Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Category: My Favorites

  • The Smell of Sage and Iron

    The Smell of Sage and Iron

    death-valley-268404_1920

    The day-long truck ride started out as an adventure, then a journey, and after the third basin and range, it became a challenge to overcome boredom.

    Victor rolled down the window. He stuck his head out far enough for the wind to buffet his face. The blowing wind helped. He shuck off the grog and blinked a few times. The cool air made his face numb but the inside air made him sleepy.

    He reached back in and the heat hit again. He looked at the thermometer. Still more than 96 degrees. Was that inside or out? It didn’t matter. It was still hot.

    Not a car passed in two hours. The desert highway lived up to its name as the loneliest road and looking east across the playa, Victor saw the heat waves rising off the sand. Blue and green forms rose in a dance hypnotic and he ran too close to the edge. He pulled back with a sharp turn. Another mistake would either leave him awake or dead.

    He reached over for some water. The bottle felt light and only a sip remained. He took it, yet the little wetness only made him thirstier. He reached behind him for another bottle. Finding none, he licked the bottom of his front teeth and wet his tongue.

    To the west a few white clouds formed over the range. The sunlight made them transparent while dark patches below followed the clouds. In the shadows, the creosote and sage took on a dark shade of green and south of these white puffy clouds, a dark cloud filled the sky. The white clouds were rushing to join the darkness.

    Below the dark cloud, Victor saw mist and lines drifting down to the valley floor. Then a flash of light. And another. Lightening mixed with rain. He waited for the reply. Thunder sounded eight seconds after the flash so the rain fell eight miles away.

    He thought about the water. Refreshing and wet. Cold and dark; he longed to drink it.

    He punched his foot on the accelerator. The truck jumped and rushed forward. The wind blew faster beside the window.

    He stuck his head out again and a smell of dried wildflowers and iron filled his nose. The wind telegraphed the rain and brought a few drops to the pavement. They dropped and evaporated.

    In an instant, large drops fell on the windshield. A slow splat of drops hit in front of him and to the side. Each drop the size of silver dollars. A few more rain drops fell and then a torrent of rain.

    Victor let the water hit his face. The dust on his hair turned to mud and flowed past his forehead. He stuck his tongue out to catch a few drops.

    Thunder shook the truck. A flash of light and the rain started falling faster. Water drops filled the cab. Victor rolled up the window. He turned on the wipers. They failed to keep up with the falling water.

    A small road dipped down into the culvert and Victor slowed down to pull over. Off the road, he sat in the cab and watched the water hit the hood. It rippled down the side of the truck and pooled around him.

    He found a napkin and wiped down the door. The steering wheel was sticky. He tried wiping it off. The paper stuck to the wheel and tore off into strips. He tossed the waded paper onto the floor.

    The rain started to let up. Victor rolled down the window. He took a deep breathe of the smell of rain, mud and sage. A flash of light and thunder rocked the truck. He sat beside the road and looked as the sunlight flickered through the rain.

    Steam rose up off the pavement. Victor opened the door and walked to the back of the truck. A small puddle formed in the gravel. He pushed his boot toe through the water and it flowed off into the culvert.

    Victor reached into the bed for a used beer can. He shook it. Water sloshed back and forth in the bottom. Victor brought the can up and drank the water.

    The can smelled of rain and sage. He thought about the length of the journey. A smile turned up his lips and he walked back to the cab. With the rain, the trip became an adventure again.

    Read more: The Smell of Sage and Iron
  • Can You Hear Me Now, Hollywood?

    Can You Hear Me Now, Hollywood?

    jacobaea-vulgaris-839511_1920

    A loud sneeze sent a nose full of snot onto the steering wheel and the windshield. James pushed the phone away from the explosion and the rain of mucus.

    “Are you gonna be all right?” Sally snickered through the phone.

    “Damn ragweed.” James looked around for a tissue. He also tried not to run his hand through the sticky mess on his steering wheel. “I’m blowing my nose or snorting up salt water.”

    He dug through the console for a napkin or any kind of paper. He found nothing to wipe his mess.

    James clicked on the speaker button and dropped the phone on the passenger’s seat. He moved his left hand through the snot on the wheel. James shook his hand onto the floor and yelled into the phone.

    “I don’t have time for this crap.” The snot now covered his pant leg. “Email Mike the job, call my doctor, and find me a box of tissues.”

    James turned his convertible onto Mulholland Highway and headed north. The other end of the line was silent.

    “I’m in a hole,” he said. “I’ll pop out in a moment.”

    The cell towers often dropped calls and Sally waited. She figured he would always call back.

