A Fistful of Rubbish

Justin Writes

[afistfulofrubbish]

Tyber York, Pt 7.

Marco led be back outside into the night. The air had picked up and there was a chill to it now, crisp and biting. He offered me a cigarette and I took it graciously.

"Thanks."

"I'm telling you this because I owe you," he said, lighting his smoke and handing the box of matches, "He's gonna send boys to tail you. He don't like people askin' questions. Not about him, and especially not about his son. Watch yourself."

"You don't owe me a thing, Marco," I told him, feeling the warm smoke fill my lungs, "No one here cares what we did over there, why should you?"

"'Cause you saved my life, and I won't be forgetting that. Just look after yourself, Sarge."

"I will," I smiled, shaking his hand, "You too. I'll See you 'round."

 Marco believed I'd walked into trouble by taking word that I knew about the girl straight to the kid's father. But I knew what I was doing; knew what to expect from the old bastard.  I left the two goons he'd sent to take care of me unconscious in some back alley in Chelsea.

I knew where Vinnie was hiding out. Joey had told me where to look when we'd spoken in his bar that afternoon. He held no love for the families; who saw him as a useful inconvenience. He wasn't born in Sicily, but the Bronx, as so wasn't allowed into their boys club. But he was smart, and ambitious. Kept his head down and his ear to the ground. If he was smart about it, he'd end up running this city one day.

I made my way to a diner I knew. Good coffee and good burgers; got myself one of each. The guy who ran it, an old friend by the name of Frank O'Sullivan, was something of a local hero. He'd stopped a robbery by just talking to the guy and offering him a cold drink and a hot meal. That same guy now worked the grill, and was as loyal to the place as an attack dog - and the story kept trouble away. Satisfied, but footsore and weary, I headed back to the office for the night.

My apartment was nothing flash - old brick and whitewashed plaster - but it was home. And after a while you stopped noticing the noise of the train tracks fifty yards outside your window. It was cheap and warm and, for the most part, dry - and that's all I cared about. I climbed the stairs to the third floor, fumbling in my coat pocket for my keys. The light in the hallway had gone out again and shadows filled the room as I unlocked my door and swung it open. Inside, stuffed under my door, was an yellow envelope. This caught my attention long enough that by the time I heard the footstep behind me it was already too late. I spun low, reaching for my .38 as I did, but they were fast, too fast, and darkness swallowed my vision.

I woke to a world whose singular focus point was the pain driving itself into my skull. I moaned, lifted my head and instantly regretted it as a bolt of white hot agony struck my brain. My head swam. I was sitting in a chair, my arms tied behind my back. I tried to open my eyes and discovered the hit I took had sent me blind. Everything was dark.

"I heard you were looking for me." said a voice from somewhere in the blackness. It was a voice I recognized, and with a spark a small glow formed as Vinnie Cognetti lit a cigarette and shook out the match.

Not blind after all, it seems.

"Vinnie," I said, trying to smile, "Just the man I was hoping to see."

"What do you want, dick?" he replied.

"I wanted to ask you if you'd consider Jesus Christ as your personal lord and sav-"

The backhand came quick, and for a moment spots of vivid yellows and blues obscured what little vision the darkened room offered. Pissing off an armed thug who had you tied to a chair was probably not the best idea.

"Why are you looking for me, huh?" he asked, venom seeping into his voice, "You wanna finish what you started, you flat-footed fuck?"

"What?" I said, confused, "What do you mean started?"

"Was if you that killed my Abigail?" he screamed, pulling a forty-five from his belt and pointing it at me. His gun in his hand shook and anger contorted his face.

The realization hit me like a punch.

"Christ..." I sighed, "I was looking to ask you the same damn question."

                                                               * * * * * *

[afistfulofrubbish]

Tyber York, Pt 6.

The city began to stir again as the last light of the day sank down past the concrete skyline. It had a way of turning us nocturnal, slaves to the glitz and glamour of the Midtown nightlife.

The restaurant was prestigious, drawing the rich and powerful to dine on expensive foods and wine with three digit price tags. The place was a hit, and - If the rumors were to be believed - turned Salvatore Cognetti's ill-gotten gains into clean, untraceable cash.

