn't see the open manhole.

Blackness.

Charlie slowly lifted his head from the pool of salty sticky liquid around him. It was nighttime now, probably eight or nine o'clock. Charlie turned down to realized that his head was resting in a pool of his own blood. He remembered the feeling of the curb smacking him in the back of the head now. He got to his feet and felt light-headed. He could barely mount the bike to ride home.

When Charlie finally had ditched the bike and stumbled into the Chinese restaurant, it was probably one in the morning. He made noodles like a zombie, emotionless and tired. He fell onto his cot, and the blood on the back of his head had just started to coagulate, it had also stopped bleeding partially because of the immense amount of dirt in the gash.

Charlie slept deeper than he had in his whole life.

This week's weather - and an impending death

This week's weather adds a gusting wind that whips through the city periodically, and the sky is a constant cloudy gray. Also, before the last week of this blog, we will draw from the bag to determine who will die. Only one will. Also, I have not posted the sixth blog for this week because it was not written in time. Because I am quite tardy in the posting, you have until Wednesday night to post your 4th blog.

Dominic Roberto Machelli

Roof Top Shadow

While i was in the process of walking over to the rather plump woman in the red dress sitting down in the bar, I noticed a suspicious looking guy sitting at the bar. I had never seen him in there before so naturally I was a bit curious about the fellow. Something about him just wasnt right. He was trying just a little too hard to be noticed. He stank like a pig. He just had that ora about him. I didnt much like reporters in my bar because I figured that they were always up to no good, so imagine how peved I was when I saw this little foul cop in my establishment. I told Left to tell the bar tender to let that pig catch a glimpse of some of the tools that we kept behind the counter just to let him know what he had waiting for him if he ever came back to my place. I couldnt believe this guy. If it aint one thing its another, right? I needed a smoke and some fresh air. The only thing was that I couldnt go for a walk because it was raining cats and dogs outside. The damn whether men never got it right. Hmmp, 72 and partly cloudly...right. I walked over to the window to see if the storm had done any real damage outside. When I looked up at the clouds to try and see which direction the storm was headed, I saw what appeared to be a person standing on the roof of the Washington Heights Apartment buildings. It was kinda hard to make out exactly what they were doing on account of the freakin gale force winds and rain outside but it looked as if they were trying to cover up something on top of that roof. I couldnt make out what it was though. That was just too curious for me to let. I told Lefty that as soon as the storm let up to get up on top of that roof and check things out. Whatever was going on up there was obviously important enough to risk being struck by lightning, meaning that it was definitely something that I needed to know about. Nothing worth while should go on around here, if I didnt know about it. I told Lefty to find out what they were covering up by any means necessary. I wanted to know who was on that building and why. I told Lefty to get the scoop and bring the info on this mystery character to me.

Fil

selling words

FIl woke early. Water dripped down from a crack in his foliage roof. He got up and patched it with some dirt and leaves.The rain would cake the leaves together. People wanted their news. He rifled through his pile of rags and pulled out a patched up raincoat. It was too big. He had 'borrowed' it from the local store, and he was small for his age. His morning routine. He clambered down the branches and jogged to the edge of the town by the highway. Everyday, he found the newspapers. He didn't know who left them there, but he took advatage of it to make some nickels. He had to walk back under the weight of all the words he carried. He put the news down, stuck the sign back on the bus stop, placed the cup by his feet, and waited. It would be a long day. The constant drizzle was no bother to him. He just sat back and watched another sorry day unfold.

The first sign of life was the swindler, picking up his S.S. money. He had a stain on his shirt. Fil swore the man did it on purpose. Alan was high yet though. Maybe this day would turn around for him. No. there he goes to get his supply of syringes. When he was safely back in the building, the crazy woman came out of the store. She looked both ways and hurried back to her appartment building, oblivious to the rain. Fil felt sorry for her. The showgirl came out. She was wearing a smile, as always. Fil could not see why. When the world helped him out, he would smile, maybe say something, but not 'til then.

