Archive for April, 2012


Chapter Two:

Explanations.

 ***

The sun reigned down the Earth with the heat and light that only mid-Spring can give: Heated but not scorching, a dry heat with a mix of humidity. The air is filled with the sounds of the Foo Fighters on the local rock station, which was being played from the open garage of a local body shop. Along with the sound of music, the noise of drilling and car engines filled the air from the garage.

Daniel pulled himself out of the engine of a red 1970 El Camino. He smoothed out his white undershirt, which was stained with oil stains. He took a deep breath, finally breathing fresh air; his stomach sucking in and then slowly released back to its large girth. Daniel looked at the owner of the car, a balding, skinny man with a bushy mustache and a Dale Earnhardt T-shirt and blue jeans. The customer had a distant look on his face and then spoke in a thick, Southern twang.

“It gonna get fixed?”

“What the hell did you do to it?” Daniel asked. “I never saw a car that had that many modifications and still is just a piece of shit.”
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Chapter One:
To Escape and To Live.

 Silence and darkness cradles the room like a mother’s arms. The bare, cold wall lightly glowed gray with the casting of moonlight that shown through the glass, with shadows of the bars that guarded the window sill. The cold, mechanical door remained closed, like the sealed off entrance of a crypt. The bed he laid in was stiff, but not cold as he body heat has created an imprint on the thin mattress. The moonlight made his white flesh glow, as he only had the orange pants of his uniform on. He pushed his raven black hair away from his ears; his hair proved to be naturally bouncy during his three year stint in the prison he calls home. His hard brown eyes scanned down to his bare chest; beads of sweat glistened on him, making the ink of his tattoo shiny. His chest, once virgin, now is forever scared with the claws of a bear, ripping at his flesh. It was only two weeks old, and made him grin at his own handiwork.

His ears pricked up as he heard the noise he had anticipated all night for. The soft footsteps of a certain guard, as rhythmic as the goose-stepping SS, met his wishing ears. By the position of the moon he knew it’s been an hour after lights out, most of the prisoners are fast asleep, the others are plotting a failed version of his own plan: To escape. The keyhole gave way to a key, and the solid door that has held him in this room slowly crept open. A new light shone through, the artificial light of the hallway. The man on the bed rose up, getting to his feet before the silhouette of the guard came crashing into view.

“It’s time,” the guard’s words were cold and soft. The guard stepped into the small room, the scent of jasmine followed, enticing the nostrils of the prisoner.
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The Talk

The Talk

***

     He wiggles his toes anxiously; he knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight. His hazel eyes scan the foreign hotel room; an American in France, how typical. The sun had already faded and the night life of Paris was abuzz. Richard sat up on the bed, taking a deep breath. In the mirror of the bathroom he could see his silhouette: His lean frame, even some beads of sweat that traced his body. He knew there would not be any air conditioning, yet he still hasn’t adjusted. He moved his head to peer at the open window, the curtains move slightly from the breeze.

A sigh left his lips, as his hand moved to the nightstand; he didn’t reach for the lamp, or his glasses. Instead he grabbed his cell phone, the single device that has been torturing him his entire trip. He closed his eyes, but his fingers already knew the way to the text, the text that broke his heart. He opened his eyes, and like a recurring night terror, he read the lines of the text message from Wendy, his best friend of ten years, and first love.
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