August 31st, 2010 -- "Wilds"

The big cats, their fur matted by mud and thick blood, claws sunk into woven, dying plant matter, spotted with black ants. Under a new moon, their eyeballs lick the ink night. What proceeds within are countless calculations for distance and space and risk and hunger based on the scent of the nearby small and dying. Furred knuckles grind downward past rough pad and into a cold soft that dries in the sand beneath everything where roots can't press through.

A flash of movement in the jungle and they're gone - a clock's work, an end and some change.



August 29th & 30th, 2010

"Mister, Mister, Mister, Mister"

The large man, the man with some plans, a man aged past his youth but placed far from gray hair.

He sits in the dark and laughs.

Small shit from his mouth.

His face moves quickly beneath closed eyes and on a head planted with creaky shoulders.

The movement slows and his eyes open with an exhausted kind of crazed sigh.

They took it from him.

He did not give it away.

Miles off, a cash register rings up a bag of chips and some crap, warm soda.

The man gets dressed for bed and sleeps for fourteen hours.

Winter comes.


"Don't Worry About It"

Complex 67-C had just installed its new battery wall plating. The low lights of the hallway offered much for firefighters. Many men. Much noise. Silence.



August 28th, 2010 -- "Pipedream Dave"

Among many things, he is heralded in his town as a menace,

the old codger,

feared by children younger than five,

judged as a derelict by the established wealthy,

tossed to time by a shattered family and home,

given to the woods,

eyed by the cops,

hushed, stopped, and asked to leave by sturdy librarians,

left to live,

neglected by physicians,

ignored by dentists.

His life-

anything but plain,

without any real pause,

filled forever with strangely calm moments of constant worry.

His existence left for the day as that of a traveler,

his existence for the night left as that of a nonsense analyst.



August 19th, 2010 -- "Snakes"

The bullets that come from the short barrel seem heavier, somehow. They might as well be coated in venom. The sun is always on his side.



August 16th, 2010 -- "Johnson Rd."

The thin dirt steps tumble down the hill into the landing of the dock. In the distance, the clouds begin to mix the future.



August 9th, 2010 -- "Bring It Home"

Dirt on the thick material of his day jacket caked in streams by the seams of the arms. The grass in the field behind him was nearly on fire in the sun. Eight miles of road sat ready to left or west. The fork was behind him. Dinner was at six.



August 8th, 2010 -- "Dolphin Deaths on the Rise"

"What now?"

Smithson lit his Winston and fled, with a frown, from the immediate moment to some place in his mind that replayed continuously dark things like past bar fights lost and bad break ups brought up and on for months. Bad kids and tough math. Shitty breakfast. He stayed there for a good while to stay mad but ended up having to break. He bit down lightly on the clothy sponge end of the cigarette and didn't do much hiding. He grinned big and with much teeth.




August 7th, 2010 -- "Sgt. Maurice Bradley, 10th Sky Division"

During the sixth hour, the hour in which Sgt. Maurice Bradley earned his star, 88,023 shots were fired on the field. Bradley was only hit once, and it wasn't enough.