  D'Angelo's was all soft light and operettas topped with faux marble columns and olive trees in Roman themed pots. It reminded me less of Italy and more of a tourists idea of Italy. The Italy I'd seen was mostly broken and burning, littered with corpses in uniform. I went round back, in through the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen the air was warm and heavy with the rich smells of cooking. My stomach gave an involuntary groan, and I absently tried to remember when I'd last eaten. No one bothered to look at me as I made my way though the chaos, and out into the corridor - where I ran into a familiar face.

"Fuck.." I sighed, as Marco's fist took me full in the gut.

I doubled over as the breath rushed out of me; couldn't seem to get it back inside. Marco waited patiently with his arms folded as I slowly managed to pull in enough air that my lungs didn't burn.

"What're you doing here, Sarge?" he asked, his tone a conflict of remorse and curiosity.

"Just came to see your boss, Marco."

"You got an appointment?" he said.

"I told my secretary to make one." I smiled.

His broad face split as he returned the grin and extended one massive hand down to help me up.

"Nothing personal," he said, "You understand."

He lead me through a labyrinth of hallways until we came to a door like every other door we'd passed. Marco knocked once, and waited. After a moment of silence a gruff voice spoke from the other side.

"Yeah?"

"It's Marco. I got someone wantin' to see the boss."

There was a muffled discussion from inside the room and the door was opened for us. Inside was what appeared to be a storage room, lined with crates and boxes of booze. In the far corner - under the illumination of a desk lamp - a fat, balding man was adding up numbers from the column of a notebook. A bookie, or an accountant; it didn't really matter. The rest of the room was lit by a single bulb in a broad green lampshade that hung over a poker table. Five men sat around the table, three of whom I recognized. There was Sal Cognetti in the middle, shouldered by the unfamiliar faces. To the far left was Jackie Baldino - head of the teamsters union and contender for ugliest man alive with his bulldog face and rabid demeanor. Lastly there was Firorello La Guardia; former mayor of the city, and a man I'd voted for twice; not because he was a nice guy, but because he was ruthless and efficient.

"Well, well, well," said Sal, standing and pulling a forty-five from under the table, "If it isn't my least favorite cop. You got some balls walking in here, boy."

"Not a cop anymore, Sal," I told him, "Just a guy looking to have a word with your son."

"You ain't the first," he said, sitting down and returning the pistol to its hidey-hole. "And I'll tell you what I told them. I ain't seen Vinnie in two days."

I'd expected as much, but had hoped the old man would make it easier for himself.

"Thanks anyway." I said and I turned to take my leave.

"He didn't do it, you know." said Sal from behind me, a slight note of panic is his voice.

"So I hear." I said with a nod, "Enjoy your game, gentlemen."

[afistfulofrubbish]

Tyber York, Pt 5.

I headed back to the bar in time to see Joey poke his head out of the back room. His eyes locked with mine, gestured with his head I should follow him. I left Sketch there nursing his drink and headed after him.

Behind the door was an empty corridor, fluorescent tubes flickering with galvanic harmony. I could see Joey’s legs disappearing up a black staircase, headed up after him.

Upstairs was an office. Black walls and maroon carpet were dominated by an expensive looking desk, oiled oak and topped with red leather. Behind it sat Joey, his back to the opaque glass panels that made up his back wall. The guy fancied himself a Don, by the looks of it.

"Looks like business is good." I said, looking around the room, nodding to myself for dramatic effect.

He smiled, eating it up like nourishment. A little pantomime kingpin.

"I heard you had twenty bucks for me."

"Left it with your barkeep." I smiled, and got one in return.

                                                                  * * * * * *

 Outside; the city was awash in the soft glow of sunset, the sky a map of bruises - fresh and old - as the day crept its way down over the Hudson. The air was cool and heavy, the lingering smell of wet sidewalk mixing with the taste of whiskey still in my mouth. I pulled out the crumpled pack of camels, drew one and lit it - the thick smoke curling into my lungs like another nail in my coffin. I cherished every moment of it.

The rain hadn't quit, but decided to give the city a chance to fight back, turned itself down to a icy drizzle. What little light remained distilled down into the alley, painting everything in shades of gold. Water dripped from the awning down the back of my neck, sending a shiver through my body, an unwelcome wake up call.

