Duty Calls

This is a loosely autobiographical retelling of a portion of my jury duty encounter.

Written in 42:00, no editing

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"Would you like me to do something, your honor?"

"No bailiff. I don't think there's a problem, is there juror 4788?"

I lean back in the rickety wooden chair, creaking with every movement as if its lone goal is to make the world aware of its existence. "You reminded me I was under oath. All I did was tell the truth."

The bailiff returns to his post, continually glaring in my direction as if his intimidating presence meant anything to me beyond the confines of this courtroom. He looked young, 25 maybe, with a freshly placed bandage atop his shaved head. Clearly he's already had an action-packed day. I have no doubt that he's already yearning to go home and tell his girlfriend about the shit he has to put up with at work, and she'll once again feel too guilty to tell him she's been shacking up with a co-worker for what feels like forever. It makes me feel a little better knowing I am helping contribute to his daily misery, thus prolonging his fucked-up relationship. In a way, he should thank me for allowing him to avoid a deeper misery and heartbreak for at least one more night. After all, I'm sure some kind of physical altercation happens more often than we think in shitty little courtrooms all around the country, especially ones like this one here in Van Nuys, the land of the chronically poor, dumb and useless. and I'm also sure they get their fair share of smarmy assholes like me, who have already decided that they're basically too good to be wasting their time deciding the fate of some fucking messed-up broad who decided to key her ex-husband's car and then had the gall to plead not guilty.  And no I'm not kidding. Apparently dragging the edge of a piece of metal against what I would imagine to be nothing more glamorous than the paintjob of a 1993 Honda Civic based on the style and demeanor of the plaintiff in question is enough to waste an obscene amount of taxpayer's money and an even more obscene amount of the time of probably more productive members of society for what could be a week. But, for the bailiff to have to endure both in the same day, well, while most women are heartless, most at least have the common decency to know when adding insult to injury (and insult) is just overkill.

"Mr. Asshole Defense Attorney (NOTE: not his real name, just fitting), do you have any questions?" The perplexed look on the face of the judge was priceless.

The DA gets up from his way-too-comfortable leather executive's chair and beelines it straight to the podium, all while eyeing me as if he either couldn't fathom the shit that was coming out of my mouth, or was amused by the audacity of the shit coming out of my mouth. "Juror number 23 (apparently i'm not just a number, i'm TWO numbers), would you mind if I asked your opinion of me?

I looked him straight in the eye. "I'm not a fan."

He chuckled, half-expecting a smart ass response. Either that or used to it. After all, he was an asshole. "Juror 23, is there any particular reason that you do not like me?

I continued looking him directly in his sleazy little eyes to let him know that I had come this far and wasn't going to be backing down anytime soon. In actuality I did have a reason as to why. I simply did not like the way he talked to a woman downstairs in the lobby. Nothing major, but it stuck. However, I wasn't going to get into it. "I don't need a reason. I told you, I was judgmental."

I felt the bailiff mentally preparing to take another step towards me, but it never happened. "Juror 23," Asshole DA remained persistent and unperturbed by my excruciatingly blunt answers, "do you want to be a juror?"

"Am I still under oath?"

"Yes you are, Juror 23."

"Then no I do not." I felt a silent collective of envy and regret from the other 30 or so potential jurors over such a simple loophole, if you could call it that. After all, I didn't do anything wrong. I was asked if I wanted to waste a few days listening to a bunch of people spew fact after useless fact pertaining to an even more useless case where the amount of money I would have lost missing work would have probably been equivalent if not more than the amount of money the defendant would end up paying out of pocket for being a jealous bitch obviously lacking in common sense, wit and sensibility, not to mention a skill level hovering around -1 when it comes to being inconspicuous. And since I was obliged to be truthful with regards to everything I say, I was gonna jump all over the chance to say, 'There is no fucking way I want to spend another minute in this goddamn courtroom and if you decide I would make a good juror, then you obviously failed the portion of Law School that stresses the importance of having good observational skills.' Naturally, I didn't go the long route simply because Bull Shannon Jr. over there was clearly ready to take his early court session aggressions out on me with or without the judge's consent, and also because even I was aware I may have been taking the asshole route a little too far. At least the DA was being paid to make me hate him. I was doing it pro bono.

