Happy New Year

Well, 2017 is over and what a year it was. Not going to bore you with a retrospective, I'll just say I hope '18 is a step up - globally and personally. It was a rough one for me and I've let my work slide a little, not enough time spent at the drawing table and I'm going to do my best to change that this year.

I've also been working quietly on a personal project that I hope to unleash very soon, "Edgebright & Leofwyn", a fantasy story that's pretty near and dear to me. Once I have all the technical pieces in place I'll reveal a little more, right now I'm still figuring that all out and doing all the fun (drawing) work in the background.

It's freezing here in Chicago. Very cold.

Oh yes, I will be opening myself to commissions as well this year, so if you've got something you really want to see me draw, hit me up. Send me an email.

So cold. More later.

Indigenous Con, Sherman Alexie and final Inktober

Folks, I'll be in Albuquerque NEXT WEEK for the second annual Indigenous Con! I'll be at table A2 with an assortment of books, art and prints! I'll be doing commissions as well, so hit me up if you want something done pre-con or just stop by the table and say hello!

In that spirit, I have to say I've had Sherman Alexie's novel RESERVATION BLUES sitting on my bookshelf for 25 or so years... (I'm old) and never picked it up until last week. I read THE LONE RANGER AND TONTO FISTFIGHT IN HEAVEN many years ago and enjoyed it, but Reservation Blues was one of those rare reads that seems to wait for the perfect moment to leap into your hands, when you need it the most. I would recommend this book to anyone who is curious about the Modern Native or just enjoys a damn fine read. It's also funny as hell, I laughed out loud more than once and a smile (almost) never left my face. Thank you, Mr. Alexie.

Oh yeah, here is the last batch of #inktober illustrations! If you're interested in any of them, hit me up at jt@woundedbutdangerous.com. Much obliged.

cat inktober.jpg
dragon inktober.jpg
rat inktober.jpg
scarecrow inktober.jpg
spider inktober.jpg
These were all done with a #2 round Blick Studio brush and sumi ink. I recommend participating in #inktober next year if you didn't this time around!

These were all done with a #2 round Blick Studio brush and sumi ink. I recommend participating in #inktober next year if you didn't this time around!

Another Inktober bundle, and a... radio show?

So this Thursday, 12-1 Central Time I'll be talking with Native America Calling, a radio program based in Albuquerque, about being Native and also about Horror. Are the two inexorably intertwined? In me perhaps, in others maybe not so much. Either way we'll get to the truth of the matter this Thursday the 26th.

I'll also BE in Albuquerque Nov 10-12 for the Indigenous Comic Con, where I'll be discussing many of the same things with whoever comes to my table! It's the show's second year, my first at it, and I'm looking forward to it immensely. I'll have, of course, many book and much art with me. Please stop by if you're able!

Here are some more #inktober doodles!

amulet inktoberc.jpg
demon inktoberc.jpg
early grave inktoberc.jpg
eyeball inktober.jpg
giallo mask inktoberc.jpg
Monster Killer.jpg
All of these, except the Eyeball (which was done with a garbage brush pen) were executed with a #2 round brush from Blick Studio and Sumi ink.

All of these, except the Eyeball (which was done with a garbage brush pen) were executed with a #2 round brush from Blick Studio and Sumi ink.

Why do I have so many Dionne Warwicke albums? Also, #inktober catch up!

If you follow me on social media you'll know I've been cranking these puppies out to varying effectiveness, but I'm collecting them all here for your viewing displeasure.

Real quick - I'll be at the Sideshow Gallery this Friday for the "Phobias" show, for which I did a special piece... it might be the creepiest thing I've done. Hope to see you there!

And lastly - if you haven't seen Blade Runner 2049 yet, DO IT. In IMAX if possible, if not at the very least go see it in the theater. That's the only way you'll see those incredible images as they were meant to be seen (I don't care how big your tv is), and it's the only place you'll be as immersed as you should be for this film. It's a masterpiece, in my opinion.

Here's some inktobers!

alien inktober.jpg
poe raven inktoberc.jpg
the monster inktoberc.jpg
These were all done with a #2 round Blick Studio brush, and Sumi ink on bristol.

These were all done with a #2 round Blick Studio brush, and Sumi ink on bristol.

#inktober or bust

Well, I said I'd do it and let's see how well I hold up to my word. It (my word) has been flimsier than usual these days, but it's the journey not the destination, right? RIGHT?

I recall reading somewhere, and I'm going to butcher this, that someone talked to Will Eisner about the eminent doom of the comic book. His response was essentially that "doom" has always been in the forecast, and that it hasn't happened yet and he believed the form would always prevail. And throughout all that doomsaying, giving up, and abandoning of the craft the only thing that remained was the work of those who prevailed. Those who prevailed.

Well, I think I could apply that philosophy to other things happening in my life/the world right now and be able to get through another day!

Here's my first #inktober work. I'm keeping an eye on the social medias for everyone else's pieces and am thrilled to see so many participating. Keep working! Keep creating! Keep being awesome! Prevail!

ghost i1.jpg

Inktober! And a quasi-solemn oath.

It's been brought to my attention that I've been terrible at maintaining my website! It ain't easy keeping track of everything, lemme tell you, and I've always been just awful at staying on top of getting the word out.

Last weekend was the workshop at the International School Of Comics in Chicago, and it was fantastic. I had a great time working with the participants and, hopefully, they all walked out feeling a little more comfortable with their brushes.

This month is "Inktober", where folks try to touch ink to paper every day and post it with that hashtag. EVERY day is an ink day for me, pretty much, but I like participating in this annual event anyway. I'll try not to cheat and just post whatever I'm working on for "work" and try to do something original each day (or equivalent to each day). I'll share all this jazz on social media but I'll be sure to post it hear as well, just to keep "in the mix" with the "website" "quotation marks".

In the meanwhile, here's an older "Coma D Clown" illo! Plenty of ink in this sucker.

Coma Noir.jpg

Workshop this Saturday at the INTERNATIONAL SCHOOL OF COMICS in Chicago

This illustration, by myself, was done entirely with a #2 round Blick Studio brush, about $7 I believe. This Saturday morning I'll be doing a workshop at the International School Of Comics Chicago, demonstrating what I've learned over the years about inking with a brush.
The workshop is from 9-12pm, followed by the incredible Hilary Barta and his 1-4pm workshop. If you're interested in getting comfortable with a brush, or if you're familiar with a brush but want to learn some new techniques, I hope you join us!
The International School is an incredible group of folks who want to strengthen our artistic community and help usher in the new wave of comics pros, so feel free to contact them and - even if you don't come to the workshop, come check out the school!
Next week's workshops will be conducted by Dan Dougherty, who's talent I am jealous of, and Bill Reinhold - who's enduring comics career, immense talent, and wealth of technical knowledge is not to be missed! Hope to see you there!

Coma 2017no text.jpg

A Good Home

Recently got back from Wisconsin Dells, where most of my family lives, for a family vacation. It was a fine time, everyone pretty much put away their differences and tried to enjoy a beautiful day of food and games and the weather was hot and the state park was beautiful. I went on a hike, which is not my usual M.O., and had a fantastic time doing it even though it almost killed me.

But what really struck me was a birthday party I went to on Saturday. One of my cousins was throwing it for her son, so we went on over. My birthday is in the dead of January and the weather usually feels like you're on the surface of the moon, so birthday celebrations were pretty limited, but even the best birthday memories were nothing like what my cousin did for her son.

