youngbuckreezy

[youngbuckreezy]

Osso Bucco

This was my submission for the NYC Midnight 2024 Short Story competition. It didn't place, but I'm still really proud of it.

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Did you know people’s tongues actually loll out like a cartoon when you choke them to death?

Straight up. There he is—sprawled on my bathroom floor, heavy and still. Once, he was Jonathan Powers. My work bestie’s new boyfriend. The so-called "Artisan," as Carol liked to brag. A sculptor or some pretentious bullshit.

I want you to know, I really tried to understand what this beautiful, blue-eyed man did for a living. I went to his “The Artisan” website and saw his shitty, abstract sculptures and out-of-focus, black and white “art” photography. I also saw his admittedly alluring portrait that showed his pretty blue eyes and tousled hair and his delicate, expressive hands. I came to the single-minded conclusion that, behind the mysterious professional brand of The Artisan, that his actual last name had to be something like Rockefeller-Rothschild-Washington VII. Family money, you know. 

Carol was obnoxiously happy about dating a so-called “artist”. “Oh, me and The Artisan had a really fun night! Oh, me and The Artisan tried anal!” or whatever bullshit she’d been on about. 

I decided to entertain her excitement, so I threw a dinner party last month to meet him. I made Osso Bucco for him. My hit. When you make Osso Bucco right (and I always fucking make it right), when you braise the veal shanks for just long enough and use some of the braising liquid to flavor the bed of risotto, it tastes like a warm fireplace in your mouth. 

Anyway, I invited half a dozen friends to my house, spent 400 dollars on veal shanks and nice wine (for cooking and drinking), and after I had dramatically removed the lid from my lovingly polished Le Creuset dutch oven for effect and showed my guests the beautiful, unctuous, steaming pot of veal stew, this mother FUCKER rolled his FUCKING EYES AT ME! 

Can you imagine the temerity? The gall?? But he wasn’t done! Then he went on a five-minute tirade about how veal is cruel. About how it’s inherently immoral to torture a baby animal for the sake of flavor. He ruined the whole FUCKING vibe! I may as well have thrown it out the window that night, everyone was so fucking bummed out. 

To be a mediocre artist with a trust fund is one thing. To step on the crowning moment of my dinner party to talk about a bummer social justice topic is yet another. But for him to be a judgmental little fucking prick about it...

His throat feels just as delicate as it looks under my thumbs.

He scratches and claws at me. He didn’t know what I was doing at first. No one thinks you’re choking them to death when you start choking them to death. At first he thinks it’s a joke. He smiles, and his blue eyes flash and it makes me want to fuck him, too. 

He smiles and says, through his rapidly closing windpipe “Hey, what the fuck man?”

I keep smiling. And keep fucking squeezing. A couple seconds later he realizes it’s not a game. He stops smiling and fights me. I stop smiling too. He’s thrashing. He goes for my eyes with his hands, trying to gouge them out. It’s too late. As his delicate, artisans hands weakly paw at my face I headbutt him in the nose and keep squeezing until I hear a snap. 

I see tears in his eyes as the life leaves him. I keep squeezing, and squeezing and squeezing. He’s so beautiful. He’s just a squirming, blue-eyed animal. He doesn’t have any real last words. Just the ones I imagine a lot of people get. 

What the fuck, man?

I take a big, deep, belly breath. I hold it for four seconds. I release a healing breath into my extremities. I find my center. I am at peace. I am safe. No one is judging me. 

Not any FUCKING more, anyway. 

I look down at my tile floor again. No one. Nothing. Black and white tiles that as you stare shift and form patterns and grids that weren’t there before... I take a look in the mirror and fuss my voluminous chestnut hair back into a neat-ish pompadour and emerge from the bathroom. 

I’ve been drinking all day, I haven’t eaten, I’ve been slaving over a hot fucking stove to make Osso FUCKING Bucco for you people. 

I descend the stairs and walk into my dining room. No one’s talking. Five faces stare at me. There’s Carol, my friend from work. Next to her is Lee, a photographer I worked with one time whom I really liked. Across from Lee is Lou, their boyfriend (Lou brought over some wine that matched my menu. What a sweetheart!) There’s my little cousin Lindsay, always nice to see her, and then I’m at the head of the table and Jonathan is...

“Is Jonathan okay? It sounds like there was some clatter in there...?” Carol says.

Of course. I’d gone to check on him in the bathroom. I’d gotten some Non-GMO (blech) wine specifically for him, and it didn’t seem to be agreeing with his stomach. I’d told him to use the master bedroom on the second floor because that’s where I keep the Pepto...

“Yeah, he’ll pull through. Just knocked some stuff out of my medicine cabinet. So much for artisan’s hands! Hahaha!” I say. 

Carol doesn’t seem reassured. Dumb fucking bitch. 

Lee looks at me, like they’re framing a photograph. Their thoughtful eyes stare at me under their heavy brow.

“Is everything okay, Lee?”

They shift in their seat a little bit. Lou puts a big hand on Lee’s thigh. 

“No, um... are you sure everything’s okay up there? He’s been gone for a minute.”

So perceptive, Lee. Look at you go.

“I just spoke to him, Lee. I was reaching to get him some Pepto Bismol for his sudden onset diarrhea and some things slipped out of the medicine cabinet. Is that alright with you, Lee?”

I wait patiently for their response. 

“Yeah, one hundred percent man. Let’s um... let’s eat! What have you brought out for us? That dutch oven is really beautiful, by the way.”

