He crossed a road. It wasn’t a highway, but a small east Texas FM. The roads are scattered across the state like veins, pumping farm trucks and dairy semis to and from civilization. Just east, he could feel something was there. It existed and had existed for him, and now he was so close he could smell it. An awakening blew in with the scent of cut hay, wild onions, honey suckle and now the smell of a stock pond. The breeze carried the perfume of the country in its breast and nurtured the faint boy.
Can you not feel life inside of you?
His feet were ripped and torn, and left red foot prints now. His hair was wet from sweat and small brown rings of dirt lined the creases in his face, neck and arms. Pulling back muscadine vines, he worked his way out of the thicket and into a small clearing. A white, rusted school bus sat decaying beside yet another FM road, this one simply white rock. The small goat weed meadow was a welcome change of terrain from the encapsulating underbrush of the woods. Bull nettle blossoms popped up from the ground and he carefully watched where he stepped as he made his way to the bus and the road beside it. Several doves burst from underneath his feet. He raised his right hand in aiming a finger at the trailing bird, he whispered, “Pow. Pow.”
His own voice startled him, and the silence cast like a blanket across the orchestra of wild sounds surrounding him. The realization of his company flooded his brain. He was not alone. And he wondered why he mimicked shooting the birds. He remembered riding with his father across the deer meadows that ran along White Oak creek. And as the birds would flush from the tall grass, his father would slowly raise his left hand from the jeep window sill, and trail the nearest bird. “Pow. Pow.” He would whisper as he slowly moved his thumb up and down like the hammer of a pistol. The boy remembered watching him then turn, and as his father’s head eclipsed the rising sun of their day hunting together, the shadowed face whispered, “It’s gonna be a good one. I can feel it.”
The birds began again, and the sounds of his surroundings lit up with a blaze of encompassing noise.
I am here with them. We have always been here. Keep going. Not much further.
The new road was simply dirt, rock and mud. It veered off south and ended abruptly at a pipe fence gate and a hanging sign that read “PRIVATE PROPERTY”. It had been shot several times with rifles and once with a shotgun which peppered small dents and holes in the lower right corner. He turned and looked as the road north became a tunnel of post oaks, their limbs creating a canopy over the small road. He knew just up there was what had been calling him. Light streamed down the tunnel of tress and a wisp of white dirt and fallen leaves caught air and gave motion to the wind beckoning him to come closer.
Yes. Come.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Entrance into the woods
He was regretting taking his shoes off. The sun had settled, and the boy had made his way over the hill, and into the far tree line. The scattered oak, pine and sassafras stood-tall like centurions protecting their legion of trees behind them. The light scattered and ran in the other direction from them and their shields of leaves.
He didn’t seem to mind the dark, as much as each step seemed to sharpen the pain that was too soon in coming upon his feet. He sat down under an ancient oak, leaned his back to the bark, and propped his left foot on his right knee. The white painted had since disappeared from his feet and now a red trickle rain down from his toes to the ball of his foot. It seeped through the mud, leaves and grass, ran atop of them down toward the ball, dripped, and fell into the undergrowth.
You are right in thinking that it hurts. This pain is necessary.
He looked at the spot in the ground between his legs, a potpourri of sticks, pine needles, and leaves with green shoots of winter rye stretching their arms up for sun through the entangled mess. He could sit. He could sit here for hours, he knew, until the hunger came and then he would have to move. Hunger would move him, like it had moved him weeks ago.
He had stood in line with his friends at the convenience store, and the beautiful Hispanic girl had looked at him from across the counter. Her eyes sparkled through the long dark silk hair that veiled her face.
It’s time to move.
The thoughts faded and he stood up and continued deeper into the trees.
You have so much courage, and you want to sit and feel for yesterday. Please go.
Picking up the pace, the boy’s movements turned to abrupt dashes between trees and leaps over the fallen brothers of the towering pines. He felt nothing. The red streamed and left droplets along the reaching winter rye, little red spheres of life sitting in the darkened shadow of centurion’s army. The boy ran. He ran further into what the voice told him was awaiting. The voice, that just weeks earlier had whispered to him while he was talking to the Hispanic girl on the broken dam of Sulphur Lake. The journey that he began to speak of now as “white arrow”.
He didn’t seem to mind the dark, as much as each step seemed to sharpen the pain that was too soon in coming upon his feet. He sat down under an ancient oak, leaned his back to the bark, and propped his left foot on his right knee. The white painted had since disappeared from his feet and now a red trickle rain down from his toes to the ball of his foot. It seeped through the mud, leaves and grass, ran atop of them down toward the ball, dripped, and fell into the undergrowth.