There were about 25 kids there, running around and having a blast. They'd set up a wrestling ring in the backyard and my niece and her fella were filling water balloons to drop into it. All the kids were selecting pro wrestler names, based on birthdays and formal names and they were pretty hilarious (Sneaky Sneak Fancy Dancer; Charming Smokey Hot Dog), and the adults were helping them assemble wrestling gear from old tie dye shirts and such. Scissors were flying, bandanas and knuckle wrapping were wound with precision and there was nothing but laughter and joy in that house.

My cousin also let the kids select an entrance song for when they came into the backyard, which she played through a karaoke machine that she was also using to announce the wrestling teams. The kids would come out, strut their stuff, and go into the ring and explode as many water balloons as they could using pro-wrestling moves.

My stomach hurt from laughing, mostly from the kids who took it seriously, with a look of fierce determination. 100% in. I also stuffed my face with food.

Both my folks are gone now, and that has hit me in ways I haven't expected, and life throws other things at me out of the blue that sometimes make me feel like a marked man - but I'm not. There was so much love in that home, my cousin and her impressive husband, speaking our Native language to their children, the laughing children, the adults watching quietly and happily as the kids enjoyed themselves. It reminded me of when we rolled up to Standing Rock the first time and were greeted at the gate with, "Welcome home."

I've been a city boy for over 20 years now, and I feel Chicago is where I belong, but I felt something stir inside while I was in the middle of all that, some kind of hope I'd forgotten exists. And I don't know why my relative, a man I admire, said this to me as I was shaking hands before leaving - but he looked at me and smiled and said, "Come back home more often". And I just nodded and thought about that for a good long while after.


Back home! The journey, and a bit of philosophizin'

Well, back home and ready to get back to work. Took a road trip to Dallas, TX and while down there I got to meet both Windows (Thomas G Waites) and Childs (Keith David) at the Texas Frightfest, which was pretty cool. The only frightening thing that happened, though, was on the drive down. I live in Chicago, and of course we have our share of difficulties, and I am usually completely ignorant of anything until I have to deal with it personally - which is why travel is nice. On the road down it rained constantly, and it didn't let up until I reached Little Rock, Arkansas. In St. Louis I got lost due to construction and confusing road signage (confusing to me, but I'm notoriously absent minded) and ended up on the wrong road. I figured this out in time to divert and head west on an alternate route, but 44 was closed. Why? It was completely underwater. I turned back around and took side roads until I could reach 55, which was my original route. Still under sheets of rain and gloom, I finally hit it and continued south where signs everywhere were warning of closed roads and hazardous conditions. I wasn't but 5 hours into a 15 hour drive, but that's still too deep in to turn around and I really wanted to get to Dallas so I consigned myself to the idea of driving to Memphis or further south and just skirting it along the southern edge of the country, but that would add untold hours to the journey. I followed the route, hoping the road wouldn't close ahead and was rewarded by more rain but the pavement stayed above water level until I hit Arkansas. By this time I was noticing large lakes along the roadside, with little tree tops sticking out of them, an occasional upper half of a street light or telephone pole... the entire area was flooded. Deep canyons were completely submerged, homes and businesses vanished under the waterline. At several points the four-lane highway was reduced to two as we were diverted to the other side, and the highway vanished into brown murk. Once it reemerged we were diverted back onto it - and I have to say, the road crews did a fantastic job at averting as much of that as possible. One of the concerns, however, was that I was in the middle of nowhere and almost at E on the ol' gas gauge - and the few stations I did pass were not accessible due to flooding... at one point I turned off the main road at the promise of a town 2 miles in, which turned out to be a few homes deep, deep in the woods. I've seen too many horror films to run out of gas off the main road so I turned tail and headed back to the highway on fumes. Thankfully fate wanted me to continue and we rolled in, sputtering, to a station in the nick of time. I say thankfully because shortly after the road was completely closed and we were redirected to a detour route into the middle of nowhere for a good hour before I saw anything close to a non-submerged place of business. The water lapped at the road from both sides, humvees and National Guard were stationed at nearly every intersection, blocking flooded roads on either side. I followed a kick-ass trucker who handled the road like a pro, and eventually returned to the course. The journey ultimately ended well, with me rolling into Dallas 10+ hours later - and of course the trip was well worth it.

Folks ask me why I drove, why didn't I fly? Well, sometimes I like to be alone for long stretches of time. I also enjoy having mini concerts of my favorite music and sing along at the top of my lungs. But mostly, it's the next best thing to walking for seeing this big ass country. As I said, I live in Chicago and it's its own world. I start to thinking that it's the way everybody thinks, dresses, feels about our country, etc. On my journey and over the weekend I met plenty of folks who would seem alien in my city, and I was sometimes painfully aware of my own strangeness in my Phantasm t-shirt and with my weird accent. Had I not taken this trip the flooding would've been nothing more than a scrolled photo on facebook, and the folks who live out of my sphere would continue to be people I just don't "get". The world is a big place, this country, this state, the city or town we live in is a rain drop and I will never get an idea of what others are experiencing unless I get out and go check it out.

That said, I'm definitely flying next time.

Thank you everyone! #c2e22017

Rarely has a show rejuvenated me in such a way, Mike Negin and his wonderful crew made the show another success and the fans made it amazing. I was particularly touched that a few young folks came from distant lands to get art from me - I'm glad I could be a part of their experience, and more enthused that there are youths out there with great taste in art! (wink)

I also got some good news concerning one of the projects I've been waiting on, and I'll let you know more about that once it feels appropriate. Suffice to say I'll be very busy soon, and that's a good thing. Beside that, I was able to meet some creators I've long admired and a few that I've only recently met - and let me tell you; I still hold that comics folk are the best.

Well, I've got a bit of work to do now so thanks for following along. Sorry I haven't been keeping up with the weekly stories, I'm just not that creative!

Here's some random art from "Lie Down Low".

I've been negligent! A round-up of things coming up...

I don't know if anyone's been following along with this story challenge, but I've missed almost two weeks now. I was in Seattle for a week, then off to Washington DC for the Native Nations Rise Indigenous March on Washington, which you probably didn't even know about due to the incredible amount of press coverage we didn't get.

ANYHOO, I intend to keep it up, just a little backlogged now but will soon be back in some kind of a rhythm. In the meanwhile, here's a couple things coming up:

THIS SATURDAY I will be at the Frankfort Library in beautiful Frankfort, Illinois, scaring families with my art. It's from 10-4, so stop by and say hello to me, I'll be the one wondering what he's doing in a library show with the kind of work I do. I love doing them, and in many ways owe the library system my personality, but I'm always like the weirdo who doesn't really belong. Ah well, when I was a kid I liked all the gruesome stuff so maybe that's my purpose.

FRIDAY, MARCH 31 is the "RESISTANCE IS NOT FUTILE" art show, which I was lucky enough to be a part of putting together. Anne at SIDESHOW GALLERY (2219 N Western Ave, Chicago, IL 60647) took the idea and turned it into a 3 day extravaganza with music, movies and food. For the art side of things we'll have over 20 different artists of many different walks of life contributing to the theme of "resistance". ALL proceeds will be donated to the ACLU, so each of these remarkable artists are giving their art to a good cause and you can be a part of it as well! You can find a Sideshow Gallery page easy enough on Facebook; I'm too much of a Luddite to figure out how to post a link here.