“Oh how nice of you to say! Good eye, Lee.” I look down at my gorgeous, polished, sky blue Le Creuset dutch oven. I catch my hand shaking notably as I reach for the lid. 

“Haha!” I say. “Just the shakes.” I take a sip from my wine glass and wink. Chuckle from the crowd. 

I lift the lid off the dutch oven. A plume of steam emerges. Eyebrows rise from the effect. Everyone leans in to see what I’ve made. 

“Oh, um... Is it Osso Bucco again?” Jonathan says. “I’m really trying not to be an asshole here, but... Didn’t we talk about this last time?” 

No, Carol. It’s not Osso Bucco. Look with your worthless eyes...

There it is, Osso Bucco, cooked perfectly right. The veal shanks sit, gelatinous and sumptuous from the long cooking time, with just a bit of browning on top from twenty minutes in the oven with the lid off...

That can't be right. I made chicken. I remember. I spatchcocked it—spent all day butchering the thing. Gloves on, blade steady, I sheared through its joints, cut out the spine, then pressed into the collarbone. I put my weight into it, squeezing and squeezing until the hyoid bone finally snapped.

“Hey... Are you okay? Do you want to sit down? You don’t look so good.” Lindsay squeaks. She has the same chestnut hair color as me, and it hangs down beautifully to her shoulders. 

I slump down into my chair, exhausted.

“Yes of course I’m FUCKING okay, Lindsay! We can’t all be like YOUR MOM throwing holiday FUCKING gatherings every other FUCKING WEEKEND can we? This is STRESSFUL!” I say, assertively. She shrinks.

I drink some wine and feel myself choke up. I’m closing my eyes; biiiiiiiig deep belly breath. Hold for four seconds, release a healing breath into your extremities. I am safe. No one is judging me.

I hear a chair shuffle. I open my eyes. Carol is standing. 

“Where are you going, Carol?” I say, calmly. 

She freezes. “Um... I think I’m going to go upstairs and check on Jonathan if that’s okay.”

A migraine builds in my head. I sip from an empty wine glass. Carol stands stupidly, halfway in and out of her chair, waiting for me to dismiss her. 

Pathetic

I reach for the bottle in the center of the table and try to pour myself another glass. I pour the last measly drops out of the bottle. 

Alcoholic motherfuckers come to my house and drink all of MY expensive booze. 

“No, Carol. Sit back down. Jonathan is fine. I’m just going to go to the kitchen and get dinner... I made the Osso Bucco for a different thing, later. Been drinking, haha!” I take a healthy sip from Jonathan’s glass. 

“Why do you have a black eye?” Lee says. 

I’m taking a big belly breath. Taking a big, deep, healing, fucking, shitting, belly breath and breathing it into my extremities. No one is looking at you. No one is judging you. Everyone is happy with your dinner party. Everybody likes you. 

The wine glass shatters in my hand. Five faces stare at me in varying states of horror. Jonathan is staring at me with his delicate, manicured Artisan’s hands gripped to his chest. There’s a look of mad confusion, but a gentle patience behind it. As if he’s saying I see you. I understand your outburst. I judged you. 

Lou leans his big body past Lee and whispers to Lindsay “Is he okay?” 

A large mass of blood and glass falls from my hand and Lou wretches immediately. He stands to go to the bathroom. “I’m gonna be sick!” He says. 

“Downstairs bathroom, please!” I say. 

He shuffles off down the hall to the correct bathroom. Thank you, Lou. You are just the sweetest. 

“I’m just going to go to the kitchen. Carol, please don’t go anywhere.” I stand slowly and walk to my kitchen, a cloth napkin stuffed in my hand to soak up the blood. 

I turn the little catty corner to my kitchen. I ought to be looking at my kitchen. What I’m looking at is a wound. A gash. A purulent, flaming, dripping, reeking, fucking, shitting, barfing open sore. 

The smell hits me first—a rank, nauseating stench that makes my stomach churn. I take a step into the kitchen, and the full horror comes into view. The chicken I spatchcocked earlier lies half in the sink, hacked and mutilated, its skin shriveled and yellowed, its exposed flesh dry and cracked like old parchment. The corpse of the bird sits atop a teetering pile of sauce pots—six or seven of them, Calphalon non-stick, each filled with failed attempts at risotto. The rice inside is congealed and lukewarm, forming pale, gummy masses under the cold, sterile glare of the overhead lights.

And then I see them: cockroaches, speckled across the chicken and the pots, their bodies slick and gleaming as they skitter over the mess. A faint squeaking fills the air, mingling with the sound of my own breath catching in my throat. 

“Do you want me to call someone?”

Lindsay’s quaking voice cuts through the stench like a blade. I turn to see her standing in the doorway, clutching her chest. Her pale skin is flushed, her eyes rimmed with tears. She stares at me with something between pity and fear.

“Call someone?” I say, too calm. “Do you want to fucking CALL SOMEONE, Lindsay?” I lunge closer, voice rising. She shrinks, but I grab her twig arms, yank her cute little face up to mine. Lou emerges from the bathroom and sees me. 

“What the fuck man!?” He says and hustles over to me. 

“Oh my fucking god somebody help!”

Carol you stupid fucking bitch! 

 “Please just calm down...” Lindsay sobs. “I’m sorry I made you think about my mom. I’m really sorry.”

I vomit on her. A jet of crimson erupts from my mouth—wine and bile, sharp and burning. The acid stings my throat, the reek of alcohol thick in the air. Lindsay screams and squeals and tries to get away, but my hands are like vice grips on her arms. She sputters and sobs in my face. I spit.

