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snippets
A few things I'm playing with and will hopefully get more done on over the coming days:
A long way from here, child, in a land far to the east, there lay a river with ribbon-twisted tributaries flowing gently to the sea. On the banks of this river swayed the gentlest of grasses, and under the sheen of its surface flitted fish of iridescent color. The fish were so beautiful that the emperor of this land issued a decree: none could touch their scales or eat their flesh, and the punishment for disobedience was death. So the fish swam free, and by and by they multiplied and clogged the river so full that their weaker brothers were crowded into the sea and drowned.
It happened one day that a once-fisherman, many months out of work, sat at the bank of the river weaving a shawl. Long nights threading nets had learned his fingers deftness, and long days drawing in the nets had learned his palms strength. But both of those faded now, until he struggled with the thread and felt it burn creases in the skin his hands. “Come inside,” his wife called to him from the house. “Come to your supper.”
--
Life floated until the day that Cam walked in the front door with a jackknife in his hand and told the Korean guy he wanted all the money out of his drawer. The knife was tiny in Cam’s fist, but then again Cam was a man who gave off a big impression. It didn’t occur to Albert to interfere until after the money was in Cam’s pocket, Cam was out the door, and his manager was firing him.
Next time he saw Cam was in the alley where the deals went down, two blocks from his house, down MacArthur. And Cam looked up from a handful of tiny bags and nodded at him. “Kid,” he said, “either get your ass over here or run the fuck away and don’t come back.”
Albert had no job, no money, not one fucking thing to lose. So he got his ass over there and stuck out a hand. “Albert Green,” he said.
Cam looked at the hand like he might have looked at roadkill and shrugged. “Cam,” he said. “So, Albert Green, what’s your story?”
And Albert hadn’t known where to begin, because he had no stories, nothing anchoring him to this world other than the fact he was living in it. He was everything ever defined as a failure, and they’d told him that failures got into drugs and lived on the streets and talked to men like Cam. So he figured he might as well get into drugs and live on the streets. And he couldn’t see any real problems with talking to men like Cam other than that he might get killed by association. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, not by a long shot. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
He thought about his sister, his brothers, his mom. He thought about ignoring hunger until it went away so one of them could eat. He thought about the rolls of cash he’d seen on some of the dealers who hung around his building, how sometimes Mom wouldn’t come home until late and then their money would stretch for a few weeks but her face would look funny, like her eyes didn’t quite want to focus on anything.
“I’m just a man,” he told Cam finally. “What’s yours?”
“I’m just a man,” said Cam, “and I think I might be looking for you.”
“Well,” said Albert, “you found me. What now?”
--
The kid sits at a corner table, his mop of hair falling in loose waves over his forehead, his eyebrows. “Captain,” he’d told Jo upon entering. “And keep it coming.”
So she keeps him in rum and brushes past his seat every few minutes, sneaking glances over his shoulder at his notebook, pages black with close scribbles. He has an mp3 player on the table next to him, only one earbud in, volume low. Still, by the third time she comes by, she’s recognized the warbling intro of When the Levee Breaks, on endless repeat. It’s late, the bar empty except for Mister Padget, hunched over a newspaper and muttering to himself. He’ll have passed out by close. Jo will have to call Ash in to drag his ass out or just drape a blanket over him and let him sleep it off, facedown on the table.
She drops into the seat across from the new kid. “Jo Harvelle,” she says. “Ain’t seen you before.”
“Haven’t been here before,” he says. He doesn’t offer his name.
“You looking to stay the night?” Jo asks.
“You offering?” Nothing about him changes; he is still staring at his notebook, flipping back and forth, folding scraps of paper beneath paperclips.
“Got a room out back, is all I’m saying.” She doesn’t like it when they won’t look her in the eye. “Cheaper’n a motel, better protection.”
“Might take you up on that,” he says, and this time he looks up and smiles a crescent moon. “The name’s Lucas Barr. I’m looking for someone I think you might know.”
--
Dangerous, the counselor in high school said. Dangerous to himself and others, irrational, unpredictable. Not to mention the knife. Dean Winchester. Can’t have him. Boy brought a knife to school, for goodness’ sake.
But all Sam can remember about the two weeks they spent at that school is the burn of rope across his wrists and fear like bile and dirty pennies in his mouth and Dean oh god Dean standing over him, knife dripping blood, You’re okay now Sammy, I found you, you’re okay, I got it. Thinking, later, when the counselor frowned at Dean for his knife and called him dangerous and unpredictable: Dangerous only to evil and totally predictable, because he will always, always come for me.
Summer will concede to fall and Dean will find Sam. There are rules older than time.
There will always be something else to hunt. You can sleep when you’re dead. The riches of the world are only important if they can be molded in to crucifixes and silver bullets.