Truth be told, this wasn't really my style, but to be honest, I had no choice. I was in a group of 10 "alternate" jurors - jurors only brought in during the selection process if the lawyers couldn't come to a concrete decision of which 12 jurors out of the original 20 they felt would best help represent a fair trial in a simple goddamn vandalism charge. Naturally, both the prosecutor and the DA starting picking off "unqualified jurors" like it was going out of style. It was also becoming painfully clear that both lawyers seemed to want a Caucasian-heavy group of 12, because, really, what better way to decide the fate of a white person fucking up another white person's property then by having 12 more white people involved (15 actually if you include both lawyers and the Judge)? Now, I may be Jewish, but my fair Canadian skin and somewhere deep inside inability to tan beyond an off-white (more like eggshell) made me the whitest motherfucker in the room. To make matters worse, the other alternates, like myself, began to realize that the lawyers had already picked out their favorites and wanted to dropkick as many of the jurors as possible to get to the ones they did want. I felt like I was numero uno on the DA's wishlist because, obviously the guy who looks like a piece of shit is gonna side with the girl that does shitty things (the rules of attraction - it's in the bible). 

Clearly I wasn't the only one to figure out this grand scheme as suddenly the farfetched fables and rogue pleads for excision began to seep out. One guy claimed he was robbed and because the police didn't react in record time, he now holds a permanent grudge against all authorities, which may or may not hinder his ability to be impartial (cough... cough... bullshit). Another claimed to be a Jehovah's Witness thus it was against his religious beliefs to pass judgement (to which I found out later also happened to be complete and total bullshit - the part about him being a JW, not whether or not judging is a sin in Jehovaland). There were tales of child abuse and molestation and I'm pretty sure one potential juror admitted that he was in this country illegally. I also believe one even tried admitting he was gay, as if that would have been a viable excuse to be sent home. Maybe he just felt comfortable being in a room full of anonymous strangers and really did just come out for the first time, who am I to judge? Regardless,  if I were the stenographer that day, i would have made a killing selling ideas for messed-up predicaments to Maury.  A whole season of daytime drama conglomerated into one courtroom. I feel like I'm witnessing history.

Which is why it was so integral for me to go above and beyond if I wanted out. Those who know me know I'm not a bad guy. Sure I may be overly sarcastic and could be downright rude if I wanted to, but that's normally my style. What IS my style is perhaps a tendency to take things a tad too far, even if it's notin my best interest to do so. Basically, I'll go until it becomes awkward for everyone involved, which may have been the case today.

"One more question, Juror 23..."

Of course.

"You say you're judgmental and you stand by your beliefs and opinions."

"Some people like it, some people hate it..."

He removed his glasses and pretended to clean off a non-existent smudge on one of the lenses.  "Say it's late in the day on Friday and you have a hot date that night," he actually did a slight pelvic thrust to hint at something. I feel sorry for any girl that's ever been on a "hot date" with Dickless Attorney over here.  "Now everyone is voting one way, but you, as you said, refuse to waver from your opinion. Would there be a chance you would be persuaded to vote the other way if it sped up the process?"

I leaned back, "Absolutely."

The DA looked slightly shocked. " With regards to everything you said about your strong convictions and stubbornness, you would be willing to just simply change your mind?"

"Sure looks that way, doesn't it?" A slight giggle from the courtroom. Clearly I was providing far more entertainment that I'm sure was originally anticipated.

"I have nothing else, your honor." He glanced back at me, sneered ever so slightly and returned to his seat. 

"Mister Prosecutor, do you have anything to ask?" The judge asked, seemingly as annoyed with the progressions of the jury selection as I and everyone else.

The prosecutor swiveled around in his chair, scanned the remaining 10 alternate jurors and stopped when his eyes reached me. "No I do not, your honor," he responded without taking his eyes off me. Clearly his initial opinion had soured. His slight look of disappointment indicated that my inclusion would have been a beneficiary to him (why was I such a sought-after juror? I never felt so wanted!). It was clear he wanted to say something to me, but I think even he understood that I wasn't going to have anything constructive to contribute. He glanced back over at the bailiff as if hoping he would finally step in and put me in my place, but apparently even he had no interest in prolonging the day.

