Creases November 24, 2007
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Retired Judge Hannah Stone dug her fingertips into the creases of her left knee, trying to keep it from kicking the row in front of her. But the knee would not give, it was her lie detector, a nervous twitch she’d acquired in grad school at Harvard. Even through out her decades on the Bench, it flailed uncontrollably whenever an “innocent” defendant took the stand.
Today it was worse than normal, and already the dark skinned gentlemen in the white suit had turned around twice, asking her if there was a problemo? In answer Hannah smiled back as coy as a pair of flashing headlights. But then she’d always had that effect on men. Even at seventy-nine, many thought she was an aging model for a cosmetic line, despite the harsh truth of her dating life and harsher nickname among her peers, Judge Spinster was all show and no social.
She would keep up appearances till she returned to her chambers or, as was the case of the past seven months, to her brother Donald’s houseboat overlooking Lake Union in downtown Seattle. During dinner, she discussed the inside information she was still privy to as a friend of acting Judge Miller.
“You should have heard the facts Mack, the guy shoots 5 people at a truck stop, and nobody saw him do it!”
“What about the video cameras in the convenience store, didn’t they catch anything?”
“You would think, but he killed that employee then shot up all the equipment in the backroom.”
“No ballistics match? Fingerprints on the weapon?”
“Spoken like a true Lieutenant, and no… they haven’t found the weapon.”
“You do have survivors right Hannah? People he hadn’t shot at the scene?”
“ Yes there were eight of them. A mother of three and her kids who of course aren’t about to come forward. I believe she knows the shooter personally.”
“Umm what makes you say that?”
“Oh well he got there in her car according to the report.”
“He drove a carload of witnesses to a shooting?”
“No the shooting happened on sight, nobody knows what set him off.”
Once again Hannah’s knee started to swing forward in place, if not for the tightness of her laces, her comfortable shoes would have down a belly flop into the lake.
“Okay what’s that about?”
“Well his statement was some trucker took the first shot, he was just at the wrong place and time.”
“Who are the other four witnesses?”
“You won’t believe this, a band of college kids in a van.”
“Band? As in a real band?”
“Yes, some grunge band called the Bongs”
”Let me guess they were too stoned to see anything?”
“ Exactly.”
Hannah got up to walk off her nerves, while Donald drank his last beer battered salmon steak. Opening the fridge inside the tiny kitchenette, she popped the cap effortlessly with her right thumb, making sure her brother did not see.
Later when he passed out, she would dip into the water like a seal being chased by a torpedo, and cross the lake to emerge in the underground pool of a secret hillside cabin. The creases in her neck and joints would open up subconsciously, as she shot herself into the lab. All at once her natural eight-foot height, and bristling muscles would contract in place, causing the water to glide off her nubile swimmer’s build.
On her state of the art computer, “Lady Judgement” dawn the folds of her jet black leather corset and cape like robes. In the creases were several special sensors relaying all the information her lightweight night vision visor could acquire: thermal imaging of her cat, Liberty, density and alloy of the floor she stood upon, and lastly the dual heartbeats of herself and the animal who’d been missing her all day.
“Hey there girl, didn’t the automatic feeder come on?”
Hannah glanced across the room, and sensors told her of the electrical current running low on dispensing liver flavored Kitten Chow. A quick wave of her right metal gauntlet, now powered up as she redressed herself, and the feeder spattered a familiar sound to Liberty’s ears.
“We’ll catch up later Libby, I’ve got a mystery to figure out.”
Above her the shuttered ceiling opened up to reveal the crisp starry night, Hannah took in a deep breath before activating her low emission ethanol-boots. Ascending into the night, she had the license plates of every vehicle that had possibly passed through that truck stop cycling across her visor’s internal readout… Some run down from seven different DMVs, others filed in the most recent police report, and lastly several hundred off truck delivery invoices hacked into by her brother.