Dad’s immortal.
A long way from here, child, in a land far to the east, there lay a river with ribbon-twisted tributaries flowing gently to the sea. On the banks of this river swayed the gentlest of grasses, and under the sheen of its surface flitted fish of iridescent color. The fish were so beautiful that the emperor of this land issued a decree: none could touch their scales or eat their flesh, and the punishment for disobedience was death. So the fish swam free, and by and by they multiplied and clogged the river so full that their weaker brothers were crowded into the sea and drowned.
It happened one day that a once-fisherman, many months out of work, sat at the bank of the river weaving a shawl. Long nights threading nets had learned his fingers deftness, and long days drawing in the nets had learned his palms strength. But both of those faded now, until he struggled with the thread and felt it burn creases in the skin his hands. “Come inside,” his wife called to him from the house. “Come to your supper.”
--
Life floated until the day that Cam walked in the front door with a jackknife in his hand and told the Korean guy he wanted all the money out of his drawer. The knife was tiny in Cam’s fist, but then again Cam was a man who gave off a big impression. It didn’t occur to Albert to interfere until after the money was in Cam’s pocket, Cam was out the door, and his manager was firing him.
Next time he saw Cam was in the alley where the deals went down, two blocks from his house, down MacArthur. And Cam looked up from a handful of tiny bags and nodded at him. “Kid,” he said, “either get your ass over here or run the fuck away and don’t come back.”
Albert had no job, no money, not one fucking thing to lose. So he got his ass over there and stuck out a hand. “Albert Green,” he said.
Cam looked at the hand like he might have looked at roadkill and shrugged. “Cam,” he said. “So, Albert Green, what’s your story?”
And Albert hadn’t known where to begin, because he had no stories, nothing anchoring him to this world other than the fact he was living in it. He was everything ever defined as a failure, and they’d told him that failures got into drugs and lived on the streets and talked to men like Cam. So he figured he might as well get into drugs and live on the streets. And he couldn’t see any real problems with talking to men like Cam other than that he might get killed by association. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, not by a long shot. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
He thought about his sister, his brothers, his mom. He thought about ignoring hunger until it went away so one of them could eat. He thought about the rolls of cash he’d seen on some of the dealers who hung around his building, how sometimes Mom wouldn’t come home until late and then their money would stretch for a few weeks but her face would look funny, like her eyes didn’t quite want to focus on anything.
“I’m just a man,” he told Cam finally. “What’s yours?”
“I’m just a man,” said Cam, “and I think I might be looking for you.”
“Well,” said Albert, “you found me. What now?”
--
The kid sits at a corner table, his mop of hair falling in loose waves over his forehead, his eyebrows. “Captain,” he’d told Jo upon entering. “And keep it coming.”
So she keeps him in rum and brushes past his seat every few minutes, sneaking glances over his shoulder at his notebook, pages black with close scribbles. He has an mp3 player on the table next to him, only one earbud in, volume low. Still, by the third time she comes by, she’s recognized the warbling intro of When the Levee Breaks, on endless repeat. It’s late, the bar empty except for Mister Padget, hunched over a newspaper and muttering to himself. He’ll have passed out by close. Jo will have to call Ash in to drag his ass out or just drape a blanket over him and let him sleep it off, facedown on the table.
She drops into the seat across from the new kid. “Jo Harvelle,” she says. “Ain’t seen you before.”
“Haven’t been here before,” he says. He doesn’t offer his name.
“You looking to stay the night?” Jo asks.
“You offering?” Nothing about him changes; he is still staring at his notebook, flipping back and forth, folding scraps of paper beneath paperclips.
“Got a room out back, is all I’m saying.” She doesn’t like it when they won’t look her in the eye. “Cheaper’n a motel, better protection.”
“Might take you up on that,” he says, and this time he looks up and smiles a crescent moon. “The name’s Lucas Barr. I’m looking for someone I think you might know.”
--
Dangerous, the counselor in high school said. Dangerous to himself and others, irrational, unpredictable. Not to mention the knife. Dean Winchester. Can’t have him. Boy brought a knife to school, for goodness’ sake.
But all Sam can remember about the two weeks they spent at that school is the burn of rope across his wrists and fear like bile and dirty pennies in his mouth and Dean oh god Dean standing over him, knife dripping blood, You’re okay now Sammy, I found you, you’re okay, I got it. Thinking, later, when the counselor frowned at Dean for his knife and called him dangerous and unpredictable: Dangerous only to evil and totally predictable, because he will always, always come for me.
Summer will concede to fall and Dean will find Sam. There are rules older than time.
There will always be something else to hunt. You can sleep when you’re dead. The riches of the world are only important if they can be molded in to crucifixes and silver bullets.
Dad’s immortal.
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