The Black River

The old desert tortoise took slow, deliberate steps. One leg up, one leg down, with a dull scrape as his shell dragged along.

“Before the black river came, the crossin’ took ages,” he told the young ones that scrambled in his wake. “Of course, these days it’s hurry, hurry, hurry. Go, go, go.”

The sun was high and they cast no shadows.

“Technology…” the tortoise muttered.

Then suddenly the ground began to rumble, and the pebbles skipped and snapped on the quaking road—and a great red beast went screaming past.

“Hey!” the old tortoise bellowed. “Where’s the fire, Bub?”

Tomorrow is Friday, so that could only mean one thing: Friday Fictioneers! This is my response to this week’s photo prompt, above, taken by Indira.

Click the blue guy up there to read the other stories, and have a great weekend!

The Post

Elizabeth stood with pride, ennobled by her place in the city’s secret history; through every hour of every day—on every day of every year since 1372—a guard had stood at this spot, and now the post was hers.

Her gun was loaded; her bayonet was sharp; her orders were simple: Kill anyone who willfully pursued the Secret.

Not that the tourists knew this. To them, she was a quaint anachronism. But the ornate government offices behind her were a decoy, built to deflect attention from her true charge: the grate upon which she stood.

Far below, the Ancients fumbled in the dark, roaming the catacombs in search of light.

Read the rest of this entry »

Tough Guy Bobby Caduzo

“A little… light for a mob joint, isn’t it? I mean, watercolors? Artsy mirrors. Glass eggs in baskets? I thought we were here to meet ‘tough guy Bobby Caduzo.’ This don’t strike me as a place for no tough guys.”

“Hey shut your mouth, would ya? Show some respect. Bobby’s right over there.”

“Where? I only see the broad at the counter.”

“Bobby is the broad at the counter, stupid. Barbara Caduzo.”

“Sal, I’m in deep with these guys, man—how’s some chick supposed to help?”

“Heh. Tony, sometimes it’s real obvious you grew up without a mudda.” Read the rest of this entry »

Gaudi

I tried to give the form of nature to the works of man. The organic curve, the subtle softness—an answer to the harsh lines and right angles we use to distinguish ourselves from the beast.

The Segrada Familia, Park Güell, Casa Batlló: these were my life’s work.

Perhaps the world laughs at me now, struck by a tram and left to die in the street—literally a victim of the industrial age. But, if so, they misread these symbols.

For in my death I will reveal what man truly is: an object. Inert.

But a work of art. Read the rest of this entry »

Lighter Fare

Each evening I would find the ladder moved—and a book or two from the shelf displaced. Kant and Thoreau, Marx and Neruda; I would find them open on the floor, on the desk… by the cat bowl.

Naturally I became concerned, so I left work early and drove home, determined to catch the intruder in the act.

I entered quietly and climbed the stairs. Hearing a noise in the den, I prepared to pounce.

My gray tabby, Gary, met me with mild surprise, crouched by a first edition Dostoevsky.

“Got anything lighter, buddy?” he asked. “This stuff is murder.” Read the rest of this entry »