You are right in thinking that it hurts. This pain is necessary.
He looked at the spot in the ground between his legs, a potpourri of sticks, pine needles, and leaves with green shoots of winter rye stretching their arms up for sun through the entangled mess. He could sit. He could sit here for hours, he knew, until the hunger came and then he would have to move. Hunger would move him, like it had moved him weeks ago.
He had stood in line with his friends at the convenience store, and the beautiful Hispanic girl had looked at him from across the counter. Her eyes sparkled through the long dark silk hair that veiled her face.
It’s time to move.
The thoughts faded and he stood up and continued deeper into the trees.
You have so much courage, and you want to sit and feel for yesterday. Please go.
Picking up the pace, the boy’s movements turned to abrupt dashes between trees and leaps over the fallen brothers of the towering pines. He felt nothing. The red streamed and left droplets along the reaching winter rye, little red spheres of life sitting in the darkened shadow of centurion’s army. The boy ran. He ran further into what the voice told him was awaiting. The voice, that just weeks earlier had whispered to him while he was talking to the Hispanic girl on the broken dam of Sulphur Lake. The journey that he began to speak of now as “white arrow”.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Samantha Hears
“What baby?”
She leaned back, and the yellowness of my alarm clock dimly light her nude body. She was beautiful, way too beautiful for me and she knew it. But something was off tonight. She was in another room but sitting here with me. Twice now she asked me if I said something, and I didn’t. Concentrating too hard. She knows me. She knows I don’t talk during sex, what the hell is she talking about. I can’t get unfocused, and now. Now it’s over.
She looks at me confused, and I try to get her to dismount.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” I was angry. She had stopped way too soon. Conversation time is for later. Later when the guilt comes and you have to talk so you don’t feel so guilty about what you just did. The guilt was coming and there was no action tonight to justify it.
“Twice baby. You said it twice and I don’t understand.” She was earnest. Dumb, but honest and she sat there still atop of me, sweating and her hair stuck to her forehead in small curls.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything.” Did I? Shit. Now she had me confused and that is the last thing I need. To be stopped mid coitus and then made to think. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on. Did I say something?”
Now she was upset. So upset that she looked away. They do that. Women. They get upset and look away. I have never understood it, and now, I lay naked, flaccid, confused, sweaty, fan humming in the background and a thunderstorm mumbles to himself outside the window, and she is looking away at nothing, just away.
“Baby, I really don’t know what you are talking about.” I rubbed her thighs. Not too close though, I didn’t want to give her the impression I was trying to coax her back into it, although I was trying to coax her back into it.
She quickly rolled off of me, and her big toe nail caught my stomach and left a small scratch. I normally would have bellowed and thrown a fit until she kissed the mark, but something said she was honestly upset. I laid there for a moment and contemplated getting up. My brain began doing a mental inventory of what I needed to step outside and have a smoke. Shorts, by the dresser. Flip Fops, by the back door. Cigarettes? Shit. Where are they? Work Pants pocket!
I got up and stepped into a black pair of Adidas. Making my way slowly through the shadowed littered living room, I crept into the den to slip on the flip flops and to flick on the laundry room lights in order to find my work pants. Thank god they are on top of the basket and my cigarettes are inside them. Making my way to the back door, I could see her in the bedroom door way. She was beautiful. The pail blue night gown looked like an extremely long undershirt, and hung off her trimmed shoulders like ivy dipping down an archway, and flowed cautiously down her, catching the curvaceousness of her tender body. She looked at me, lost. Framed like a photograph inside the white trim of the door.
“Baby? What’s wrong? Tell me. I don’t understand.” I put the cigarette in my mouth and opened the door. She looked up, and placed one hand in her hair and held the other out like a beggar.
“ Mike. You said ‘White Arrow’… Twice. What is ‘white arrow’?” She was confused, and now she confused me.
“What? I didn’t say a word.” I let the cigarette bounce with each syllable, and I fished in my pocket for a light.
“Mike. I heard it. What does it mean?”
She leaned back, and the yellowness of my alarm clock dimly light her nude body. She was beautiful, way too beautiful for me and she knew it. But something was off tonight. She was in another room but sitting here with me. Twice now she asked me if I said something, and I didn’t. Concentrating too hard. She knows me. She knows I don’t talk during sex, what the hell is she talking about. I can’t get unfocused, and now. Now it’s over.
She looks at me confused, and I try to get her to dismount.
