BSC Brings It With July's First Entry

I'll be the first to post up an entry this month since I didn't have one last month -- hopefully, I won't be the last. The assignment this month, for those who may have stumbled onto this blog by accident or random chance, is for Smackdown entrants to "describe a building as seen by a man whose son has died in a war. Do not mention the son, war, the death, or the man doing the seeing." I have made my attempt at this -- I hope you like it.

Uncertainty
by Brian Crane

To the casual observer the building's distinctive whiteness (derived from the exterior's composition of bone-colored slabs of rock) was all that made it stand out from the other buildings. Closer inspection, however, revealed other truths, subtly and intentionally hidden.

For a building of its size (10 floors), there were remarkably few windows, and these were smallish and vaguely sinister at that. This apparent aversion to natural light seemed especially unusual when the surrounding architecture embraced sunlight, often incorporating as many windows as possible into the structural design. But secrets wither in the sunlight, and the white building'’s inhabitants dealt in secrets. Certainly, they collected and collated and concluded, gathering intelligence meant for the sort of people who'd never had their picture taken. Based on these secrets, important decisions were made that affected billions of people, and though the reasons behind those decisions were not readily clear, their terrible results were as clear as the landing lights on the big C-10 planes that touched down in the dead of night so the cameras couldn'’t film them unloading their flag-draped cargo.

Its strategic placement in the invisible center of the city was a crime committed against them, right under their noses, and yet here they walked past it, beneath a warm and gracious sun, wearing their casually ruthless expressions as though nothing were wrong. But something was wrong. If they knew better, their faces would curl into snarls as they gathered around the white building'’s banal entrance. The tinfoil cars parked here and there would all be upended, slowly rotating on their tops and then set ablaze. A righteous fire would climb high into the air where even those pasty-faced villains on its topmost floor could see the truth of what was coming and shudder. The people would clamor and chant and spit their rage until they got angry enough, brave enough, to march inside and haul out its agents and analysts, bureaucratic insiders with assumed names and no particular allegiance who used their ill-gotten authority to do injury to the very people who (unknowingly) suffered their existence, all of them blinking at the sun and pleading for the mercy they'd blithely withheld.

But this would not happen. – The white building'’s architects and future occupants had collaborated and devised a plan for even this seemingly remote contingency. They would nullify suspicion and erase the possibility of certainty. Their secret weapon: the building itself. Its smooth, apparently ordinary lines were capable of turning even the most vigilant truth-seeker into a credulous rube. The very fact its designers had so artfully blended a quality of anonymity into the building'’s very bones (the curious whiteness just unique enough to make it blend in with the other cautiously distinctive buildings), was either additional evidence of the building's nefarious purpose, or a clever feint designed to attract suspicion to the wrong place while their true bases of operation went unnoticed. The genius of it was that, like a high-wattage radio tower, the uncertainty the building engendered about its own culpability was broadcast to the other buildings around it, until they all stood together as a group of blameless innocents, each of them above reproach from respectable people; too normal to inspire such outrageous notions. The crimes of their occupants would go on. The criminals would continue their work.

But those with reason to watch would remain vigilant anyway.

John Gardner's Back And He's Convinced There Isn't A Good Writer on This Damn Thing -- But He's Willing to Let You Try Another Exercise Anyway

Back in March, if any of you can remember that far back, Mr. John Gardner threw down the gauntlet to our motley collection of amateurs and dabblers in the art of the written word, and a surprising number took up that challenge. Fun was had by all. Well, Johnny's back and he's got a new challenge that's not entirely dissimilar to that old March challenge. That's no coincidence. Where "describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just committed a murder. Do not mention the murder" is numbered '4b' in his book, The Art of Fiction, July's Literary Smackdown challenge was numbered in that same book as '4d'. So, without further preamble (except for, perhaps, one final exhortation to please please enter this month), here is this month's challenge!

"Describe a building as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war. Do not mention the son, war, death, or the man doing the seeing."

There you have it. So cinch up your fightin' tights, wipe that smear of blood off your face, and lumber to your corners, Smackdowners! Let the grizzled cut-man work his razor on that swollen eye while you set aside the searing pain and ponder how to write an entry so brilliant that it sets the blogosphere afire with its obvious perfection. Easy enough, yeah? Now do it.

June: The Month of More Than 3 Contestants!

So, it would seem that our mighty website has fizzled....but never fear, readers. Let's see if we can liven things back up with a theme-based topic this month. You do whatever you want with it (not too ungodly long please) as long as it goes along with the theme:

The Perfect Situation Comes to an End.
(Things Fall Apart)

Have fun.....

As the Smoke Clears From the Battlefield That Was May, Let us Clear the Dead and Declare a Victor

Here in lovely, sweltering Decatur, Georgia, it is currently 11:59PM on May 31st, 2006, which means 3 things. 1) May is over and we're about to cross over into June, 2) rent is due, and 3) the May Literary Smackdown has drawn to a close. Time to announce the winner.

And the winner is, for the second month in a row...

Nathan Hines.

With his pleasingly noir crime story entitled, "Vegas By Day", not only did Hinesy win over the voters, he also proves that the Smackdown-runner does not always win first place the month they host. Congratulations. The deck of Monte Carlo playing cards will be in the mail before you know it. Ahem.

And here, just to make it official, are the tallies for our 3 entrants.

1) Nathan Hines: 7.49
2) Brian Crane: 7.05
3.) Mystery Writer: 5.5

Watch this website for next month's Literary Smackdown challenge.

Complete with Burglary, Trilling Wookies, and Delectable Collectibles, Mystery Writer's Written a Different Kind of Vegas Story

With just four days left in this month's competition, Mystery Writer returns to bring our entry tally to a grand total of three. (We'll get another, shant we?) Without further ado, MW gives the Smackdown a story of bumbling burglars who've seen maybe one too many episodes of Antiques Roadshow in a story called:

“In A Galaxy Far Far Away"
by Mystery Writer

“Have you ever seen a bigger goddamn lock?”

“Jeez, it’s the size of your head.”

“What the hell does Grandma have in here that’s so fuckin’ valuable she needs this mother on the back door?”

Leroy and Herman looked at each other and smiled. They knew what secrets the little shop held. “Gerty’s House of Delectable Collectables” had a mint collection of H & R Daniel tea cups and saucers circa 1825 with hand painted roses and a rare scroll pattern, absolutely pristine, no chips and no restorations and they could fetch between $400 and $600 per on eBay. How Leroy and Herman loved the internet and knew their tea cups.

“Gimme the bolt cutter. We’ll do this baby right,” Leroy said. The self-appointed head of this two-man crime family, Leroy held his hand out for the requested tool, still studying the huge lock.

Herman handed him the red rusted bolt cutter.

“I thought it was bigger,” Leroy said hefting it in one hand, weighing it visually against the bulk of he lock.

“Go ‘head, cut that mother off,” Herman said, encouraging his larger partner. Herman looked up to Leroy mainly from a physical standpoint, as he was only five foot six. Even with his steel toed work boots, with the extra thick soles and shoe lifts, Herman craned his neck when he talked to Leroy.