And of course, C2E2 is coming. April 21-23, in my ol' sweet home Chicago. I'll have more info on that soon, but for now I know I'll be there in Artist Alley. Hope to see you there.

Take care, take care of each other, hope to see you soon!

#writingchallenge week 6, another short story from Jim Terry

I know, week 5 is missing. I wrote one, believe me, but when I reread it I found it to be a little too disturbing, a bit unsettling. Maybe I can polish it up a little and share it down the road. In the meanwhile I just did this nasty little bit of business if you care to take a gander:

Writing Challenge week 6


When Bailey saw her drinking coffee he didn’t see her in a thick sweater and jeans with her black hair pulled up into a large bun. He saw her on a veranda with warm sunlight slanting sideways across her, a warm glow and soft lines surrounding an impressionistic shape of white clothing settling gently in the sun. He saw a dark and flowing brushstroke, maybe sienna, standing out against a perfectly organic wave of weightless color and completely obliterated by a shock of black hair and blue eyes.

            He couldn’t say that to her, of course, so he walked across the coffee shop with his sketchbook and simply laid it on the empty seat beside her. She set her cup down, looked at it with blue/green eyes that startled him, then lifted them to him. Normally fearless with the opposite sex, he felt something stir inside his stomach that felt like nerves.

            She said nothing, so he said, “Please, look through it. My name is Bailey but I’m also known as ‘Verdant’. I would love to paint you.”

            To the naked eye, her expression did not change. To Bailey’s trained eye the threat of a grin teased the right side of her full, blood red lips.

            “If you think it’s awful I will walk away and leave you alone.” He said, and when she didn’t pick up the book he added: “After I apologize.”

            She allowed the grin to happen, her lips curving up on one side only. He was used to being fawned over, taken seriously and with adoration. He thrilled when someone didn’t know or care about him, it was a delightful chance to win a complete stranger over. She picked up the sketchbook and flipped through it, a little too quickly for his liking.

            He knew there was enough good work in there to captivate anyone with a modicum of art knowledge, so he rocked back in his loafers until she’d fanned through to the last page.

            “How often do you do this?” She asked, handing the sketchbook back to him.

            “Not very.” He fought back irritation, she didn’t seem to be impressed and this venture was looking unfruitful.

            “Why did you ask me?” Her voice was, of course, as velvet as he’d hoped.

            “Well, quite frankly, because you’re beautiful and all painters enjoy painting beauty.”

            “I’ve seen some beautiful paintings of some very ugly things.”

            “Of course. I’m talking about-“

            “Saturn devouring his son.” She said it simply, and he realized he’d opened a door to a much larger room than he’d expected.

            “Ah, you are a fan of Goya.” He smiled, motioning to the empty seat beside her. “May I?”

            She looked at the seat, then back at him and he felt his stomach quiver in anticipation.

            “No, I don’t think so. But if you give me your card I will let you paint me. It will cost you everything, but I will allow it if that’s indeed what you are looking for.”

            “That and nothing more.” He smiled, and he meant it, though he wasn’t really listening for the excitement. What he couldn’t say, if he was even aware of it himself, was that he had already won in his mind. To paint her, to capture her, would be to have owned her in some way and he felt the thrill of it course through him, down through him like an electricity that flicked about his loins and tickled his toes.

            Almost as though she sensed this child-like reaction, her grin stretched wide and treated him to her large and impossibly white teeth. They were imperfect, the incisors were too big, they were all a bit too big, but her utter disregard for this fact made them into something more than perfection.

            “Are you a pervert, ‘Verdant’?” There was no flirtation in her question.

            “Who have you been talking to?” He said, and her smile diminished and he knew his usual banter was going to be useless with this enigma. “No. I’m not what would be normally categorized as a pervert. I do, however, get a great and indescribable joy from painting. Whether that is sexual in nature or not is up to debate.”

            He said this loudly enough that it could be heard by others in the dense coffee shop, others he had completely forgotten about. Her smile came back in earnest and she did not look toward any of the patrons who’d turned to sneak a glance at him. He knew his face had flushed a bit but this seemed to please her as well.

            “Do you have a card?” She asked, finally.

            He went for his pockets, stopped. Of course he didn’t have a card. He never carried a card. That was for amateurs. He was Verdant, and now he needed a card and didn’t have one. The name was worthless.

            “I don’t, but I do have a pen.” He took the precision ballpoint he enjoyed sketching with out of his pocket and wrote on a napkin: Bailey, painter – and his phone number. She looked at it, then at him and his heart jumped at her eyes.

            “Not ‘Verdant’?” She was smiling but there was no cruelty in it.

            “I don’t think that name means anything to you.”

            “You don’t know if there is a single thing in existence that means anything to me.”

            With that, she turned back to her coffee. She didn’t have a book out and she wasn’t staring into a phone like everyone else, she was simply drinking coffee from a ceramic cup, cradling it with both hands.

            “Well,” Bailey said, tucking his sketchbook under his arm, “thank you for your time…” He waited for a name, for her to even turn her head back toward him, but received nothing. After a moment of silence he swiveled and walked away, suddenly intensely aware of every single fucking patron in the place and how they were watching him walk away like an admonished child, like some kind of goddam amateur being turned away at the door, a loser.

            He quickly gathered his things and walked out of the coffee shop and he told himself that he wouldn’t look to see if she was watching him but of course he did and she was staring into the middle distance, sipping her coffee as though their interaction had never happened.


                                                *                        *                        *

He was inspired. He draped a sheet over the still life he’d been working on and turned off all the lights save those illuminating his canvas. It had been years since he’d painted free of reference, but a power was building inside him and he had to release it. He tore his designer shirt off, the buttons flying into the shadows and tapping to rest on the hardwood floor. Rolling it into a ball, he threw it into the shadows as well, it settled noiselessly in the dark and he stood before the canvas in just his jeans and bare feet.

            The white fucking canvas was challenging him. With darkness around it the gesso made it absolutely glow and he stepped away from it, squinting his eyes. The blazing white rectangle blurred and disappeared and he pictured her looking up from his sketchbook.

            Those eyes. Her absolute indifference. It was magnificent. He would abandon the veranda idea and simply recapture those eyes, that look. If he could do that it would surpass anything he’d done. In his life. He thought of Goya’s painting “Saturn Devouring His Son” and the swirling blacks, the dreamy and muddy colors emerging from those very physical blacks. He pictured this painting in his mind, and her eyes emerged from within it, wavy, hypnotic and ridiculous like the cheap “water” dissolve in an old horror film. 

            He assembled his colors and laid them out, squirting healthy amounts of pigment onto the palette and selecting his largest brush. Excited, he destroyed the white gesso with slashing strokes of darkest brown. Soon the canvas was almost a shadow with the darkness of his studio. He stepped back from it and admired the stillness of the room, the window was open to combat the linseed oil and the sounds of the city, of the streets below were distant and part of a different world than the womb he was in.

            He began on the eyes. He closed his own and pictured hers, larger than the canvas, piercing beyond the canvas, swirling smoking tumultuous tremors vibrating from that oily darkness. Bailey rubbed his hands on his jeans and put the big brush in the oil. A one inch brush is what he needed, and he selected it, a flat head, and pressed it into the fat blob of cerulean blue even though he knew that wasn’t the proper color. That would come. He would let it go through him until it was right.