Rounding down to forty-seven possible leads, she decided to start at the bottom and work her way up. It might take several weeks, but one of those vehicles according to her alien intuition had a 38-caliber stowaway. With her right knee twitching like hell, she spread out the creases of her robe, billowing into two giant scale-like wings that would carry her hopefully towards justice.
Flash 11/15/06 November 24, 2007
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The sultan Nadji had killed his daughter. That much was true. That is what the royal Prosecutor Calim had proven, and what the witnesses had testified to seeing in broad daylight. Jumeira had entered the town square with 4 of her classmates. They were to witness the selling of foreign slaves, and report back to their history class about the differences between the Free Peoples, and the barbarians running wild outside the city of Udad.
Jumeira had eyed the newest Stranger, the one with the golden hair and eyes like polished sapphires. Gagged and bound by the flesh peddler Kumah, the Stranger was chained to an stone post inlaid with iron runes. Below the copper grating at his feet was a swirling bath of vinegar and spoiled wine, and above the pillar was a sign calling it, “ the Light of God “. It had but one purpose, to garner the truth from this particular occupant, a truth which every citizen of Udad already knew, but were terrified to speak aloud.
The Hordes had been camping for weeks, there were rumours that a garrison of the royal Calvary had been slaughtered, their horses eaten over great fiery pits, turning like pigs slowly before the meal tents of the foreign army. Udad had sheltered itself from within ever since the new moon had cast the shadow of the city over the western cliffs, where the Crashing Sea awaited it’s dead.
Kumah however had struck gold, his personal guards had spotted the Stranger climbing the western walls, and like a sandstorm, he was swept up before any other merchant could discover him. But then Jumeira had stopped the bidding, she insisted on hearing the foreigner speak. She ordered Kumah, who was greatly below her station, and he complied while cursing under his lips. The Stranger spoke these words, which is as best as those in the marketplace could remember, all agree it is utter nonsense:
I am come through Time to rescue you
Within my Host, I will bring the true meaning
We cannot be separated, She who owns me
Is my mated soul and your Flame.
And while it was not questioned that the barbarian spoke the holy tongue, or how he could know he would be “bought”, one thing was true. Jumeira had been placed under his spell. She ordered the guards to release him to her under pain of death, in a panic Kumah stopped them and tried to persuade her to reason.
“Enlightened One, please I cannot allow this, you must not allow this, no foreigner is permitted to address the house of your father. For that alone his tongue should be cut out.”
“That is for me to decide, I will have this one for my personal entertainment.”
“Please I beg you, allow me to test him first, they are liars, all of them…”
“Test him? With the Light of God? You will singe off all the hair on his body and he will be useless to me…”
(sorry out of time, started late)
Flash 11/25/06 November 24, 2007
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On the abandoned tenement roof top, Mikey set his watch to noon and began his daily work out. He was safe up here; the six or so surrounding buildings enclosing him in had been too ruined to enter. In fact the whole block had been condemned by the city. This was perfect, a fortress of solitude hiding him in a maze of broken landings, holes in walls too small for an adult to follow, and windows on the ground floor boarded up four stories high.
To him it was one giant cement tree house, and he’d borrowed enough rope from his day job at the family hardware store to fashion a perfect web of ups and downs. The rats left him alone, the junkies knew the area wasn’t safe and no one in there right mind was going to follow him inside, even if they knew how he did it.
Pumping the eight tied bricks, Mikey concentrated and began his sets. On exhaling he would listen to the police band radio he’d hotwired to the city’s power line and make notes in his binder. He’d been at it for a little more than a year now, and he knew which areas had the most murders, stolen cars, and by reading the obits he could narrow down, which neighborhood needed him most.
The time had come; he’d been fastening in his mind what kind of disguise to wear. And it was clear that the most important thing was that his face could not be seen. The jet black diving suit he had mail ordered helped with that. As did the matching gloves, the military boots he’d stolen from his father’s trunk, and the gas mask he had altered for more visibility and just the right amount of shock value. He had spray painted the mask to match his suit, and in the shadowy corner of an alley he was nigh invisible.
