“Wait,” Matthew said. “I have something for Chase.”
Happy just holding the gift tied in stiff gold ribbon, Chase said, “This—for me. Ain’t that something?”
Four-year-old Ivy said, “Open it Chase.”
Taking his time, he ripped the tissue paper inside. “God damm!” Chase held up a tan leather vest. “Now this here’s what I call the shit!”
Dex and Ivy giggled.
“Chase,” Connie said.
“I mean, thanks, man. It’s…” Then he lifted matching leather pants from the box. “Jesus H. Christ!” Far fuckin’ out!”
“Please, Chase. Just say thank you.”
“He did say thank you, Ivy said.
After leading Matthew through a handshake of fist bumps, clasped fingers, and criss-crossing thumbs, Chase yanked off his shirt and slipped on the new vest, skin to skin.
Connie led him away before he dropped his pants. He reappeared wearing the vest unfastened, showing his leathery, lean torso. He danced around the room in his low-slung buttery soft boot cuts, his freshly dyed, thick golden hair swinging counter to his swaying butt.
Dex said, “Flex your muscles,” and Chase lifted his arms, ropy biceps pumped.
Kings at Christmas: http://j.mp/JCK1Ry Sung’s gift to everyone, including himself, was a Lee Oskar brand harmonica.
Chase, “James Bond and the Girls of Woodstocks’” favorite burn out, discovers he can play this song. Not like the originator, of course. That’s impossible even in fiction
Atomic Clock, excerpt
With time running out, Brooke swore. “Matthew, I’m gonna love you forever. Nobody and nothing can diminish my love for you. No imposed separation’s gonna break me. If Pop and the public disapprove, I’ll hide. I’ll shave my head; eat dirt; act like an aardvark—anything but what I am, wanton and unruly. Let ‘em punish me with all their piddly, earthly powers. My love transcends their shitty reality. My love for you is infinite! And if the big, bad guns let me live 18 years, 3 months, and 6 days by their atomic clock, I’ll only be that much more in love with you. They can keep pushing their fuckin’ legal limit to kingdom come. I’ll always love you, Matthew, whether I’m allowed to walk in daylight or not.”
“No imposed separation’s gonna break me!…Let ‘em punish me with all their piddly, earthly powers. My love transcends their shitty reality…And if they let me live 18 years, 3 months, and 6 days by their atomic clock, I’ll only be that much more in love with you…”
Never had Sung, a Taekwondo master, seen anyone perform like Matthew. He transformed Taekwondo’s philosophy into a living entity.
He needed training, of course. Sung worked him hard all summer and Matthew advanced quickly, distracting Sung from his fantasy. Until, ending an arduous session, Matthew’s final sequence revealed stillness within ceaseless change. Whereupon, Sung had contacted Harold the director, who said, “By all means then, go ahead.”
Still, he waited for his delusions to fade, but they did not. Matthew’s unique ability progressed with his other skills. By August, his patterns showed man’s proper place between earth and sky.
for more: http://j.mp/IIhfAw
Matthew’s skills easily surpassed the requirements for the WTF’s official black belt, but for one simple technique. Sung’s friend would teach him power breaking.
“Boards and bricks?”
“Correct.”
December 23rd
excerpt (although most of the post’s not related to this)
Nine-year-old Dex ran into the kitchen where his dad (James Bond) was talking with his trainer/lord and master (Sung). “Have you guys ever heard of Jimi Hendrix? Chase has a tape of Jimi Hendrix playing Silent Night. It’s so loud you only know it’s Silent Night when Jimi Hendrix sings the words. Chase’s one clear memory is being fifteen and tripping with Jimi Hendrix. That’s when they recorded Silent Night and Chase played bass guitar. Except Chase knows that’s impossible. Just his luck—the one memory from his whole life is false.” More...
Marauders
excerpt from a “James Bond and the Girls of Woodstock” installment, Marauders.
When Brooke told Pop to kill her and see what happened, he laughed in her face. “If you want to die, babe, go ahead.” After punching and kicking her, Pop would sneer: “Saint Brooke and her Christ-like suffering.” But when he sobered up, he’d bring her flowers laden with remorse.
Excerpt: Minutes after the collision, when Brooke’s reassuring touch and voice failed to banish: his oversize car; the steep, icy streets; moonless night; the fact of Brooke hurtling past his windshield—she had taken his hand and led him upstairs.
My blog is pure fiction, mostly in installments. I write as I go but do my best to polish each post. The archives hold earlier stories, which run about novella length. There's also flash fiction, a whole story in fewer than 500 words.