“Where did you get this rusted piece of crap?” Leroy said.

“Dad and I were building a shed, and we had this guy put some rebar in before we poured the cement floor and he left it. Never came back, so we kept it. Borrowed it from my Dad, to cut some barb wire fence. Had it since then.”

“He didn’t cut shit with this thing.” Leroy clamped the jaws of the bolt cutter around the hardened steel hasp and grunted as he applied pressure to the twin handles, one of which was missing the rubber grip.

“Arrrrgg,” he grunted, straining against the metal, his muscles bulging, but ineffective against the heavy lock. “Fuck this.” He slammed the tool against the wall. The thud broke off a piece of brick, splintering and hitting Herman in the leg.

“What now?” Herman asked helpfully.

The two collectable crooks stood silent in the dark alley. The glare of Vegas, visible from a space station, barely lit the narrow alley behind the small strip of specialty stores. Overhead a trio of search lights lit up the sky. They were from the new light show at Circus Circus, just a few blocks north, installed a month ago. Herman still had not seen the show and stood mesmerized looking at the bright lights occasionally spinning and dancing overhead.

“You’re going to have to go through the wall,” Leroy explained.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Herman said, his attention at least partially on the job at hand.

“You climb through this window and go through a vent or something and get the shit and come back again,” Leroy said, pointing to a small, dark, and dirty window in the wall of the shop next to Gerty’s.

“What do you think we’re in, a fucking movie?” Herman said. “A vent? I may be small but I ain’t that small. A frigging vent.”

“Just a thought.”

“Well, think again.” Herman looked at the window. It did look a lot easier to breach than the metal door with the padlock better suited to a national guard armory.

“Well, just get through the window and we’ll figure out what you do after you’re inside.”

Herman looked at the window; it still sounded a lot easier than it looked. “How long we been here?” he asked.

“You got a date?”

“No, wise-ass. The meter.”

“Meter?”

“The parking meter.” Herman was pleased, he had thought of something Leroy hadn’t.

“I thought you got it.”

“Nope, not me.”

“I told you to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, go feed the thing, last thing we need is a ticket.”

Herman felt in his pants. He wore them baggy and when he sunk his hand in they about came off his ass. He pulled them up while digging in his pockets. “All I got is a couple of those fake coins for the slots,” he said.

“Shit.”

The alley got quiet again.

“You know they should take chips.” Herman held the two five-dollar coins in his hand: a small reward for a slight-of-hand trick his father had taught him, and always good for some quick dinner money. He could barely read the name of the hotel he’d stolen them from.

“What?” Leroy asked.

“We’re in Vegas, right? The parking meters. They should take chips.”

Leroy’s night was not going well and he thought for a brief second how much better it might be if he could punch out Herman. “Piss on the meter,” Leroy said. “Get in the goddamn window.”

The alarms previously diverted, were still active having been bypassed by Leroy. His time in the Navy had been well spent, learning a lot about electronics and even more about alarms. The entire crew from the forward East Bay Number Two electronics shop on the Shiloe, a guided missile frigate commissioned during Clinton’s second term. Leroy had studied under a master, and all of them were making a passable living plying their well learned trade.

“I’m not going. You go this time.” Herman was taking a stand.

“I can’t fit through the window,” Leroy said, stating the obvious. His three hundred pounds of bulk filled most of the narrow alleyway. “You’re going to have to do it. Here, I’ll give you a boost,” he said bending over with the familiar “ommpf” he uttered for even the mildest exertions. He clasped his hands together to form a fleshy foothold.

“You know I can sound like Chewbacca,” Herman said, disregarding the schoolyard stance of his partner in crime.

“Who?” Leroy straightened, the “ommpf” a little less audible.

“Chewbacca from the Star Wars movie.”

“He the funny looking one that lives in a swamp?”

“No, that’s, Jar Jar Binks. Chewbacca’s the hairy one that rode around with Han Solo.”

“I liked that guy,” Leroy said. “But Solo never would have come back. Not in real life. That shit didn’t happen.” It was an authoritative statement.

“None of it happened, it was just a movie.”

“Yeah, but Solo never would have come back, he had the gold. Shit man, like the lottery. I hit the lottery, I am gone, color me green. And gone.”

“Chewbacca,” Herman returned to his subject, “was a Wookie. I can talk like a Wookie.”

“No shit,” Leroy was intrigued, “Go ahead, let’s hear.”

Herman reared back and took a deep breath.

“Hhrrrrrrrrrr. Gggrrrrhhhhhhh.. hhhrrr.. grbbblllllll..rrrrrrrr!”

“What was that?” Leroy said.

“Fuck, I don’t know. He’s angry as hell and killing storm troopers. It’s in the book, ‘Shadows of the Empire’.”

“You read that shit?”

“I got every book Chewbacca’s ever been in,” Herman announced proudly.

“Shit, that’s cool. Say something else. Say ... ‘fuck you’.”

“I can’t fucking say anything. Only Han Solo knew what the fuck Chewbacca was saying.”

“Go on. Say ‘fuck you’,” Leroy insisted

“Jjjrrrrrrbbbllllllll …. Hhhyytrrrrrlllllll,” Herman trilled.

“That’s fucking insane, you sound just like the guy.”

“He was a Wookie.”

“Whatever. Okay. Now get in the fucking window.”

“I want Chewbacca,” Herman said.

“What the hell are you talking about now?”

“I go in the window but I want Chewbacca. Gerty’s got a never-opened Chewbacca with his plastic blaster. I want it.”

“What for?”

“For me.”

“You know the rules: nothing but what we came for. No money, no nothing, just the shit we got planned. It’s the rules.”

“I go in the window I get Chewbacca, that’s the deal.”

“You’ll get us caught.”

“No, I won’t, I’m not going to sell it.”

“What the fuck you want it for then?”

“It talks.”

“So what are you going to do, have a conversation with a doll?”

Herman just looked at the ground.

“I don’t fucking care,” Leroy said. “Get your Chewbacca. Just get in the fucking window.”

“Give me a boost.”

A few minutes later Leroy stood patiently in the still deserted ally. He could hear Herman through the open window and saw a brief flash of his flashlight as Herman searched for a way to break into the adjoining shop.

“You see anything?”

“Jrrrrrrrbbbblllll…. Hhhhrrlllkk…hhhllllll… hhhtteelllllllrrrrrrr.”

“Yeah, okay, get me the Han Solo doll.”

“Jjrrrrlll.”

“But make sure the fucking thing talks.”

A Story About a Girl With a Pretty Face and a Black Heart. You know, one of those heart-warming dealies.

Here we go with the second entry in the May Smackdown, a story written by me, Brian Crane. Hopefully this won't be the last entry this month, but only time will tell. Mine just squeaks under the maximum word count, so I'll let you get right to it.

