Brainstorm #10

Jacobson was glad that the sun reached him even in dim flush. The stone pressed hard against his shoulder wasting the little energy remaining in his now deteriorating body. He had given up on his futile cries for help hours prior, and was now on survival mode. Jacobson could, in his dreary delusions, feel his every bone. As if what remained of his body was tangled – muscles wilted; hanging heavy in a sack of decaying skin. The crevice enrapturing him seemed, diversely enough, blameless, for it kept him from stumbling into a darker, deeper precipice – the cave's massive throat: a barren, sunless certainty. Jacobson's breathing, stressed in rapid, rhythmic toil, relaxed. His pupils fixed and limbs, numb. He had landed in this snare alone and not, as asserted, with a group of experienced climbers. Jacobson felt very detached for the imminent crept closer with every passing minute, second. He fought, mentally at least, to keep alive, to keep death's stranglehold from eventually swallowing him whole. He had life still; he had to keep fighting for life itself.

Brainstorm # 9

Another hot afternoon; another run, no wait...it was more like a jog than a run. I was just so tired from the mornings happenings that I had to slow my stride. It was not so often that my wife, Jenny, came out with me, but there she was, ahead of me by a few paces: her long legs gliding; her fists up before her chest, moving to the rhythm of her feet, and her ponytail, swinging back-and-forth, seemed to tease me in some sensual manner: such an odd sensation.

As we neared the point in the path where the foliage caped the vista; and points of light dappled the ground, I was able to distinguish a familiar sent - the smell of reefer. It did not seem that Jenny noticed my yielding pace, for she kept ahead; blind to my thread. The pungent whiff had sparked recollections of my first encounter with Jenny. It was a party, a new year's party, 1994, at a friend's apartment where we first met. I was sitting in the spacious balcony with friends: a small group of childhood buddies. We, of course, were discreetly passing a joint among ourselves, getting drunk with smoke, and cracking smiles with goofy, glazed eyes.

That's when Jenny, a neighbor in the building, sat near our circle as if to be noticed, so it seemed. I found her attractive right from the get-go; I also felt bad that she was sitting by herself. I thus invited her to sit with us and she accepted. I introduced her to my comrades with a slurred tongue. Jenny, so it seemed, recognized the happenings around her, yet she appeared and maintained a relaxed posture, demeanor. I looked around, then to my fellow smokers; and they, with adrift eyes, gave me the go-ahead. I looked cautiously at Jenny as I presented what remained of the cigarette. She smiled and, after looking around, accepted. Within minutes we were all talking garbage about what appeared to be, in that dense spell, the deeper things of life: hollow words, nonsense.

When the clock struck midnight, Jenny and I embraced (high from both the smokes and the campaign): the new year had arrived, as with a magnet attraction between us. Jenny wrote her number on the palm of my hand before kissing me goodbye. We rapidly discovered, after only a few dates, that a chemistry existed between us....

Brainstorm#8

The best is yet to come; so she dreams. I lay on the sand next to her as she rambles on about god-knows-what. I just pretend, as always, to look as if I am interested in her delusions of reality. I was just relaxing by bringing the shapes of the clouds into familiar patterns. Eventually she stopped her yacking long enough for me to close my eyes and rest. It was a trying day for the both of us. The car had a minor problem that morning, and Timmy, our four-year-old boy, developed a sinus problem. We drove him, of course, to the emergency room where he was given medication and a follow-up visit.

I've been married to Laura for close to two years now and, even though she could talk up a storm, I fall for her sensual stares all-the-time. It's a seductive trace reflective in her deep, green eyes that captivates my soul. We both, at times, still feel like newlyweds and yet, in other moments, we argue about some silly, trivia subject until the cows come home. Our apartment can be a mad house or it can be a dungeon depending on the mood of the day. She fails to understand my attraction to football and, as she goes, I can't see why she has a desperate need to rescue every single stray animal she sees on the street.

During one particular Sunday afternoon I had a couple of buddies over to see the game on the tube. She gave me the evil eye while seeming hospitable to my pals. After mid-afternoon the last of my friends exited ushering in a whirlwind of nasty words, loud shouts, and slamming doors. That particular event did not simmer until a week later when I brought some roses and candy. I knew she was a sucker for such surprises. I also, as best of an act as I could muster, asked her for forgiveness. She just fell apart and at once she was crying on my shoulder. It's always a nice thing when stressful nerves calm.