            He painted. For hours he painted and the street sounds diminished until he was completely alone in the city, in the world, in the universe, just him and the canvas and those eyes. He could hear her voice, could almost feel her presence in the darkness, milkily swirling, liquid, intangible. Her essence permeated him, guided his hands, his wrist, the very beating of his heart. He let it, he surrendered, and the colors came. The shapes came and he stood finally before the canvas as though he were standing before a god and he’d just slain it. The brush was weightless, an extension of him, as the work before him was an extension of his being made physical.

His hands shook when he stepped away from it, his heart hammering and his breathing intense.

            He had done it. Before the sun rose, in the darkest hour of the night, from a place completely within him, he had created his masterpiece. It was the purest thing he had done, he had transcended Bailey and Verdant and become something completely new. He had created a masterwork. In his heart he knew the clouds had literally parted and gifted him with the One Work. He fell to his knees on the hardwood floor and wept. The brush dropped from his hand and he cradled his head in them and continued to weep until they turned into sobs of gratitude and he found he could he hear himself choking out the words “thank you” until they where whispers.

            When he heard her voice from the shadows he was not completely surprised.

            “What have you done here?” She asked gently, smoky, from the complete darkness beyond the canvas.

            He looked up, wiped tears from his eyes. She emerged from the shadows, completely nude and washed with warm light. Her skin was not pale, not even her powerful thighs or the soft belly, a perfect chiaroscuro into the blackness of her pubic area. Perfect flesh emerging from oil-black pools of shadow, her heavy breasts casting ink shadows down past a ribcage rippling in perfect mechanics as she padded slowly, silently toward him.

            “How…” he began to ask, but he knew. He said nothing more as she neared him, like a leopard, and he could feel the electricity in the air, into his body. He knew. Bailey inhaled her faint scent and it wasn’t like flowers or even the clean skin smell of someone who’d been in the sun, it was cold and had the tinge of meat. Not rotten meat, but salty, coppery meat.

            She smiled and put a hand on his forehead, ran it through his hair. The palm was rough and intensely hot and he did not resist. He closed his eyes and could hear her thick breathing, could smell the meat on her hot breath. His face was an inch away from her stomach and he wanted desperately to rest his head against it.

            “Go ahead,” she whispered, and pulled his face to her belly and he felt her burning skin against his cheek, so hot, but not clammy. Soft, perfect. His eyes remained closed and she continued to gently rub her hands over his scalp.

            “You… gave me something beautiful.” He croaked, inhaling her smell deeply. He felt as though his feet were invisible, as though invisibility and weightlessness was spreading through his body from the legs up.

            “You did well.” She replied softly, and he sensed she’d turned her head to look at the painting. He was pleased to his very soul by how long she remained that way, she was studying it and he felt deep within that she was impressed. Something in his heart exploded warmth and it shot through his invisible limbs.

            She gently took his face in her hands and lifted it toward her. She said nothing, just waited. He knew she was waiting for him to open his eyes, but he held on to this indescribable warmth for as long as he could. His breathing intensified and his bladder released and hot urine spread across his crotch. Bailey suddenly became aware of the price. He did not want to pay the price, he knew this now. A realization shot through him that this was indeed happening and it was beyond his comprehension.

            Panic shook him and he squeezed his eyes tighter but her hands were strong, stronger than he could possibly have imagined anyone’s hands being, unwavering and unbendable. He grabbed the wrists and pulled as hard as he could, his eyes still squeezed shut, but he couldn’t even budge them.

            “Stop, Bailey.” She whispered, and he did. His name from her lips punctured him and he gave up all resistance.

            Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked at her but the overhead light was behind her and cast her completely in silhouette. Only those eyes. Those eyes were glowing inside the dark outline of her face.

            “It’s time.” She whispered, and he cried out, then nodded, whimpering. From the moment he laid the brush to the canvas he knew the price would be paid. He smiled when the shadow-shape of her head grew and he felt the hot meat breath wash over his face and the large teeth stretched and scraped like tectonic plates and his head was in shadow and then in her mouth and all receded into inky blackness.


#writingchallenge week 4, another short story from Jim Terry


Jim Terry


She pumped the pedals hard and felt a burn in her thighs. This was a good feeling, as was the chill breeze against her face and through her long dark hair, her scalp tingled as it lifted off her shoulders and whipped around behind her.

            It felt good to be alive, it felt good to be riding, the twilight was calming and the sudden cooling of the hot summer air was welcome. The city would come alive soon with the night, but the in-between time always felt oddly quiet, serene.  By the time she got home and washed up and settled down with the book she’d been reading it would be dark and she could relax.

            The air even smelled sweet for a moment, a patch of it, maybe she just rode through a cloud of grass-scent, but it reminded her of her childhood in the suburbs and she felt like a kid for a moment. She was free. Free for the rest of the night, free for tomorrow, free of her family’s eye, free of Brad and his neediness.

            Knowing the tunnel was ahead, she followed her bike-from-work routine and left the main street for the sidewalk. There was the hole, ease right – hop over the uneven sidewalk break – and smooth sailing until the tunnel. The soft rotation of the bike chain and the hum of the tires seemed the only sounds.

            To be free of Brad. Always needing something. She could not understand modern men… or maybe it was just city boys. They weren’t like the guys she grew up with, who were just straight pigs and unashamed – but she felt she knew how to handle them. The men she’d met in the city were scared of her more than not, unsure of themselves, completely lacking the masculine quality that she wasn’t ashamed to admit she desired. To her, a beard didn’t make a man.

            It wasn’t that Brad was a bad guy, quite the opposite, but he didn’t… well, he didn’t make her feel safe. When she was with him he joked about what a coward he was, but she believed there was truth in it. He avoided trouble at all costs, which was the smart way to be, but it kept him from doing anything fun as well. He was handsome in a generic sort of way, but there was no character in his face. That’s what she missed. Character.

            Her mind breezed over the thought that she wanted to feel safe and that she looked for that in a man. She had often wondered the line between being feminine and feminist - she enjoyed being a woman, yet something within wanted to yell out for looking to a man for safety. There wasn’t anything wrong with feeling safe in someone’s arms… but to her it was also a sign of weakness in her, to desire that.

            No wonder men where confused. She was confused. She shook the notions from her head with a wry shrug.

            The tunnel approached quickly and she took a few sharp breaths. It ran for almost an entire city block beneath a massive network of train tracks, and the air beneath it was always musty and cool. To ride in the street was foolish, it was too narrow to accommodate a vehicle and a bicyclist and the walkway lifted beside the street, creating a five foot wall that trapped you in, so she always took the walkway. It was rarely occupied and was a straight shot, but the support columns made her nervous. There was one every ten feet or so, and they were wide enough for someone to hide behind.

            She entered the tunnel at a decent speed and immediately went to her worst case scenario: Someone leaping out from behind one of those pillars and making her crash. Then? Who knows, hopefully she could defend herself. The air grew cool and musty, and her guard went up.

            There was something ahead… something dark in the sulfuric yellow light, lying against the smooth wall opposite the street. The sidewalk rose, almost five feet higher than the street itself, a deadly drop on a bike going high speed. She maneuvered closer to the flat wall to her right as the dark object came closer fast.

            It was a black plastic garbage bag. She could identify it now, it was full and looked wet, like it was out in the rain, but it hadn’t rained in days. She pedaled harder and tried not to think of the Korean horror film she’d seen, the one where there were garbage bags being found all over the city with body parts in them, breaking open like swollen ticks and spilling the blood and chunks and hands-

            She pedaled harder, feeling the good burn in her legs. She heard herself breathing. The other side of the tunnel was a pinpoint of bluish twilight in the vanishing point of yellow and suddenly there was the bag and she glanced at it as she flew by, then looked ahead again.

