I’m invisible, but I see you all right. See your white pasty faces glancing through the windows of the fancy restaurant or the luxury car,  glancing away, your eyes sliding past me like a dead squirrel or raccoon on the roadside.

Maybe sometimes you wonder what it would be like to lose everything. What would you miss most? Scented soap? Your pillow?

How about sleeping in safety, or shoes that don’t leak?

An escape from the gnawing hunger that waits at the end of every hour?

You look away, not wanting the reminder of just how good you have it.

Friday Fictioneers

He crouched over her as she lay contorted on the pavement, one hand thumbing the send button on his mic, the other still holding his weapon.

“10-85 10-85! My partner’s shot! My partner’s shot! Hurry up central!”

The pool of blood beneath her spread like spilled coffee.

He couldn’t tell where the bullet had gone in, or if there had been more than one.

He holstered the gun and tried to unfasten her vest, but she began to cough a pink foam.

“You’re going to be all right, Jenny. We’ll get you fixed up.”

She stopped coughing.

He thumbed his mic. “Hurry!”

Friday Fictioneers

Ripped from the old dream where I’m back in Helmand and bleeding out while Doc White tries to clamp the artery. I bolt out of my bag and look around for what woke me. Diesels, more than one. I stow my gear and make my way up the hill, using the trees for cover. Six dozers idle in the grass valley below. I knew this was coming and have been pulling up the orange stakes wherever I find them. Can’t stop “progress,” but this means I’ll need to find somewhere else to stay close to the VA but away from people.

“He asks if you are tired,” said Father Kino.

Del Martes shook head, sweaty in the glittering helmet. Gods do not feel fatigue, he wanted to say, but did not.

The climb had been tortuous, but it was worth it. The Jesuit and his native consort had shown him the river of gold, and Del Martes had seen its glitter himself. Now, in the search for its source, he became the first civilized man to gaze out on this valley.

He thought about the empire he would build here once the mine was established. These friendly natives would make splendid slaves.

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Staff/Sgt Hooms missed badly.

“Mother FUCK!“ He swore loud enough that we heard him in the mess fifty meters away. He slapped his holster as though about to shoot the offending golf disc, then swaggered out to retrieve it and try again, shaking his head with exaggerated disgust.

This, like everything he did, was a performance. He wanted all of us to see that, despite his lack of combat experience, he was a salty old veteran.

I’d seen his type before. Career NCOs yearning for a combat star. They strutted around the FOB like John Wayne, armed to the teeth.

Friday Fictioneers

 

I stand behind the bar in the same dirty black pants, the same stained white shirt and bow tie. Good thing they can’t smell me.

They schedule me to work just under forty hours, so no overtime. The theater can’t afford it, they say. Looking at how these crowds are dressed, I find that hard to believe. You never saw so many Rolexes and diamond tennis bracelets.

Come intermission, they’ll pile out like cattle, line up to buy a plastic cup of merlot or chardonnay for ten bucks. Then it’s back to the second-rate orchestra and the same tired ballet.

Friday Fictioneers

 

Pringle made a point of driving me by the place on the way to County Lockup. He pointed out the window and jeered to his partner driving the prowl car.

“That there patio furniture ought to get a civic medal, catching such a hardened criminal as Joey here,” he snorted. “Tell me, Joey, did you conceive that brilliant robbery all by yourself or did you go to the library to consult?” He laughed so hard he couldn’t finish his sentence.

“I didn’t take to thieving by choice,” I said, defiant. “I’ll plan better next round.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty time.”

The left-side cylinder seized four kilometers from the summit, the troublesome valve finally giving out, the low-gear sewing machine turning into a wretched clanking, then silence.

She pushed the smoking bike as far to the side as she could and looked back toward the valley, the smell of hot oil dissipating in the crisp mountain air. With the heavy panniers she could not push the bike over the mountain. It had to be back, then. Back to the valley. A six-week wait for parts, probably.

If it was fixable at all.

She thought of her father, what he would say.

Friday Fictioneers

In the early 1980s Elspeth Beard became the first British woman to complete a solo motorcycle trip around the world. She still enjoys riding her trusty BMW R60/6, the bike that carried her across the globe.

They were boiling all morning, so I wasn’t surprised when she lost it. As usual it was about nothing. He’d forgotten the tickets and had to buy new ones. Big deal. It was only like twenty bucks.

But of course she acted like he’d committed some big crime, and after a couple of swipes back and forth they were red-faced and hissing scorn at each other, old insults and outrages flying. Par for the course, museum or not.

I got out before they started seriously yelling. I stood by the pond and watched the carp calmly swimming around, envying them.

 

Friday Fictioneers

The realtor fumbled with the enormous key ring. “Sorry about this. We haven’t had time to get a lockbox put on. It just came on the market.”

“So you said.” Squinting in the icy wind, her irritation was evident.

“Here we are.” The stiff lock clanked. The realtor held the door open. Dim blue light from the frosted windows made the enormous space look like a black and white photograph, the atmosphere still carrying a faint odor of stale sweat.

“The old man who owned it died five years ago,” the realtor said. “The daughter finally decided to sell it.”

 

Friday Fictioneers