The Girl Who Won Big on the Yahtzee Slots
by Brian Crane

When she finally came out she was alone. She stopped in front of the entrance, her sun-browned shoulders hunched forward protectively as she rooted in her blue cloth purse. She looked up a few times while she searched, her dark eyes wary of something. Himself, he guessed. Even from this distance, he was struck once more by how pretty she was. Since the last time he’d seen her she’d pulled her long hair into a ponytail. Some of her hair had begun to pull free from the band – the sun glinted off of the wiry strands. Her tan legs, capped by a short denim skirt, shone thrillingly in the sunlight, but this time he was able to quash his desire. Now that he knew what kind of woman she was, he recognized her easy beauty as just another tool she used to her own advantage.

Once she’d found what she was after, a pair of enormous sunglasses, she put them on her face and started walking east towards the Paris casino. Towards him. Quickly, he slipped his quarter-back into his back jeans pocket (a sci-fi novel called Jupiter he’d picked up at the airport), and stared meaningfully into the baroque-style fountain he was standing in front of, feigning interest in the way a particular arc of water splashed into the penny-strewn pool. A moment passed, and she passed right by him. He waited a beat or two, and then followed.

As they walked down the strip, jostling shoulder to shoulder with a throng of tourists cooking beneath the sun together, he realized his next move was absolutely the wrong one. He couldn’t just surprise her with a firm hand on her elbow and compel her to talk to him, as he’d planned. All she had to do was scream and the prospect of any civilized discussion would go right out the window.

Before a sensible alternative plan occured to him, he noticed she’d stopped and was speaking to the hostess of an outdoor café attached to the casino. It didn’t look busy. He stopped and patted the front of his jeans looking for his cell. He took it out, flipped it open, and spoke into it. Some fifty or so yards away, the one-third scale replica of the Eiffel Tower loomed above them, a vast and rusted monster, one massive leg arcing down in front of the casino’s front entrance, looking as if it might suddenly tense and then lift to take another step.

He glanced over at his quarry. The hostess was leading her through the café and into the dark interior of the restaurant.

This, he knew, was his one and only play.

He stood next to the hostess’s lectern until she returned. “One,” he said. “Inside, please.”

Once inside he cursed silently. His eyes hadn’t adjusted from the bright sunlight; it was too dark to spot her. All he could do was hope she hadn’t noticed him. As soon as he was seated, he picked up the menu and held it in front of his face. The hostess was saying something to him about who his waitress would be but he ignored her. When his eyes were adjusted, he slowly lowered his menu and scanned the restaurant’s interior over the top of the pleasingly-yellowed parchment paper menu.

Across the room. Long brown hair, yellow blouse. Blue purse. Her back faced him.

He inhaled, exhaled, stood up, and walked to her table. He was seated across from her before she’d noticed anything had happened. She’d been airily perusing the choices when she looked up and saw him. She recognized him at once and opened her mouth, perhaps to scream, but he shook his head urgently and she was silent. “Do not scream,” he said, quietly. “Beneath the table.” She closed her mouth and her eyes flicked to the wooden tabletop. He nodded at her, but did not smile. “Yeah,” he said. “But I just want to talk.”

“Well, I don’t,” she said. Starting to look around the restaurant. No one was coming their way. “I don’t even know you.”

He snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s just you and me. There’s no casino security guys around for you to lie to.”

She looked at him now, her eyes bouncing back and forth as their focus shifted slightly from his right eye to his left and back again. “I’m supposed to believe you didn’t bring some kind of tape recorder?”

“I said all I want to do is talk, and I meant it.”

“So you didn’t bring a tape recorder, but you did bring a gun?” She wasn’t smiling when she said this, but the possibility of her smiling seemed far less remote now than it did when he first sat down. She wasn’t scared anymore, if she’d ever been.

He straightened in his seat. “Yes,” he said, unable to keep a note of falsity out of his voice. The fact of his lie seemed to hang in the air between them for a moment, and then he took hold of his cold, thick-handled salad fork, (but did not pick it up), and shook his head. “I do have one,” he said.

“No you don’t.”

He sat motionless for a moment, watching her, weighing whether to keep up the bluff or let it go, and finally he sat back in his chair. “Okay. Fine.”

Her expression was unreadable. Was she figuring her next play, or waiting for him to say what he was going to say?

“Are you going to scream, or can we talk?” he said.

“Go ahead,” she said, affecting a bored tone of voice. “Talk.”

He leaned forward. “I want the thousand you promised me,” he said.

“No.” Her expression was defiant now. Ugly. The opposite of how she’d looked when they’d been sitting together in front of the Yahtzee slots. She’d been beautiful then. Radiant. You could almost have believed she’d felt something for him.

“You were broke. I gave you a twenty and you promised if you won the jackpot, which we both assumed you wouldn’t, you’d give me one thousand. Against all odds, you won. That’s it. Fair is fair.”

She did an extended eye roll and sighed petulantly. “Do you have something in writing?”

“You know I don’t.”

“Than what is there to talk about?”

He clenched his fists tightly beneath the table. “You won four. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars. All I’m asking for is the one thousand you promised me.”

“You know. I think I will scream.”

He shook his head and looked away from her. “No, no, no, no,” he said. “Keep your grand.” He knew she wasn’t going to scream, not now, but the threat of embarassment and forcible ejection wasn’t what was distressing him at the moment. He hadn’t expected it to go this way. He really thought he could shame her into doing the right thing. How stupid. He looked at her now. “Can I have my twenty back?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. She looked disappointed. “What do you think?”

He took a breath and stood up. She struck the table with an open hand but did not look up at him. “Sit down,” she said. After a moment’s deliberation, he did. “I’ve been playing those fucking slots for six years, every weekend thinking this is going to be the one. Never was. And even though I figured it out, you know, the whole con? I still kept coming in. Someone told me the slots were looser at Circus Circus, so I go to that awful fucking place and drop quarter after quarter into their filthy machines, breathing all of that goddamn smoke, listening to all of those crying wetback kids waiting to see the fucking clown. Last weekend I was in Primm Valley, getting hit on by fat old bastards with BO sour enough to knock you on your ass. But I was just as nice as could be. And they’d give me money. Made ‘em feel good. Whatever I have to do to work those slots for another half hour. So you come along today, think some pretty girl’s into you, give her a twenty probably thinking you’ll get it back some other way, and I win. I win?” She sounded strangely offended by her improbable victory over bad luck. “For the first fucking time since I moved here I win some real goddamn money and you want me to be fair?”

The waitress was standing next to her now, looking uncomfortable. “Sorry. Just came to get your drink orders.”

“Diet Coke,” she said. “He’s fine with water.” The waitress was already rushing away.

She pulled her purse onto the table and started rooting around in it again. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll give you your twenty back, but only if you promise to stand up, walk out of here, and never talk to me again. What do you say?” She flung a crumpled twenty onto the table. It landed next to the centerpiece, some plastic thing filled with lace and ugly white flowers.

He picked it up, stood up, and put the bill into his pocket. “You are not a good person,” he said, and, at that moment, he felt like it was the worst thing he’d ever said to anyone.

As he walked past, she dropped her purse onto the carpet next to her. “Yeah,” she said, calling after him loudly. “But now I’m rich. What do you think counts for more in this place?"