Another slow day. No one really bought newspapers, especially soggy on-ow, he thought. Someone had just run into him. People never noticed him. He liked it that way. This woman didn't notice either. Her face was blocked by boxes of flowers, stacked in her arms.

He waited. Now dusk, it was still raining. A woman on her phone crossed the street to Oscar's. She looked tense. The man that had been following her since she came to this town went after her. She came out quickly. She had blood on her hand. FIl was worried. The man didn't come out. Resigned, Fil started packing up for the night. Things were getting strange. Stranger than normal. He wanted to get out, but this was the only place he could remain anonymous, but he felt that was about to change. The town was stirring from its stupor. He didn't like it one bit.

Molina Rose

It didn’t always use to be like this. There was a time when Molina lived a normal; some would even call a privileged life. Every night as she slid on her boots before leaving for work you could see the grace in her motion. What a waste, someone had spent money on her ballet class and driven her to piano recitals. Such a waste. A year seems like forever when spent in this type of place. It didn’t used to always be like this. She didn’t have to be a stripper at some sorry excuse for a club; she could have been anything she wanted to. Oh well what’s done is done.
Shit! It is too god damn cold in here. I know it is not raining, I just know it aint. Not today, not this one day I get to step the hell outta’ this sorry town. No not today. It isn’t raining on me today. I’m gonna’ need to find some way to get a car.
Damn it I’m bout to be late again. Where is my jacket? I can’t ever find where that damn thing is at. Shit, well he’s just gonna’ have to deal with me being latte. I’m not the one who wanna’ meet all that far away to keep people from seeing us. I don’t have no problem bein’ seen.
Why is the damn elevator taking so long? Finally. Well damn and who is she? She looks new, still happy and cheerful. I guess this hell hole hasn’t broken her down yet. I really aint in no mood to see some happy ass looking little girl. I know if I get on she is goin’ to try and talk to me and I ain’t got shit to say. I guess I ma have to be taking the stairs. Already late, might as wel avoid what I don’t wanna’ deal with.
My hair is going to get messed up.

Ricky Shay

It is only so long before one man can't take the stresses of poverty any longer... before the hunger and the greed takes over and the morals of society matter not. I cannot continue like this. Today is the day I take what is not rightfully mine and enjoy it. I have suffered far too long while they all prosper. Stolen coins, pilfered bread, it is not enough. I need something big. I need something to completely turn my life around. Today is the day.

...

I woke up to the cold patter of the rain. I was drenched from head to toe, shivering uncontrollably. I made my way from the hard park bench over to the nearby synagouge and pulled on the door. Locked. It was late at night and the only light came from the windows of the towering apartment complex. Lucky bastards with their soothing heaters and their comfortable beds. Here I am standing out in the cold rain with no shelter and they have all the comforts they need and more.

I walked over to the nearby flower shop, hoping the owner was foolish enough to keep the door unlocked, but alas. The window, however, was opened just the slightest bit, maybe I could squeeze myself through and escape the rain. However, no matter how much I tried, it was hopeless. As skinny as I was, the window would not give enough space.

I walked into the middle of the street, exposed to all of the rain and sat down, knowing at any second a car could emerge from the darkness and take away the cold and he hunger. I stared at the diner, dreaming of what lied just beyond the door. I knew that in the morning, the smells would fill my nostrils and I would once again struggle against the urges to burst in there and grab the food off an unfortunate man's plate.

Jealousy. Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy.

Just then, two blinding lights approached from Baker Street. Right before they came close enough to end it all, a loud screeching sound filled the neighborhood, and the lights veered a sharp right. All of this was followed by the shout "Damn low-life!" from late night bastard behind the wheel.

Those words were just enough to set me off. I grabbed the nearest chunk of gravel and hurled it at the car. The glass shattered and I ran off towards the park to escape the wrath of the driver, however, after a few strides, I noticed that there was an absence of an engine roaring after me, or the cursing of an enraged late night bastard.