"Very well, if the Counselors will join me in my quarters, we will reconvene in 10 minutes," the Judge directed. "However, I also think it would be in the court's best interest to excuse Juror number 23. Counselors, do you have any objections?"

"No, your honor."

"None whatsoever, your honor."

"Will juror number 23 please leave his badge with the Bailiff and leave the courtroom, immediately." She didn't even look at me. I felt used.

I got up, leered around at the remaining jurors still in the running for "World's Shittiest Trial" and swaggered on out of there. The looks of envy were rewarding in itself. Even the Bailiff  nodded in some sort of appreciation for the entertainment I provided. Either that or he was trying to tell me that I'll be back sooner rather than later and and not as a potential juror.

I walked outside, grabbed my certificate stating my jury duty obligations had been fulfilled and breathed a gigantic sigh of relief.

The best part about the whole experience? Paper-clipped to my crappy dot-matrix-printed certificate was a crisp 5 dollar bill, which I promptly went out and spent illegally on weed.

God Bless America

I can't make you love me

Written in 22 minutes, no editing.

We lock eyes, albeit briefly. Actually, she looks up from her book and notices me looking, rather absent-mindedly staring intently directly at her. I don't know if she was looking at me, or in my general direction, nor do I know if she looked because she wanted to or because she felt compelled to. You know that feeling you get when you feel like you're being watched and you feel almost obligated to search out the center of this "attention-wavering" entity drilling holes into your soul?

I'm rambling again. I always do that. I get nervous a lot. You can spend countless hours rehearsing in front of a mirror, trying to transform yourself into the epitome of cool and collective, but, until you are actually thrown out onto the battlefield, there is simply no way of knowing just what to expect. In the company of no one except my reflection, I reinvent class. I'm the man of a thousand sweet nothings effective in any situation. I'm Don Juan trading notes with Fonzie before mingling with 'Ol Blue Eyes out at the Pump Room at the Drake Hotel out in Chicago. I'm JFK at a Presidential fundraiser filled to the brim with women. Hell, I'm Bill Clinton at a Presidential fundraiser filled to the brim with women. You get the point.

I'm staring again. I catch myself leering in her direction. Thankfully she doesn't notice. Or maybe she did, and I was too busy zoning out to notice. If she did she at least didn't seem uncomfortable with this strange man eyeballing her like she held the meaning of life in her soul. I wonder if anyone else noticed? At least my mouth wasn't open, catching flies. I glance around the room. The various customers scattered around do not seem too concerned with my awkwardness nor my unintentional plan to make things awkward for her. I look back down at my book, the words an incomprehensible smorgasbord of black lines scrolling from left to right, top to bottom.  My interest in what I'm reading has dwindled to nil, but it buys me time and a security blanket. Otherwise I'm just sitting there drinking coffee, gawking aimlessly at whatever manages to catch my attention, not matter how brief it is. My ability to resist temptation wanes. This time, I try to be a little more discreet. 

She is stunning.

I have seen her here before. She is fixated on her task at hand. The soft glow emanating from her computer screen enhances the angelic purity that seems to radiate from her. Her intensity can easily be mistaken for passion. I believe they go hand in hand. Intensity derives from a strong desire and a stronger heart. Passion, like intensity, cannot be taught nor learnt. It is innate, you should have to find what it is that makes you passionate. Once you find it, you know, you understand, you feel empathy for those who have endured and withstood the ups and downs associated with passion.

I'm rambling again. She looks up at me. We lock eyes again. From 30 feet away I can tell her eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I have ever seen. Emeralds would be jealous of the vibrancy and vivaciousness. They tell a sad story yearning a happy ending. A slight twitch from the corners of her mouth could very well be misconstrued. The instant rush of heat felt in my face meant I took it as a smile. Despite the subtlety, it was the most beautiful smile I had ever witnessed. A smile that could bring empires to their knees.

