The Drunk and the Bicycle - Guest Post by Jesse Heikkila

Dawn was just awakening giving me enough light to glance down and notice I was already on my 13th mile. The air smelled like desert rain and lifesavers. The miles were flat and smooth and my mind was clear and bright. I was surprised by my progress. I was already on county road 233 and feeling like I had only begun. Thirteenth mile I thought to myself. For some reason it sorta vibrated between my ears. I'm not one for superstition but I couldn't shake the eery feeling I felt in my gut. Thats when I glanced in my mirror and saw him. Like a big metal billiard ball bouncing back and forth off of the rails searching for a pocket, he came rolling up behind me.

The air had seemingly changed as I could almost smell the alcohol on his breath and he was still about a mile back. I had seen this kind before. C R 233 was notorious for dusk until dawn, drunk driving. It never seemed to bother me much before even though I knew it was a hazard. This time was different for some reason. "Thirteenth mile" I said it out loud this time. My first instinct was to bail into the ditch and get as far off of the road as possible. But I couldn't. "This is my road" I hissed through quickening breaths. He must have been going slower than I thought because it seemed like he was taking forever. I was peddling my hardest even though I knew I couldn't outrun him. Getting too close for comfort now as I heard the gargling sound of the rumble strips. I hoped another quick rubber staccato would be followed by a sharp smash and a cracked telephone pole. No luck. He came back over to my lane and I knew I had seconds to spare. I did what any sensible person in my situation would do. I slammed on my breaks and came to a halt on the staggered yellow stripe. My rear tire was slightly elevated at the same time I was dismounting. As soon as my foot hit the asphalt, I was pulling off my hydration pack and reaching in for my Uzi. It happened so fast but in three short, well placed bursts, I lit his world on fire.

The fireball that rolled right past me, singed my eyelashes and kept going down the road until it hit a bunch of mailboxes and for the grand finally exploded. By that time I had already replaced my pack and was riding again. I popped in another lifesaver and chuckled. The sun was peeking over the horizon now and I took a long draw of water.

It's days like these that let me know I'm truly alive. 

The Afterdom (part 4)

Five miles is not that far. 

Before my parents got their second car - if I wanted to go anywhere, I would have to walk. I walked to school, to the movie theatre, to the mall. I hoofed it over to the park across from Rave's house every Saturday; Rave and I would play basketball from sun up to sun down. Ok, we weren't actually allowed to play cause all the real ballers owned the court, but we stood around outside of the fence hoping that maybe a couple of cute girls would catch us dribbling a basketball and presume that we were ballers too. 

Now I know better. Walking is the worst. My feet ache constantly, and there's no relief in sight. The terrain is so horribly uneven and stupidly dangerous. Every couple of feet, we hear each other winching in pain after twisting our ankles or scrapping our hands and knees from tripping for the millionth time. 

We lost the road entirely a mile or so back when we came to a dead-end. At first we thought it was a cul-de-sac, but then Rave noticed a massive hundred foot drop off just beyond the guard railing. We stood there with our mouths gapped open wide like coy fish waiting for a free handout at the local chinese restaurant. Then I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the sidewalk took a drastic swing to the right.  It lead us fifty feet up a steep incline and into some poor lost soul's backyard. Who knows where the house ended up, but Patty saw the mangled remains of a playhouse similar to the one she had when she was a little girl. So we let our imaginations fill in the blanks - coming to the consensus that that area must have been a backyard in its previous life. It could have just as easily been a day care center, a school, a toys-r-us, or a landfill. Who cares, right?

After another five or six hundred yards, we stepped off the last block of sidewalk and into more of the unknown. I know we are past the halfway point, but beyond that... I haven't got a clue.

The Afterdom (part 3)

We watch the last drop of acid rain drip from the crinkled shell of what is left of the silverado. Rave's chest continues to peak and valley as he gasps for breath. Not wanting to heighten an already tense situation, Patty tries to deliver a message to me in code pig-latin.

"Av-Re t-cant k-make' it uch'ma onger-le."

Thank God the Russians aren't invading the mother land. We wouldn't stand a chance.

"I know, Patty." That was not encoded. She gives me a steely look to silently scold me for not playing along.

"What are we going to do?"

"I'm thinking," I say as frankly as possible. Why do you tend to overthink things when the pressures on.  I mean any other time,  if your shoelace comes untied, you just bend down and tie it. But when you fall off your bike and scrape your knee, then your brain seems to bleed out of your leg too. At last, the answer jumps into my throat.