“What in the hell are you talking about?” I was angry. She had stopped way too soon. Conversation time is for later. Later when the guilt comes and you have to talk so you don’t feel so guilty about what you just did. The guilt was coming and there was no action tonight to justify it.
“Twice baby. You said it twice and I don’t understand.” She was earnest. Dumb, but honest and she sat there still atop of me, sweating and her hair stuck to her forehead in small curls.
“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything.” Did I? Shit. Now she had me confused and that is the last thing I need. To be stopped mid coitus and then made to think. “Listen, I don’t know what’s going on. Did I say something?”
Now she was upset. So upset that she looked away. They do that. Women. They get upset and look away. I have never understood it, and now, I lay naked, flaccid, confused, sweaty, fan humming in the background and a thunderstorm mumbles to himself outside the window, and she is looking away at nothing, just away.
“Baby, I really don’t know what you are talking about.” I rubbed her thighs. Not too close though, I didn’t want to give her the impression I was trying to coax her back into it, although I was trying to coax her back into it.
She quickly rolled off of me, and her big toe nail caught my stomach and left a small scratch. I normally would have bellowed and thrown a fit until she kissed the mark, but something said she was honestly upset. I laid there for a moment and contemplated getting up. My brain began doing a mental inventory of what I needed to step outside and have a smoke. Shorts, by the dresser. Flip Fops, by the back door. Cigarettes? Shit. Where are they? Work Pants pocket!
I got up and stepped into a black pair of Adidas. Making my way slowly through the shadowed littered living room, I crept into the den to slip on the flip flops and to flick on the laundry room lights in order to find my work pants. Thank god they are on top of the basket and my cigarettes are inside them. Making my way to the back door, I could see her in the bedroom door way. She was beautiful. The pail blue night gown looked like an extremely long undershirt, and hung off her trimmed shoulders like ivy dipping down an archway, and flowed cautiously down her, catching the curvaceousness of her tender body. She looked at me, lost. Framed like a photograph inside the white trim of the door.
“Baby? What’s wrong? Tell me. I don’t understand.” I put the cigarette in my mouth and opened the door. She looked up, and placed one hand in her hair and held the other out like a beggar.
“ Mike. You said ‘White Arrow’… Twice. What is ‘white arrow’?” She was confused, and now she confused me.
“What? I didn’t say a word.” I let the cigarette bounce with each syllable, and I fished in my pocket for a light.
“Mike. I heard it. What does it mean?”
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Jeff Hears
Shooting up a cold steamy fog of road water, the semi tapped his brake lights. I guess he thinks I am too close. Close enough to see, through the mist, the silver silhouette’s of well-endowed women on his mud flaps. Probably not a lot of mud being caught, and it sure the hell isn’t catching the water, but at least it keeps him from slinging rock bullets into my windshield while I drive way too close.
I slow and let him disappear, all but two red eyes leering back at me, seductive and causing highway trance. My forehead is beading and wipe my face with my hand. It’s warm from gripping with wheel and doesn’t sooth. I can’t believe I am still thinking about the kid.
What was he doing there beside the road, just miles from the lake and CR 1192? Why can I not get his face out of my brain? I see people everyday beside the road, but something was going on between the lake and CR 1192. Something different was taking place. Life was changing for that boy, and I believe, perhaps, me too. I wasn’t miles from passing him went I heard someone speak to me. It was faint. Almost too loud to be a whisper.
I am not crazy. I have been on the road a long time. I have met crazy. I have watched them shake their heads and talk to the white painted bricks of the truck stop. I have watched the starved mother meth heads chew their bottom lips and pick at their sores, looking for tricks and fix. I know crazy. And I am not. But the voice was there.
I remembered hearing it once. It was forever ago, back when the woman used to talk to herself while she was in the closet changing. She talked and I didn’t listen. But once or twice, I would answer her, and she would peer around the corner of the closet and say, “I didn’t say anything.” I heard a voice then, and a few miles north of the kid sitting in the jeep, I heard it again.
I didn’t answer. Why would I? I am grown, and I am not crazy.
The red eyes have all but disappeared now, and dark of night is broken like a low pulsing strobe from the tower lights of the interstate. The rains fog makes the poles disappear and the circular lights above float like well positioned space ships. What was he doing, and why am I different now? Who spoke to me, and what does “white arrow” mean?
I slow and let him disappear, all but two red eyes leering back at me, seductive and causing highway trance. My forehead is beading and wipe my face with my hand. It’s warm from gripping with wheel and doesn’t sooth. I can’t believe I am still thinking about the kid.