Joey hadn't been able to give me much on the girl, but what he had would be useful. She'd been out with that piss-stain Vinnie the night before she'd turned up in the river. If anyone knew the rest, It'd be him. I figured the best place to start looking would be D'Angelo's, his father's swanky uptown restaurant.

The streets were clear for now, the filth washed away in the storm; but the city was restless beast. Eight million people all cooped up and dying to get a taste of the clean, cool air that swept in down the avenues - bringing with it the faint smell of salt water. The rain had brought a reprieve from the heat; bad news for me was it also brought back the ache in my leg. The thick knot of scar tissue had settled into a dull throb as I headed down 46th towards Madison Square.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Tyber York, Pt 4.

Sketch spun as he fell, landing in a sprawled mass between two chairs; and I carried on moving until I hit a table, knocking the wind out of my lungs. When I turned around the newcomer had stopped in his tracks; mouth closed, eyebrows creased in a confused stare. I bent down and took the wallet from Sketch's coat, flicking it open as I got back up. It was nicked alright, and the fool had been dumb enough to pickpocket a guy nearly twice his size in daylight. I tossed him his wallet back, reached over to the bar and picked up the fiver, gave him that too.

"No harm done." I said. "You got it all back."

The giant growled.

"And him," I said, tilting my head towards Sketch, "He's learned his lesson."

The newcomer looked at his wallet - down to where an unconscious Sketch now lay in a tangle of boneless limbs - nodded at me, turned and left, walking back out into the downpour.

I turned, walked back to my stool and finished my whiskey. The smoke in the ashtray had burned itself out. With a sigh I reached into my wallet, pulled out a tired five dollar note and set it down on the bar.

"I'm gonna have'ta owe you, Tommy." I said as I bend down to pick up Sketch, who now groaned and stirred, and helped him upright. "And you, shithead, owe me."

I dragged him into a booth and took the seat opposite. Sketch shook his head groggily and worked his jaw to get a feel for the pain.

"You're a real piece o' work, Sketch." I said, sliding out another Camel from the crumpled pack. "That guy would have kicked tomorrow's shit out of you before he grew bored."

"So you thought you'd jus' sucka punch me?"

Around us the soft murmurs of other conversations picked back up, accompanied by the occasional clink of ice.

"It was either him or me," I told him as I breathed in the first smooth mouthful of smoke, "I think you got off light."

"Yeah, I guess. Don't make a big deal out of it."

His injury forgotten, he went to collect his glass of almost-turpentine from the bar.

"I need some help. Thought you could return that favor you owed me."

"What favo.... Oh, yeah, right. I suppose..." He said, fidgeting in his filthy jacket, "Ya know. If I can."

"I'm looking for information on a girl." I told him.

"What girl? There's a million dames in this city."

"A dead one." I handed him a photograph.

He knew her. I could see it in his eyes, the recognition, the narrowing of his eyes that put a wrinkle on his beak of a nose.

"Don't know 'er." he said, sliding the photograph back across the table.

"You're a shitty liar." I told him, stuffing it back into my coat pocket, "I've seen you bluff."

His turned to face me, his expression desperate.

"Look," he said, "I know 'er. O...or at least know of her. She was one of Vinnie's girls, man. My tongue is tied. I can't help you."

"She turned up floating face-down in the Hudson, Doherty. She wasn't going for a midnight swim here. Someone must know something... seen something."

"Look, I ain't no rat." he looked around, scanning a dozen ignorant patrons for any sign our chat was being eavesdropped in on. "I don't know nuthin' more than I told ya. An' even if I did, I wouldn't tell ya. They'd kill me, man. They'd fuckin' kill me."

I wasn't gonna get anymore out of him, tapped what little resource he'd had. He might have been a coward and a shitty pick-pocket, but he wasn’t stupid. They’d kill him as sure as they’d killed her.

I stood, reached into my coat and pulled out a fiver, left it on the table.

"Get yourself some aspirin. You look like shit."

"Ahh, go fuck yaself.” he said, waving a dismissive hand at me.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Tyber York, Pt 3.