As cucumber-esque as I boasted being in very select company, the opposite applies in more public scenarios. I panicked. I rearranged the pages in my book and forced my eyes to avert to a word, any random word I could make out on the page.

"Fear."

Even Walt Whitman was mocking me. 'At least I'm not a racist,' I defended myself internally.

I flipped through the pages, giving up on the illusion of literary indulgence. I glanced up again. 

She was standing, her computer folded and stowed away in her computer bag. She put on her coat and wrapped her scarf loosely around her delicate neck. Prolonging a few extra seconds, she looked around and back over in my direction, silently pleading for something to happen. Another misconstrued smile overtook her face, but that felt more resignation than anything.

Then she was gone...

I watched her walking away and then back to where she was sitting. I sighed and flipped open to another word.

"Resiliency"

Then the Starbucks manager politely asked me to put my pants back on.

Thanks for saying something, assholes.

Drive...

Written in just under 22 minutes, no editing.

The road through the two mountain peaks was winding and, to the unfamiliar or the timid, both treacherous and intimidating. Tight turns unwelcomed by unseen bends and an attitude that bullies you into turning back. The narrow roads, slender and curvaceous like a burlesque dancer, an invitation to both directions to climb aboard without assuming the risk of an offer too good to be true. By day, the path excuses its temporary inhabitants and permits the pulsating Simi Valley sun to try its hand at playing guide. At night, however, she is less forgiving, allowing the multitude of stars in the sky to play tricks on whoever chances driving through by blurring the midnight sky with the unforeseen road ahead.

It was essentially the dangers of the midnight sky that lured in Benjamin, the angry orange glow at the end of his cigarette the only light emanating from his car. His arm draped over the side tapping his fingers against the outside of the door to the tune filling his ears.

On the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loud
And she bowed and curtsied to the man who reached and offered her his hand...

Benjamin leaned his head out the window to gaze up at the sky and decided his best vantage point to explore the beyond would be from outside of the car. Pressing the rewind button on his car stereo to start the song over, he lit a new cigarette with his old one and stubbed it out in an old coffee cup lid laying helplessly on the ground of the passenger seat. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out into the crisply chilled air customary for late November nights. The open window became an auditory funnel as the music pushed hard and seemed to evaporate once it reached the open air.

As she lay there 'neath the covers dreaming of a thousand lovers
Till the world turned to orange and the room went spinning round.

The crunching underneath his boots hindered the soothing sounds of nature mixed with the melodies seeping out the window prompting him to remove them. Climbing aboard the hood of his car, he let his head rest uncomfortably against the front window, feeling the muffled vibrations of the music from inside. Eyes wide open, he gazed out towards the empty void covering the sky and whistled in admiration, pulling out the crushed pack of smokes from his breast pocket. One left, somewhat crushed under the weight of his upper torso. Pulling it out, he tried his best to straighten it out without ripping any of the paper. Bright lights shone in the distance and, at first glance, approached at a snail's pace, but as it got closer it was noticeable that he underestimated the speed.

“Woooosh....”

Whoever was driving paid no heed to the man laying on the hood of his car on the side of the road. Either they didn't notice or were too concerned with the tribulations of the road. The brake lights went on in the distance and vanished around a corner.

And he led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd.

His stare returned to the freckles of light above, fixated on one particular clump reminiscent of a bullet swaying through the air in slow motion. The gun was nowhere to be found, but that's life. You rarely see the gun, you just hear the shot. If you're lucky, you're able to avert from that as well.

“Thump, thump thump!”

The faint banging combined with the vibrations stirring from the trunk returns Benjamin to the present. The muffled voice could be heard in the vicinity, inaudible, but the tone and demeanor resonated a sense of desperation and terror. “Right,” he muttered to himself as he hopped off and sunk his feet back into his exaggeratedly unlaced boots neighboring the front wheel. Taking his time to lace up, he guided the damaged cigarette to his chapped lips and tossed the empty pack into the dark. Checking his pockets for any form of fire, he sighed in resignation and defeat, plopping back down into the driver's seat, starting the ignition and rewinding the song.

On the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loud
And she bowed and curtsied to the man who reached and offered her his hand...