Las Vegas at Night? Who Cares? It's Been Done. With Cold, World-Weary Eyes, Hinesy Takes a Hard Look at "Vegas By Day"

The Smackdown's founder, Nathan Hines, has roused his burly, literate creation from its 18-day coma by injecting 300 CCs of pure Story Goodness into its IV drip. Daddy couldn't let anyone call his baby a "dead blog", now could he? So, with his bid for May Smackdown glory, and a deck of Monte Carlo playing cards, Hinesy submits to you, the Smackdown reader/contributor, a story of family, crime, and terminal diseases called "Vegas By Day". It's a good read, so I'll let all of you get right to it. Let's get into it, folks. Those turnbuckles aren't going to leap from themselves!

Vegas By Day
by
Nathan Hines

Sunlight has no love for Las Vegas. At night, it is hidden. Shrouded in flashing lights and glitter. But in the glare of early afternoon, you can’t hide the cracked, cheap plaster and grime. The backdrop of dead, brown hills remind you that you’re not in a place made for men. This is the land of coyotes and lizards; and even they don’t come out in the day. They say that the casinos have no windows so the marks won't have any feeling of time and will dole their dollars out to the slots for a while longer.

I think it's so people will forget where they are. Where they've spent their fleeting time and hard-earned money to travel to.

I didn't come to Vegas to catch the shows, hoping that Lady Luck might blow me a kiss. I came here to hide. A city that only lived at night seemed like the perfect place to quietly slip into the crowd and go float along for awhile, unseen. But here I was, standing in the parking lot of Circus Circus, with my father's man in front of me.

I was just unlocking my car door when he walked up. For months now, I’d wondered what it was going to be like when I was finally found. Words like “Shock", “Terror", and “Flee” came to mind. Dynamic words. The kind you often see followed by one or two “!". After all, you don’t get caught stealing from my father and expect the experience to be pleasant. No, not my father.

But, when the moment arrived, all that came to mind was, “Oh, well,”.

“Don’t worry, Junior. I’m not here to…you know. Your pop needs your help.” my father’s man said.

He has a name, and if I thought moderately hard I might be able to remember it, but it’s not worth the effort. He doesn’t deserve a name. He’s just my father’s man.

He quickly and bluntly explained the situation and then waited as I let it sink in.

After, I’m not sure how long, I said, “So, how long has he known where I was?”

“All along,” my father’s man said.

“And I’m just seeing you now?”

“He said to let you go. Not to lift a finger. But you’re cut-off. Disowned.”

“That’s pretty generous of him,” I said.

“Yes. He always had a soft spot for you.”

I snorted at this, even though I knew it was true. My father’s soft spots were still pretty hard.

I moved some gravel around with the tip of my shoe.

“Leukemia, huh?” I said.

“Yeah,” my father’s man said. His voice seemed sorry. His eyes did not.

“How long does he have?”

“Depends on you. With a bone marrow transplant, or a few, he could beat it. If not…a few months, maybe.”

The thought of a needle digging through my flesh, and then through my bone to get right to it’s center made me quiver. Sure, they would numb the area. Dope me up so I wouldn’t feel a thing, but ideas are worse than reality. And the idea that I would go through that for him made my stomach turn.

“And if I agree?” I said.

“Then you’re not cut off anymore. The bit about the money is forgotten and you’ll inherit when he finally goes,” he said, and then added, “But, you know, hopefully that will be a long time away.”

“There’s nobody else?”

“Nope. You’re the only family he’s got, kid. And his blood type ain’t so common.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then, I guess I would be here for…you know...after all.”

Oh well…ran through my mind again. It had been fun. I wouldn’t be able to make it out of this if I wanted to.

“Job,” I muttered.

“Whas that?” my father’s man said.

“I’m like Job. You know, cursed.”

“Why don’t ya keep your Bible to yourself, kid,” he said, “So, what’s it gonna be? You can’t hate him more than you’d hate a bullet in your head.”

“You know, even though I’m his kid, there’s still a chance that we’re not a match. I mean if our blood type is off, I can’t do it. So, then what?”

My father’s man shrugged as if he hadn’t thought of this, nor cared enough to do so now.

“Not my business,” he said.

A glimmer of hope ran through me. It was just a glimmer, but it was enough to make me wish I could grin.

“Ok, how about this. I’ll go back with you, and we draw up the will first thing. Then we go take a blood test to see if I can even do this at all. If so, then ok we’ll do it. But if not, then I stay with the old man and take care of him for the remainder. No matter how long it takes, I’ll take care of him and make him comfortable. Keep him company and all that.”

“I can’t make that deal,” he said.

“No shit. Why don’t you hop on the phone and talk to someone who can?” I said, more like I was his boss than his potential victim.

My father’s man pulled out his cell phone and was muttered into it for a minute. Then he snapped it shut and gave me a nod.

“You got it, kid. But it’s gonna be writ in the will that if, you know, you guys don’t match then you gotta stay until the end. Otherwise ya get nothin.”

This time I did grin. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help it. I knew the chance of me being a donor match was next to none.

About a year before, as my mother lay dying in a gutter-slum apartment, with needle tracks in her arms and filth in her bed, she told me a secret. That when she was a show-girl beauty (before my father got tired of looking at the deepening wrinkles creeping outwards around her eyes, and kicked her to the curb) that she was “admired.” That was the word she used, and her eyes seemed to mist as she said it.

She was “admired” by a great many men and apparently there was one, in particular, who she “admired” back. In fact she admired this mystery man so much that I was born, looking quite a bit like him, nine months later. So, there was a very good chance that my father wasn’t so much my father after all. This had always suited me fine, but never as much as it did just then.

There would be no match, and I would get to watch the old man die. But with a bit of luck, first I would get to watch him whither.

"Oh don't worry," I said, "I'll be there until the very last second."

Vegas Abides all Kinds of Sin: Gambling, Whoring, Crooning. But Vegas Will NOT Abide Bad Writing. Your Work, Smackdowners, Is Cut Out For You.

As we kick off the new and fabulous month of May in the year 2006, let us congratulate Nathan Hines of Taiwan for his April Smackdown victory. Enjoy those wasabi peanuts friend 0' friends. Enjoy them well because they are your due. (And enjoy the money you saved by not having to send them to far-off lands like, say, Decatur, Georgia.) And also, thanks go to our six April entrants in the Smackdown, and all of those who offered their measured and insightful opinions regarding those entries. Your time was well-spent, and much appreciated.

So let us clear the sodden battlefield of these dead stories of hamsters and lawyers, tales of spineless men and coming storms, and let's make war anew under the azure skies of May, each armed only with a wild tale of a desert city called Las Vegas.

All right. Let's get into it.

THE LITERARY SMACKDOWN CHALLENGE FOR THE MONTH OF MAY IS:

"Write a short prose story set in Las Vegas, NV. The story must be dialogue-heavy, must include reference to an actual book (which you must mention by title), must include the words "Circus Circus" and "slots", and, finally, the story must center around, or feature in some way, the striking of a deal (by which I mean an arrangement, not a dealing of cards.)"