Brainstorm#7

The tank was heavy, full of oil, or, as another would say, pesticide. It was my first office building; around 6:00 am I parked and gathered my equipment before stepping into the elevator to the seventeenth floor. The cleaning crew had just arrived which mean that I was precisely on schedule. For an hour I walked around a dozen or so offices spraying the nasty stuff behind desks, around cubical, and on all crevices I knew pests would craw about. I could hear the cleaning bunch behind me; there machines becoming quieter as I entered offices they had yet reached. I was almost done with m morning job as I entered room 1789. the light were off as expected and, after switching them on, I automatically felt something was wrong – something was terribly wrong in room 1789. I proceeded quietly although mentally I knew I had no reason to fear anything. I was alone on the wing but why did I think such thoughts...it was just a feeling, a misguided vibe alarming me that something was out of the ordinary. Regardless, I continued forth ignoring my inner caution. I sprayed the usual corners and sections of walls and floors when...when I came upon something, something I knew was horrific but still unseen.

The smell of the vacant room had changed. I did not notice it at first because it crept up on me as if I was nearing its origin – the sort of the stench. I stopped my work, place the take quietly on the floor and followed my nose. After just a few quiet paced I entered the small office of a Mr. Henderson. At least that was the name on the door. Henderson, director of operation. Inside this room, dimmed if not for the morning sun just rising and bringing in some light into the office, I found that everything seemed fine; all was in place and nothing was out of the ordinary. I mustered up some courage, not that I was scared of anything, I mean was there anything to be scared about up until now? 

I found out the answer to that question with my next step. I tripped over something and landed hard on the floor. I made no sound getting up although my stumble did cause some noise. As I stood I looked around and saw nothing by an empty office with the door ajar.

I looked down to see what made me stumble and then I saw it. It was a shiny cuff link. I got on my knees and leaned forward to get a better look; and that's when I saw the horrible source of the smell – the cause of my inner panic. It was an arm stretched out on the floor behind Mr. Henderson’s desk. Walking forward on my knees I ran both my hands down the deaden arm before I felt something cold. I quickly drew my hands to myself and saw the horror – with eyes wide open I felt the dark, red blood of my hands. It had to be Henderson...i mean...it was his office. It must be Henderson. I never looked behind the desk it self, why would anyone want to see a dead body. I mean he was dead – cold as stone and a very sour smell told me he was a goner.

As I got up I felt a very different kind of feeling: a feeling of dread. I turned my head in all directions before turning around. Someone was in the room; I was certain of that fact. My eyes focused for the room was still dark -the morning light was still new and defining anything visually took some adjustment.

As my eyes finally grasped the outline and shapes of my surroundings, I was struck with a terror I has since experience – a mortal dread. The outline of a person, face, hands and torso in shadow stood right before me. I felt this person looking at me with heavy, assured eyes. I quickly looked down and saw what appeared to be the outline of a revolver. I took a step back. My feet, shoulders, arms, legs frozen as if restrained by iron chains. What I saw next nearly knock my off my heavy, lead soles – a gun, now clearly distinct in the aurora light, aimed directing between my eyes. My body swiftly regained feeling, as if emergency mode, but it was too late. I was face-down on the floor atop of Mr. Henderson’s, arms. I looked up and saw the gun man, still in shadow, his head seemed to be as if under a hood. He pointed the barrow of the weapon at the side of my head when, suddenly, a group of voices called out to me, it was the cleaning crew calling for me. The lights of the rooms nearing the office began to light up. At that I saw the gun man for the first time – at least his plastic mask under a dark blue hood. The assassin jolted then stopped before vanishing into the night. A minute later the cleaning crew found me on the flood. With haste they called the authorities and before long I was recovering in a nearby hospital. 

Brainstorm#6

Randy awoke to a blink alarm clock. He was late; this time to the doctor's office. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his feet caught the sheet and the poor man feel over onto the carpeted floor. He slowly got up and with one swing of his leg the web between his fat toe and index caught violently on the bed's iron leg. The instant pain bolted up his leg to the crown of his bold head. He gave a hearty cry before staggering out his dark room and into an even darker hallway. As he stumbled forth he head a squish sound. He couldn't see where the sound originated until he took a step. The souls of his bare floor – the good one – was smeared with the wings, flat antenna, and brown, slimy guts of a large roach. Randy finally reached the light to see his left toe red, and swollen and the sole of his right foot was smudged with a flat, gut-dripping bug. 