            Safe. Safe and the home stretch. Why did she take this route? Was it to challenge herself? To face some unnecessary fear? For the hundredth time she swore to herself that she’d take a different route next time.

            Then something dark came out from behind a pillar ahead. She let out a surprised yelp and squeezed the brakes, the front tire wobbling uncertainly. It was a man-sized shape, dark, and it stepped out into the middle of the walkway. She could not gauge if she could make it past the shape and couldn’t continue on the bike while trying to see what it was, so she slammed the brakes and stopped. She put both feet on the ground.

            The figure was still about twenty feet away, standing in the center of the walkway. There was no way she could get around it on the bike. She was breathing hard. Was it wearing a robe? A hooded robe? Her heart was hammering, her legs went shaky.

            “Get out of my way!” She yelled at it, not sure why she didn’t think to yell “who are you” or “what do you want”.

            It didn’t respond, it simply stood there, silent.

            She took a breath, tried calming herself, but instead grew angry. Fear turned into a rage.

            “What’s your problem! Get the fuck outta’ my way!” She yelled, and she could hear her voice like someone’s voice in a movie and she could identify the tremble of fear in it.

            The figure remained motionless.

            Her mind darted around. Did she have a weapon? No, she had nothing that would even come close to a weapon. She whipped her head around to the way she’d just come and her stomach dropped.

            There was another figure, blocking the way back. It was just standing there darkly in the yellow light, about twenty feet away. Had it been hiding behind the pillar, just letting her go by?

            “Oh God,” she croaked.

            The figure behind her was about where the wet garbage bag was. It wore a hood and its face was completely in shadow. It watched her, though, she could feel it watching her.

            “What do you want, fucker?” She screamed at the one before her, whipping her head around. Her hands were wringing the handlebar grips.

            The figure before her lifted its right arm. She could see no hand, no glove, no skin, just the wide sleeve of the robe (or whatever it was) rising slowly. A gnat hummed past her ear, she shook her head. Sweat was pouring into her eyes, she blinked it away. The right arm of the figure slowly lowered. Her heart pounded in her ears, her cheeks, her eyes.

            Suddenly she spun around to the one behind her. She watched as it took a step to the garbage bag and crouched down to it. Whipping around, she saw the one in front of her still standing silently, then flung her attention back to the one behind her.

            The figure had the same type of robe with no hands and wide sleeves, and it reached to the plastic bag. It got some type of purchase and ripped it open. The world was silent. No vehicles had passed by on the street beside/below her.

            The street.

            The figure behind her stood and stepped away from the plastic bag.

            Something was moving in it. She saw the plastic move. She saw something poke outward, then touch the sidewalk. Like a crab leg. Like a big, white crab leg. Another came out, gently touching a pointed stalk end to the sidewalk. Another.

            She spun around to the figure blocking her way and it was walking toward her. Silently. Just casually walking toward her.

            Some kind of a scream ripped out of her and she put her feet on the pedals. Without hesitation she biked off the five foot drop onto the street below and in mid-air lifted the front tire as well as she could before slamming into the pavement. Her hands slipped when the front tire hit and her mouth smashed into the handlebars and she fell sideways off the bike. Her legs were caught in the bike and she’d broken her fall with her left wrist, which sent a sharp pain all the way up her arm and into her eye. Her elbows burned and there was something wrong with her tailbone but instinct told her to look behind her for oncoming cars.

            Nothing, no cars. A dead street. Scrambling out from the bike, she looked at the walkway, now above her. The cloaked figures were slowly and soundlessly walking to where she’d gone off the ledge. They were silent like shadows sliding across a wall, so silent that when she heard the soft clicky sound to her right it felt like it was in her ear. She spun, finally on her feat, and screamed again.

            The thing with the crab legs. It was crawling down the side of the embankment and it was big. She watched, breathless, as the multiple legs, more like spider-legs made of bone, clicked onto the pavement she was standing on. It was a vague, pulpy, whitish mass with too many legs to count, and it was moving toward her in the shadows.

            She didn’t scream. She looked up at the robed figures and they were now within arm’s reach, stooping to get closer. The yellow lights above and behind them cast their faces in opaque darkness and she didn’t give a shit anyway, the clickety-clack of those bone spider-legs was getting closer.

            She didn’t scream, she grabbed the handlebars and hopped on the bike. White lightning flashes of pain shot up her left arm and she almost seized up but she didn’t and she didn’t yell out again, she put her feet on the pedals and cranked. Her tailbone sent piercing, cold pinches through her back but she stood on the pedals and cranked and pulled the handlebars for more power, stifling her breathing and suddenly the musty air was blowing into her face and she could see the distant twilight at the far end of the tunnel.

            Eyeing the columns above and to her right that lined the walkway, she steered left and rode hard in the center of the street, cranking. The chain held. The bike held. She held.

            She could hear herself breathing and it was like a feral animal but it was controlled. Her nostrils were flared and her eyes were wide but she was determined for that opening. It was within reach. The dark columns to her right whipped by.

            With each pump of the pedals she grunted.

            “You’re” pump

            “not” pump

            “gonna” pump

            “get” pump

            “me” pump

            “fuckers!” pump

            And she was out of the tunnel. The sweet smell of cut grass and the clean white street light hit her and the sky and the entire world around her was bathed in blue and she stopped. Something primal within told her she was safe. The quivering in her spine eased and the cold hand of pressure had released her chest. She was safe. Her arms were practically vibrating, her legs were rubber bands but she was safe.

            She stopped the bike and immediately all the pain came at her. Her wrist, her ass, her bloody mouth, her lungs, her legs… but she didn’t cry out. Instead she steadied her breath and looked behind her into the dark mouth of the tunnel. Despite the sulfuric yellow lights it was a pool of blackness.

            From within that blackness, something screamed.

            It didn’t frighten her. She watched the shadows within for a moment but nothing stirred. Taking a deep, slow breath, she got on her bike and rode away.


#writingchallenge week 3 another short story from Jim Terry

Writing Challenge week 3


“Christmas Eve, 1989”

Working the night shift at a fast food joint was a drag. Working any shift at a fast food joint was a drag.

            Outside it was snowing and quiet, and nobody had stepped in the store for almost an hour. The suburbs were closed, Christmas was tomorrow and most folks were with their families at home. Sam didn’t really care that he was working, but he was bored and the manager tonight was Isabelle, who tolerated no horseshit. Meaning he and Mike would be having no gunfights in the kitchen with the condiment guns, he’d be stuck at the hot grills and Mike would be tied to the drive- thru and register, both pretending to be busy which was a job in itself.

            There weren’t even any girls working, other than Isabelle, and she frightened Sam too much for him to even fantasize about. In his sixteen year old mind she was probably in her late thirties but in reality she was twenty-six and already disappointed with most things.

            He leaned against the grill and stared at it, going into his mind and trying to picture all the girls he liked. There were too many, at least one in each class. Well, not gym but every other one. It made the misery of school tolerable. There were three or four in his social studies class he’d sure like to get to know. He knew he wouldn’t, so he went further into his mind where he would have a chance. The vision of himself on a couch with Jenn Mindota blurred into his mind’s eye, then quickly shimmered and evaporated.

            Shit, he couldn’t even score in a daydream.

