AHardRain

Landing, Liftoff

The fly landing in the ashtray is a still-life sketch, each dry vein immaculately shaded into the wing.

The Painter belts out a deep, medieval belly laugh and reaches for a glass resting on the wooden bar in front of him.

"...then soon as I get home Teresa's sittin' in the kitchen in her nightgown," a quick, self-interrupting laugh barks from the Storyteller, who drowns it with a massive sip from his own drink before continuing: "I just 'bout had a heart attack, nerves still all fried and there I am covered in mud wearing nothin' but that old ratty t-shirt and 'course I got the box in my hand and - " he stifles another laugh, "man I's about to piss myself, 'Resa's givin' me that look and I swallow real hard and try to look all innocent and you know what she says?" He leans closer to the Painter and a grin splits his face. "All she says is, 'Howard, the hell's my trowel?'"

Laughs explode out and the Painter bangs his fist on the bar as he throws his head back, squinted eyes and watermelon-slice grin riding his face parallel to the gloomy ceiling.

Still chuckling softly, he shakes his head and tosses the last half-inch of amber liquid down his throat. Smoke drifts everywhere in a seemingly eternal parade, taking its place in the floating barroom symphony of voices, staccato laughs and funky blues piano.

The Storyteller glances at his watch. "Shit, speakin' of 'Resa I'd better drag my sorry ass home before the woman starts wonderin' why she's been there cookin' and I still ain't even home from work yet."

The Painter nods as he's lighting a cigarette and speaks out of the corner of his mouth, "Yeah, you'd better get to it then. I'll see you around."

Another massive swallow and the Storyteller's drink is empty. He puts a hand down on the bar and rises from his stool, pulling a clip of bills from his pocket and tugging a few loose to drop next to his empty pint.

The bartender nods at him while drying the inside of a glass with an ancient rag. "Catcha' later, Howard."

"Next time, Frank." The Storyteller turns and vanishes into the dim smoke.

The Painter smiles softly and ashes his cigarette into a black dish. "Frank - another J&B over here? Thanks."

Streamline smoke jets from his nostrils to anoint the newly arrived glass of dark liquor.

The Painter blinks his eyes. The Painter licks his lips. The Painter taps ash from a burning cigarette.

The buzz of conversations swirls and the clock hands dance.


...- ...- ...-

The Indian is crumpled in the street, dark blood oozing from one of his nostrils to decorate his upper lip. The children are kicking him and spitting, cries of "bitch!" and catcalls filling the air and marking the night.

The Painter pauses for a moment at the corner, his eyes taking in the scene. His lip furls up and he mutters something sharp and incomprehensive.

Suddenly he's there, tossing one of the children against the alley wall and turning to elbow another out of the way.

"Just what in god's name do you think you're doing?" he angrily spits, mouth opening wide with each word to reveal two rows of porcelain white teeth.

The Indian whimpers and moans softly.

"Shit, man, you best stay the fuck outta things you don't know 'bout else yo ass gonna wind up like Osama here." The shortest child's eyes are razor blades. The other two are back on their feet, flanking the short one and sporting hyena snarls.

"He said, GET, old man," the one on the left speaks. The short one lifts his right hand slightly and a distant electric streetlight flashes off the metal blade in his hand.

The Painter blinks his eyes. The Painter licks his lips. The Painter taps ash from a burning cigarette.

"Man, STAB this motherfucker, bitch thinks we playin' games."

The Painter's eyes dart to the Indian. A smoldering cigarette butt falls from his hand.

"Games. Now, I'm going to help this man."

"Yea, bitch?" The short one spins around and plunges his blade deep into the chest of the fallen Indian. He pulls it out with a gurgling sound and the Indian's legs start convulsing.

With a flash of motion the Painter's fist explodes into the short child's face before it has even completed it's rotation back to face him. A soft noise escapes the child's mouth as he crumples on top of the Indian's bloody corpse and starts to lift himself with the blade-wielding hand. He slips in the slick blood and falls back.

The Painter is relentless, a primal cry escaping his lips as fists hammer like pistons into the young boy's quickly shifting face.

His blows gradually slow and a soft noise escapes his mouth, his chest hard and expansive as each heavy breath rides his body. His head slowly turns around. The other two boys have vanished.

His lower lip begins to quiver, and then suddenly a torrent of loud, irregular sobs rock his face and he collapses on the still body of the boy.

He cries and cries.

The Painter rises to his knees, his face and arms glistening with a solution of blood and tears. He leans over and lifts the boy's head in his hands, his eyes playing over the destroyed face. His mouth widens like a shapeless black hole and a soft, dry sob escapes his mouth.

The Painter closes his eyes and hangs his head. He was just a child.

...- ...- ...-

Clock hands freeze, the breeze dies, and then the Painter slowly raises his head, his eyes open.

He rises to his feet.

Stained fingers bring a cigarette to his mouth, and then a flame.

The Painter blinks his eyes. The Painter licks his lips. The Painter taps ash from a burning cigarette.

There's no such thing as children anymore. Or adults.

The Painter turns his head east, towards the River, and begins to walk.

The fly lifting off the freshly rotting corpse is digital art, each pixel perfectly selected to complete the mosaic.

LoneWolf

Oh wow.

This was an amazing story. First, I loved how you didn't give your characters real names, how they were just 'the Indian' or 'the Painter'. It really shows that these characters are real people everywhere and I guess they're symbolic for the world. I also liked this because you told the truth: there's no such thing as a child anymore, or an adult. And the whole 'Osama' thing...sad but true.

Your repetition of 'The Painter blinks his eyes. The Painter licks his lips. The Painter taps ash from a burning cigarette.' was great. I loved the parallelism of it.

The scene with the kids was very sad, very moving. It was also very realistic. I could also feel the Painter's feelings at that moment. Beautifully written, the imagery with the flies and the dialogue were great. Thanks for the read.

LW

__________________
My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way. --Ernest Hemingway

AHardRain

Yeah - in this, as in the Sunset, Sunrise story, the Painter's thoughts are all supposed to be in italics but that doesn't copy and paste for some reason.

I don't know if that was confusing to read here or whatnot, but here are the sections that are italicized in my copy:

-He was just a child.-

and

-There's no such thing as children anymore. Or adults.-

and these marked phrases were in BOLD

--A soft noise escapes-- the child's mouth as he crumples...

His blows gradually slow and --a soft noise escapes-- his mouth...




and in Sunset, Sunrise they were (in italics):

-Traffic.-

-Too cold to crack the window.-

-That goddamn smell. -

-She used to always wear that wicked grin.-

-Stop. Yield. No U-Turn. Exit only.-

-As careful as a surgeon. Or an artist.-

-What’s that my Muse used to say as I left, back when she’d be up cooking breakfast before work? -




Anyways, I don't know if that makes the pieces flow any better, but there it is anyhow.

I had second thoughts about the bold ones in this piece being a little too obvious, maybe any thoughts about that?

Glad you enjoyed it and thanks for the comments.

LoneWolf

Hmm I dunno. I think I like it better without the bold. It would be kind of, and forgive me for saying this, strange-looking. I think it flows great the way it is. Hope this helps even though I'm a bit late. Cheers!

__________________
My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way. --Ernest Hemingway