Behind me the doors swung open, killing any conversation, and letting the sounds of the rain swept city flood in to fill the new silence that hung about the room. The portal closed behind the silhouette revealing a man I knew as Bryce Doherty, but everyone else knew as Sketch. He hobbled in, leg brace squeaking around the twisted ruin of his right knee - a gift from a loan shark he'd tried to outrun in Jersey a few years back. He was a likable kind of guy but a lousy crook who'd earned his name with a charcoal stick upriver in Sing Sing. Lanky and pale, with a bend in his neck and a hooked beak of a nose, his face was always broken by his lopsided smirk whenever he though himself particularly clever. He topped this unlikable package off with a cheap haircut and an unearned assurance that he was smarter than the next guy.

Behind him the city seemed to cower as the storm broke; a tempest.

"Jesus Christ," said Sketch as he strode through the black threshold, "Fucken' lucky timing." He said, grinning his crooked grin, making him look like nothing so much as a snake oil merchant closing his latest sale. "Yo Tommy, gimme a glass of your finest nitro."

The man behind the bar grabbed a filthy tumbler of the shelf behind him and kicked the lid of a wooden bucket on the floor by the bar, revealing a dark liquid that seemed to let off vapors. He scooped the glass through, bringing it out and putting it down with little care. Deep amber fluid sloshed over the crystalline confine of the glass and onto the bar, practically eating their way through the wood. I could smell it from three stools away, the heady mix of what could only be the swill from leftover glasses mixed together and left in a bucket to ferment. It stank like poison.

"You still owe me five bucks from last night." said Tommy, with an expression that said he'd get his money one way or another.

"Hey, don't worry. I got it the money." said Sketch as he threw down a crinkled note. "And keep 'em comin'."

The black doors flew open, the noise of the storm outside overpowering whatever new record had been put on. The man who now stood inside was a mountain, all muscle and rage. He raised a hand and pointed at Sketch, who suddenly looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. "You! Give me back my fucken' wallet!" He began to walk forward, his stride purposeful and menacing. I had to act fast.

I cleared the three stools between us before the newcomer had managed to take another step. With the momentum carrying me forward I leveled a punch right into Sketch's left cheek. The impact sending a shockwave through my arm.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Tyber York, Pt 2.

I decided to go see Joey 'Blues' and get some gossip - news picked like wallets by the hustlers and runners, players and gong kickers. Joey always had his ear to the ground, collecting dirt on some of the more powerful and infamous men in this city. He was a well-known bootlegger and bookie who'd climbed the ranks of a small time crime family on the streets of Hoboken. Now he ran a dive bar on 46th street, just past 10th Ave. It was a place where corrupt cops and mob underbosses played high stakes poker long into the night. A place where the air was always thick with cigar smoke. Where the drinks flowed like water. A place where looking at someone the wrong way got your picture on a missing persons poster.

Prohibition had turned this low-level crime racket into a booming night club industry. Booze, broads, guns and opium. If you wanted it you could get it at Joey’s, you just had to know who to ask.

The money flowed freely here, but then; so did blood.

The rain began to fall as hit 46th. Fat, heavy drops that stung like BBs. I hiked my collar up against the rain and kicked into a jog, my .38 stirring restlessly in its shoulder holster as I picked up the pace.

The place was hard to miss. Black doors and blacked out windows. A neon sign buzzed bright red - Joey's. I made my way down the alley running parallel to Joey's, knocked on the side door - the preference of it's more discreet and corrupt clientele. The peephole slid open revealing a pair of suspicious eyes pressed half shut by the jutting brow of this particular species of bouncer - brawn over brains.

"Yeah?" said a voice deep enough to resonate through the metal door.

"It's York. I'm looking to see Joey. Got that twenty I owe 'im." I lied.

The reply was a low grunt as the peephole slid shut, I could hear the brute fumbling the locks and chains with his meaty hands before the door swung open and the noise and the dank spilled out into the alley in a heavy stream, pooling at my feet like oil.

"He's upstairs," he said to me, closing and re-locking the door, "Wait at the bar."

I dropped a curt nod, turned and left the troll there to guard his bridge and made my way to the tap room. Inside was dark, all dimmed lights and black paint. Devoid of natural light. Made it impossible to know what time it was on the other side of the black double doors that led out into the street.

The bar was mostly empty at this time of day, just a small swarm of barflies and tarred up hookers enjoying more than just the cheap spirits. I took a seat at the bar, ordered a whiskey, drew a smoke.