What would I even do with a mirror that big, someone says. 

There’s a powerful knock at the door. Pounding, throbbing, insisting. Someone says. The FBI are here. Someone says. They want to talk to you. someone says. 

Sit him down, I don’t know what’s going on. I think we need to call an ambulance. 

He’s dead? Like dead, dead? You, like, checked for a pulse?

JUST CALL A FUCKING AMBULANCE, LOU

Shut the fuck up, Carol. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” Carol strides toward me, her face blotchy and raw, flushed with streaks of red. Tears, snot, and a smear of blood cling to her skin, her features swollen with grief and rage.

Take a big deep belly breath. Everything is fine. Everyone is happy to see you. 

“Carol, please fix your hair.”

Carol screams, her fists striking my chest in weak, frantic bursts. The words tear from her throat, over and over, until they collapse into a broken mantra: "I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING." She sobs, shuddering, her hands trembling even as they keep pounding against me.

Lou pulls her off and clutches her. She looks very comfortable in the crook of Lou’s arm. They’d be good together. Lee comes back and looks at me with confusion and disgust. They’re holding half a dozen pill bottles in their hands. “Are you taking all of these?” They say, shocked.

The FBI agent in the room wants to talk to me about the disappearances. Says that his colleague talked to me last month, checked out my alibi. 

Carol sobs uncontrollably, her body wracked with heaving breaths. Lee, Lou, Jonathan, and the FBI agent close in around her, murmuring reassurances, hands on her shoulders, steadying her as she wails. She chokes out the words between gasps—"I thought you were my friend! Why would you do this?"

The FBI agent turns to me, his voice calm, measured. He asks a series of questions. Each time, my answer is the same.

Yes.

Carol asks where the bodies are. Lee and Lou demand to know what I did. Lindsay, Mom, Jonathan—everyone is asking, voices layering over each other, pressing in.

Jonathan tries to ask too, but he can’t. His tongue is too swollen, big and purple, hanging from his mouth like a big, angry cock. His eyes bulge with the question anyway.

What the fuck, man?

But I tell them not to worry.

Because he was just a beautiful, squirming, blue-eyed animal. Delicate little paws. Squirming. Begging. Crying.

Cried.

[youngbuckreezy]

Park Way South

This is a revision I worked on for Turn Pike South; the first story I posted to this blog. After I got eliminated from the flash fiction challenge, I still felt my literary motor running, so I decided to dig this story back up. A good friend and I hammered out a smoother, more digestible version of it and I'm pretty proud. Enjoy.

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I’m driving and it must be ten o’clock at night. Southbound on the Taconic at this time of night, in this part of NY state, is a lonely time to drive. Every so often I’ll see another car, lit from within by the glow of a radio or a phone displaying GPS navigation. But mostly, it’s just me and the road. 

There’re hardly any streetlights to speak of, so on a moonless night like this one it’s just you and your headlights. On either side of the highway there’s dense woods. But at this time of night it may as well be a pair of black walls on either side of you. If you slow your car down and look closely enough you could swear you saw a pair of eyes staring at you, or hear a long, mournful howl. Dark as the edge, I tell you.

I like it out here, when it’s like this. I’ve always been the type to get overwhelmed. Overstimulated is the therapy term they use these days. But out here, amid the dark and cold and unknown, I can handle everything. Nothing screams at me; or demands my attention. I am observant and unobserved, just the way I like it. 

Vibes being immaculate though they are, the moment needs music. I turn my car radio on and scan the stations.

87.8: Static

89.3: Hot to Go by Chappel Roan

91.5: Hot to Go by Chappel Roan

98.7: Stranglehold by Ted Nugent

99.1: An old man with a folksy accent talking about the absolution of the soul and the separation of oneself from sin. His tone of voice suggests that his next words will be either “donate now” or “drink the Kool-Aid”

101.1: Hot to Go by Chappel Roan

And then right back around to 87.8. I got no issue with Chappell Roan, but she just won’t suit the vibe. 

Driving south, I know that in about 45 minutes I’ll start seeing the signs of New York City, and all the darkness and the static will give way to light and people and pop music and, for fuck’s sake, maybe even some traffic at this time of night. 

Exit 14 goes past. Exit 13. Exit 12. Exit 9 is my exit. Once I take that exit off the highway it’s just a few turns and I’m back at my house. 

I hazard a glance at those great walls of oblivion black on either side of me that pretend to be trees in the daylight. I press my hand to my window to feel the insidious fingers of invernal chill creeping their way in. I listen for that long, mournful howl. 

I want to continue this drive. But to do so, I need some decent fucking music.

Several years ago I was at a bar in Chicago and a guy told me about this ritual, one that’s supposed to take you to the “other side.” “It’s the place where they make the dreams, where the nightmares and boogeymen live” he’d said. He told me he does it sometimes when he wants to see some “cool, spooky shit.” 

“The trick” the guy had said “is to convince yourself that you’re dying. Just for a second. Requires a lot of practice in achieving gnosis, but once you do, you’ll go straight over the border into the other side. You gotta try it sometime, dude. They got kick ass music over there.” 

“You’re supposed to do this while you’re fucking driving?” I said to him. 

“Hunnid percent.” He said. “S’the most dangerous thing most people will do day to day. The other side is closest when we’re out there. So close to our own death without even knowing it. Best time to make contact.”

I’ve never done it before, always sounded too risky. But I’m out here in the dark and I like it. It’s cozy. I decide I’m not quite ready to go back home, and I want to hear some of these kick-ass tunes they have in Hell or whatever.