    The sun was shining through the dried yellow mucus on the windshield to create a rainbow on his dash. He looked at the light and ignored the bungalows and exclusive homes of Beachwood Canyon.

    James turned a few more times up the winding road. He reached for the phone and caught static. After a few more turns, a voice came through.

    “He says he won’t do it this time.” Her voice sounded distant.

    “What does that mean?” he shouted. “Of course, he will. There’s no one else.”

    “I think it will cost more this time.”

    “It shouldn’t cost more than last time.” He looked at the screen. “The job hasn’t changed.” He slapped the phone on the wheel and turned the car to the right. He corrected before he clipped two bikers on their way to the Hollywood sign.

    “Email him again and make it clear,” James yelled.

    He pulled into a far parking spot at Lake Hollywood Park and stopped the car.

    James fell out of the car along with a stack of bent coffee cups. A wadded up napkin followed the empties and blew off toward the grass. He stumbled up grabbing the wad and ripped it apart. With the paper remains, he dabbed at the steering wheel.

    “You still there?”

    He made out a silent sigh.

    “Good, we can iron this out.”

    He explained how Mike had no excuse to refuse.

    “It’s easy.” James talked with his arms. He waved his left hand in the air.

    “He parks on the fifth floor under the camera.”

    “Uh, huh.”

    “No one will notice him get out.”

    “Uh, huh.”

    “He takes the box with him and inches along the wall.”

    “Why doesn’t the camera see him?” she said.

    “It’s pointed out at the cars and not the wall.”

    “Oh,” she said. He could tell she did not understand.

    “The camera points across the garage,” he explained. “It doesn’t pick up on things too close.”

    “I get it.”

    He lost track of the next step. James thought he should do it himself.

    “No one will see him coming,” he said, while pushing his finger toward the ground.

    “I’m not sure everything will fit in the box,” she said.

    “They came in the box.” James clinched his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “Why is there a problem?”

    “The canisters are too big and he can’t put his mask in the box with everything too,” she said.

    “Have him wear the mask and carry the box.”

    A small boy and man passed him in the parking log carrying a kite. James looked up at the sky. A few clouds floated up from the ocean. It was a nice day for playing in the wind.

    “Canisters?” James asked. “They’re cupcakes, for crying out loud,” he shouted. “Just have him carry the cupcakes, wear his superhero mask, and surprise her.”

    “Cupcakes?” she asked.

    “Yes, a dozen red velvet with the yellow baby bottle sugar decorations.” Sometimes she exasperated him.

    “Do you think you can pass this on Mike?”

    James detected dead silence on the other end of the phone and he wondered if Sally understood him. He raised his head and stared at the clouds. He shook his head dumbfounded. James wondered why everything with her required so much energy.

    “Sally?” he asked. She had to know her own name. Sometimes she drove him nuts. He looked around the park for a closer cell tower.

    “Sally? James enunciated to make sure she understood him. The pause lasted a long time.

    The voice on the other end of the line cleared her throat.

    “This isn’t Sally.”

    He pulled his phone away and brought it back to his ear. What did she mean, this isn’t Sally? James listened to a man in the background tell the woman to shut up and the phone went dead.

    Read more: Can You Hear Me Now, Hollywood?
  • Make The Rain. Stop.

    Make The Rain. Stop.

    Years ago in the American southwest, there was an apprentice rainmaker. He learned everything he could from his mentor, a Great Chief, who could taste the wind, read the sky, and cause it to rain in the very spot he picked.

    This Great Chief was known throughout the four corners for his rainmaking and he was often called upon by farmers and ranchers when their crops or their cattle were suffering. They would send a messenger or a telegram and the Great Chief would make it rain.

    The apprentice took note of everything his mentor would do. He tasted the sky. He stared up at the clouds. And he watched as the Great Chief honored the four winds and paid tribute to the spirits.

    One day after all of the long study and practice he believed he was ready to make his own rain.

    (more…)

    Read more: Make The Rain. Stop.
  • A Ghost Story – Ghosts Wished People Believed

    A Ghost Story – Ghosts Wished People Believed

    A few of the residents believed they lived in a haunted house. To the ghosts, it seemed unlikely anyone believed. They bumped into the living without the slightest notice. Sometimes they made a sudden movement to remind each other they were still around. They bounced among the residents coloring happy memories or darkening deep regrets. Never had they sparked passion in the hearts of the living. The ghosts wished people believed.
     
    Tommy woke from an afternoon nap. He rubbed his eyes, stretched up his arms, and crunched his knuckles. A ghost bounced a light stream around the cracking fingers. The light then flashed away. The ghost hung above the bed. An idea popped into Tommy’s head. He smiled at the sudden thought.
     