What was he doing there beside the road, just miles from the lake and CR 1192? Why can I not get his face out of my brain? I see people everyday beside the road, but something was going on between the lake and CR 1192. Something different was taking place. Life was changing for that boy, and I believe, perhaps, me too. I wasn’t miles from passing him went I heard someone speak to me. It was faint. Almost too loud to be a whisper.
I am not crazy. I have been on the road a long time. I have met crazy. I have watched them shake their heads and talk to the white painted bricks of the truck stop. I have watched the starved mother meth heads chew their bottom lips and pick at their sores, looking for tricks and fix. I know crazy. And I am not. But the voice was there.
I remembered hearing it once. It was forever ago, back when the woman used to talk to herself while she was in the closet changing. She talked and I didn’t listen. But once or twice, I would answer her, and she would peer around the corner of the closet and say, “I didn’t say anything.” I heard a voice then, and a few miles north of the kid sitting in the jeep, I heard it again.
I didn’t answer. Why would I? I am grown, and I am not crazy.
The red eyes have all but disappeared now, and dark of night is broken like a low pulsing strobe from the tower lights of the interstate. The rains fog makes the poles disappear and the circular lights above float like well positioned space ships. What was he doing, and why am I different now? Who spoke to me, and what does “white arrow” mean?
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
White Arrow
It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t day time either, and by the way the sun slipped and fell, one could say he had had a long day. He threw up his golden arms to grasp at indifferent clouds whose patience had grown thin because of the summer’s pounding heat, and as he reached he found nothing and left streaks of flailing brilliance.
The boy noticed it all and pulled over. And nothing as perfect as the song whispering “fly” could have set the stage more appropriately for this scene. Somewhere between the lake and CR 1192 he just decided to stop.
Why should you drive any further? Today is tomorrow and everything new is just beyond that hill.
“Should I go alone?” He asked aloud as if the sound of his voice might awaken him from this dream. But, today was no dream, and the reality of his choice began to settle in like a bear for winter. Deep inside his warmth and growling with slumbering power, the choice stirred, but only slightly.
I am here. Just over the hill, beyond the trees. Leave the jeep. The keys.
“How will they find me?” He was honest.
They won’t. And it will be beautiful.
A large, loud truck whooshes by, making the waist high browning grass ripple and crest like an ocean breaking upon the ancient barbed-wire fence separating the boy from the hill. From the trees, from the answer that something inside lied and said was over there. He opened the door and stepped out of the yellow jeep. Five miles from nowhere between CR 1192 and the lake, he opened the back hatch and pulled out his father’s emergency tub. He laughed, as he pulled the zip lock bag and toilet paper from the top and peered into the contents of the supposed emergency kit.
Nothing is needed. Just go. Leave everything you have and go. Why is it so hard for you? Do you not believe me?
“No.” Angry now, he saw the white cap of a can of spray paint peeking from the underside of the rear seat. He grabbed it and began to shake it. Removing his shoes and shirt he sat down on the boiling black top. The heat rose between his legs and felt it. He took the cap off of the spray can and painted the bottoms of his feet. They dripped with soaking white paint.
What are you doing? Do you want to leave a trace? Do you want to leave a print? Just vanish. Why is it always about leaving a mark?
“Ssshhhhh.”
He walked west. Away from his jeep. Away from his hill, and the trees, and the answers and stopped in the grass. Then, bending down he painted a white arrow. The arrow pointed directly west. Ever so carefully he then walked backwards in his own white foot prints.
Turning east he left. Somewhere beyond that hill, and the trees something waited and the boy walked toward it. Somewhere, and it wasn’t today that it would be found.
The keys?
“Yes.” He pulled them from his pocked and tossed them back into the jeep. They arched and caught the last of the sun. He made them glimmer and the boy smiled. Then turned and disappeared.
The boy noticed it all and pulled over. And nothing as perfect as the song whispering “fly” could have set the stage more appropriately for this scene. Somewhere between the lake and CR 1192 he just decided to stop.
Why should you drive any further? Today is tomorrow and everything new is just beyond that hill.
“Should I go alone?” He asked aloud as if the sound of his voice might awaken him from this dream. But, today was no dream, and the reality of his choice began to settle in like a bear for winter. Deep inside his warmth and growling with slumbering power, the choice stirred, but only slightly.
I am here. Just over the hill, beyond the trees. Leave the jeep. The keys.
“How will they find me?” He was honest.
They won’t. And it will be beautiful.