And by dialogue-heavy I mean at least a 1:1 ratio of narration to dialogue. Ths rule is not hard and fast -- if tons of dialogue doesn't work for your story, don't use it, but some dialogue is required. Other guidelines. Minimum word length: 400 words. Maximum word length: 1,600 words. Deadline for submission is 11:59 PM EST on Tuesday, May 30th. Wednesday, May 31st will be devoted to last-minute votes, averaging scores, and the announcing of a winner. Voting deadline is 11:59PM on May 31st.

Additionally, if it is at all possible, I request a photo of the author along with the submission of a story, (unless, of course, the writer wishes to remain anonymous). If you cannot include a photo of yourself, please send along an image that you think is appropriate to include with your story. If not inclined to do either, I'll come up with something.

(For your edification, I am also including a photo (pictured above) of Circus Circus, (known to some as Crickus Crickus), just so you know what you'll be referencing.)

Please send all entries to either literarysmackdown@gmail.com or to judgeholden0211@aol.com. The prize this month is a deck of playing cards from the Monte Carlo Hotel and Casino! Yaayy!

Enough of this loghorrea. Time to write. Who among you dares enter first?!

Before the Month's Out, Mystery Writer Wants to Tell You About KC's Street

How's this for late entries? Mystery Writer's back with a 2,500 word opus called KC Street. The hours left in April number few, so I'll let you get right to it.

KC's Street
by Mystery Writer

Jeanie stood in front of the jury; she clasped a new yellow pencil in her hand behind her back. Her knuckles turned white as the blood drained from her small hand. The tighter she held the pencil the more she felt it slipping from her grasp. She had stopped mid-sentence, completely losing her train of thought. She stepped back toward her desk, the seat behind it a sanctuary of sorts, safer than the unprotected spot she now occupied. She would have liked to sit down, but it was not yet time to rest. She saw Henry, looking at her with an unquestioned confidence, a feeling she could not, in all truth, convince herself she deserved. The continuation of her thought was not on the desk and Henry, his dark brown eyes, not quite understanding the complex issues surrounding him, was not going to offer the needed words either.

Time had not slowed down like you see might see in the movies. However, when you have such a gap or void in thought and words and when people are waiting for you to fill it, the time you are allotted to make the next noise, hopefully an intelligent utterance, is remarkably short. She looked down, at her notes, carefully arranged on her open portfolio. They might as well have been written in a different language, as all she could see were the words “Guilty as Charged”, over and over again. Jeanie was all Henry had. She stood before this jury and knew once again, it would be her words that had failed her, and that they were also going to fail him.

Just pick a friendly face and talk directly to that one person.

It was advice that her boss, Jackson, had given her several weeks before. Jackson was not his real name, but one that had been assigned to him during his days playing football at Mississippi State and it had stuck. He was a large black man, who had taken the opportunity to get his law degree at the same time he was tearing up the cartilage in his right knee. He walked with a slight limp but always had a smile and words of encouragement, especially for his newly minted lawyers, given the near impossible task of protecting the rights of an ever increasing guilty clientele. He had sat her down in his office, provided a large white handkerchief from his pocket, and listened to her near coherent words in-between the tears. He closed the door preventing the others in the office from hearing her distress. Her most recent client was on his way to January State Prison and he was innocent. She had not been able to convince the jury that it was a mistaken identification and that even if he had been to prison twice before. He was not guilty. He hadn't raped the girl. She knew it was her summation that lost it: she'd sounded like she didn't believe her client, she hadn't been passionate, and the jury mistakenly took her abject fear for lack of confidence in her own client, and now he was going to spend the next 15 years in hell because of it.

Jeanie quickly scanned the twelve seats and found a face that wasn't friendly so much as questioning and, perhaps, a little sympathetic. It was far better than the other eleven, whose expressions seemed to say, "How in hell did I get trapped here and when do I get to go home?" Jeaniedirected her gaze at the woman and smiled. The woman smiled back.

“Excuse me,” she turned to the judge, “I would just like to review that last point." She did not know the name of the woman, so in her mind she named her Beverly and every time she needed to, she would add a silent Beverly to the conversation, that she had now started with the unsuspecting juror.

Just talk to her like you would a friend.

The words echoed inside but got louder on each subsequent reverberation until she had to move out of their path, their truth powerful but potentially overwhelming.

“(Beverly). When Henry stepped out of his house that morning he had only one thing on his mind and that was how he was going to get high. We admit he has a drug habit. He has a very bad drug habit. It's debilitating. His only objective each day, from the time he wakes up until he goes to bed is when, not if, he is going to get that next fix. It is a sad life. There is no love in his life, there is no passion, there is no future. He is going to die with a needle in his arm.

Janie walked over to one of the prosecutions’ large well-lettered boards outlining Henry’s drug habit in excruciating detail. She waved an arm absently as if this held little importance, even though the jury had heard from three witness with over 4 hours of testimony on the well-labored subject.

“ We heard from many experts,” she began again, turning toward the jury and dismissing the boards importance completely. "The prosecution spent an inordinate amount of time telling and proving to you that Henry is a herion addict. (Beverly) not once did we ever dispute that. We did not even cross-examine any of these people. The fact that Henry used drugs that very day is not in question, because he used drugs, he got high, he stuck that dirty needle, now in evidence as prosecution exhibit 23, between his toes, in his arm pit, and god knows where else, everyday.”

Janie watched several of the jurors squirm with that comment. She was not sure if this was a good thing but it did show they were listening.

Don’t talk down and don’t talk over there head, she is a friend and your just sharing your thoughts with her, trying to help her see your point of view.

“(Beverly) How many people live with you?,” Janie changed the topic, she was taking these people, her friends, on a ride, to where Henry lived, a place foreign to them, but it was vital that they joined her. (Beverly) I live with a cat. I am not sure that even counts. But she and I take care of each other, so even counting the cat, that’s just two of us in that apartment. Henry lives with 8 people in a two bedroom apartment. Across from him, in 809A there are 7, and down the hall 812B is a 2 rooms apartment that have has two whole families, for a total of 12, and an occasional father, with children ranging from 2- 19, all in one apartment. (Beverly) it’s the same for every apartment in that building and on that block, this is a very dense population, people are basically living on top of each other. And everyone in that close quarters knows ever body else’s business. And everybody knows everybody else. So of course Henry knew Kiicha, KC to her friends. In fact she was KC to everybody on that block.”

Janie saw some evident interest in a old Hispanic gentleman, and she decided to name him Arturo. She remembered she had a super once with that name, he always had a smile for her and she needed another smiling face right now. So she was going to include both Beverly and Arturo in her discussion. Her friendly chat and ride into Henry and KC’s neighborhood just picked up an extra passenger.

“(Beverly) when you see the police, I expect that you don’t run and hide. And ( Aurtro) You probably wave and offer a smile. I expect that you see a police officer actually in your neighborhood maybe once a year. Do you ever remember one screaming down your street with the siren blaring. I can’t, not even once. In Henry’s neighborhood it’s a everyday occurrence. There's no hidden secret that there's a crime problem on Henry’s and KC’s block. Gangs, drugs, prostitution, and poverty. It’s a near impossible situation to break. For a lawyer like myself I could think of it as job security.”