            He poured some water on the grill, watched it sizzle and boil, then scraped it. He enjoyed seeing the grill get clean with each stroke of the scraper. Like cleaning a windshield, which he also enjoyed, he pushed the brown sizzle-juice to the back of the grill and then with one sideways scrape sent it into the grease trap on the side. He took off his hat and wiped his brow with a forearm, smearing the greasy sweat.

            Mike came out of the drive-thru bay, his headset on, and casually kicked the meat patty refrigerator. He had black, curly hair and a brooding disposition.

            “Fuck, I’m bored. I usually hate customers but I’d fuckin’ bone one right now, just outta’ gratitude for comin’ in. Break this bullshit up.”

            “What if it was a dude?” Sam asked, leaning on the prep table. “Would you still bone him?”

            “Who gives a fuck.” Mike motioned riding someone, giving a little fishtail slap while he undulated.

            Sam figured that Mike had probably boned before, unlike his own loser-ass. Mike smoked cigs and talked about weed a lot, and according to Sam’s calculations that usually opened the door to some boning. He quickly imagined a woman blowing weed-smoke in his own face, but he never smoked weed so… rather quickly she morphed into blowing a white cloud into dark air… then she was naked, then she had a red dress on and was leaning toward him and he could almost see her nipples and she had dark red lipstick on and--

            “Fuck, I want a smoke.” Mike walked toward the manager’s office, a small cubicle with a computer and tons of papers taped to the wall. Isabelle was in there, looking through page after page of readouts and writing on clipboards.

            “Isabelle, can I take a break?” Mike leaned into the doorframe.

            Isabelle looked up from her clipboard, her round face sending no vibe other than irritation through the heavy makeup. One of her penciled-in eyebrows lifted.

            “Didn’t you have your break before Juan left? Like and hour ago?

            “Yeah, but I want another one. It’s so fucking boring out there, let me just go have a smoke.”

            Isabelle shook her head and set her clipboard on the small, cluttered desk.

            “What do you smoke?”


            “Bum me one and I’ll go with you.”

            Mike shrugged, nodded and walked back to the kitchen, peering through the food window at the empty counter on the other side.

            “We’re gonna’ go have a smoke.” He said to Sam and thrust his hands in his jacket pockets. Isabelle appeared beside him in a massive down jacket, her thin legs sticking out the bottom. She was a little thick in the middle and the jacket made her look almost cartoonish to Sam, like a Rocky & Bullwinkle character.

            “Just for a minute. You got the window, right?”

            “Yeah, gimme the thing.” Mike handed Sam the headset and Sam put it on, walked over to the drive-thru.

            He could see them smoking and talking outside of the restaurant, clutching themselves against the cold. What were they talking about? Were they having an affair? Was Mike banging Isabelle? Suddenly he was jealous of Mike for all the banging he figured he was doing.

            Sam looked down at his apron, covered in mustard and ketchup from leaning into burger buns while prepping. He always smelled like a sour burger. Jenn would have nothing to do with him. Would Isabella? She was a woman though… and Mike was probably already sleeping with her. Look, they’re laughing about something. Why couldn’t he make girls laugh like that? Why was he always freezing up, or saying something nerdy or… awkward? Always so awkward.

            Man oh man, Jenn. Soooo beautiful. He thought of her face and a small warmth came over him. Was it bad that she was dating Mark, a rugged jock with chiseled broody looks and a Grand Am? Sam knew it was a Grand Am because Jenn had confided in him during Social Studies that she’d found out he and his “pussy posse” referred to it as the “Grand Scam” because of all the scammin’ they were doing in it during the weekends. Sam really thought he’d had a chance at that moment. But she stayed with Mark and continued to complain about him to Sam and Sam sat there and listened. He looked forward to it, like one day she was going to suddenly look into his weird face and be all “I’ve been so blind, it’s been you all along”.

           Suddenly his mood became bitter and reflective. They probably spent Christmas together, going with each other to their respective families. He pictured Mark in an expensive flannel, probably J Crew or some shit, her in a fuzzy and clean and soft Christmas-type sweater and both of them smiling with perfect teeth surrounded by the soft focus glow of red and green lights and in the just out-of-focus background were their perfect parents, all sets of them smiling happily and their houses were always very big and clean with the safety and comfort of money and privilege and Sam thought of his own house and the frightening things that often happened in it and the splintered & confusing holidays spent frantically and terrifyingly going from one place to the other and the divorce and the step-dad who was as unpredictable and moody as real dad and his own hopeless ugly face and crooked teeth and thick greasy glasses and the zits and-

            Ah, whatever.

            Mike and Isabelle came back in and smelled like smoke. Sam handed the headset back to Mike and sauntered back to the kitchen, grabbed the broom and cleaned up a bit.


                                                            *            *            *


“Rush or Yes.”

            Sam thought for about a millisecond. “Rush, dude, no contest.”

            Mike stepped back as though struck. “You realize that every fuckin’ member of Yes is classically trained? They are virtuosos? All of them?”

            “And they sound like it, too.” Sam mimicked a somber musician weepingly picking at a classical guitar. His fingers flicked in the air like spiders while his eyebrows knitted themselves into an expression of pure, painful playing. He stopped and nodded. “One word for you. Peart.”

            “Fuck him, fuck that, Yes forever. Heart Of The Sunrise, motherfucker.” Mike was smiling.

            “Never heard it. Gimme A Farewell To Kings anyday.”

            Sam started singing “Xanadu” and Mike shook his hands at him, stepping back. “No. Stop. Stop it. I don’t want to hear about the honeydews of Shangri-La or any of that shit.”

            “Both of you nerds shut up in there, I’m on a call.”

            Mike shushed Sam and they both leaned. Sam looked at his greasy tennis shoes, they were white but every crease and stitch was stained dark brown. He blurred his eyes until the shoes were out of focus, the stained lines barely visible.

            “You got plans for tomorrow?” He asked Mike, but wasn’t sure why. He didn’t really care if Mike had plans.

            Mike stared at the grill but also stared through it.

            “No, not really. It’s just me and my mom, and she’s probably working. I’ll probably just sit around the apartment and play Nintendo.”

            And like that it hit Sam, that Mike was one of his people. That brief statement crushed the cool-guy status he’d assigned him and he immediately saw that Mike was from his side of the tracks. The side where parents were frightening and unreliable, or at the very least disappointing in a universal way – they weren’t wealthy. The school they went to had two types of kids, rich and poor, and ultimately every student fell on one side or the other and it was always Mike’s cavalier attitude that distracted Sam from the fact that he was, in fact, from his side. The side that was always laced with uncertainty or the queasy notion that things weren’t going to work out like they did in the movies, the knowledge that life wasn’t perfect and you had to get used to things rather than rise above them, that small things were to be held on to – the pleasures of music, of movies, of books, because the things you’d been taught that were measures of success and the height of enjoyment were things far beyond your grasp. Guess Jeans, designer clothes in general. Vacations. Hair gel. Clean skin. Fancy cars. Big spacious homes. He pictured Mike’s mother’s small apartment, comfy but dark and cramped, and suddenly it was very easy to picture Mike in his boxers sitting on the floor with a bowl of cereal waiting to be eaten on a very crowded coffee table. He thought of his own ranch home, he thought of his mother and stepdad’s first apartment and the scattering roaches that forbade him ever having friends over.

            “Your folks divorced too?” He asked, relaxed now.

            “No, my dad’s in prison.” Mike responded, matter-of-factly.