The bar-top was covered in spilled drinks and old ash. Gave the place a stink both nauseating and familiar. Wooden boxes full of empty bottles sat next to the bar, like coffins full of dead soldiers. Somewhere, in another room, a record had ended; the 78 spinning freely as the reproducer dragged - creating an unmistakable noisy silence. A white noise. I downed my drink in one pull, relishing the burn as it worked its warm fingers into my gut.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Expire with Difficulty

The burning watercraft took flight, propelled by the de-valved oxygen tanks tied to the hull.

John watched as the boat tore through the aisles of the sporting goods store before plowing into the man who had taken these people hostage on Christmas eve. Karl has planned to drill through the wall into the bank next door and empty the place, but he hadn't counted on one thing; an off duty cop out of his jurisdiction, and with a bad case of jetlag.

The rocketing vessel hit Karl directly in the chest, sending him backward through the plate glass window of the storefront and out into the mall. The noise was incredible, so loud and so long, as if all the glass in the building was being simultaneously shattered.

Both he and the smouldering boat slid to a stop amidst a shower of tiny glass cubes and waiting security guards, all with their guns drawn and lowered on him.

John casually walked through the now missing front window, his filthy singlet sticking to him with sweat and grease, and stood above the now handcuffed Karl.

"Yippee-kayak, motherfucker." he said.

A security guard looked up at John with a puzzled expression.

"You know that's actually a canoe, right?"

[afistfulofrubbish]

The Fabulous Bunker Boys

When I was very young, I had a sister.

She and I were inseparable - we did everything together. We ate together, we slept together; shared a tiny room together.

One day she got sick. Then, stuck together in that tiny room, I got sick. By the time they found out we were ill it was too late.

We were delivered sixteen weeks prematurely, and although they tried their hardest, there was nothing they could do for her. We were separated shortly before they pronounced her. I still have the scar they left me with.

Each year I celebrate our birthday, and each year I light an extra candle for her.

When I was very young, I has a sister.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Meanwhile, in Finland...

"Pappa, will you tell me a story?" she asked, her eyes hopeful; blinking long tired blinks.

The night was cold, the wind outside howling; throwing fresh snow into the corners of the windows. Out in the living room a cheery fire crepitated in the hearth, filling the house with warmth and the sleepy lullaby of crackling logs.

"What story would you like, little one?" he asked as he tucked her in to bed.

"Tell me your favorite story."

"My favorite? Ah, well. Let's see now." he cleared his throat for effect. "There are stories we pass down here; stories told by parents to children, to their children - for generations. Tales of heroes, and monsters, and legends. My favorite - the one I asked my father to tell me again and again when I was a child - was that of the Punainen Koira."

He leaned across and turned the dimmer switch, sending thin pools of shadow to congeal in the corners of the small room. This brought a smile to her face, her eyes lighting up like they were sharing some naughty secret - excitement and a hint of fear.

"The story would talk of a beast;" he continued as he looked around the room, finding the atmosphere suitable, "giant, covered in coarse fur the color of flames. He stood taller than a house, with teeth as tall as a man and eyes as black and hollow as a shark's."

This caused her to lift the covers up so that only her eyes could be seen above the frilled duvet.

"But for all the might and ferocity of the beast, he was helpless to bend to the will of a young girl - about your age if I remember correctly. Her name was Emily, and when she called, he would come; bounding across the fields and countryside on paws as big as a bed."

Her smile was back, but her eyes were half closed as she fought to stay awake. He smiled again at this, and stood, dimming the light down further.

"I will tell you of their adventures together another night." he said, walking to the bedroom door," but for now you must sleep."

"Pappa..."

"Yes, child?"

"What was his name?" the concern genuine in her little voice.

"Who's name?"

"The beast... the red dog."

He smiled one last time and answered her through the narrowing doorway.

"Clifford."

[afistfulofrubbish]

Tyber York, Pt 1.

The long, low song of the city filtered in through the open window of the third floor office, bringing with it the thick, hot air of the summer afternoon.

As I sat at my desk, eyes scanning over the notes and newspaper articles strewn haphazardly across my desk - cigarette sending thick tendrils of smoke into my eyes, the reality of my choice began to sink in. Last case, I'd told myself. Have a plan, get out while you're ahead. I was never any good at following my own advice. Pity, really. It could have all played out so differently.