Lust In Translation

Written in 34:00, no editing, I got bored so ended it abruptly

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“So you don't know where you met her?”

“No.”

“And now you want to find her.”

“Yep.”

“But you know nothing about her and have no way of getting in contact with her.”

“Exactly.”

Paul looks down at the empty highball glass resting awkwardly on the coaster and takes a long drag from his cigarette. “Alright, I'm in,” he states, shaking his head emphatically.

“Yeah?”

“Why the fuck not? It'll be like one of those, you know, reality show dating things.” Paul drops the butt of his cigarette into the empty glass and swirls around the remnants of the melted ice. “You know what I mean, where you gotta pick out the right broad out of a room full of them by, you know, making 'em do things like jumping jacks and drinking contests or something.”

Andy leaned forward and stared at his friend in disbelief. “How is that even remotely close to trying to find someone I bumped into on the street?”

Paul thought about it for a couple of beats, looked around and pulled out another American Spirit. “Well, it's kind of like you're trying to, you know, filter through all the others and find that one specific person.”

“But on a dating show, they're all right there, in front of you. You're not going out trying to find someone you don't have a clue as to where they are. This isn't Sherlock Holmes on the fucking Bachlorette.”

“Bachelor.”

“Huh?”

“The Bachelor. If Sherlock Holmes was on it would be The Bachelor, not The Bachlorette. The Bachlorette would be for the chicks. Like if Irene Adler was on it would be The Bachlorette.”

Andy exhaled a breath of disbelief, closed his eyes and leaned back into the worn cushion of the booth. “How could someone so borderline retarded even possibly know who Irene Adler is?”

“What, just because I don't have the same worldly insight as you, I have no business ever picking up a book? Besides, I told you I'm here to help and you respond by basically calling me a fucking mongoloid.” Paul pulls out his wallet and tucks the remaining cigarette behind his ear. “I got my own problems you know. My life doesn't always revolve around your endless chase for 'the one',” he used his fingers to form quotation marks as if to emphasize the frequency of these endeavors.

Andy, sensing an unnecessary altercation, grabbed Paul by the rest. “Shit, sorry man, sorry. I didn't mean it and yeah I appreciate you helping me out.”

Paul hesitated for a moment and sat back down, pulling his arm away abruptly from Andy's grasp so at to prevent any further illicit stares from other customers in the dingy lounge. “Yeah, well, I admit my analogy was stupid, but still, cut that retard shit out.”

“Deal.”

“Alright, so what's the first step?”

Truth be told, Andy had absolutely no idea as to where to start. The encounter lasted a mere couple of seconds, but the effect felt everlasting. “Honestly? I don't know.”

“Well you said you ran into her. Where?”

Andy couldn't remember that small but significant detail either. The immediate influence she had over him from the brief yet awkward moment penetrated his very soul, leaving him a mindless, heartbroken zombie with every step she took further away. Before he knew it, he had walked a good mile in random directions before snapping out of his love-fueled daze. He tried valiantly to retrace his steps, acknowledge any aspect familiar with that instance where time completely stopped, but to no avail. His heart was so stricken with the thought of her that everything else within that moment failed to register in his brain. “It could have been the middle of a war zone for all I knew,” he resigned mostly to himself, sighing at the slow realization that any chance to find her had taken a severe hit from his obviously poor observational skills.

“Well,” Paul lit up his last cigarette and with his empty glass motioned over to the disinterested middle-aged waitress sitting at the bar, scribbling something on a cocktail napkin to bring another round. “last I checked we weren't really at war with anyone, and I don't remember you taking off to Iraq or Uganda or somewhere fucked up like that, so we can cross war zones off the list.” The waitress brought over fresh drinks and removed the empty glasses, barely acknowledging the existence of the two men sitting there. Paul swirled the ice around in his glass with his finger, took a thirsty gulp and clinked the glass resting in front of Andy. “See? Now we're getting somewhere.”