Beverly smiled and so did Arturo, Janie clearly focused on her friends and confidants, she heard the titter of laughter from the rest of the group. They had crossed the threshold and had begun to take the trip with her.

If you can get them to smile or even laugh they are listening, and getting them to listen to you is why you are there. If they are listening then they hear what you are saying.

“I don’t of course. I think of my job as more of a gate keeper, helping the ones that can escape get out, especially when they are wrongly accused.”

She let that sink in. Janie, could see Beverly and Arturo nodding understanding the concept of escape.

“So when the police came in, sirens screaming, eight boys ran, all in different directions. (Bev) I can’t tell you why all these boys run from the police but they do every time. They had no idea why they were running, other than not to get caught and have to answer questions, any questions from the police. But Henry,” Janie turned to look at her client, hoping all of the jury members would do the same”, did not run, he just sat there and looked at the pretty lights, because Henry was high. Very high.”

“I have a hard time understanding these kids.”

Janie looked at Beverly and then at Arturo before beginning again. Maybe they understood. Maybe they were no so much taking the steps with her to a new place but perhaps they were returning home.

”These kids are a pack, they are untamed and for the most part wild. You might think of them as herd of wild horses. And when the cops came screaming in that morning, 9:35, to be exact, Henry had shot up only 15 minutes before and he stayed.”

“These police were very familiar with Jefferson street,” Janie, put her notes down at her side, this is where she wanted to take them. This is where they had to be with her.

She stepped up close to the rail, the barrier all but disappearing, as she stepped across and sat among them.

“They knew a lot of the boys that took off, their stampede didn’t fool anybody, the cops knew exactly where each of the boys would end up. They had been down this street many times before, they knew exactly how to get there. Remember me asking Sergeant Collins and I think you might have thought it odd (Beverly), when I asked the question, "how did you get there?” You remember his answer? From the station, it was '...mmm'.”

She made a great play of raising the note pad that had been at her side and flipping though several pages until she found the right note, but she had memorized these directions several days before. She did not need notes, this was her case.

“( Bev) let me read from my notes, Down Casey, right on 3^rd, two blocks, and left around the corner. I even asked why go left there, why not just down Casey and make a right on 4th, and Sgt. Collins replied, “we always go left there to avoid the traffic light at 4^th and Williamson. At first it was just Collins, but as Collins rounded the corner on 3^rd he was joined by Harris, and Anderson, now they are three cars, all moving together, down 3^rd, and at Williams, two more squad cars joined the group, all in all as they made the final run down KC’s and Henry’s street they had six cars, screaming down the street, sirens blaring, it was a procession, no, (Bev) that’s not what it was, it was a freight train, it was hurtling down the street, and it might as well have been on railroad tracks, no deviation, no odd turns, no red lights, they knew where they were going, had been there a hundred times before, the gates came down on every cross street, down came the guards, on and on the train sped through the intersections of Jackson, Harrison, and Taft. Picking up speed, and momentum, their sirens cutting through the normal city din. The train never slowed down, not once.”

“As soon as the boys heard the sirens, they ran, they could hear them getting closer every second.” Janie turned and walked back to her client, “but not Henry, he did not run.”

She walked over to the prosecutions exhibits once again, and pointed to the smiling face on one side of the large white placard labeled exhibit 23, of KC and on the side a picture of a young black woman in a pool of her own blood, the right side of her scalp laid back showing white skull. She paused looking at the pictures, knowing that even the smiling face of KC was a rarity. She too was an addict and she and Henry had both shot up that morning.

She spoke this time to the whole jury, as they had all taken that ride to KC’s street, they were sitting on the stoop with her, watching Henry sitting next to KC each rocking back and forth in their own private world. The smiling KC was no longer there.

“The column of police squad cars was rolling down that street, and at the end was Henry, as he was all that was left, all the other boys were gone.. and of course KC.

"It was like a train running over a horse."

“Henry never had a chance, the train just rolled right over, right though him, as if he never existed. For the cops it was easy, it was over in a flash, and there was nothing else to do. In a matter of seconds, Henry was arrested, handcuffed, in the back of the car, and on the way to jail. He didn’t even get a chance to say good-bye to KC. For all intents and purposes Henry disappeared. Like a horse in front of the freight, he never saw it coming, and it was over before it even began.” Janie could now tell the rest of the story, these friends now had joined her on the journey and she could bring them with her to understand, to travel and to live in Henry's and KC's shoes.

And the Winner(s) of the March Literary Smackdown Is (Are)...

It is 18 minutes past midnight on the east coast, and voting is over. I know there's another 2 hours and 42 minutes left in March out on the west coast, but I think all the Smackdown readers out there who wanted to vote, already have. So, without further ado, the winner of the March Literary Smackdown is:

Me. Brian Crane.

Yeah, I know. What a schmuck. Of course the month I run the Smackdown I'm the guy who wins the thing, but there it is all the same. It was a very close thing, with the lead going back and forth in the final days, and the final averages separated by just tenths of decimal points, but in the end, I squeaked through. Thanks, er'rybody for all of your votes and comments.

Also, thanks to all the entrants and voters for their time and talent this month. For myself, reading all of these great entries and comments made the Smackdown yet one more fun thing for this unemployed blogger to do besides get a job. Awesome! But before I get too pompous and self-involved I'll get into the cold hard numbers I've been crunching.

The Top Ten Literary Smackdowners are:

1.) Brian Crane -- 7.217
2.) Shawn Harwell -- 7.1583
3.) Kris Baucom -- 7.05
4.) HM -- 6.96
5.) Jenna Garland Wells -- 6.7375
6.) Mystery Writer -- 6.631449075
7.) Nathan Hines -- 6.45333
8.) Abe Jacquot -- 6.199667
9.) Paul Papadeas -- 6.04444
10.) Zack Tyler Adams -- 5.644

(I'm fairly certain the numbers are good and correct, but as with anything involving me and numbers, there is the distinct possibility I made a mistake. If your average sounds off, please go back and double-check the math and let me know if there's a discrepancy. I will correct the record for posterity if warranted.)

And for some more fun numbers, Abe, HM, and Hinesy were the nicest graders on average this month, while anonymous's #2 and #3 were the least forgiving.

All right! March is done and April has begun, and there is more writer-blood to be shed! Let's keep the Smackdown train rolling right into next month! I leave you in the able (not to mention strong and masculine) hands of Nathan Hines.

In the Waning Days of March, a Final Entreaty for Score-Giving

Hola, Literary Smackdowners! As March draws to a close, and the limp-elbowed slap fight that is the Smackdown approaches its conclusion, I would like to quickly remind you guys that there are only three days left in the month, and then we've got to tally the votes and calculate the averages. Lots of you have weighed in and given scores to the combatants, (which is great), but a lot of entries remain relatively score-poor. If you can rate the stories you haven't gotten to yet in the next few days, awesome, if you can't, that's fine, too. Just want to have every voice heard if possible. This was a much better turn-out than I expected this month, and I'm hoping that April's Smackdown garners even more interest. It was great to read everyone's entry.