Whupped - Guest Post by Jesse Heikkila

The first time I remember getting a nose bleed was also the first time I remember getting into a fight. Neither of these firsts would be the last but they will be the ones I'll never forget. I was young. I had a very large nose and an even bigger attitude. I was an easy target for both picking on and punching so I mostly stayed to myself and tried to keep my mouth from getting me into the situations I knew my body wasn't capable of getting me out of. But it wasn't easy.

School was almost out for the year and everyone had the jitters. Even the teachers were on edge. The very air was ripe with the tension. There was no shortage of brawls. Eraser wars, food fights, stapler ambushing and even school bus sabotage. Recess always seemed to be full of anxiety about who was going to punch who and start what new war. I tried my best to stay in the shadows. But a kid can't hide forever.

This day seemed different. This particular hollow box on the calendar seemed destined to be my reckoning. Recess was in full swing and I was thirsty. I wandered over to the soda machine right outside the shop department exit. I accidentally dropped a quarter trying desperately to get it swallowed by the coin slot without it veering its own way down into the change return mechanism. It was one of those brand new shiny quarters I was having trouble with. In frustration, I tried to slam it into the slot but it ricocheted off the side and missed. That bright metallic 25 cent piece went soaring and then bouncing away from me. Because my eyes were following the money I didn't even see what was waiting for me when I went after it. A lost quarter and a dry mouth would the least of my worries.

The Afterdom - part 2

I don't know how many times I have yelled at the darkness, demanding to know why this happened. 

"Not again!" Rave yells as drops of acid rain begin to burn beebee sized wholes in his leather jacket. 

We all take cover under the hollowed out shell of an old silverado. 

"This looks like grandpa's truck," Patty says - a tear trickling down her cheek. I hate it when she cries. Such a waste of the only good water left on the planet.

"That's ridiculous. Grandpa's been dead for almost ten years," I grumble back. "Even if it was his, he would have never left it parked on this side of town."

"Like you have a clue where we are!" she retorts.

"I know exactly where we are."

Rave tosses in his two cents. "Right.... We've been wandering around this wasteland for weeks because you know exactly where we are."

"I'm trying to keep us alive!... I would love to lie out on a beach just soaking up the radiation, but I'd rather not shrivel up and die from dehydration."

Looking Ahead

So today is Friday. The end of the work week. The beginning of the weekend. And the lead up to part two of "The Afterdom".

After very little deliberation, I have decided to continue this apocalyptic short story by breaking it into a series that I will roll out randomly over several weeks or months. Right now, I have not plotted any of the story and I have no clue where it is heading. I love writing this way, because it turns the writing process into an unpredictable adventure. It also is exciting, because it creates opportunities for you - my loyal readers - to get involved. Your comments will help shape the story arch, flesh out the individual personalities of the characters, drive the action forward, and ultimately help define the theme. Whether you're a writer or not doesn't really matter. This series is a experiment that will hopefully turn into something great, but if not, I think it could still be a great opportunity for a group of people to have some fun and share an experience together being creative.

 "The Afterdom" (part 2) will be available on Monday 11.3.14

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 Have a great weekend!

The Afterdom

The world is dark. The light has fully evaporated and the cold solitude has taken hold. It should still be the middle of summer - if I recall correctly. But who knows. The days are growing longer by the minute. The stars have literally fallen out of the sky. Fortunately, only one hit the earth, but that was enough to change my life forever.

I used to roll my eyes when I sat in church and heard the preacher yelling about hail, fire, and brimstone. I guess he was right. The end is real. Where there once were fields of potent wild flowers, there are only dirt clods covered with mounds of mold spores. When it rains, a toxic slimy gelatinous goo oozes steadily from the ground. The run off has contaminated all the oceans, lakes, streams, aqueducts. Every fluid ounce of water is worthless. Even the occasional low lying cloud that floats upon the arid winds seems to be off. Sometimes I think they are trying to tell me something. A tragic scandalous secret maybe. But the low lying clouds can not be trusted. The word lying is in their names for pete's sake. The clouds do seem to be laced with a faint hint of silver. Possibly mercury has poisoned them. The few trees that still stand have been reduced to naked bones. The skeleton trees were magnificent at one time, but they no longer tower to the sky. The termites and carpenter ants cut them down to size. That is - before the toxic fumes of the Afterdom sealed their fates too.

We are the remaining three.

Call Of The Sasquatch

Wooooooooooooo!

"Did you hear that?" "Yeah... yeah, that was definitely a squatch."

A pair of beatniks banter back and forth over their two-way radios like a couple of tweens on their first sleepover. A loud knock causes their celebration to come to an abrupt halt.