Andy picked up his drink and swallowed a healthy amount to help soothe the stupidity that had just invaded his ears. He couldn't help but smile over the absurd yet somehow rational argument put forth by his best friend of 17 years. The two of them met back when they were in Kindergarten and have been as close to inseparable as you could get. In fact if they weren't both always off chasing women around like they were an endangered species, it would be quite easy to assume their relationship went deeper. Paul liked his women fast and uncontrollable. He never had his heart broken and would boast about the numerous times he had women sobbing uncontrollably for him not to leave. It was not his style to let his guard down and allow himself to be vulnerable. He left that for Andy, who seems an addict for those sort of situations. He couldn't help it though, he'd always worn his heart on his sleeve. He used to admire the passion and love his parents shared even after so many years and would scoff at anyone who brazenly admitted that wasn't for them. 'To wake up next to someone you love is the greatest thing in life' he would constantly remind himself.

He finished off the rest of his drink and raised his glass to both the waitress and to Paul. “We got a long night ahead of us,” he smiled. “let's find my girl.”

Snow Falls Memories Fade

This was written, no editing, 28:15

The softening colors from the darkening sky shone bluntly though the frost covered window of Bennett's upstairs bedroom like they had done countless times before. The creaking of the roof weighed down by the burden of winter's wrath reverberated throughout the wooden cottage as if warning anything inside to be prepared.

Out front Bennett was preparing for the long drive back into town. The crunching of the unblemished snowfall covering the ground was deafening in comparison to the soft hum of the wind briskly bullying its way around the evergreen trees. He would have preferred to remain in the isolated hedonism of the small dwelling, but food supplies were running scarce and the risk of another major storm blowing through would have left him trapped for who knows how long.

“Whatever you do, never underestimate the power of nature,” his mother used to tell him when he was young. “If you respect it, it will respect you.” He never really understood that last part, but for some reason, as a small boy who looked up to and idolized his mother, those words – any words – were both soothing and reassuring.

He climbed behind the wheel of his Ford pick-up, blew a couple of heated breaths into his chilled yet sweaty hands and fished the keys out of his pocket. It had been over two weeks since he last fired her up, a mistake he always seems to make whenever he comes up here, yet has never paid the price for.

“Chug, chug..... “

He tried once more.

“Chug, chug...”

Nothing.

He put both hands on the top of the steering wheel, straightened his arms and leaned back against the worn-out seat. “There's no way I'll get a tow up here with a storm on the way,” he whispered to himself but really to no one in particular. He then proceeded to roll down his window and divert his attention towards the few flakes of snow falling auspiciously onto the white sheet surrounding the truck. Pulling the wool hat down over his ears he tried one more time.

“Chug, chug.... vrooooom.”

Exhaling a breath of relief, Bennett gently pushed down on the gas pedal and revved up the engine, mimicking the sound of a wild beast roaring triumphantly in the face of fear. He waited a a minute before taking the car out of park and commenced the long drive into what would barely be considered a town. The comfort of the light beaming proudly over the front porch began to dwindle as he drove further and further away from the clandestine property.

“Haven't seen you out here in a while,” Jim, mildly distracted from the local newsletter currently occupying his attention. “Stocking up for the storm?”

The hollow thud of each step by both men against the rickety wood planks lining the floor a constant reminder of the fragility of older buildings that somehow stood the test of time and the harshest of elements. Bennett always preferred to be reserved and detested small talk.

Returning his attention to the paper, Jim removed his glasses and continued on without waiting for a response. “Yessir. Looks like it could be a brutal one. No sense in going back wherever you're from. Gonna have to ride it out and hope the good lord watches out.”

Bennett browsed the shelves scarce with soup cans and various instant meal accompaniments. “What if I don't believe in the good lord?” He muttered loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to be misunderstood. He filled up whatever he could into the small plastic basket and continued on. Jim's face remained focused on the paper down on the counter, but his eyes glanced up directly at Bennett.

“Then you better hope the good lord believes in you.”

The cold felt colder as the darkness overtook the truck, the glow emanating from the quaint market lacking in the same comforting warmth as that from the house. The more the light faded, the more Bennett felt at ease with his surroundings, which had, at this point, worsened in terms of weather conditions. The light snow continued to meander downwards in a grace-like manner, lightly permeating the ground as if puzzle pieces falling into place.