I was looking for some information on a girl who'd been found face down in the Hudson. Pretty young thing. Diamond earrings, expensive dress. People noticed when it was a rich girl; got their attention - hit close to home. This wasn't some street kid from Harlem, or some ex-con from Brooklyn. This was a young girl from a well known family, and that scares people. Her father had come to me looking for answers once the local PD ruled it death by misadventure. Said her uncle knew me from back in my days on the force. Couldn't refuse a favor for a brother. Nor the sizable check he'd written upfront.

I felt the sweat beading on my forehead, the underside of my sleeves sticking wetly to my arms. I couldn't breathe, couldn’t take the wet July heat; office like a Chinese sweatbox. I needed to get out of the confines of the whitewashed walls. Needed to get out into the streets, the populace - both clean and dirty - that ran the great machine they call Manhattan.

I had a few people owed me favors, a few junkies I'd cut loose once upon a time. It always paid to keep an ear to the ground, and no ear kept lower than dopers and hips. Once I'd started asking it didn't take long to find someone who knew something, passing chatter that she was associated with Vinnie Cognetti; the cocky son of a high profile Mafioso. I knew a few of the places he frequented, set off to check 'em out.

Outside the air was humid and stagnant. Air on the cusp of rain. The sun's hot stare offered no quarter from the sticky heat of the day. Narrow shadows clung to the walls of forgotten alley ways - afraid to leave what little sanctuary they'd carved out for themselves against the cool of the old masonry. Down on the corner a hotdog vendor peddled his lukewarm wares to an uninterested populace while a fat guy in a sweat stained suit threw a cigarette butt to the sidewalk in a shower of angry sparks. The crystalline hum of the overhead tram cables hit a crescendo as the number 8 rattled by, its occupants buried deep in a newspaper or dime-store novel, oblivious to their surroundings. Zombies in expensive suits.

I checked my watch, more from habit than curiosity, and looked up at a slate grey wall penning in the last of the clear sky. Soon the rain would fall, and I'd do well to be clear of the streets before then. July storms in the city put everyone in a frenzy, all of them looking for a place to ride out the worst of it. The rain washes the streets clean, stirs the vermin from their haunts in the dark alleys and dirty street corners. Forces them to go to ground - like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Scurrying to the deep, dark places where even the law feared to tread.

Tunnels connected this city. Tunnels that formed an underground network, a counterpart to the civilized world of topside Manhattan. These were the highways for smuggling contraband and drugs. Moving booze and girls for the prostitution rings. Crime spread through them like an infection, a rotting sickness through the blood veins of New York.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Fun with Conspiracies!

Part 1 - The Ancient Aliens Drinking Game.

Rules (you must drink each time any of the following occur):

Someone references “ancient alien theorists” or “ancient astronaut theorists”.

Someone uses the term “mainstream scientists/astronomers/geologists/etc”.

The interviewed 'expert' is an author, with a book titled “Chariot of the Gods/Technology of the Ancients” or similar.

They show a bad CG reconstruction of a proposed even.

The narrator uses the term “...but what if” or “could it be...” or something similarly non-committal.

Giorgio A. Tsoukalos mispronounces “extra terrestrials”.

Someone belittles the abilities or intelligence of an ancient people or peoples (2 drinks).

Giorgio A. Tsoukalos’ hair gets crazier from one episode to the next.

Someone inanely answers their own question (“Is such a thing even possible? Yes it is.”)

Someone says “I’m not saying it was aliens… but” (finish your drink).

[afistfulofrubbish]

Homage

He looked at the words he'd written and sighed, tearing out the page and scrunching it up - tossed it into the corner with several other previous attempts.

He sat quietly for a moment, sipped his now cold coffee, and began again.

'There was a man' the pen scratched 'and he died. The rest is only detail.'

From across the room a grey cat watched him carefully, one eye open against the shadows that pooled in her corner of the room. She yawned, stretched her front legs out, rested her head on them and went back to sleep. Gentle purrs began to spill from the bed, soft and calming. No other sounds dared to fill the room.

Back at the desk the man removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes and yawned himself. He picked up the pen once more and the words flowed out of him like storm waters through the streets.