I turn the static on the radio up as loud as it will go and press my foot down a little harder on the gas. As faint as a sound can be at the very bottom of the static, a voice speaks. I turn off my headlights and all of the cabin lights. I take my hands off the wheel and close my eyes. The voice speaks in a calm, steady tone, as if giving instructions on how to perform routine maintenance on a toaster.  

“Werzak min flal. Jeru kaminel shabob haroth. Karunes menilay harutaga.”

My foot stays on the gas; the car’s picking up speed. Must be at 70 MPH now. The voice on the radio speaks steadily and hypnotically in no language I know of. 

“Varun klep intajebon intef alluhain”

I remove a razor blade from my glove compartment. A small, cruel, rusted instrument. The car’s gotta be up to 85, now. The voice speaks on. 

“Hith dy vanklo impta maris ta shak krath oan tak. Myse do an kay lentebran arratta nil.”

I hold the tip of the blade to the underside of my forearm.  

“Misk.” The voice says. “Misk! Misk!” 

I drag the blade vertically through my flesh from the center of my forearm toward my hand. Blood cascades after it. My entire arm and left pant leg are bathed in cloying warmth. 

Slowly I open my eyes and place my hands back on the wheel. The voice from the radio no longer speaks. I turn my headlights back on. I see a sign off in the distance. 

Exit Negative 612.823

“Phew,” I think; “It worked.”

The wound and the blood have disappeared from my arm, and the road in front of my car, and the world around it, have taken on a strange tinge. Lit, but not from anywhere. Almost like a photo negative. 

I back the car back down to a conservative 60 miles an hour, turn on the radio and scan the stations.  

87.8: Come and Get Your Love, but instead of the original version by Redbone it sounds like a cover performed by Slayer. The second chorus yields to an extended electric guitar solo that I find a little indulgent.  

89.3: Concert recording from David Bowie’s latest tour “Welcome Back Major Tom” recorded live in The Place Beyond the Seventh Gate. Somehow Iggy Pop joins him. I jam to that for a while. 

91.5: Hot to Go by Chappel Roan

92.3: A soft-voiced, androgynous radio announcer is speaking. “Thank you so much for that enlightening interview, Charles. It’s always great to have you on the program. In a little bit we’re going to get back to talking about the issues facing the modern Skinwalker and the important cultural differences between them and the Wendigo. But in the meantime, we’ve got a very special recording for you tonight. This was released just a couple of weeks ago and I’ll tell you, I haven’t been able to stop listening to it. We’ve got Carry Ellison’s Schizophrenic Hallucinations. I sure hope you enjoy.”

I listen Carry Ellison for a while. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what instruments she’s using to make the sounds she’s making. Might be something they only have here on the other side. Or it might be a synth. They go back to the interview, and I’m not in the mood.

98.7:  Literally, just screaming.

99.1: The ghosts of Marshall Applewhite and Jim Jones’ weekly radio show where they talk to various other failed messiahs and incomplete godheads. This week’s special guest is David Koresh. He had some interesting things to say, but I felt like the show was mostly Jim and Marshall bitching to each other about how they just don’t make cults like they used to. Losers. 

101.1: Erich Zann; live from Rue D'Auseil.

I drive on, listening to the radio for a while. The road stays dark and straight. I occasionally glance out the side of my car and this time, for sure, I can see a pair of eyes following my car from the dark. I can just barely make out that gaping maw of that frumious thing that makes that long, mournful howl.   

Exit 477,869.22753, Exit Eleventy Seven Gajillion, Exit π

A glance at the clock and I realize it’s been two hours that I’ve been driving around, listening to Erich Zann play his viol. My ass is getting sore, and it’s starting to get cold in my car, in spite of the blasting heat. I reach into my glove compartment and grab a small packet of smelling salts. I take my hands off the wheel, slow my car down to coasting, close my eyes and crack the smelling salt packet in front of my nose. 

My entire brain is filled with the smell of cat piss and my eyes shoot open. I get the car back up to highway speed and see Exit 9. I take my exit home. I’ve got class in the morning. I leave those deep dark woods behind and with them those big staring eyes. I crawl into bed and drift off to sleep. In the distance I hear that long, mournful howl. 

[youngbuckreezy]

Best in Show Blues: A Jayla Johnson Job

This was my second-round entry to the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. The prompt was a crime caper, set in a surveillance van, featuring a dog whistle. Unfortunately, this one didn't place, and I was eliminated. I can understand why; in order to advance I would have needed to place 4th place or better in my division, and this story just plain wasn't as good as my first entry.

All the same, I think I churned out a very cute story that I'm very proud of. Also, I found a way to work in a shoutout to my oldest friend and that's always a win. I hope you like it.

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We’re in my surveillance van staking out the Ossining, NY 24th annual dog show with a plan to steal a dog. Well, technically, it was my older brother Josh’s work van. But Josh let me and Rashad put in a Wi-Fi hotspot. 

“Alright, M. Tell me the plan one more time.”

Mikayleigh and I were friends in kindergarten, but we lost touch. Our interests have diverged: I was into goth music and anime. She was into pink graphic tees with dogs on them. And she drinks tonic water from a can like it’s La Croix. Cringe.

She sipped her tonic water. “Why?”

“Because it’s your first job, and I’m not sure you’re ready.”

“Why aren’t you going in with me if you’re so worried?”

“Because Monty knows me and Rashad, and knows we like to steal from jerks like him.” I said.

She rolled her eyes.