            Of course Sam wondered why he was in prison, but knew better than to ask.

            “Fucked up a bunch of cops.” Mike offered.


            “Yeah. They pulled him over for a DUI and he…” Mike’s face changed, lit up a little and he stood straight, extending his arms and looking at his balled fists. “He just gets outta the car and is like, ‘come on, fuckers’. He’s a big dude. Like fuckin’ big. Took six fuckin’ cops to take him down.”


            “Yeah, he’s a fuckin’ badass.”

            Sam nodded and they were quiet.

            “What about you?” Mike asked.

            “Ah, I got about four different places I gotta go. You know, fuckin’ divorce.”

            “Dude, that’s sweet though, you get four times the presents.”

            “Yeah.” Sam smiled with his crooked teeth but not with his eyes. It was not as good as it sounded but he couldn’t explain that to anyone.

            With that the conversation ended but neither felt the need to fill the dead space with bullshit. They were thinking about their own situations.

            And as was usually the case with Sam, his thoughts eventually led to movies he’d seen.

            “Dude, you see Evil Dead 2?”

            “Naw, I don’t really like movies.”

            Sam nodded and picked up the scraper to give the grill another go but Isabelle appeared at that moment, tired and irritated.

            “Alright, it’s dead as shit. Start clean-up, I want to get out of here.”


                                                            *            *            *


The worst part of the clean-up was the grease bucket. Sam had to slide the filled grease trap from the side of the grill, and it was burning hot and very heavy and awkwardly wide and flat, like a sideways table top. He then poured the steaming grease into a five gallon steel bucket without splashing on the tiled floor because it was a nightmare to mop, then carry the bucket out back which was a two-man job.

            He looked at the bubbling brown mess in the bucket.

            “Hey Mike, you wanna help me take this bucket out back?”

            Mike was usually kitchen so he knew the drill and he was done counting his drawer out. “Yeah, I could use a fuckin’ smoke.”

            He got his jacket on, Sam didn’t bother, he was too warm from the grill.

            “Isabelle, we’re taking this bucket of shit out back.” Mike called toward the office. There was no response.

            “Hey, Isabelle, we’re taking the grease out!”

            “Fine!” Her irritated voice.

            Mike smiled at Sam and put a smoke in his lips, and they lifted the heavy, steaming bucket together. It was slow, shuffling going. They set it down with a clang while Sam opened the back door and the freezing air whooshed in, then set it down again once outside so Mike could light his smoke.

            They lifted it once more and the outside was crisp and very cold. Mike grunted and inhaled from his cigarette, the cherry glowing hot red as they shuffled along. Inside the bucket the thick grease sloshed and steamed. Mike exhaled through the side of his mouth and started laughing.

            “What?” Sam said, freezing and trying to keep his footing on the icy parking lot as they made their way toward the dumpster on the far side. The synchronization of their shuffling steps was critical to keeping the grease inside the bucket.

            “This! This fucking sucks!” Mike said, laughing. Sam was concerned that Mike was going to lose his handle on the bucket. He suddenly slipped on the ice but regained himself quickly.

            “Yup.” Sam responded. They were almost there.

            “I mean, seriously, fuck this. I hate this job.” Shuffle, breathe, shuffle, grunt.

            They made it to the dumpster and set the steaming bucket down. Sam opened the lock and swung the wide door out, expecting, as usual, some sort of creature to leap out of the darkness but as usual nothing did. In the blackest corner was the oil drum they were to dump the bucket into. He walked over to it and looked inside. Just a frozen, light brown mass inside there, and Sam looked forward to dumping the hot grease on top and the strange chemistry of it mixing, watching it coagulate and sink into the frozen part.

            “Let’s get this over with,” He said, grabbing his handle on the bucket.

            “Lemme finish this smoke.” Mike said, leaning on the inside of the door.

            “I’m freezing out here, you got a jacket on!” Sam was beginning to get irritated.

            “Fine, pull your panties outta your crack.” Mike took his side of the bucket.

            They had both done this many times and had the timing down. The procedure: Lift with one arm, get your other hand under, place it flat against the very hot bottom of the bucket, and gently… gently guide it to the barrel, and evenly pour the grease in, a slow, steady stream.

            They both had good grips and were guiding it toward the barrel when Mike stepped on an ice patch and “oh shit” and gravity took the bucket and them both almost instantaneously. Before Sam knew what was going on he felt the concrete hit his back and a moment later the hot grease was pouring against him, beneath him. He panicked and rolled away, already too late.

            He stood up, soaked with grease but unscathed. The grease had cooled down enough that it wasn’t burning him. Mike was in the dark, laughing.

            “Shit. You okay?” Sam asked.

            Mike was rising, his smoke was gone and steam wafted from him. The steel bucket was on its side and Sam stepped away from the spreading grease.

            “Yeah, I’m fine.” Mike responded, and shook grease from his arms. “Fuck!”

            Sam was trying to figure out how he was going to make the walk home without ruining his only jacket and was he going to be able to get the grease out of these clothes and he couldn’t afford to get a whole new set of work clothes and if he ruined his jacket he’d get an ass whooping and goddam it Mike!

            “You know what? I’m fuckin’ done.” Mike said, and walked back toward the store. Stan picked up the bucket and dumped what was left in the barrel. When he got back in Mike was already gone and Isabelle had a new shirt for him.

            “Here, change into this.”

            “Are you gonna charge me for it?”

            She gave him an odd look. “No.”

            He thanked her and when he came out of the bathroom, a little cleaner, she was waiting with her keys and her jacket on, everything locked up and turned off. He clocked out, put on his coat and they walked out into the cold parking lot.

            “Mike left already?”

            “Mike quit.”

            “Oh.” Sam put his hands in his pockets and Isabelle looked at him, almost like she’d never seen him until this moment.

            “It’s pretty cold out, are you walking home?”

            “Yeah, it’s only a mile or so.” It was longer, but he was uncomfortable with her concern.

            “Do you want a ride?”

            “No, it’s okay, thanks. My pants are all greasy.”

            She waited half a second for him to change his mind, then shrugged. “Okay, see you next time.”


            They went their ways and he stopped, turned around.

            “Mike say why he left?”

            She stopped, shook her head tiredly. “Said he couldn’t take it.”

            Sam smiled, he thought that was funny. “Really?”

            Isabelle didn’t smile, she just nodded slowly. “Some real go-getters workin’ here.”

            “Okay, see you next time.”

            She acknowledged him and walked to her car and Sam walked home.

#writingchallenge week 2

So here's my second entry to the Ray Bradbury "write a story a week for a year" challenge. Hope you get something out of it.

Writing Challenge week 2


The Problem Of Wolf

Jim Terry


Mulhoon wanted Wolf the Indian dead. He stepped into the Sheriff’s office and sat right down like he owned the place and said the words the same way he would order breakfast.

“I want that savage dead, Sheriff. I don’t care how you do it, but I want it done by the end of the day.” He took a deep breath and his barrel chest pressed against a red and green paisley vest, the gold watch chain slid down into a fold of his jacket. Mulhoon wore no iron, and he carried himself like a man who didn’t need to. He exhaled and reached into a pocket for tobacco, the matter closed as far as he was concerned.

Sheriff Dwayne Murphy nodded and sat back and his chair creaked.

“You realize he’s in jail now.”

“I do. And I don’t care. I want that savage dead by end of day.”

Dwayne grinned, cocked his head.

“Is that all?”