"I could tell you of his life, his work, his deeds. His family. I could talk for hours on the things he taught us, the things he showed us and did for us. His loves, his hates, his dreams and his fears. He was a good man, and he wasn't. A few will remember, a lot will forget. Most never knew. But this is all just so much exposition. The important thing to remember is this. There was a man, and he died."

[afistfulofrubbish]

Experiments in Poetry 3

Whiskey and Rhyme:

And there she sits, amidst the alley

like a corpse upon the galley.

And I cannot help but carry,

all the guilt to see me through.

 Now I wait, forever thinking.

Passing days and weeks with drinking.

While inside my soul is sinking,

winking out the hope I knew.

 All the nights I spend unsleeping.

Never one for open weeping,

so instead the feeling's seeping,

bleeding names upon my breath.

 But the opiates, they calm me

while my conscience tries to harm me.

With my whiskey to embalm me,

and, unmourned, I drink, 'To Death'.

Tarot:

Through scattered bones we dig to see,

This potent tarot hand portends.

And brisk the raven's flight might be,

all is not well, yet still it ends.

Follow the Beam:

Nothing is as were is seems,

moving gantways t'ward the beam.

A river here, a shadow there

along the great path of the Bear.

'Cross blood and iron, rose and cord,

Here at the Tower, turtle-ward.

Here at last:

Here, the Raven's warks ring sterling

and the chapel bells set pearling

with the winter winds unfurling

curling round the trees and stone

 Here, at night, the floorboards creaking

men and mice, so softly squeaking

resonant, the walls set speaking

telling me that I'm alone.

 Here, at dawn, the Curlew's calling

quiet now, the town sits sprawling

while all around the world is falling

galling me that no one sees.

 Here, at last, the daylight fading

tombstones etched with gentle shading

there's a sense of calm pervading

curling round the stone and trees.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Experiments in Poetry 2

Suicide in 4/4:

Oh dear mother, I am sorry that I leave you lonely still. Tell the children not to worry, that it's over, to the pill.

I will miss you, but I can't stay, Please don't think I didn't try. I am broken, I am hurting, at my lowest when I'm high.

Tell the youngest he can tarry, he will grow up when it's time. tell my sister that I love her. Tell the digger "spread the lime".

I'll be waiting 'cross the river for your ferry, for your lie. Bring a coin to pay the boatman and I'll see you, by and by.

A Tribute of Four Parts:

on his left he wore four rings, wood and stone and other things. Wore he others on his right, bone and glass so smooth and bright, Fire, tamed and finely wrought, lightning he had chased and caught. Last he wore a ring of light, a star he'd stolen from the night.

A Warning Best Heeded:

Rest ye weary travellers in beds of golden hay. Spend the night wrapped warm and tight, and leave at break of day.

for if you linger longer, and unwelcome, linger still, A wind shall blow and you will know that death has paid your bill.

Anything Sounds Poignant in Verse:

There is no grand pattern, no script of old quotes, life is but the rhythm, and we but the notes. And one day you'll see 'midst the leaves on the floor That the music, long over, will be written no more.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Old Bones and Other Things, Pt. 2

The figure strode purposefully out of the accumulated darkness and into the pale light of the full moon.

It was beautiful, a perfect mixture of delicate and strong with a regal bearing too casual to be arrogant. It wore an immaculate suit of black on black, it's blonde hair was long and braided and it's features shifted continuously, altering the face in a thousand subtle ways. But the eyes – cold, sapphire eyes like chips of glacier ice – never changed.

“You called?” it said with a voice like music.

He stood there, speechless and paralysed with fear. The thing with blue eyes took a few more steps forward, stopping in front of the small mound of freshly packed dirt in the centre of the crossroads and he saw that - while the only source of light was the moon above them - the figure cast three shadows. One was solid and straight like any other, one flickered and danced as if cast by candlelight. The last bore a form entirely inhuman, which twitched and convulsed - like a caged animal - against the confines of itself.

He pulled the bible from his pocket and held it out in front of him like a shield. The figure watched this with a gentle smile that seemed somehow more malicious because of its softness, and reached out, taking the small book in one flawless hand. Then it reached into its black pocket and drew it out again, bringing nothing with it – instead it mimed holding a pencil which it then pretended to lick before opening the bible to the first page and autographed the tome.