Rashad, my cousin and best friend, said, “Listen, do you remember in the eighth grade, when someone stole the school mascot, but then the day before the big game he just turned back up like magic?”

“Yeah.” M said.

“We got him back. And Jayla planned the whole job. She’s a pro.”

“Fine. Step one, Josh and I go into the dog show.”

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Mikayleigh and Josh walked across the convention floor of the dog show in t-shirts that said “Zoomin’ Groomin’ Pet Grooming.”

Rashad and I sat in the van on comms. Through Mikayleigh’s airpods, I could hear the din of dogs barking.

“Remember, the dog's name is “Biggie”. White Boston Terrier with black spots.” I said.

“Yes, I know.” She said.

            She took another gulp of tonic water. “I don’t know how you drink that gross stuff.”

            “Quinine prevents malaria.” She said. “Wait, is that him?”

“Describe him.”

“Ummm... our age, tall, slim, pale. Kind of got, like, a pompadour haircut.”

That was our dognapper. Rich kid and all-around jerk, Montgomery Buford. “That’s him. Do you see Biggie?”

Josh said, “That’s a Boston terrier, alright. But isn’t our dog supposed to be spotted? Dog next to Monty is mostly black.”

“Kuso. Did Hector lie to us?” I said

“No; that’s Biggie. He’s got the little heart shaped spot on his forehead.” Mikayleigh said

“Then why the color difference?”

“Hmmm, I have a hunch. It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay. You’re up, M.”

Silence. Then I heard “Hey Monty, it’s me: Mikayleigh from middle school!”

“Um, okay. What do you want?”

Mikayleigh began yammering, telling Monty about Boston Terriers, breed standards, famous dogs, her dog-dedicated Instagram page, her neighbor’s Boston Terrier when she was a little girl in The Bronx...

Monty stopped her mid-sentence, “Uh... that’s cool. I’m gonna smoke a cigarette. Kent, watch the dog.”

            Wait, what?

            A second later Mikayleigh said, “Jayla, problem, Monty brought his own groomer.”

            “Yeah, I heard.”

            Josh said, “Wait, I’ve seen him around town. Name is Kent Something. Graduated high school the same year as me.”

            “Alright, we’re on it.”

            Josh gave us a quick description, and Rashad worked his laptop magic. He poured through a thousand pages of Google results in a nanosecond and said “Josh, was his name Kent Skyler?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Okay. He owns “Doggy Style Grooming” in Peekskill.

“Ew.” Mikayleigh and I both said.

Rashad went on: “He’s a hired gun for dog shows. Got two dogs himself: Jace and Chandra...”

“Wait, Rashad, say those names again?” Josh said.

“Jace and Chandra. Why?”

“He’s into Magic: the Gathering. I got him.”

A second later I heard, “Yo! Kent! Good to see you, dog! Yo, we’re having a Magic tournament after the show. You down?”

From Kent, “Oh, uh... yeah. Didn’t know you were into Magic.”

“Bro, I just got this new Blue/Green deck that’s been cooking fools. Come hang with me for a second.”

“Uh, yeah man. Alright.”

“Mikayleigh, you good?” I said.

She said, “I got your favorite toy!” and I heard a short bark. “Alright, buddy. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

“Remember, M. Out the back door and back to the van.”

Just then, I heard a strange, airy hiss.

“Mikayleigh, what’s happening?”

“Monty’s back. He’s got a dog whistle.”

Uh-oh

“Where are you going with my dog, you creepy little dork?”

“He’s my friend Hector’s dog! You stole him off his front lawn!”

“Oh yeah? Prove it. Does Hector have any documents? Adoption records?”

Dammit, I hate to lose, especially to this puppy-snatching prick.

“That’s what I thought. The dog’s better off with me anyway.”

“His name is Biggie.” Mikayleigh said.

“Not anymore. I think I’ll call him Winston. Now hand him over before I call security.”

I slammed the wall of the van in anger. He nailed us.

“Interesting coloration he’s got.” Said Mikayleigh.

“Huh?” Monty said.

“Perfect black and white saddle pattern, like a ‘tight-fitting tuxedo jacket’ like it says in the United Kennel Club breed guide. Only thing is, that’s not Biggie’s natural color, is it?

“You were wrong. Biggie is an almost perfect show Terrier, but since he’s spotted, you couldn’t submit him to a dog show, could you? So, you used that “dog-safe” hair dye. “See Spots Go”, was it? Well, there’re two things you should know about that stuff:

 “One, it’s been banned by the SPCA because it causes skin issues in small breeds. And two...”

I heard liquid glugging, like she was pouring out her tonic water.

“It washes off with Quinine.”

I heard Monty sputter.

“I’ll be taking Biggie then,” Mikayleigh said.

Biggie whined and the hiss began again.

“Bring back my dog!”

“No, I don’t think I will. Also, dog whistles are cruel. It hurts dogs’ ears.” she said. I heard the metallic ring of the dog whistle landing in the trash can.

A minute later, the van doors opened, and I saw Mikayleigh and Biggie smiling and wagging, respectively.

“I was wrong, M. You’ve got guts.”

She smiled at me. “Let's go give Hector the good news.”

[youngbuckreezy]

I Am the Meadow

This is my first-round entry to the NYC Midnight 1000-word Flash Fiction challenge. My division was given the prompt to write a Romance, set in a meadow, that featured a freshly baked pie. This entry won me 6th place in my division and I'm incredibly proud of it. I hope you like it.

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I am the meadow. But once, I was yours. 