The windshield wipers failed admirably in keeping the front window clean of any hindering snow that was now beginning to build up all around. The unknown void caused by the enclosing darkness adhered to the blinding snow made driving conditions risky at best. Bennett knew these roads inside and out, so his only worry had to do with any others on the road not so familiar. With the window rolled down, small flakes invaded the beat-up auto and landed gently on Bennett's fleece vest. The roar of the truck warning any animals in the vicinity to steer clear of the unforgiving beast.

Some ways down the road, in what felt like a never-ending tunnel of white darkness a small glimmer of light poked through the trees. Immediately the transient paranoia relented and transformed into hope. He pulled into the same spot where he had left it, the entire surface showed no evidence of his ever being there, let alone a mere hour ago. He parked, pulled the key out of the ignition and sat back, glancing out his still open window, the left side of his vest camouflaged in white. Much of the snow never made it beyond the higher branches of the trees encasing everything leaving the impression of a tent, where only a smattering of glitter managed to sneak through.

After a good ten minutes or so, the chill snapped Bennett out of his snow-drifted reverie. Grabbing his supplies and rolling up the window, he looked around.

“Good lord or no good lord...” he smiled, “this is fucking awesome.”

Hovel Of Hope

*I wrote this one in 36 minutes, no editing.

Landon put the pencil and sketchbook down on the wicker table directly to his left, leaned back and rubbed his eyes. He's been at this for years now and the only visible improvement is his lack of frustrations over his lack of improvement.

He leaned back in his worn-out wooden rocking chair, the only piece of furniture, the only memento in fact, he had of his grandparents, who both passed when he was still a baby, and allowed himself a couple of slow, deep breaths before regaining his composure.

After all, he bought this small, two bedroom cabin overlooking the hills of the Adirondacks out in Essex County strictly for the picturesque beauty in abundance. The previous owner put the three-acre land on the market expecting whoever dotted their name to the sale to demolish the property and put up something a little more modern or at least in tune with the owner, but Landon insisted upon keeping the small, rustic cottage in tact..

“It's charming,” Landon remembered saying. “Its character bodes well with its surroundings.

Having been a slave to the cannibalistic demeanor of the big city of New York for over half a decade, Landon felt it was the right time to abandon the warmth and decadence of a well-paying job and return to his more primitive roots. His parents, both products of the counter-culture movement of the 60s, always prided themselves for their reliance on the bare necessities or what they described as “basking in the warmth of nature's bosom”, and they were both adamant in passing down this manner of basic self-reliance to their only child – Landon, hence the name.

“Mother Nature doesn't demand capitalistic tactics to enjoy her fruits,” They would tell him to the point where he was so humiliated by their free-spirited ways that he left home right after High School (which they tried to dissuade him from attending) and did not speak to them for several years.

He left his hometown of Burlington, Vermont to join the quasi-robotic stream of briefcase walkers parading down Wall Street with a purpose. He worked hard, talking orders as efficiently as he barked them, earning himself a modest yet sizable income, but the longer he indulged in all those things his parents tried so desperately to warn him about, the more he hated himself and hated his parents for speaking so truthfully and being so right.

It wasn't long after his yearning for a more pastoral environment took hold to the point where he became completely disinterested in the lifestyle he worked so diligently to attain. He began repairing the bridge he collapsed with his parents and also started removing himself both physically and emotionally from the drudge of the big city. Spending his free time browsing the classifieds, he started yearning for a sign, any sign, that he wasn't crazy for wanting to leave all this behind. That's when he saw the small ad for a quaint cabin in complete and therapeutic isolation from the real world. Without even thinking twice, he called the number accompanying the ad and introduced himself and his intentions. Within a week he had quit his job and arranged for the majority of his luxuries to be boxed up and dropped off to various charities around the city (“At least they'll starve in front of a 57-inch color TV,” he joked to the mover, who smirked and shock his head in an exaggeratedly sympathetic manner). What was left was whatever he was able to cram into his Jeep Cherokee, and with a flick of a switch to off, he shut the door to his oversized loft in Manhattan, dropped the key off to Santo, the Concierge roaming around in the lobby, and sped off to start his new life.