I stopped and turned around and faced the scene. Only the low rumble from the stationary vehicle could be heard. I cautiously walked up to the car and looked through the shattered window. Shards of glass had embedded themselves inside the driver's face and neck. The chunk of gravel lay in the passenger seat. It had gained a splotch of crimson on one side, obtained from its skull crushing collision.

I stood there, shocked. Amazed. Guilty. Empowered.

This is what it is like to be free.

Fey Mandrake

This is the Way the World Ends......

It was dark out. Fey hated the dark. How could anyone trust something that concealed dangers. Evil. That was the word Fey used to describe the dark. It was the only thing that Fey felt truly deserved the word. Closing the curtains and turning away from the window that led to a seemingly unending blackness and to the room that flooded her with light, she sighed.

"Fey, don't you see there's nothing out there to hurt you? The dark is no different from the light. What are you going to do when you must live out on your own?" Fey hadn't known what to say, she could only look at her mother silently.
"As usual, you just stand there silent. Waiting. What are you waiting on?" Why did mother insist on always asking the questions that Fey had no way of answering? She had gotten better. Since finding Finicky, Fey had been able to sleep without a night light and withstand the dark inside rooms. There she knew she wasn't alone. It was late. Fey was tired, so she called Finicky over and went to bed.

*************
Pit...pat...pit...pat..pat..pat.pat.pat.patpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpatpat. That was the sound Fey seemed to wake up to most mornings here in Washington Heights. Not that she disliked the rain. Really it was a good part of the world. Fey just wished that the sun would make a consistant appearence in Washington Heights more often then not. Finicky whinned beside Fey and went over to the door frame of the bedroom to scratch at it.
"I'm comin' Finiy, don't worry, I won't make you hold it in. Even on a rainy day." Fey laughed at Finicky. Whenever he had to go out and they were in the apartment he seemed to act like he was asking for some great favor.

Fey walked to the coat rack, Finicky by her side, and put on a coat, grabbed an umbrella, and stuffed her crotched hat into her bag along with a plastic bag.
"Let's be off!" She opend the door, and the pair went out.

Fey and Finicky turned into the vacant lot and walked to the far corner of it. While Finicky did his business, Fey politely looked elsewhere. It was then she noticed the stand in the lot had been reopend. Once Finicky had finished, Fey was pleased to find there would be no need for the bag and began to walk back to the side walk. The reason for the use of the vacant lot as apposed to the park was simple. there were so few nice areas in Washington Heights Fey figured Finicky could use one of the least pleasant parts and leave one of the nicest ones unspoiled, atleast by himself.

Reaching the sidewalk, Fey decided to go out for some coffee. The rain wasn't that bad after all, and she had her umbrella jauntily held above her head. Walking past the now unvacated stand, Fey was struck. Not physically, but with the sight of a great bird perched on a shelf. It wasn't alive, Fey could see that, but the state it was in wasn't natural. From the earth it came, and to the earth it should have returned, all of it, for the next generation. Fey suddenly became aware of a small, strange woman looking back at her. Averting her eyes, Fey hurried herself and Finicky down the street towards the traffic light.
Deep breaths Fey, deep breaths. Everyone has a reason. It is just her being herself, you are not the one to judge, or you will be judged. Despite her attempt to calm down and just accept the woman as she'd accepted everyone else, a cold chill went down her spine as she thought back to that bird.

It is raining in Washington Heights this week..

Somewhere in your blog this week, you should note/mention/discuss in your blog this week that it is raining, misting, drizzling, or a down pour. Rain is essential for the downcast.

Kevin Lansing #983

The Task

At the sight of Patrick's body, Kevin's heart was gripped with grief. No, he thought. I must maintain my composure until my task is complete. Kevin paused a moment to collect himself. Finally, he was ready.