At five feet three, Mikey was a deceptively dense but wiry freshman. He hunched wile he walked through school, he always slicked his hair in a ridiculous middle half part, and with pants tucked up high, he anybody’s nerd. Mikey figured if Clark Kent could hide in plain sight, there had to be something to it. At close range he was often browbeaten by his peers for his cockeyed appearance.
He did just the right amount of school work to stay under the radar, made sure to make his rounds through the clicks. A trick he’d used to garner information on their habits, what they wore, who they spoke to, and who they didn’t like. He was an unassigned, unofficial Narc for all intensive purposes, and the dealers in his school had no idea that he watched them. He had stayed after school and bugged their hangouts, searched their lockers without their knowing, and taken an inventory of anything and everything illegal.
But this wasn’t enough to stop them, for that he needed to instill fear; he needed to make an example of the largest and most dangerous fish. Even though it wouldn’t bring back his father, a gang war would half his work for him, it would cleanse the school, the neighborhood and accomplish his mission.
The Water Bearer November 24, 2007
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Camilla felt her bones melting but she was powerless to stop it. Here on the cold stone floor of her husband’s family catacombs, she lay helpless yet quiet as the puce like yellow mold devoured her body an inch at a time. Strange how she was still conscious, she thought of her husband Furio, and their last words to each other…
“Are you certain my love that this is permitted?” she said holding the torch, while he fiddled with iron keys clanging through the dusty passage ways.
“Heavens no! If my brothers found out that I had our father’s map, there would be blood all over it. Bring the light closer…” Camilla moved forward, and a wind of calm flowed over her. In the glow of the torch Furio seemed so innocent, so sweetly preoccupied to her. It reminded her of her good fortune. She “was” the envy of their village, to have been picked by him out of so many eligible girls. She had prayed for marriage so desperately now in her seventeenth year, and Furio had been her answer, finally.
No matter of her mother’s disapproval, strangers as beautiful as Furio came once in twenty harvests, it would have been foolish of her to turn him down, despite the quickness of their courtship, and his urgings that they elope. Those thoughts were futile details not worth her distraction which disappeared whenever he held her hand.
For now, the top of her cowl would on occasion catch some sharp piece of the briar patch growing wild along the low ceilings. It was almost as if the roots were falling into the halls, but that could not be avoided. Neither else could the scorpions, centipedes, nor beetles that formed tiles of clicking mounds. Her foot would step on the head of one, and the others would devour it instantly knowing it was soon for death.
And this is the feeling Camilla ignored as Furio brought them deeper into the tombs, always with the insistence that they were closer to the secret family vault. He could not be blamed; they had been poor from the beginning of their marriage. And Furio had long been cast out from his family for having already married once. He never spoke of her, his Rebecca, but the marriage had been short, Rebecca had left him for another man it was rumored, an aging nearby Count whose fortune would buy her the lifestyle Furio could not provide.
“Ah here it is, past this last turn and we will be twelve paces from the tomb of my great uncle, Aquarius! At last we’ll be rich my sweet, come let’s not hesitate anymore. I want you to be the first to look upon the grave…”
Camilla felt her feet rising on air, she ran so quickly the torch nearly blew out, and despite Furio standing his ground after they both turned the corner, she went the final stretch of floor, stopping right before the great statue of the Water Bearer.
This was Aquarius, both the constellation made into giant stone, and Furio’s great uncle, whose fortune lay hidden inside the enormous jar the girth of a horse. From it’s uplifted facing, Camilla could not see the necklaces, rings nor jewels said to be within, and it almost swept her mind, when the golem animated, it’s eyes lighting a bright chartreuse.
At once it turned to face her, it’s arms rising up to empty the great urn on it’s new victim.
An overwhelming putrid smell enveloped Camilla as gelatinous liquid poured itself past her feet like a tide of slow burning acid. It cemented her to the spot in excruciating pain, then as a thing alive, like a vulture’s wings spreading out to seal her fate, it enveloped her body pushing her down to the floor.