Also, in the comments section of this post, please post up any suggestions you might have on how the Smackdown goes next month, specifically as it relates to voting. If you have any comments on how it's run currently, or ideas for improvements in the coming months, please write in. If you love it love it love it, write that. All right. That's it.

Next post: the winners.

JG Wells: Writer, Blogger, World Traveller, and now, Smackdown Contender. Behold the 8th Entry! "Fertile Ground"

This is JG Wells. As you can tell from the photo, (a lake in Slovenia, she tells us), she's just killed someone. Any time you're caught standing near a lake, so this exercise has informed us, you're guilty of murder. Or at least manslaughter. Anyway, JG Wells is an old high-school friend of Hinesy's, and found Hinesy's lil' blog through newcomer Abe Jacquot's wife's blog (how many degrees is that?). She currently resides in the Netherlands with her fiance, and happens to run a blog herself (which you can visit here). Wow. The eighth entry. Can we make it nine before the end of March? (Craig?) Anyway, enough with my rambling preamble! Now, prepare yourself, for the EIGHTH entry in the March Literary Smackdown! (And, as an overly friendly note to those Smackdown participants who have not yet voted on the other entrants, you still have about two weeks before the end of the month to get those votes in. The mo' opinions the mo' better.) Okay. Now read and judge JG's "Fertile Ground".

Fertile Ground
by JG Wells

Jerome eased himself down on a flat, ochre-colored rock that jutted from the cliff-side, hovering over the lake’s edge. He let his dusty leather hiking boots dangle over the precipice, enjoying the cooling air circling around his sweaty, dirt-streaked calves. It had been an exertive hike around the lake that morning –one of the best in a long, long time. He spent a lot of time in the forest around Lake Merabet and knew the hiking trails and off-road paths, better than anyone. Although he lived in a typical, small-town house, with a well-manicured yard, Lake Merabet and its surrounding forest of towering trees felt more like home. Here, there was no yelling, only the whisper of the wind in the tree branches and chatter of birds and squirrels as they busied themselves overhead. Here, there was no pain and bruises (unless you made them yourself), only the caressing smoothness of silky water against your skin. Here, there were hardly ever people around. Jerome had developed an embarrassing stutter as a child and although he had better control of it now, he still felt more comfortable in the wilderness than with people.

The surface of the lake below him was as smooth as glass and a peaceful, restful green. This was his spot. He had found it several years ago. It was very private. You had to climb a steep, poorly marked path to get there. Most people just passed it by. Unlike the sandy beaches of Miami or southern California, the lake beach below him consisted of a multitude of rocks and pebbles in a variety of shapes, colors and sizes. Some of the rocks were smooth, flat and round –perfect for skipping far across the lake’s surface. Others were jagged and sharp –treacherous to walk on. Often, Jerome would strip, swim in the velvety waters and walk across the beach with bare feet, heedless of the hazardous stones.

Jerome took off his 49ers cap, laid his back against the sun-drenched rock and spread his arms out onto the mossy, lime earth beside him. He closed his eyes and listened to the calming sound of the water’s edge lapping against the rocks below.

Before long, his skin began to prickle with gooseflesh and he felt the disturbance before he heard the group of voices headed in his direction. Jerome quickly retracted his feet and crawled backwards, crouching behind the trunk of a nearby redwood tree. The voices were coming from below him and to the left. A few minutes later, the owners of the voices emerged. Three boys, he recognized two of them from school –idiot jocks. He hoped they would pass by, but instead they stopped just below the rock outcropping where Jerome had been lying. He hated them –they were all the same with their swaggering and posturing. Now they were ruining his morning of triumph. This was his beach, his special place –they had no right to intrude with their plastic coolers of Coors and loud, obnoxious voices. Defeated, he listened for a few minutes to their braggart’s exploits of conquests and scoffed before retreating backwards into the safe concealment of the forest. For all their allegations of sexual prowess, they might as well be impotent. Jerome had discovered a pleasure a thousand times more exciting and rewarding than any post-cum release. And it was only here, in the peace of the redwood trees, where the fertile earth covered his secrets, where the viridian water reflected his pleasure that he could bask in it.

The Seventh Entry: Paul "Prolific" Papadeas Offers Up an Earthy "Lady of the Lake"

This is not Paul Papadeas. This is a drawing of a character Paul played in a little movie called "Incident at Sicuani". This isn't even a likeness. I drew this in a storyboard before I'd even cast Paul. "The Native" was his character name in the "script". I post this up because I have no photos of Paul, so this is going to have to do.

Paul's entry into this month's Smackdown has some interesting backstory: When the progenitor of this blog, Nathan Hines, first received this story, it was so audacious and in-your-face he thought for sure that "The Tear in the Canonazo" author, and resident harrasshole, Heath Michaels, had written it and stamped Paul's name on it for a laff (not a 'laugh' mind you, but a 'laff'. Huge difference.) Not so. Paul's the true author. So, with this, the seventh (and final?) entry in the March edition of Literary Smackdown, Paul Papadeas sets his boot into the ring. Seven entries! Records are being shattered everyday. Ready, set, JUDGE!

Lady of the Lake
By Paul Papadeas

Goddamn bitch. I remember this place. We used to come here to fuck. It was so damn humid and the gnats would just eat my eyeballs like they were a pig pickin’ cake. At times I’d be going at her with my stinging eyes closed.

So peaceful out here though – nobody would bother us that’s for sure – she’d scream bloody murder and the only thing that you’d hear in return was a bullfrog’s rancid belch. One time I slipped onto a colony of ants. Damn critters stung my cock and turned it into a swollen water balloon.

She laughed at me. She always laughed at me. But never with me. That seems to be a recurring theme of my life.

Wow. It’s in pretty good shape. But the water still looks like somebody dumped a truckload of Jack Daniels in there. She wouldn’t mind though. She would wash off by taking a swim. Man, that turned me on more than the bangin’. I liked the way she moved the current against here skin. She was white as a ghost and it sure made a nice contrast.

Yeah, but it’s a perfect place for casting one off too. Bet you there’s some nice catch in there. Gotta try it sometime soon – whenever I can break free from my so-called busy schedule.

She never let me eat any of the fish either. Always said it was because there were too many bones, but I know she was really one of them bleeding heart types. Always in love with the cold blooded.

Damn. If I only had a red and white sandwich and a portable radio about now. Would love to know the score. I think its Sunday. There’s always a game.

Never a soul out here but me and the trees. Ever. I feel like I’m trapped in the rib cage of a giant. They say that this little piece of freedom still belongs to the Potter’s. But I don’t see their house in the clearing. Maybe they tore it down or sold it off to the city. Who really gives a shit?

This place is surely forgotten now. Maybe I’ll just lay out here for tonight. Just for old time’s sake.

Mystery Writer Leaps from the Turnbuckle and Dives Into the Middle of the Literary Smackdown!

