UNDERGROUND VOICES: FICTION
Crawling about the street of dream
His hair was a slick back silver clinging to his massive head. It matched the
I knew he was a writer but why did I know he was a writer?
He splashed some sort of liquor into his shot glass. At this point, the kind of
He threw the shot down his throat without so much as a flinch or gnaw of the
I was curious, but I couldn't see, the smoke was so thick in the place my eyes
Where was I?
It was a bar. At least I thought it was a bar. But shouldn't the walls be covered in
This bar didn't. The walls were stained brown and gray. Every table and stool was
But the Angels had left this place a long time ago, left the whole city, perhaps.
The cold rush of realization spilled down my spine- I was shaking a bit but all the
He pulled an unfiltered from a crumpled pack and screwed it to his lips. He
"D'yeh know why you're here?" he asked me.
I stared at him for a minute, then I nodded my head.
"Sure you do...I know why I'm here..."
He took a long drag on the smoke, his chest swelled, and he blew the gust of
When the smoke hit my face and my minds-eye swarmed with lucid visions, I
All these visions stabbed at my mind like the jagged edges of a broken bottle that
The celebration of hiding and drinking and letting it all go.
I had to cover my eyes...the rush of dancing demons, two-stepping on my
"That's why I'm here," he said. "That's why I do what I do."
I placed my head on the bar, still trying to stop the visceral onslaught in my eyes,
"We'll give it a name. We'll find it. Right now, we're stuck- we gotta get unstuck,
Make a Billy Pilgrimage of sorts."
He poured two shots. Put one in front of me. He threw his back, and then reached
"I'll help you, but NEVER....help yourself to my whiskey."
We stood and walked to the door. He took out a dirty scarf and wrapped it about
"You are all DIRTY, DIRTY- whiskey watering SONS of WHORES!" he yelled.
We stepped to the streets, cold and deserted. Black concrete doused in streetlight
We sat out walking. The cold wind swung sharp in our faces. The Prize-Writer
What the hell was he talking about?
"Gotta get a rhythm going here," he said, snapping his fingers here and there.
I shook my head.
"No uncertain, directionless wandering for us tonight, my friend. It may have
We continued to walk (actually it was more like glide) down the street.
The Prize-fighter paused at the corner beneath a blue blazing JESUS SAVES
He paused for a second. Pools of blue settled in his eyes.
"But Bill… Bill scared the SHIT out of me… he SOUGHT OUT his madness.
Sought it out, so he could write it." He looked at me, a chill going through him,
"...in any case, I just wasn't one of them. And neither are you."
We continued to glide.
"But this isn't about them, this is about you, Mr. ________." he said as a grin slid
"Do you write?"
I didn't want to hear this question. But for some fucking reason I knew it was
"Answer me, do you write?"
I told him yes.
"Are you a writer?"
I told him no. He SMACKED me about the ears- hard.
"Do you write?" he asked once again.
I told him yes, once again.
"Are you a writer?"
I shook my head up and down vigorously.
"Oh good," he said. "Means we can go anywhere from here…"
© 2006 Underground Voices