Twelve and Nine: Part 3

Wally's mother gave him twelve dollars. She had him count it three times. A five; a two, two dollar coins, and four shillin. 'I could have di shillin?' he asked each time he finished counting, each time interrupting her grocery list. He knew it by heart by now though. It was the same thing every Saturday: Beans, flour, rice. She didn't tell him but he knew when he came back there'd already be a dead chicken on the table. It would be one of the chickens they let roam in the alleys. It would also probably be one of the ones he'd named, which was why he was going to the shop now, while she wring its neck. Eating his pets didn't bother him so much when he couldn't recognize them anymore. Once, though, his mother had made the mistake of scooping up a peel-neck fowl and dispatching it right in front of Wally. The boy cried for days.

“Yuh musn't tink ih soffy-soffy.” Explained Miss Pearl. She baked bread on Sundays and Wally's mother would always bring back a few loaves in exchange for some eggs, and some motherly advice. “The things dat po lee bwai done sih at such a young age? All the violence around here, and his father...Chile just feel good he still have some kinda consideration for gods creatures, yerr?” It was with this in mind that Wally's mother always included the four quarters. She didn't say it, but Wally set off for the shop every Saturday, knowing they were for him.

Jun-Jun knew where it was hidden. He'd seen it taken from its hiding spot and put back there countless times. It wasn't his. He didn't bother asking for it, he just took it. It was the same thing, every time. The boys would find him in front of the shop when they'd come to buy their papers. He'd have just managed to scrape up enough coins for something to eat when they'd hold him by the back of the neck and rifle through his pockets. And the only reason they got away with it was because they were older than him. Bigger. Closer to being called men. But Jun-Jun was already a man. They couldn't just disrespect him like that, just because they said they were from 'Back-a-alley' didn't mean they owned the damn place. They'd slap his face and cuff his head, but he wouldn't cry. He was a man. They had to respect him. He tucked it in his waist, under his shirt, and the weight of it made the back of his pants droop. They'd have to respect him.

Wally had the flour in its own bag hanging off the left side of the handlebars. He had the rice and the beans together in a bag hanging off the right side of the handlebars. He had seventy five cents worth of sweets overflowing his pockets and a long pink ideal hanging from his mouth. He was preparing himself in his head, getting ready to right himself on the two wheels and slowly start pedaling. The boys came up from behind him, walking in wide legged gates despite their baggy, sagging pants. As they walked past him, one on either side, one of them laughed. The other called out to him. “Peely-Batty-Pauly-Wally!” Wally smiled. The ideal dropped out of his mouth. He bent to pick it up.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! That's what it sounded like. That and the sound of scuffling feet. Of sudden, frantic screaming from the shop just behind them. There was the popping and then there was the sound of an entire neighborhood in panic. In uproar. There was the sound of running, then stumbling, then falling. The boys from Back-a-alley didn't even know what hit them. They didn't even see the shooter. They heard the pops and their brains instinctively told their feet 'Flee!' They only got a few yards before their lungs gurgled and spurted blood. Their hearts said 'No more. No more. No.' There were the pops, and then there was the sound of plastic bags hitting the ground, weighed down by so many pounds of flour, beans, and rice. There was the sound of a bicycle falling, spokes and pedals clattering. Chain rattling. Then there were the same sounds in reverse as Jun Jun snatched up the bike. He walked with it a few yards before getting on, and even then he pedaled slowly. Perhaps he was waiting for the sound of respect. The respect he deserved. It sounded like people screaming. It sounded like a little girl running through back alleys. Running to give a mother even more bad news. Wally was 12. Jun-Jun was 9.

Lizard Tales [NaNoWriMo 2010]

It was dark when they first came. The clutch of us nestled in the spaces between the louvers and the nooks of the window frame. Lizards seldom abide each other's company, but there'd been rumors of a strange new threat that had driven others from as far as the hinges in the front door. Many had run scared and even more had gone missing, so we temporarily gathered together for protection. When the sun came up the light would warm our blood and we would part ways as lizards ought to.

As I remember it there were no signs of their approach. No scurrying, no hissing, not even breathing or heartbeats. From where we were the shadows of the trees in the back yard shifted behind the louvers, blown by the night breeze. My need for sleep had long overcome my vigilance, but I opened one eye and spied three-toes sprawled on the glass, his silhouette contrasting against the sparkling glass louvers and shifting shadows. I opened the other eye to get a better look and noticed that one of the shadows failed to move with the others. I tried to hiss out a warning three-toes, tried to tell him to take off running, but a terrible chirping broke the night's silence and swallowed my frightened rasping.

Just as the other lizards awoke and sluggishly stirred, the creatures attacked. They looked like lizards for the most part, but their four legs had short round toes. Their skin was pale, so pale that they blended into the white walls and were invisible from afar. They didn't shoot in a straight line, but rather took jagged steps toward us, changing directions like raindrops falling down a window pane. When they came close enough, their veins shone out through their skin and each of them had a quivering, black heart that throbbed excitedly as their jaws snapped hungrily at whatever was nearest. We saw the ghostly white creatures seize our brethren, holding them tight in their maws as they proceeded to swallow them hole. It became obvious that they were more than just lizards. They were predators!

Three toes hardly had a chance. They were upon him before he knew it and as the cold blood in his veins moved like tree sap toward the ends of his limbs, the attackers already had his tail. One of them had it in its grasp and the tail writhed of ts own volition. Another of the ravenous lizards seized the bleeding end and while the two squabbled over the dropped tail, Three-toes made a run for it. He'd hardly started off running when another of the creatures waiting in the shadows had him held by the throat.

Some of the others had escaped. I could see wood-brown scurrying through a hole in the screen and was about to make a dash for it when that sound froze me once again. This time the clear, startling chirp erupted from right behind me. It reminded me of the grackles that stalked the back yards, only to swoop in on an unsuspecting lizard bringing a flurry of inky black feathers and an even darker fate. That sound meant death to us all, and when the others echoed the initial cry from all directions, I felt my blood freeze and my joints seize up.

I didn't watch, like some would have you believe, but I didn't run away either. I cowered when I felt the tug and heard them slurping and gnashing, and I squeezed my eyes shut as they devoured my tail. When I opened my eyes again the sun had risen and the light warmed my blood, but I still felt weak. The creatures were nowhere to be seen, but i knew it wasn't safe. Not here. Not anymore. These new creatures had taken my home, but spared my life. Now I would have to brave the grackles and cats in the back yard, and with only half a tail to distract them with.

Stay Classy, Benicio Romero

"Oooh!  Way to put me in my place."  Benicio thumps the table, pleasantly ammused with the reaction he'd incited.  He stands, adjusts the lapels of his black and gray vest, the collars of his silver polyester shirt, and the sides of the wide mohawk.   And then, he begins to recite his own lineage.

He knows why they do this.  He recognizes yet another method for sizeing each other up.  Obviously he's done it often enough to mention the names and exploits of all four Kindred between himself and Troile.  More names between himself and Caine than many in the room, but also more names to have passed down their aggression, cruelty, and passion.  Each city destroyed, each stewardship sacked, each decade of barbarism and banditry he names with gusto and a gleaming grin as the light reflects off the gold teeth flanking his left fang.

When he's done he sits again, looking around the conference table for whoever would speak up next.  And while he waits, one steel toed boot thumps on the far edge of the table, and the other rests crudely on top.

For someone who considered this all a hassle, the Brujah seemed to be quite pleased with having gushed at his predecessors, and therefore himself.

[January, 2009]