Nowadays Landon spends most of his time embracing that which he came so dangerously close to losing. He has tried and failed to hone his artistic side and duplicate the scenic tranquility via pencil and paper, but no matter how many times he tries, he just can't seem to adequately pay tribute to the serenity it provides.

Yet, above all, no matter how aesthetically overwhelmed or content he may be, there's one though that continually permeates throughout his inner-being.

“Goddam I miss Cocaine and prostitutes...”

Music and other drugs...

The tribal echo of the drums bounced rhythmically around the 70-year-old concert hall. The other four senses heightened by the inability to hear thanks to the pounding vibrations undulating throughout, mixed in with the rattling of the empty glasses, beer bottles and stained glass windows hidden behind wooden panels creating a symphonic cacophony of noises. A throng of late-night zombies swayed in time with the music in a subservient manner, increasing the intensity of their movement to coincide with the gradually increasing pace of the tempo.

The locale wasn't exactly typical for Craig, who chose to forgo good judgment and normally reserved evenings for a change of pace. After all, he was now a stranger in a strange land, having just moved to the untamed and tempestuous lifestyle accustomed by the inhabitants of Los Angeles. There was only so much he could take living in small town Brampton. Late night focal points centered on starry starry nights and the quiet rustling of tree branches rustling in the piercing dark. It was time, he accepted, to explore greener pastures in less greener pastures.

Elle's slender body pulsated in a controlled yet spastic manner, emitting sexuality with every sashay of her hips, every glide of feet, every soft touch of her hands embracing her own body, her curious fingers caressing up and down her arms, running along the hardening goosebumps in a comforting yet highly erotic manner. Elle was and is a normally reserved girl who masks this forbidden side with a stale, monotonous emotionally void shell in the everyday world. Those who don't know her beyond the mundane of the Monday-to-Friday workweek appreciate Elle for being an adorably shy creature who uses the warmth of her comforting smile to mask what many mistake as social awkwardness. Those, however, who know Elle more intimately know her as more of a wild child, void of inhibition and restraint. The music, the environment, the combined satisfaction of having her senses invoked, heightened and teased, were all she looked forward to through the week and all that made the insufferable banality bearable.

This was hers.

No one could take this away from her.

The passionate glow emanating from her subconsciously lascivious behavior found its way to Craig, who himself had also allowed the ambiance to dominate his inner being. The heat from the dance floor overtook the artificial air being pumped throughout to keep things cool. Craig glanced around until his eyes gazed upon a beautiful creature in a sleek black dress, eyes closed, sauntering aimlessly in musical worship. A small bead of sweat dripped invitingly down the nape of her neck and further down her exposed back to regions beyond. He slowly moved his way closer to her, occasionally getting lost in his own surroundings both visually and aurally, until she was within arm's reach. She herself lost in her own thoughts not aware of a new body in the vicinity until she felt the heat emanating from the sexuality he oozed.

Her eyes crept open, glazed from the dreams and images pervading her thoughts. She smiled a smile similar but different than the one she flashes at work. This smile was intimidating and exuded confidence. She caught his eyes looking at her and he did not turn away when she gazed directly at him; the intentions were clear and everything that needed to be said was communicated through that unspoken connection. She closed her eyes again and continued letting the music override her senses. Craig strolled in closer so as to feel her without touching her. When he put his hands on her hips, she did not flinch. Instead she turned around and moved in closer, invoking the first real physical contact between the two. She tenderly slide her hand up his thigh to his hand, dropped what felt like a small pill into his soft yet masculine fingers and whispered softly into his ear the only words spoken between them.

“Swallow this.”

Even through the deafening music, her sultry voice sent a chill down his entire body and sent a spark up to his brain to do whatever she tells him to. She flashed that carefully calculated yet still seductive smile. her hand lingered in his for a second before she wrapped her fingers around his like a fist and casually guided his hand closer to his mouth, She kissed the back of his hand then removed hers and returned to her trance-like state, closing her eyes and running her fingers through her hair, all while swaying along to the music.

“I'm a long ways from home,” Craig thought to himself as he slid the small dose into his mouth and prepared himself for a ride to the unknown...