Despite it not holding a pencil, writing appeared on the paper, following the graceful movements in perfect unison, glowing red at first before changing to black, like heated metal cooled rapidly. The letters were unfamiliar and unrecognizable, but even still he knew they were ancient and cruel, angry at having been written down and constrained to the page like a prisoner in a cell.

Still smiling, the blue eyed figure handed the book back.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Serhildan, Pt. 2

Pain jolted her awake.

She was momentarily unaware of her surroundings; the crack of nearby gunfire brought her back quickly. She was being dragged backwards through the gutted remains of a fire-ruined building. Behind her, his good arm pulling her roughly, Razjir panted heavily with the effort – his rifle slung useless across his back.

Shouts of alarm chased them through the skeletal structure, and she could hear heavy footfalls giving chase, coming fast. She shouldered her Kalashnikov and set a finger on the trigger, ready, waiting.

Sunlight filtered down through bullet holes and gaps in the corrugated iron roof like bars of gold; dust motes swirled in the luminous columns on the calm air.

A figure emerged from the doorway, another close behind. She took aim at the man leading the charge, and for an instant their eyes met, full of hate, anger. Fear. She pulled the trigger.

When the dust cleared she could survey the scene. The man who had made it through the door lay face-down on the dusty floor in a spreading puddle of vibrant red, thick and full of bubbles. The man who had taken cover behind on side of the doorway hadn't fared any better. Only a leg was visible through the splintered frame, twitching amidst its own bright red pool. Smoking bullet-holes arched across the wall in an uneven line, deep craters in the unpainted plaster.

Her arms felt suddenly leaden and numb, and they fell to her sides, useless; leaving the rifle in her lap, hanging from its sling.

Razjir was now stumbling with every other step, still dragging her by the straps of her chest rig, and for the first time she noticed a streaked trail of blood extending out from under her back the way they'd come, lined on one side by thick, sporadic droplets from her rescuer's ruined arm.

The sounds of pursuit had stopped. The air was quiet save for Razjir's laboured panting and her own sharp, shallow breaths. Her head sank against her chest as she slipped once more into unconsciousness.

[afistfulofrubbish]

Serhildan

The gun was heavy in her hands. The wooden grips - worn smooth by years of service - were familiar, the blued metal dull with use. The air was a mix of smells; grease and burnt gunpowder and the dry smell of hot sand.

She crouched on one knee behind a rock wall. The heat of the day was oppressive, but far from her mind now. She absently wiped the sweat that dripped into her eyes and pulled back the charging handle. The mechanical clicks were expected but comforting, but she regretted the noise it made almost instantly.

She felt the air move beside her and instinctively pulled herself tighter against the wall as the bullets passed within a few feet of her. The sonic crack as they tore through the air was jarring, even after all these months.

She exhaled, unaware that she had been holding her breath, and made a dash for the next piece of cover; a concrete foundation block about twenty feet away - north to where Razjir sat clutching his arm against the flow of blood, now staining the sand around him a sickly shade of brown.

Her rifle barked it’s short, sharp rebukes as she sprinted across the clear expanse between the wall and the foundation block, trying to lay her own suppressive fire against the attackers on the ridgeline.

She reached he fallen comrades side within seconds, but the run had felt much longer over the exposed ground. Razjir’s arm hung uselessly at his side as he gripped his bicep firmly to stymie the bleeding. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air as he took panicked gulps of breath to struggle through the pain.

She dragged him upright against the concrete block, making sure to keep both him and herself out of the enemies line of sight. Reaching into the pack slung around her waist she removed a clean, rolled bandage and began to tie a makeshift tourniquet across his bicep. He grunted as she cinched it tight, and his eyes began to lose focus.

She reached for the canteen of water on his hip.

Then something hot hit her full in the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She slumped against the wall, struggling to breathe and the burning sensation slowly subsided, replaced with a pain like nothing she had ever experienced. She pressed against her chest and felt the damp warmth soaking into her shirt, tasted blood in her mouth.

It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. It hurt to stay conscious.

Her ragged breaths became fast and shallow as the blood filled her lungs, and darkness grew at the edges of her vision as she fought to stay awake.