Suddenly the Water Bearer spoke,
“Furio, my favorite grand nephew… I see you come to me again with another offering.”
“Yes uncle, another bride’s bones to mix into your pot.”
“She will do, she will do.”
“May I have more of my inheritance?”
“What will it be this time? A ruby necklace, a set of pearl earrings?”
“No I think not, Camilla was a jewel among jewels, I desire a diamond ring!”
“Very well, reach into the now empty vessel, and take your prize…”
The ring fit him perfectly, it clasped on to his left hand, third finger, as the sign of a married man.
“Don’t forget to remove it.” The Golem replied and then was once again unmoving.
“Of course… of course, after all I am single once again.
Rowr January 12, 2007
Posted by bobby in Uncategorized.add a comment
Did this about 6 months ago…
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Kyudo Archer March 31, 2006
Posted by bobby in Digital Art.add a comment
Colored in Photoshop 7 with a wacom tablet, from an original drawing.
Eulogy for My Father March 31, 2006
Posted by bobby in On Family.add a comment
March 4th, 2006
They say you can’t pick your parents in life. So at the time of my father’s death, I think of that question, and I ask would I have still picked him to be my own, had I any say in the matter. The answer of course is yes. Without a doubt.
Without my father, my mother would never have known what true love is… without my father, his friends lives would have had less joy all those parties they made time for year after year. His co-workers would never have the pride in the meticulous jobs they did, and for me, I would not be who I am in any way, shape or form.
Because of my dad, I came to the US when I was 4, because of him to New York, the greatest city in the world, and because he loved to gamble, we moved into our first house just 3 blocks from the track, so he could spend his weekends there watching the horses run. I don’t think the winning was that important to him, I think he liked the possibility of living well for the day if he won. And if he did win, it would go to a party with his buddies, or a few bucks to my mom. Or even to me if I asked him at just the right time.
But my dad loved our house not just because of its location; no I think he took great pride in owning something of his own. This was his yard, his lawn, and his driveway, which he wanted shoveled in a particular manner. We would cart snow in garbage cans to the backyard, so it wouldn’t be dumped on the grass, which was his baby.
He loved to garden, he loved to mow, and if the leaves weren’t raked off every weekend, well then there was hell to pay. After all this is what he worked for, a house for his family that was always clean and great to come home to. My dad had this thing about not going out to eat, he preferred to buy good ingredients and cook meals at home. Why spend $100 for 4 people, when he could eat much better in his backyard. He loved my grilled steak, if there was a special occasion to celebrate, he would tell my mom to buy steak and have me cook it while he watched and waited.
And then he would get to his other pastime, supervising. He loved to comment, to narrate, and to ask if you remembered all the details. I use to think of it as nagging, but he was a perfectionist really. It came from his being a flavor chemist, and from his love for tennis. I mention this, because if you knew my father, tennis to him was like being in the Olympics. Is the weather outside just right for tennis? Which of my friends will show up to be destroyed by me? I’m undefeated! Don’t you know that?
I heard him say these things many times, and while these details may seem glossy, the truth of the matter was, my father was a simple man. He liked good alcohol, despite his lifelong shares in Heineken – expensive cognac was his favorite, preferably as a gift on his birthday. He loved to dance; he would do this thing with his hips that made you think he was about to throw his hip out. But thinking back on it, he didn’t care who was in the room, or who might see him, if he wanted to dance, he would just do it! And he swore he was good, even if only epileptics would clap.
There are many things though that I will remember personally because our relationship had so many ups and downs. Down – he was not happy with my decisions. Why do you want to be an artist? There’s no money in that. Why do you paint with such dark colors?
Up – he paid for my art college, and my teaching degree, even though he didn’t believe in them, he did it cause he loved me. I could go on, but I’d like to share a favorite memory of just the two of us.