I was Paul then. You were Meredith. You are still Meredith, though I believe your last name has changed.

I died and they buried me here. We were so young then. 

You told them to bury me here. You told my family that this was my favorite place, and you were right. It was my favorite place because it was where you and I spent so much time. 

You brought me a pie. It was strawberry rhubarb, still steaming from the oven. You must have woken up early to bake it. 

I can taste it still. The strawberries that grow in your garden, at your home not far from here, and the rhubarb the farmer grows, miles and miles away, keep me here. They remind me that I was your Paul. 

When spring would end, and those plants would go to seed, I would start to forget. But you would always return here to remind me. 

You would come to the spot on the meadow where we first made love--a little hill overlooking a copse of trees. You would lay down and I would remember. 

I would remember the ecstatic trepidation, and the look in your bottomless brown eyes. I would remember the heat of your body, inside and out. I would remember your squeaks of pain that became moans. I would remember the noises escaping my mouth, sounds I did not know to make. I would remember the explosion. And I remembered laying next to you. 

I could still feel you. The grass on your skin was the ghost of my grasping hands. The insects, the ghosts of my lips. Even the soft breeze, that temperamental bastard, would blow on your skin and be the ghost of my quickened breath.

Once you came to me and lay upon my hill, but something had changed. It was summer. You swatted away the insects and squirmed uncomfortably in the grass. The wind blew, and you shivered. You cried then, but it was not the same crying you had done so many times before. Not those tears of grief that I’d come to know, that I’m ashamed to say I even cherished. As you walked away from me, I understood. They were tears of guilt. 

Worse than your tears, you did not come back to me for some time after that. I expected to rage. I expected my fury to be so elemental that I might rise from the grave. But that’s not how it works. I just missed you. 

I could no longer possess you. I was no longer yours, nor would you be mine. All I wanted was for you to come to me to seek comfort for your guilt and your shame. But fall came, and then winter, and it was quiet. 

When the weather warmed, I felt something peculiar. The rhubarb had moved closer. It sat right next to the strawberries; the birds and the weasels told me. When the strawberries and rhubarb were picked, I felt that too. 

And then you returned, with a man in tow. He didn’t look much like me, though there were similarities. At first, bugs bit at him, but I bade them stop. You sat atop the hill, atop me, and in your hands was a freshly baked strawberry rhubarb pie, steaming still, as if you’d woken up early to bake it. 

You spoke to him. Joseph was his name. You talked of idle things, of crops and local gossip. You ate pie and he complimented your baking. And then you told him of me. You told him about how we’d met and about how much we loved each other. You told him about how I’d died and how quickly the fever took me, of how you’d not even been allowed in the room to tell me goodbye. 

You told him how you’d cried, and how you’d return to this place when the sorrow was too great. How you could still feel my presence, my memory, here. 

You didn’t mention that I was buried here, which I thought was wise. 

You cried telling this story, and he comforted you. He held you and you wept. And just as you felt the guilt and shame leave you, I felt it leave you too. I shared in your peace and, again, I became the meadow. 

The trees told me that you and Joseph lived together now, that the rhubarb was his. They told me how you fought from time to time but that you loved each other deeply. They told me some time later that you were expecting your first child. 

I became a part of your family. You and Joseph brought your children here for picnics, and they came to know me well. 

Your elder son wields sticks like swords and duels shadows. Your younger son sits on stumps and draws me. 

From time to time, you come to me alone. You sit where we once sat, and a sweet smile plays on your face. You collect wildflowers for wreaths and gaze at birds. But more than anything, you sit and bask in the sun. You feel the wind, and the grass, and the insects. The sensations are gone, but there’s joy for you there, and I am happy to help. 

Today you came to me and something had changed. Again, you squirmed and chafed, and walked away in tears. Before long, I understood: you were sick.    

Now your elder son comes to me to punch at my tree trunks, and your younger son just weeps. 

You are scared, and I understand. You are scared, just as I was. You are scared, but there is nothing to fear. 

Because I am the meadow, but once I was yours. 

[youngbuckreezy]

To This Place I Cannot Return

My memories of this place come to me in sensations. And they are not all pleasant. I remember the concrete back porch, where I skinned my knee. I remember the bird bath that I broke, and was too ashamed to tell. I remember the back screen door which, when closing, sounded like a hissing snake and scared me. And when I jumped, I remember my grandpa calling me a scaredy-cat. 

But the pleasant memories come to me in full, glorious color. 

I am hiding in a closet. Trepidatious, but not afraid, as if I were playing hide and seek. I feel the scratchy wool of a faded, brown coat; it’s musty weight a warm embrace. And through the crack in the closet door I see a ray of golden sunlight illuminating a rust-colored carpet.  

I smell the unsettled dust of a settled life, kicked up by bare child’s feet and suspended in a sunbeam, like so many krill. And beneath that child’s bare feet, bare wood. Rubbed smooth by so many carefully considered outfits.

The feeling of a well-chosen hiding place excites me. I recess further into the closet and feel as if I could dissolve, like honey into tea. 

And in this place it is quiet. And it is dark. And I am calm. There surrounded by that warm infinity of history, I find peace. Cloaked in my grandfather’s life.  

To this place, I cannot return.

[youngbuckreezy]

A Dirge for Putnam County, NY in the Wintery Months

It starts with the trees. All of the trees are dead or dying, a perfect tree for a hanged man to twist in the wind. He dances in the breeze and chuckles. They’ll get you too. 