Snapping latex gloves onto his hands, Kevin somberly trod to the steel table. Picking up a silver scalpel, he held it up, where it glinted in the light of the bare bulb dangling directly above the center of the table. "So much has been done," he exclaimed, enunciating every word with utmost care. "More, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation!"

With that, Kevin bent down to cut the stitches that held together the corpse's chest from his previous incisions. Kevin then pulled apart the sides of the rib cage like the bascules of a drawbridge, the corpse's sternum having been delicately sawed in half. Inside Patrick's chest cavity, a collection of electrical wires intertwined with the blood vessels and sinews, the result of Kevin's three years of labor. Several of the wires originated at either of two points on opposite sides of the heart, corresponding to the places where the two pads of a defibrillator are placed. From there, the wires branched throughout Patrick's body, down his arms and legs to the tips of his fingers and toes. Scars all along his body verified their presence. However, Kevin's greatest task was yet to come: Reinvigorating Patrick's brain. Kevin knew that drowning deprived the brain of oxygen, the real cause of Patrick's death. Cardiac arrest was a secondary effect. His years as a lifeguard had taught him that much. After one final inspection to ensure that the wires were properly secured, Kevin refolded Patrick's rib cage and began to sew up his chest again, delicately lacing the stitches from the corpse's navel to the space between its collarbones.

Now that the corpse's chest had been sewn up, Kevin was ready to start on the spinal cord. But first, he needed coffee. Lots of it. It was going to be a long night.

Doffing the gloves, Kevin cracked open the door of apartment 981, surveying the corridor for signs of human life. Seeing none, he slipped out into the hallway and locked the door behind him. He sprinted down the stairs, out the front door of Washington Heights, and down the street to the coffee/convenience store, not wanting to lose any time that could be directed toward his precious task. He ordered an extra large black coffee with a double shot of espresso from the red blouse-clad cashier, whose stunning looks Kevin was too busy to notice. Upon receiving it, dashed back to room 981 as quickly as he had come.

Kevin gently set the coffee down and locked the door behind him. Turning to face Patrick's body, he was filled with a tingling sensation: he knew the day was drawing near when he would have Patrick back. Taking a sip of the coffee (slightly burnt as usual), he felt his veins surging with caffeine, amplifying the feeling of excitement. Kevin wondered if this is how Patrick would feel once the lifeblood began to flow through his veins again.

But never mind that. He had to get back to work. Kevin gently rotated the corpse so that it lay flat on its chest. Having once again donned a pair of gloves, Kevin cut two slits in Patrick's back, one on either side of the spinal cord. He then began to dexterously thread a wire through Patrick's vertebrae, starting near the pelvis and working his way up toward the base of the skull. It was a long and tedious process. Kevin alternated each vertebra with a sip of coffee.

Several hours passed, and Kevin had only inserted a wire on one side of the spinal cord. He would have to save the other side for the next night. Taking some surgical tape that he had pilfered from the free clinic down the street, he temporarily closed the incisions. Peeling off the gloves, he turned to the door. At the door, he paused to steal one last glance at Patrick for the night and to whisper, "Good night." Then, a glistening tear rolling down his cheek, he slipped into the hallway.

Walking through the corridor to his apartment next door, Kevin was brought back to reality by a faint whimpering. He froze. Maria was sitting in front of her door, sobbing. Kevin panicked. No one was allowed to know that he had been in apartment 981. No one. No one should have the opportunity to come close to suspecting that he was up to something. Kevin hoped that she was too caught up in her tears to notice that the apartment he had come from was not his own. He sat down beside her and waited for her crying to subside.