In 1992 I was in a deep depression, and my whole world seemed to be nothing but waking and going to work unhappy. Somehow in all of this, he noticed my pain, and on one really bad day, he asked me what was wrong. I couldn’t explain it to him, it was over a girl, and that much he knew, but what good would have come from telling him the details? He couldn’t change any of it. That’s when my dad surprised me more than I ever thought he could. He saw the tears on my face, and he just put his arms around me and held me for maybe 2 minutes. He just held me, and didn’t say a word. I will always love him for that day, for showing me just how much he cared for me when I needed it most.
I could talk on and on about how much he loved my mom, about their song being “Only You”, and how he signed all his love letters, birthday cards to her as “Rey the King”. She would know more about that part of their lives. But let’s see, dressing up, he loved that, he loved to plan his outfit so when he was done he could say,” I look good – are you kidding me?”
And I wouldn’t call him a vain man; he just liked arriving at the party in style. He still used handkerchiefs most of his life, and if you ever road in his car, he insisted on telling you how well he kept it in shape, how it had amazing mileage, and how well it ran even after 10, 15, 20 years. Only once did he ever lend it out to me, when my ex and I drove it home from Pennsylvania one time. I told her, “My dad must really love you, cause he doesn’t lend this car to anyone.” But he didn’t do that just because of her, he lent the car out because of me.
It was this kind of indirect, in between the lines kind of love, that you had to look for if you ever wanted to understand him. He wouldn’t talk to me with pride about myself, he would tell his best friend, Noe when they first met…
“My son’s an artist.”
“Oh yeah, so is mine.”
He would come home then and say you have to meet Noe’s son Joey, he’s just like you. When he’d go to California to be with his mom, he would tell my cousin Richie about me, or my uncle Ed.
“You should meet Bobby, Richie. Ed, you should see his drawings.”
Course I would know none of this, Richie would tell me years later, and so would my uncle. But that’s how my father was… In my brother’s case, I would be the one to hear about him whenever he came back from visiting with his family in San Francisco. Don has this, Don has that, Don took me here, and Don and I played tennis. This was his way.
One of the strangest things he ever said to Don and me was, “You know you guys will be much better fathers than me, because I did all the drinking, and the gambling. You know what not to do. “ And the thing is he was right, I look back on any of the fights I’ve ever had with him, and they’re perfect lessons on what not to do. I know he didn’t mean them that way at the time, but in hindsight I like to think he planned it all. He taught me to think for myself, and he made me laugh at an insult, because his sense of humor was sometimes bizarre.
One of our last conversations was when I called his hospital room the day before his last seizure. As I was saying goodbye to my mom, I yelled to her over the phone to tell him I love him, and a second later she got off and shouted to him, “Bobby says he loves you!”And my dad through his mask, as clear as day yelled back, “LOVE YOU!” I heard him perfectly, and he sounded so strong, it was as if he was on the receiver.
One of our ongoing inside jokes was, that whenever I called home, instead of asking him how he was feeling he would say, “Cut your hair, loose weight.” And that’s when I knew he was in good spirits, when he took the time to tease me, he would laugh when I’d tell him, “Okay now I know you’re feeling better…”
Like I said, you can’t choose who’s going to love you, or how they’ll love you. Some people get Donald Trump to buy them things; I get the filipino Don Rickles. I’m certain if my dad could, he’d yell at my mom for spending too much on his funeral. Ask if she bought the right kind of beer for the reception, want me to cook steaks outside in the winter rather than go to a restaurant, and above all thank everyone for coming.
But he wouldn’t tell them to their faces, later on my mom and he would be talking over breakfast and they would tally who showed up, who brought what, he would tell her… oh yeah so and so and his wife, he’s good friend. That was his way.
Goodbye Dad, I will love you more and more from this day on. Thank you for being mine.
Ontario Sky March 31, 2006
Posted by bobby in Acrylics.add a comment
Painted from a photograph taken by Diane. She started this first with a palette knife, and I touched up the clouds with gesso, I'd say 80% of this is her (color scheme, composition), but it was due the next morning so I had to finish it. She said, "you do it honey" and went to sleep…