They stand bolt upright, bearing no leaves, no fruit. Just white and cold and severe. And so very old. And against the gray of the skies you can see something off in those woods. You don’t know what it is but you know it’s smiling. Something that’s been waiting in the woods just out of sight for as long as there’s been sight. It waits and it calls out. 

“We’re here. We’ve always been here and we’ll always be here. You built your streets and buildings to escape us, but we live on. And when you have that moment of dread after you turn out your lamp, it’s us that you’re afraid of. We’ve always been here, and we’ll always be here. And you’ll return to us one day. We’ll be waiting. We’re very, very patient.”

[youngbuckreezy]

A short story about summer camp

This was an assignment I wrote for an English class in my last semester of college. If I remember correctly the assignment was to write a story about a personal triumph. 

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In reality, the events that I’m about to describe took place over the course of two weeks and culminated in an action that took a couple of seconds. But more than a decade later and it feels like it was a year at sea. 

I was bullied as a kid. I was chubby, and poor, and either suffering from or developing a host of psychiatric illnesses that wouldn’t be properly treated until, like, 3 weeks ago. I muttered to myself almost constantly, had a number of conscious and unconscious ticks, zero self esteem, violent mood swings, and nigh-on spectrum levels of shyness. I was an easy target. 

I used to go to this summer sleepaway camp called Camp Fuller, in Rhode Island. One summer, I think I might’ve been 11 or 12, there were two boys in my cabin who liked nothing more than to give me trouble. Lex and Will were their names. They were both cool, and athletic, and charismatic and filled with the unbridled cruelty that can only be found in preteens. Lex was big for his age, athletic and mean. Will was small. Smaller than me, but he had jokes. They made it their mission to mortify me at every opportunity. 

The counselors all saw what was happening. It wasn’t like Lex and Will were being discreet. But half the counselors didn’t care and the other half knew that intervening would only make my situation worse. I was on my own. 

One day, we were all walking back to our cabin from the cafeteria, and Will and Lex were joking and laughing with each other, graciously leaving me alone for once. I was angry that day. Angrier than usual. Something about the unfairness of those two cavorting happily while I was silently stewing made me feel like they had stolen my summer and used it for themselves. I must’ve looked like a bomb that was about to go off. I walked up behind Will and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around.

And I punched him right in the fucking mouth. 

He hit the ground and stared at me, shock in his eyes. Lex looked on, dumbstruck. I saw the spot on his cheek start to well up red and I knew I’d hit him good. I stared down at him silently for a moment, and then I just kept on walking. A friend later told me that he had tears in his eyes. 

Will, still laying in the dirt behind me, called out to our Counselor who hadn’t seen what happened. “Shapiro, Nick just punched me in the face!”

Without turning around, he shouted back “Oh well!” 

Shapiro was cool. He knew the score.

There was reprisal for that, sure. But not as bad as you’d think. Lex and some of their other stooges cornered me in the bathroom a couple of days later and threatened to beat me up. But they knew that I was prepared to fight back. And one of them knew firsthand how hard I could hit. People stopped messing with me after that. 

For better or worse, I learned a lesson that stuck with me for a long time, that summer. I’ll let you fill in the blank on what it was.

[youngbuckreezy]

The Devil Told Me Once

This is a poem I wrote inspired by a really boring class that I should’ve been paying better attention to. 

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The devil told me once:

“When you’re crossing the street and a car is coming, 

Make sure you look the driver dead in the eye.

It won’t stop them from hitting you. 

It’ll just make sure that if they do, they’re traumatized for life.”

“Make sure if you’re walking through a public place, 

And someone is just filming people go by

Look directly at the camera and wink for no reason. 

That way, in case they wind up filming some kind of horrible disaster

Conspiracy theorists will wonder who you are for decades.”

“Oh and you mustn’t forget, every now and again, 

Stand on a street corner in New York City and look up at nothing in particular.

Once the first person stops to try and see what it is you’re looking at

Leave, come back, and watch the crowd grow.”

[youngbuckreezy]

Walkin’ Sam

I’m not sure whether to call this a poem or just really short prose, but I wrote it all at once and really really liked it. 

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I remember hearing about a Native American myth who presents as an impossibly tall, impossibly slim man dressed in a shabby suit and a top hat. They call him “Walkin’ Sam” He’s said to come around and change people; take the light right out of their eyes. Make ‘em gray. One day, or 6 months out of the year, your brother just ain’t the same anymore. Must have been a visit from Walkin’ Sam. 

He’s a friend o’ mine, if a grim one. I been knowin’ Sam was around, even if I wasn’t sure I knew I knew. I’d been feeling it in the air. First I thought it was just a cold wind, but nah. Sam come to visit me again, just like he always does. 

“Heya, Sam.” I say. “How ya been? Wife? Kids? Business going well?”

But Sam just stare. Too damn tall, too damn lean. He don’t think I’m funny. 

“‘Bout time I paid my dues, huh Sam?” He don’t say nothing. He just nod. 

Sam don’t hate me. Don’t like his job any more than I do. But I got a debt to pay and Sam gotta collect it. Damndest thing is, I can’t remember what I borrowed, or what I spent it on. I hope it was worth it. 

Sam tip his big hat and walk me into the mist. He’s gentle like that; don’t mean me no harm.

[youngbuckreezy]

Turn Pike South

This is my favorite short story I’ve ever written. I presented it to some of my friends and a couple of my writer’s groups, and no one liked it. I don’t expect anyone to. But god damn it, I love it. 

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I’m driving and it must be ten o’clock at night. Southbound on the Taconic at this time of night, in this part of the state, is a lonely time to drive. Every so often I’ll see another car. Lit from within by the glow of a radio or a phone displaying GPS navigation. But mostly, it’s just me and the road. 