Brainstorm#5

I never saw the sky so blue – at least not for fourteen years. The ground beneath my feet felt strange also, as if I had just stepped out of a time capsule and onto another world. I was out-of-my-skin. My breath rapid as was my heartbeat. People I loved brought me warm and with their tight embraces and reassuring words of comforts. I didn’t want to but the need was present to veer my sight back to the gates. For now those steel bars stood behind me and not before me. Yes the skies were blue and yes my tears where abundant. And my hands? Well…they were clean of course. I doubted my own guilt during the time spent, as if my own resolve had given into the injustice handed down to me back when blood…of a another, a stranger to me and my representatives in court, even the witnesses themselves, trickled out of the victim like an oily, dark matter until life was emptied of its sustenance.
Deep in the core of my being I did pray that, whomever he was – the bloodless man gun down that night – was now joyful that two crimes were now nearing justice. Again I had to look once more at the palms of my hands and see for a certainty how clean they were. For even my finger nails seemed polished in some sort of peculiar fashion. As each new member arrived to hug me in dear compassion and wet with deep emotion – tear traces and venting cries in undertones, I felt my knees lock and my spine erect for I was free of the sentence and atlas free to restructure the pieces of my life. Justice, blind and balanced served, cold yet…served. I was free!

Brainstorm#4

She jumped thinking it was a rat but in reality it wasn’t. It might have been a shadow cast across the floor – like a falling leaf or something of that nature. Regardless of what it was Shelly was white with fear as if a tiny little rodent would somehow change into a giant, hairy monster and consume her whole. She was eleven so her phobia of rats, as is with most females, is justifiable. Mother came in the room – the scene of the crime – because her beloved daughter hollered alert making a peaceful afternoon chaotic if only for an instant.


Really the mouse event was the single most dramatic thing that happened that day. We were, all three of us, mother, daughter, and me, the college –bound big brother, sharing a fall day before my departure in one week. I was not to return home until the holidays so I gathered each minute like a forty-niners gathered gold in the west. The only females in my world: Shelly and Olga, my overly protective single mother.

It wasn’t that my father left us for a young beauty; it was because he died of cancer, lung cancer, after years of nicotine abuse. It was hard at first to deal with my dad’s death…especially for me his boy, his good-old boy. He was always so proud of me, always. He use to tell me Roy, that’s me, sock-it to them son! You can do it boy! Then, when I scored a run, or batted a run in for the score, he, so I was told, elbowed his neighbor sitting next to him and exclaimed with a Fred Flintstone tone, that there is my boy!!

Everyone knew I was his son. I was always introduced as Roy, Hank’s, that’s my father, college-boy Roy Henders. My family was well known in our parts for some time. We ran a family business making custom cannons for the big wheels of the world. Yes the world. We were International and my father a proud man in that reality. You see he worked hard since he was sixteen in learning his tread. He swept floors at first, and then got an offer once one of the hands moved south. He continue to work hard until one day, forty plus years later, the owner left him the business and went into retirement. That’s when the enter family, minus Shelly, she was too young then, took over the business. Soon we found ourselves hiring more workers and opening new shops across the state. Then, for what seemed a blink of an eye, we were dealing with overseas clients. Everything changed dramatically then…for the better of course.

Brainstorm#3

How many people do you know who live on a dead end street? I sometimes wonder if the person who coined that phrase, Dead End Street, actually lived on a dead end street. Our house, if you could see it through all the trees, rested at the very end of such an artery.

Visiting a dead end street would be like visiting the dead at the cemetery. For those unaware, such houses cast their own entity – like a foul stench. Some days I feel my house alive as if the walls were collapsing upon themselves or moving inward on me like a vice. Sometimes I would feel that I was born to die in that dreadful place. It was drab, gloomy and stunk of mildew in the mornings.

It was a dump. The street we lived on was a dump. Normal folks never lived in a dump. Normal folks have gardens in their back yards, friendly neighbors, and fine plate settings. Normal folks would have brightly colored walls, a pool in the back and, yes, an embroidered framed cloth with the words, Home Sweet Home, near a sunlit window.

But oh no, nothing like that in my dump. Did I tell you that in my dump not a single picture frame hung on our walls? Not one lousy frame! Dump Bitter Dump would be the words defining our house.

Now If a solicitor would come calling, our listless Fred would hardly bring alarm to such a daring cretin. Fred would simply amble up to our back fence, give you a long, lazy look-over, and then retreat back into the shadows.