Clio Ford Apt. 1215

It was finally 7 pm. Clio flipped the sign on the front door of her shop so that “Closed” could be read from the street. It had been a long, busy day. The delivery service portion of her business had been overwhelmed. She usually didn’t have to leave the shop for deliveries herself, but today she had been forced to descend into the SMARTA station herself, balancing huge buckets and boxes carefully so as not to spill the array of red roses, pink carnations, and white lilies onto the grime covered concrete of the subway steps. Once she finished locking up the register and pulling down the metal grille that covered the front of the store, Clio left through the back, setting the security alarm as she went. She crawled through the hole in the vacant lot next to her shop. She had cut that hole herself last year with a large pair of wire cutters she had borrowed from her brother. She was walking towards the street when she noticed that the vacant lot was, in fact, no longer vacant. Her face broke into a grimace of revulsion. “Will stuff while you wait!” proclaimed the sign that dangled from around the neck of a bright orange taxidermied cat. As she passed the front of the booth, the young woman running it smiled and beckoned her over. She smiled back but hurried on down the street as quickly as she could. The booth worried her. Hopefully the woman only taxidermied on request….

. . . . .

She entered the small coffee shop just as a gust of wind swept down the block. Her hair blew across her face, covering her eyes and causing the grocery bags that hung from the fingers of her left hand to twist and cut off her circulation. The wind was cold. She was glad she had gone by her apartment to change into jeans before she ventured out to complete her part of the preparations. When she reached the counter, her order was taken by a pretty woman in a strikingly red shirt. Pulling out her wallet from her purse, Clio searched for the extra quarters she was always meaning to spend. She smiled and apologized as she handed the woman several dollars in change, but the woman did not return her smile.

. . . . .

She was almost asleep when she heard the knock on the door. She pushed herself of the couch and rubbed her eyes as she walked to the door. She checked the peep hole for security's sake, but it was who she was expecting. She hadn't asked him to come; he had simply volunteered. She pushed the deadbolt back. She greeted Ollie warmly, inviting him into the kitchen. She handed him one of the now cold to-go coffees and a mug and pointed him to the microwave. It would be a long night. He suggested they watch a movie to pass the time.

. . . . .

She knocked again on the door, louder this time. “Ryan! Wake up!” No answer. “You said you would help us!” She raised her hand to knock again. The door opened suddenly. A very sleepy Ryan stood in the doorway. He peered into the gloom of the hallway. Ollie was leaning against the opposite wall and tiredly watching the action. A small gym bag sat at his feet. “It’s tonight, is it? I thought we were doing this tomorrow.” Clio groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Alright, alright, give me a minute…” Clio smiled.

. . . . .

The tenants of Washington Heights rarely used this door. She had carefully observed it for two weeks to make sure of this fact. The saw made a horrible shrieking noise as it cut through the thick metal of the ground floor door. Clio worried that someone would hear, but the only night guard was asleep in the small entrance way all the way on the other side of the building. Still, Ollie stood guard at the end of the hallway, just in case. Clio stood staring in front of the window while the saw whirred on next to her. She thought for a second she saw a flash of movement but gave it up to her imagination after watching for a few more minutes. The noise stopped. “Alright, now you can do the rest,” Ryan said, standing.

. . . . .

The elevator door slid open. Ollie and Clio stumbled sleepily into the hallway, Clio digging in her bag for her keys. She looked up when she heard a voice. “Ma’am, is this your apartment?” A policeman stood directly in front of her door. “Yes it is. Is there a problem?” “There’s been a break-in at a shop down the street. Grow Towards the Sun. The alarm system was triggered. You're the owner, correct?”

