PDA

View Full Version : short stories, poems, essays, writings.



ralphie
06-04-2003, 08:42 AM
this thread is for anyone who writes. post stories or poems or whatever you want!
heres something short to start it off:
---------------
before doing something abnormally risky, rather scary, or just plain mad; be sure to have a reliable map, created with only the most up-to-date information.

anything else should be freely done, with joy...
always with joy...

take little seriously,
ralphie.

[Edited on 6-4-2003 by ralphie]

ufoinkushiro
05-26-2009, 03:06 PM
bump


ha

rogersbowne
05-26-2009, 06:23 PM
Enjoy:

The Bus from Mexicali to Hechicera

It was late in the afternoon and a dry breeze crept from the east. A man with dirt fixed to his skin and a few day's growth was busy picking a payphone and popping pesos into it. His boots carried scars of long travels and barroom fights. He flipped open a matchbook and began to dial. He leaned against the booth. A few rings passed and a woman answered.

“Bueno,” the voice was flat
“Where are you in this god forsaken country?”
“How did you find me?”
“You sure told a lot of people. Now give me directions.”
“A ways outside of Hechicera, the people know me there. Just ask.”

Hanging up the phone the man began to make his way to a nearby bus depot. He lit up a cheap cigarette as he approached the ticket lady.
“Cuándo viene el proximo Hechicera bus?” he asked eying a sign in the back of the store that had a scantly clad woman holding a brand of cheap beer, Moja mi boca y sabe rico.
The woman pointed out behind him as a bus kicking up dust made its way down the road.
“Cinco pesos.” She held her hand out.
He dropped the money on the counter and took the ticket.

He finished his smoke as the bus driver stared down from his seat. The bus driver would wait. He threw his bag over his shoulder, checked the gun tucked into the back of his pants, and made his way up. The driver glanced over and looked back towards the road, closing the door, never taking the ticket. A machista near the front whispered “pinche gringo” as the man passed. He took a seat against a open window. Throwing his bag down he laid on it and closed his eyes and turned his head down. A cowboy hat seemed to be missing from the picture.

The sky to the west still hung onto to that dry, orange color as night began to make way from the east. There were light horn sounds and static coming from an old radio in the kitchen. A middle aged Mexican woman, showed hints of the beautiful woman she once was. She was alone in the house and sat in an old yellow chair. Smoke from a lit cigarette was heavy in the air.

The engine sound from the road alerted her to the arrival of the man from the phone but her faced showed nothing. She only got up and went to the screen door and opened it only enough to stand against the frame. Having left the cigarette in the ash tray she felt somewhat naked. The man walked up casually and made no signs of welcoming.

“Why would you live way out in this shit hole?” the man said opening the screen door and walking right in.
“Why are you here?” she was turning slowly around and heading towards the kitchen where the man went.
“I came for you,” he pulled a dirty shot glass from sink and filled it with a nearby unmarked bottle.
“Why?” she asked grabbing another glass, cleaning it in the sink, and drying it with her red, soiled summer dress.
“Why, why, why? Cause,” he took the shot and grimaced on only the right side of his face.
“Where are your wife and kids? Leave them behind to starve?”
“They're fine don't you worry. Where is the ole man anyways? I want to compliment him on the pig sty and cheap tequila”
“Mexico city. He drives trucks.” she finally responded. She went to fridge for ice and filled her glass with the cheap tequila.
“Thought he might shoot me as soon as the car pulled up.”
“Is that why you're carrying a gun?”
“Maybe, I don't trust any of you animals down here,” taking the shot he finished “I need a shower.”
“There's a towel on the ground, puerco.”

When he got out of the shower he dressed in his shabby clothes. He had shaved. The man then made his way to the living room where the woman sat with a cigarette in one hand and a half-full glass in the other. She had laid out what was left of the bottle and a glass with ice that had already begun to melt next to an open chair. He sat down and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it with matches and poured the drink.

“You used his razor?”
“Wouldn't want me looking too rugged would you darling?” he smirked.
“I don't know why you came. I want nothing to do with you”
“I know that.”
“I'm married and in love” she said right back.
“You don't love shit. You've never loved any body in your whole damn life.”.
“Look you can stay till morning then you need to go. The couch is yours.”

He nodded. They sat quietly for a while switching off from cigarettes to booze. The ice disappeared and the bottle emptied. The night had lifted the days veil of heat and a cool breeze came through the screen door. They were drunk and passions rose as wild dogs howled in the distance.

“You know why I came,” the man said breaking the long silence.
“I know why you came.”
“Is there nothing between us?”
“Hate,” she said.
“Then hate is what we've always had. Passionate, yearning hate.”
“I've never hated any man more than you. You disgust me (but I want this in Spanish).”
“And...you love this man,” he said waving his hand around the room.
“I love him!”
“You lie!”
“Maybe. I can't be with you...for too many reasons,” her drink gone she still held tightly to the glass.

The man got up from his chair and the woman did not move. She did not brace herself for anything. He walked over, picked her out of the chair, and threw her to the wall. His face red with anger and lust he kissed her as if (I need something good and passionate here). She went along with it losing her soul into his and when they finished she threw him off.

“You have to go. I can't do this anymore,” she said with a strong face but tears welling up.
“I know”
The man reached behind his back, pulled out the gun, and put it to her temple. She only waited for the trigger to end all of this. The moon was high in the sky, animals scurried across the desert landscape, and shot rung out from inside the small house. It was followed by a howl of pure heartache and then another shot followed.

Cecil
05-27-2009, 02:22 AM
I'd post a horror story, but I don't like putting my writing on the internet. Call me old skool.