Dark as the edge, I tell you. There’re hardly any streetlights to speak of, so on a moonless night like this one it’s just you and your headlights. On either side of the highway there’s dense woods. But at this time of night it may as well be a pair of black walls on either side of you. If you slow your car down and look closely enough you could swear you saw a pair of eyes staring at you, or hear a long, mournful howl. 

I turn my car radio on and search the stations.

87.8: Static

89.3: Sucker by The Jonas Brothers

91.5: Sucker by The Jonas Brothers

98.7: Cruise by Florida Georgia Line

99.1: Some dude with a weird folksy accent talking about the absolution of the soul and the separation of oneself from sin, in a tone of voice that suggests that the next words out of his mouth simply have to be either “donate now” or “drink that kool-aid”

101.1: Sucker by The Jonas Brothers

And then right back around to 87.8. I decide I’ll go with static. 

Driving south, I know that in about 45 minutes I’ll start seeing the signs of New York City, and all the darkness and the static will give way to light and people and pop music and for fuck’s sake maybe even some traffic at this time of night. But at the moment I decide I’m not quite done with this drive.

Exit 14 goes past. Exit 13. Exit 12. Exit 11a coquettishly teases me. I see my exit approaching. 11b. 

I hazard a glance at those great walls of oblivion black on either side of me that pretend to be trees in the daylight. I press my hand to my window to feel the insidious fingers of invernal chill creeping their way in. I listen for that long, mournful howl. 

I turn the static on the radio up as loud as it will go and press my foot down a little harder on the gas. As faint as a sound can be in the background of the static, at the very bottom of my aural difference threshold, a voice speaks. I turn off my headlights and all of the cabin lights. I take my hands off the wheel and close my eyes. The voice speaks in a calm, steady tone, as if giving instructions on how to perform routine maintenance on a toaster. Louder and louder and louder until all of a sudden, it’s as if the static were never there. 

“Werzak min flal. Jeru kaminel shabob haroth. Karunes menilay harutaga.”

Foot still on the gas the car’s picking up speed. Must be at 70, now. The voice on the radio speaks steadily and hypnotically in no language I know of. 

“Varun klep intajebon intef alluhain”

I remove a razor blade from my glove compartment. A small, cruel, rusted instrument. The car’s gotta be up to 85, now. The voice speaks on. 

“Hith dy vanklo impta maris ta shak krath oan tak. Myse do an kay lentebran arratta nil.”

I hold the tip of the blade to the underside of my forearm.  

“Misk.” The voice says. “Misk! Misk!” 

I drag the blade vertically through my flesh from the center of my forearm toward my hand. Blood cascades after it. My entire arm and left pant leg is bathed in cloying warmth. 

Slowly I open my eyes and place my hands back on the wheel. The voice from the radio no longer speaks. I turn my headlights back on, my bloody fingers slipping on the knob. I see a sign off in the distance. 

Exit -612.823

“Phew.” I think. “It worked.”

I back the car back down to a conservative 60 miles an hour, turn on the radio and scan the stations.  

87.8: Come And Get Your Love, but instead of the original version by Redbone it appears to be a cover performed by Slayer. The second chorus yields to an extended electric guitar solo that I find a little indulgent.  

89.3: Concert recording from David Bowie’s latest tour “Major Tom’s Revenge” recorded live in The Place Beyond the Seventh Gate. Even dead, Bowie is the man. I listen until Prince comes on. I was never a fan of him. 

91.5: Stranglehold by Ted Nugent. 

92.3: Literally, just screaming.

98.7: A soft-voiced, androgynous radio announcer is speaking. “Thank you so much for that enlightening interview, Charles. It’s always great to have you on the program. In a little bit we’re going to get back to talking about the issues facing the modern Skinwalker and the important cultural differences between them and the Wendigo. But in the meantime, we’ve got a very special recording for you tonight. This was released just a couple of weeks ago and I’ll tell you, I haven’t been able to stop listening to it. We’ve got Carry Ellison’s Schizophrenic Hallucinations. I sure hope you enjoy.”

99.1: The ghost of Marshall Applewhite and the ghost of Jim Jones’ weekly radio show where they have on various other failed messiahs and incomplete godheads. They had on special guest David Koresh this week. He had some interesting things to say, but I felt like the show was mostly Jim and Marshall bitching to each other about how they just don’t make cults like they used to. 

101.1: Erich Zann live from Rue D'Auseil.

I drive on listening to the radio for a while. The road stays dark and straight. I occasionally glance out the side of my car and this time, for sure, I can see a pair of eyes following my car from the dark. And I can just barely make out that gaping maw of that frumious thing that makes that long, mournful howl.   

I yawn and notice that the exits are starting to get into theoretical numbers. A glance at the clock and I realize it’s been two hours that I’ve been driving around, listening to Erich Zann play his viol. I reach into my glove compartment and grab the little packet of smelling salts. I take my hands off the wheel, slow my car down to coasting, close my eyes and crack the smelling salt packet in front of my nose. 

My entire brain is filled with the smell of cat piss and my eyes shoot open. I get the car back up to highway speed and see exit 11a, tantalizing me like the saucy little minx it is. I shift a little, as my ass has gotten sore from the long drive. I take my exit home. I’ve got class in the morning. 

I leave those deep dark woods behind and with them those big staring eyes. I crawl into bed and drift off to sleep. And in the distance I hear that long, mournful howl.