Alan "Low ride" Douglas Apt. 116

With that thought Alan got outof bed and found gleaming red and gold by his feet a O.E. 800 bottle. 40 ounces of what Alan could readily abuse. He was ready for the days abuse. Picking the bottle up and taking a drink, Alan decided to put shoes and a shirt on. One of his three pairs of jeans, all skinny and black, was already on his body. His studded leather belt and studded leather wrist straps(the product of slightly altered S&M gear)were already on him also. The shirt was were he started having problems. Turning toward the 40 in his right hand periodically to chug, Alan searched the bare floor, sparse bed, unsanitary kitchen, and desk fruitlessly for his shirt. He gave up, knowing one was somewhere in the closet and that he needed to start his telephone sales.
Alan swaggered over to his stolen desk with the sales catalogs, customer list, and the also stolen red telephone. The telephone was a world in which he ruled. Through the microphone, speakers, and endless electrical connections Alan could talk anyone into buying everything. He was a compulsive and skilled liar so he could easily talk people into buying the office supplies that his telemarketing company supplied without the bat of an eye. He told the truth even when he lied. The people missed the lies, they weren't looking for lies, they were looking for the truth and that was all they heard.
Once at his desk he started making the calls, flipping through the catalogs, and selling his bullshit. His fifth customer was a bit skeptical, but Alan gently assuaged his doubt.
"So you can ship the ink cartridges in two days instead of the standard two to three weeks for a small fee," the customer inquired. Alan knew the sale was made he just had to seal deal with his tongue's transparent film of lies.
"Oh, of course. We can ship it any time you'd like." Alan wasn't lying. His company really could ship anything whenever they wanted, but the company wouldn't. Alan couldn't even request special shipping for phone orders because the company followed a no exceptions policy based on the principle of saving every dime they could.
"Well, how much is two day shipping?"
"It's $3.65 for packages ove 10 pounds."
"Excellent! I'll take the 100 ink cartridges with two day shipping then."
"Well, I'll put you order down and you just need to send a check to the sales office at 11035 Wessex St. in Baltimore."
"What's the zip code?"
"Oh, that's 770709. Sorry I almost forgot to mention it, but as soon the check clears your pakcage will be on its way."
"Great. It was nice doing business with you and I hope to do it again," said the customer attempting to be friendly.
"The pleasure was all mine." Alan really meant what he said. He enjoyed lying through his teeth and felt no sympathy for the man with the insincerely friendly farewell. With everything said Alan hung up and kept going at the phones until 3 o'clock.
He needed to put a shirt on, get his Supplementary Security Income check, cash it, get cigarettes, and meet up with his friend before his date. So, he went to the closet and dragged out the last relatively clean shirt in there. The shirt was stolen from drunk girl at a party. The shirt was white with a target, like the ones used for shooting practice, printed over the heart and had a red wine stain from the party all over the front so it seemed like Alan might really have been a human target. As soon as the shirt was on Alan left for the Social Security office to get his Supplementary Security Income.
SSI is cuckoo money. They give it to crazy people to keep them off the streets. Alan worked his ass off to get on it. Everyday for three weeks he went to the Social Security office acting out of his mind. He enjoyed it. The scamming and the insane antics were his specialty. He'd go in the office shit in a cup and offer the clerk a sip. When the clerk didn't accept, he'd yell and fling the cup. Then he'd start apologizing to the chair for not offering it some feces. One day he brought in a kitten and started accusing the animal of molesting him. Alan would go on crazy rants about his hero Idi Amin while drinking his urine out of a cup. He'd say that Idi Amin was his brother and was coming to take over Baltimore. Idi Amin,the Ugandan dictator that drank his enemies blood and ate their entrials, really was Alan's hero, but the only time he could appropriately talk about him in public was when Alan was trying to get on SSI. Eventually he got on it and now he reaped the benefits. Alan loved his SSI scam more than any other and loved picking up those checks. The scam was his way to fuck with the government and a golden opportunity for petty cash.
As Alan walked through Washington Heights main entrance he saw Delilah. Plunk was her last name he thought, but the name seemed almost too weird to be true. She cast him a suspicious glance as he walked by her. Delilah probably thought he was crazy and the other tenants probably had a similar idea, but Alan thought they were all crazy too. Alan was glad that the other tenants couldn't judge him, at least not with any credibility. I mean what evidence of abnormality could Nicole, for example, throw in his face that he couldn't throw back at her. He'd he plumber yelling about "the bitch" stiffing him and stealing his wrench, so he knew she had nothing on him.