One more entry folks. This writer wishes to remain anonymous, so this person won't require much in the way of introduction. Without further ado, Mystery Writer jumps into the fray that is the Literary Smackdown! Don't worry about pulling your punches. This writer can take it. So sharpen your 1-10 scales and judge lest ye be judged!

Untitled
by Anonymous

Daniel pushed through the brush, his breath more difficult with each step. Thin, whip-like branches slashed back into his face and arms, leaving momentary weals, each more painful than the next. His black army boots were becoming caked with a second layer of dark black mud. Daniel raised his forearm again protecting his eyes from the swift whip return of the branch as he pushed aside another thick, thorn-covered bramble, living barbed wire still clinging to the recent black rain. He wiped water from his eyes, desperate to see farther into the woods. The path was lost, in the fading light and the darkening gray ceiling. The lake was somewhere in front, of that he was sure, he had been there a hundred times, maybe a thousand. It could only be a few more steps. His boot sunk into the soft ground kicking up forest floor decay. His blue jeans clung wet with mud and rain, a new weight for each step. The proud leather jacket forever ruined, sodden and heavy on his back. Each step closer, each step more hurried, more desperate.

He never saw it, a jagged time-worn stump, only a foot high, moss and forest trash hiding it from view. His boot crushed into and through the rotted stump. He could feel the soft wood collapse and he fell.

The fall was unprotected, sudden, and violent. There was no warning, he was not even able to utter a sound, his arms useless and offering no defense. His face slammed through the hard thorn covered wires, each strand, each hard thorn, pierced and then sliced, through his unprotected skin. He hit the ground with terrible force. The forest heard the breaking of branches and then a dull thud, and then stillness. A horrible empty stillness; nothing. It started to rain again.

Daniel first tasted dirt, then blood. He lay there with his face in the cold earth, his arm useless beside him, broken, something else hidden beneath him pressed into his chest. The gray ceiling gone, replaced by a ceiling lower and now a shade of black, darkened, it pressed Daniel harder into the ground. He waited, soon he could move again, but now he just needed to close his eyes and rest.

He could smell the lake. He wondered why he could smell it now, perhaps it was because he was closer to the ground. He knew it had rained more and then stopped and perhaps started again, he thought it might be raining now. He knew he was close. Rotting water they had called it, a time each year when the lake, its water heated by the summer sun, exchanged places with deeper cooler water, the thermal layers equalizing. The deep water stilled and, not having moved during the summer months, was pulled from the depths, bringing with it bottom decay, rot and a smell, both familiar and safe. It was a time of year the lake belonged only to him.

Daniel rolled to the side, and tried to sit up, he could move his arm so perhaps it was not really broken, just sprained. It was good not to taste dirt any longer, but he spit mucus-thick blood for some time.

He did not remember even rolling over, or sitting up but he stood now, the lake before him. The dull black surface unable to reflect, the water barely moved even close to the knotted, ragged-cut roots and ended before the roots could touch the twice fetid waters. How many summers did he sit just here, listening to the distant gleeful sounds wishing for his alone time. His time to laugh at trees.

Shawn Harwell Wants to Give You a "Tweak"

This is Shawn Harwell. He lives in Cincinatti, Ohio with his wife Gretchen. There, in the land of the closely-contested election, he writes screenplays, fiction, graphic novels, and whatever else comes to mind. Fresh to the Smackdown, Shawn has written a bit of short fiction entitled "Tweak" for this month's Smackdown challenge. Five, count them FIVE entries for the month of March! Yet another new record. The bar has been set highly for April. We may yet get another entry before the end of the month, who knows? Anyway, on to Harwell's story "Tweak" which comes from the so-subtle-you-gotta-read-it-twice school of fiction writing. Enjoy, and then lay the hammer down. Or should I say ... smackdown?

Tweak
by Shawn Harwell

Tweak stood with her hands in her pockets while her husband cleaned the fish he'd caught. He was on one knee and he'd had to steady himself a few times in the slippery clay that gave way to the lake. The clay was bright red from the rain and the blood from the fish made her think the two things belonged together, the dirt and the blood, the way babies belonged to their mommas once they were pushed out of the womb. Robin cut the head of the fish off and tossed it into the water. It wasn't big enough to make a splash and she knew he'd have to catch three more before they'd begin to feel like they'd ate. Still, it was something and there'd been days now when they'd gone without. For that Tweak reckoned she was grateful.

"We need dry wood to cook this with." Robin wiped the knife blade against his pants leg and held the handle out for Tweak. He didn't look at her. His other hand was busy spreading the bulk of the fish out flat so she'd be able to pierce it with a stick to cook. Tweak took the knife and it was warm with sweat and effort. She started off through the weeds to a scratch of woods that bordered the lake just below the hills where the old house sat atop like it was watching everything. There was no one in it now, she knew.

As she walked across the clearing, Tweak felt the summer rain soak from the grass and through the hole in her canvas shoes. Once, Robin had suggested she paint something on her shoes because it was something like she'd be good at. She never did and now they weren't suitable for painting; they weren't white, they weren't even a color. Her shoes were muddy and wet, and the one with the hole made her foot seem like it was shriveling inside. She entered the space with the trees and was greeted by shade and a swarm of gnats. The bugs were called out by the rain and they answered in numbers. Tweak moved a strand of hair from her mouth so she could breathe better. The air was less humid in the trees and it didn't have the same taste there. She moved past the cloud of gnats and something on the ground stabbed her foot through the hole in her shoe but she kept walking.

When she could see nothing but trees, Tweak thought she heard the sound of Robin casting his line once again into the lake. He'd stolen the rod from a shed and she'd watched him do it from behind a rusted out tractor that had snakes sitting in the well of a tire. Now he was catching her lunch with it and she would be responsible for the cooking. All around her were the remnants of limbs broken from trees after a heavy snow that came late, almost on Easter Sunday. She picked up one here and there and stepped on another to break it in half. The wood was dry. It would burn and they would eat.

She heard the sound of the line again and Tweak turned back to the direction of the lake. She could no longer see the water and imagined it as he saw it. Robin would look at the water and not see the muddy bottom that kicked around in wide swaths spurred up by the rain. He wouldn't see the water bugs take in the sun or the turtle on its back, just at the shoreline, waiting to die and be eaten. He wouldn't notice the fox panting down the hill hungry for frog eggs congealed at the surface. He wouldn't see the sun escape on the water in a reflection that looked like something she'd paint on a shoe. He wouldn't see any of it, Tweak knew. Instead, he'd see a fish, a meal, and then he'd see them run real far off toward a dream he'd had that he'd swore would one day come true. For her part, she'd believed him then.

Robin said something in the distance that made Tweak drop the wood she'd collected. Unburdened, her arms felt free and long. Behind her Robin yelled again. The gnats had followed her now and made noise in her ear. She swatted at them but knew they wouldn't stop until the sun went down. Behind her the lake was invisible in Robin's eyes. In front of her the woods held steady to the earth. Tweak would walk. Then, maybe, she would run.