    This time he would do it. Weighing only 98 pounds, more or less, his mother had told him he was too small to play football.
     
    “You’re better suited to chess,” she would say.
     
    But he wanted to grind his toe in the grass and scuff up his shoes until they were green. He yearned to slip the shoulder pads on, bury his head in the helmet, and chew on the mouthpiece.
     
    Today he would race down the field and catch the winning pass. This was going to be his year; he would not be too short, too skinny, too uncoordinated. He was playing football, no matter what. Of course, mother would never approved. He let that thought slip away.
     
    He climbed to end of the bed on his elbows and pushed up to the edge. His spindly feet touched the cold floor. He jerked up before setting them down again on the concrete. Should he stay in bed?
     
    He considered his plan. It is nice and warm in here. He looked back at the paperback he was reading. The next chapter could be good. He snapped out of his doubt. No, I have to do this.
     
    Across the street from the old house, two teams gathered on a long field of green. Tommy grabbed his helmet and shoulder pads and rushed across the street. He slowed as he reached the edge of the grass and paused. He thought better of the idea. He turned back.
     
    Tommy missed his chance to retreat. A large hand grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled out on the field. On the line, a hulk known as Smasher thumped Tommy’s helmet down hard over his head. Tommy bit down deeper into his mouthpiece. Smasher smiled a deep satisfying grin. He crouched down opposite the wimpy football player.
     
    “You’re going down,” said Smasher. Tommy cringed. “Not likely,” he said under his breath. Tommy breathed in and stared into Smasher’s eyes. Blood gathered in his veins.
     
    Tommy slipped sideways to avoid the mass facing off from him. Smasher followed and crouched back into a stance. Tommy trembled at the thought of grizzled terror bearing down on his small frame. He stepped backward and started to pull up but missed his chance to flee. The quarterback counted down, the ball snapped, and both lines pushed together. Tommy froze.
     
    He started counting. One, two. Tommy didn’t get to three.
     
    Smasher lunged forward before grabbing Tommy by the waist. He twirled Tommy above the crumbling defenders. He pushed him high above the tangled bodies and laughed. Smasher curled the smaller player downward and then pushed him back up. A weak scream escaped from Tommy as Smasher reached higher and higher. Tommy hung above the field in slow motion. He could see the entire team below him collapsing into a twisted heap. Smasher dropped his prey.
     
    Before falling onto the mangled mass, Tommy saw an entire stand of cheering fans. The crowd vanished in a blink as Tommy landed on the pile below. Mom would not like this, he decided.
     
    Tommy lay on the ground for a few more minutes before pulling himself up. He limped to the side of the field and fell down again on the grass. He stared up at the clouds rolling passed. He smiled a satisfied grin. After a few minutes, two orderlies placed him on a stretcher and carted him off to the infirmary.
     
    “What you don’t seem to remember,” said the nurse “is that you are 84-years-old and too fragile to be playing football.” She placed an ice bag on Tommy’s knee. He covered the bag and smiled up at her.
     
    Both men sat in the library playing chess and grinning. It had been a good day.
     
    “And you, Mr. David Lemboski.” The nurse pushed away a wandering hand from the bottom of her skirt. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Trying to pick up a grown man over your head!” She smacked the back of his head and walked away to the nurse’s station.
     
    “You know Smasher,” Tommy said. “I never felt more alive.”
     
    The two men turned to the chessboard between them. Smasher picked up a rook and put his queen in jeopardy. Tommy considered a sudden revelation. “Mom was right. I should have stuck to chess.”
     
    Touching the ceiling, two ghosts hovered above Tommy and Smasher feeling very alive. They then floated through the pieces on the game board. Tommy and Smasher advanced through the squares. The ghosts picked up speed and flew across the room.
     
    They drifted over to join a group of other faded personages. Both ghosts shined brighter than the rest. One in particular seemed very pleased and she beamed a sliver of light down to the chessboard.
     
    Tommy looked over at the two happy ghosts and winked. A wave of happiness extended from the ghost of his mother to his eyes. He chuckled. She nodded in approval. Tommy realized it didn’t matter anymore what she thought.
     
    The line of ghosts drew inward forming a common light, floated through the chess pieces, and then shot out the window. Tommy watched them disappear. The truth was very clear to him. They lived in a haunted house.
     
     Copyright 2013, Michael S. Sommermeyer. All Rights Reserved.

    Inspiration:

     

    Read more: A Ghost Story – Ghosts Wished People Believed