Alan made the walk, six fucking blocks, to the Social Security office. The wind was cold, but he was stoked for the money, cigarettes, and date that would lead to more money, so he bore the cold with a pleasant frustration. He felt like he fought the good fight against the wind to secure his cash and he could overcome the wind for the violent pleasures the day had waiting.
Once he was at the office and had picked up his check he really had to piss. So, he whipped it out and started pissing on this ladies dog to show the people he was really crazy. Not only that, but the reaction someone has to their pet being urinated on is hilarious. The lady with the dog went hysterical. She was dumbstruck and completely offended. People that don't know what to do get violent and this lady was no different. She started yelling and searching for her mace, but Alan ran out singing "You Bet I've Got Something Personal Against You" by Black Flag.
He walked back to Washington Heights, but stopped Manny's to get cigarettes and pineapple white owls. He'd gotten $375 dollars in Supplementary Security Income for the month, so he called his friend to come over and smoke the weed he was about to buy.
Alan walked out of the apartment, up one story, into the hallway, and to apartment 215. He knocked and he waited for the click. The door slid open as far as the chain would let it as Marcus peered out. For some reason he was being cautious today. "Come in," he said as he pushed the door shut, unhinged the chain, and opened it all the way. Alan walked in and sat down. Marcus followed inquiring "what it'd be today."
"Just gimme a quarter of some mids. Thirty, right," Alan demanded.
"Yeah, just hold on while I weight it out. You sure you don't need anything else."
"No, I got a date with a girl whose paying me out the ass and not fucking me in it so I'm holding off until later."
"Sounds good. Here you go." Manuel handed Alan the sack and Alan handed him the money.
Alan left telling Manuel he'd see him later and headed to his apartment where he put on the Archies and started rolling one up. He loved oldies. He got that from his dad who was in a low-rider gang. He was singing along to "Sugar, Sugar" as his friend walked through the door.
"Hey, how's it going." That was his friends usual greeting.
"Good, and you." That was Alan's usual response
"You know, it's allright,but I got jury duty and I don't know what to do."
"Do you have the form they sent you to fill out." Alan knew what to do and he was sure his friend would appreciate the help.
"Yeah,why?"
"Lemme see it." Alan held out his hand as his friend passed over the form. Then he grabbed a thick felt tip marker and wrote in all capitls "VIVA LA ANGEL DUST."
Alan handed the form to his friend and said "Just send that in and they won't fuck with you again."
"I guess that's one way to deal with it. It's sure a lot better than actually going to jury duty."
"Yeah it is," Alan said as he lit the blunt and started smoking. After 3 hits he passed the blunt to his friend who started hitting it.
"So, when is your next show?" Alan wanted to know because he was gonna plan something and he knew his friends in the band would do anything for him to make sure he didn't do anything bad.
"This saturday. It's at venue about a mile away. Do you want to go with us and get in free?"
"Yeah, that's what I was waiting to hear." Now, Alan had confirmation that Delta 88, his friend's band, was going to patronize him all day with the hope that if they did he wouldn't do anything totally out of line.
After the blunt was done, they ate lunch and Alan told John, his friend, he had to go shopping for his date. John had to meet up with his girlfriend, the lead singer for their band, so they parted ways.
Alan went shopping and got a red button down shirt and black slacks for his date using the Supplementary Security Income. He smoked a cigarette on his way back thinking about how awsome the night would be-lots of money, heterosexual relations(his favorite), and heroin. "I gotta get syringes he thought." Alan stopped by the pharmacy on his way back to Washington Heights and picked them up. Luckily, although only in this situation, he was diabetic, so he had access to plenty of syringes. He'd sell them to other junkies too. That was another one of his scams.
Once back at his apartment, he took a shower, ate some toast, and brushed his teeth. By the time he was done with everything the clock said seven fifteen, so he smoked a blunt to the head to pass the time. He thought about what the girl might look like and what she would talk about as he smoked and listened to the Archies again. He listened to them a lot when he was in a good mood. He changed clothes and stepped out on the landing for the fire escape to smoke a cigarette. Finally he walked to the park as the clock struck eight.