A large, loud truck whooshes by, making the waist high browning grass ripple and crest like an ocean breaking upon the ancient barbed-wire fence separating the boy from the hill. From the trees, from the answer that something inside lied and said was over there. He opened the door and stepped out of the yellow jeep. Five miles from nowhere between CR 1192 and the lake, he opened the back hatch and pulled out his father’s emergency tub. He laughed, as he pulled the zip lock bag and toilet paper from the top and peered into the contents of the supposed emergency kit.
Nothing is needed. Just go. Leave everything you have and go. Why is it so hard for you? Do you not believe me?
“No.” Angry now, he saw the white cap of a can of spray paint peeking from the underside of the rear seat. He grabbed it and began to shake it. Removing his shoes and shirt he sat down on the boiling black top. The heat rose between his legs and felt it. He took the cap off of the spray can and painted the bottoms of his feet. They dripped with soaking white paint.
What are you doing? Do you want to leave a trace? Do you want to leave a print? Just vanish. Why is it always about leaving a mark?
“Ssshhhhh.”
He walked west. Away from his jeep. Away from his hill, and the trees, and the answers and stopped in the grass. Then, bending down he painted a white arrow. The arrow pointed directly west. Ever so carefully he then walked backwards in his own white foot prints.
Turning east he left. Somewhere beyond that hill, and the trees something waited and the boy walked toward it. Somewhere, and it wasn’t today that it would be found.
The keys?
“Yes.” He pulled them from his pocked and tossed them back into the jeep. They arched and caught the last of the sun. He made them glimmer and the boy smiled. Then turned and disappeared.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
5 Minutes in Cattleman's
She laughs. Cackles.
"Honey. It's slow. You want change?"
Too hot for a bar. No one wants to sweat inside and drink. My beer is cold, not cold enough to keep my forehead from raining.
"You taking notes, can I help?
She is pregnant, missing teeth.
"Hey Cash, leave dem lone!"
Quasi retarded busboy meanders to the back, sweat stained apron. I am smiling too much. I am enjoying it too much and she begins to notice.
"Hey Lynn, you going bingo?"
"Hell yeah I ain't played all week!"
I chuckle aloud and beer comes out of my nose, and again the conversation veers. They suspect me and start eyeballing me from the end of the bar. Like I am an inspector. Two more gentleman walk in. Hawaiian shirts. Khaki shorts. Flip flops. Like we are in Costa Rica.
Suddenly without notice the harem of women, in matching polo shirts, quit smoking and shuffle off to work. A heavier twin of guy I once knew walks in. They must have known, fled. Amazing.
Half empty McCallan 18 sits in front of me beckoning. Christ it is hot in here.
Phone vibrates. Message reads: Tims is dead, too. Wanna hang on porch? - Dempsey
Probably a good idea, but women are fickle about it, too close to a bedroom probably. I don't care, too hot and tired for much of anything but sleeping in front a roaring fan. Second beer is much better. A lot better. Colder. Frosting my lips, and sticking them to the frozen mug. It's better in here now. Today just got better.
"Honey. It's slow. You want change?"
Too hot for a bar. No one wants to sweat inside and drink. My beer is cold, not cold enough to keep my forehead from raining.
"You taking notes, can I help?
She is pregnant, missing teeth.
"Hey Cash, leave dem lone!"
Quasi retarded busboy meanders to the back, sweat stained apron. I am smiling too much. I am enjoying it too much and she begins to notice.
"Hey Lynn, you going bingo?"
"Hell yeah I ain't played all week!"
I chuckle aloud and beer comes out of my nose, and again the conversation veers. They suspect me and start eyeballing me from the end of the bar. Like I am an inspector. Two more gentleman walk in. Hawaiian shirts. Khaki shorts. Flip flops. Like we are in Costa Rica.
Suddenly without notice the harem of women, in matching polo shirts, quit smoking and shuffle off to work. A heavier twin of guy I once knew walks in. They must have known, fled. Amazing.
Half empty McCallan 18 sits in front of me beckoning. Christ it is hot in here.
Phone vibrates. Message reads: Tims is dead, too. Wanna hang on porch? - Dempsey
Probably a good idea, but women are fickle about it, too close to a bedroom probably. I don't care, too hot and tired for much of anything but sleeping in front a roaring fan. Second beer is much better. A lot better. Colder. Frosting my lips, and sticking them to the frozen mug. It's better in here now. Today just got better.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
texarkana filmboy
Untitled from L.W. Hodge on Vimeo.
a friend of mine said that the writer/director of this film had asked her to do a part in the film, and she sent me the link to watch this trailer. it appears to be shot locally, here in texarkana, and seems very interesting. i know nothing of lw hodge, except i had seen a series of "comedy" sketches titled unforgivable a short while back.
i would love to read the script.
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