Mulhoon squinted up to him with his frog eyes, looking bloodshot and flaked with dry skin on the rims. He commenced the rolling of his cigarillo and smiled, the tip of his tongue playing around his moist lips. They looked like two earth worms squirming around in the dust of his bloated, whiskered face.

“’Is that all’. Can I take that as an affirmation of my concern?”

Dwayne had played this game before with Mulhoon, played it with others before him. He had tried all the moves, like a chess game, attempting each time to approach the problem in a new way. Trying to find a peaceable solution, doing his best to satisfy all parties. He had never found success in this endeavor. In fact, he had seen brutal failure more often than not, and occasionally bloodshed. When reason failed repeatedly his patience began to grow thin, this he knew, so he decided to get this over with without so much games.

“You can take that as me askin’ you if you have anything else to say.” He replied, in a dead tone.

Silence hung in the air, Deputy Jarvis squirmed a little in his corner, not sure if he should pretend he wasn’t aware of what was going on or if he should just invest himself in it. He ended up just nervously looking this way and that and Dwayne tried not to hold it against him, he wasn’t exactly a kid but he was inexperienced in matters such as these.

Mulhoon licked his paper and rolled it in his fingers. They were clean and the nails were cut smooth. Dwayne wondered how his clothes, hands, even his boots were so immaculate but the man’s face never looked the same. Always had the appearance of filth, and it betrayed the man. Mulhoon never broke eye contact with Dwayne as he brought the cigarillo to his worm lips and grinned.

“I know you’ve been some places, Sheriff, but you haven’t been here long enough to start throwing weight around you haven’t earned. It ain’t unheard of, a man making a legend out of talk and rumor.”

“That’s true, Mulhoon. I’ve encountered many a man who consisted of little more than hot air and bluster when push came to shove.”

An eye twitched and Mulhoon reached into his inner pocket, pulling out a box of matches. He struck one on Dwayne’s desk even though there was a strip alongside the box and brought it to the cigarillo and his hands were steady. Neither of the men had blinked, so far as either of them could tell. Dwayne smiled and it was not reciprocated.

“If that’s all, Mr. Mulhoon, I’ll be getting back to my business. There’s a dispute over a land claim I need to oversee.”

Mulhoon puffed smoke. He blinked and then Dwayne blinked.

“You know what that savage did?” He asked, looking at his cigarillo.

“I know why he’s in jail, and that’s for fighting.”

“If we let some red skinned monkey get away with maiming white men it’ll be the start of a reckoning.”

“He got away with nothing, rest assured. He’s in jail for what he did.”

“A precedent has been established out here that needs be maintained.” He motioned to the jail door, behind which slept the Indian named Wolf. “That ain’t justice, Sheriff. Not out here it ain’t.”

“It is now. And when I find those hands of yours they’ll be in there too.”

“They were defending themselves. That Indian was drunk and crazy.”

“I don’t doubt he was drunk. He might still be. Gotta admit though, if a fella could maim two of your boys as drunk as you say he was, you might want to get some different hands.”

Mulhoon looked past Dwayne to the street outside the window, the men and women going about their day in the bright daylight. His dry face cracked like sun-baked mud into a grin. He puffed his smoke.

“You got a mouth on you, son. I can see that you’re what one might call an advanced thinker, one of these folks from out east who got an erroneous view as to the way things work. Dandies and intellectuals don’t last in hard terrain such as this, and it doesn’t make one any friends neither. In fact such erroneous views could be akin to walking oneself off the edge of a steep cliff and thinking one could fly. Only birds fly, and like man, they have their place in the world. As do good white citizens and filthy savages like that barkeater you got locked up in there. If a dog bites a man, you shoot the dog. No difference. Could you be one of those advanced thinkers who thinks a savage or a darkie got the same rights as a decent white citizen?”

Dwayne said nothing, sat back in his chair. Jarvis looked at the floor, giving up the pretense of disinterest. Mulhoon stared at Dwayne, his challenge hanging in the air.

“Could be, Mr. Mulhoon. Could be I believe in the law.”

“Law’s different out here, son. Life’s hard enough for most folks, breaking their backs against the earth, trying to scratch a living out of this unforgiving land. Then to have some savage who might kill them or their livestock just walkin’ around, free as a bird. We gotta’ protect the good people. Give them the message that they’re safe. We’ll deal with undesirable elements in a permanent way. When people feel safe is when they’re the happiest! Ain’t that what it’s about, a pursuit of happiness?”

Dwayne was growing weary of this. Still, there was a certain amount of time you had to give to men like Mulhoon. In the end, however, there was no reasoning with them.

“I’m gonna’ give it to you straight, Mulhoon. I don’t agree with you. And I sure as hell am not going to kill a prisoner, so you might as well fit that into your head.”

“He ain’t even a man, sheriff.” With cold certainty and a bit of venom. His eyes reduced themselves to slits and his worm lips were parted just enough for him to breath.

“I don’t see it that way. Just ‘cuz he’s a red man don’t mean he ain’t a man all the same. Black, white, red, yellow, whatever. They break the law they go in there. If they don’t they aren’t my concern unless someone starts trouble with them. When that happens I’m gonna’ defend them all the same. It’s my way.”

When he said those last words he leaned forward into Mulhoon’s smoke cloud. It cleared and they stared eye to eye, both men determined in their personal outlooks.

“Well,” Mulhoon said, leaning back, “I guess we are at what you would call an impasse. We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“Sounds about right.” Dwayne leaned back again, scratched his chin. “So are you going to bring me those two boys of yours or am I gonna’ have to come find them?”

Mulhoon chuckled, sandpaper scraping dry stone. “Oh don’t worry, Sheriff, I have a feeling a bunch of my boys will come on down and see you.”

He rose from his chair, short of breath, still chuckling.

“I’ll be here.”

Mulhoon walked toward the door, stopped and looked at Jarvis. “You gonna side with this fool, Jarvis? Or you gonna be sensible and walk outta’ here with me before things get… dangerous?”

Jarvis looked up at Mulhoon, then over to Dwayne.

Mulhoon dropped his cigarillo on the floor and rubbed it out with an immaculate boot, his shining spurs softly dinging.

“Rest assured, kid, there’s a world of hurt coming this way. Your boy here has nothing on his side but a foolish ideal. Is that enough to side with? A foolish ideal? For some drunken dirt worshipper got nothing in common with you?”

Dwayne said nothing, just watched the exchange of the two, his face betraying nothing.

Mulhoon continued, spurred on by the silence. “Look at him. Look at how small he looks, sitting there. Throwing his life away – not for just a stranger, but a goddam heathen. Come on out with me, son. I got the manpower and the money. Come on out with me. It’s a hell of an easier life under my wing. Think about what kind of country you want to live in.”

Jarvis swallowed hard and looked over at Dwayne again, who just leaned back in his chair and put his old dusty boots on the desk.

“Do what you gotta do, Jarvis.”

The Deputy looked from one man to the other.

“He’s too powerful, Dwayne…” he croaked.

Dwayne smiled.

“That may be, son. I’ve seen his type before and he’s gonna play as filthy as he can to get what he wants. But at the end of the night I’ll lay my head on my pillow and know I’ve done right by my fellows, including young drunken Wolf in there.”

“How the hell does that do any good?” Jarvis asked, his voice cracking.

“Might not do any good at all, Jarvis,” Dwayne said, laughing. “But it makes living with myself a hell of a lot easier.”