"Was that?" "Shhhhh.... just give it a minute."

They wait for several awkward moments - just staring off into the black distance.

"Man! Why does it always have to be like this?!" "I know! Gosh.... this site is definitely squatchy. There is absolutely no evidence to prove otherwise."

A Real Medical Condition

A long narrow 1950's style kitchen. On the far side of the room is a countertop with a white ceramic sink. Behind the sink is a window that allows warm sunlight to politely enter. Below the counter are white-doored cabinets and above... open faced cabinets that house drinking glasses, dishes, and various nicknacks.

A figure makes it's way across the cold tiled floor over to the counter.

Carl is the oddest looking young man you would ever want to meet.  Exhausted and disheveled, he reaches up to one of the shelves and takes down a glass. The glass looks like it has been broken several times but has been repaired with elmer's hot rubber cement tape sticky-tack glue. If you take a closer look, you'll notice that all of the other glasses and nicknacks in the cabinet are in the same condition.

Carl gingerly places the glass on the counter, then walks over to the refrigerator. Like Wally or the Beaver, he takes out a thick glass jug of milk. Cold creamy white goodness poors into the glass - almost in slow motion.  Then Carl chugs the entire glass without coming up for a single sip of air. He slowly returns the glass down on the counter - exhaling a sigh of disappointment; then he just stands there, looking out the window for several awkward moments.

A car honks outside, but it doesn't surprise Carl one bit. He mozzies to a door that is at the end of the counter and pokes his head outside. The honking car is parked by the curb with Carl's co-worker, John, anxiously sitting inside. He rolls down the passenger window and barks across the lawn.

"This is the third time this week, Carl!" John says. " Hurry up, will ya! We're going to be late... again!

Carl waves off the complaint and heads back inside.

The Power Of A Western

The sun sits low on the horizon. The haze of lingering dust swirls in the wind. The squeaking of a rusty swaying saloon door and the clanking of spurs are the only sounds we hear as a mysterious figure – an outlaw – makes his way down the wooden sidewalk. The sidewalk that links together what’s left of this shabby town. It seems to have been deserted years ago. When the Roughriders heeded the call by Roosevelt, there was no one left to defend the good law-abiding citizens and faithful church-going parishoners. They had no choice but to leave… or to die.

The clanking of spurs is over taken by the at too familiar clack of a revolver being sprung shut. The sidearm shows no immediate signs of aggression. It just lays comfortably in the weathered right hand of the mystery gunman. But it won’t stay that way for long.

Movement. The lacy curtains in the window above the hardware store just moved. A slice of light reveals the black bean eyes of a another cowboy deep within the shadows. Realizing the dangers of staying out in the open, the patrolling cowboy down on the ground takes shelter behind an abandoned wagon. ‘I know you’re there!’ he shouts. ‘We both know how this ends!’

He waits for a reply. Silence. 

A falcon streaks across the sky. It’s shadow racing across the ground. It’s squawk assaulting the silence.

The mysterious figure is not use to being on the losing end of a barrel. Indignantly he shouts, ‘You should have never come back!’ A drop of sweat slips down his face and into his eyes. Though it burns like fire, there’s not a chance in this world that he will risk diverting his attention from that window.

Click… With the flick of its hammer, the passive sidearm becomes aggressive.

Run For Your Life

A clear water pools on the asphalt. The tension on the surface is so tight that not even a single ripple rolls across it. The perfect canvas on which the city’s scrapers are painted. They stretch northward into a crisp blue sky. Fluffy clouds softly shrouding the undefined edges of the picture’s frame.

Splash! The black sole of an Italian leather shoe suddenly decimates the tranquil picture as it plunges deep into the pot hole. A business man dressed to the hilt is running… running for his life. A fowl stench is racing right behind him… hurled along by the fiercest of winds. Despite all his best efforts, Evil has escaped his regimented conclaves. He knows it’s determined to free all his other dark secrets as well, so he is running to baton down the hatches… to triple lock the gate. The inevitable will not be the inevitable as long as he had a say. Not today – not any day.

As an adolescent, he never participated in track and field (or sports of any kind for that matter), but he manages to effortlessly leap over obstacles like trash cans and fences and rusty shopping carts disregarded by the vagabonds. The fear of public humiliation seems to rocket the man of constant sorrows to superhuman heights. Glancing over his shoulder from time to time, the man realizes that Evil is nowhere in sight. He did it? He outran his past with just a little effort? It couldn’t be that easy… or could it?