All right everyone, here's the full version of the story that I began in my last post. And just in case anyone I don't know happens across this and gets any ideas about stealing it, I've already submitted this to multiple contests and magazines, so you're too late.
This one is called "The Baltimore Touch." Enjoy.
Pratt Street penthouse, day gray and hot without warmth, but the guy in the corner shivers and looks for the mark where the chills keep biting him. Cold in here, no doubt, but not like that. He reaches for the bottle again, but stubby fingers cant clinch it; tips over, tumbling red and white pills over the edge of the counter like a waterfall on Mars. This corners dark, but not enough for me; guyll see me when he turns his head. I dont mind; thats why Im here.
Im in the suite, and Im crunching empty vials at the corner of Fairmount and Addison, and passing through the wince-inducing light in the hallways of Bon Secours, offering an eye and a hand, surfing the cresting waves of hope and despair from all the people hurting themselves to be healed. Their cries are many and they are one, both spoken and unspoken; I answer in my way, touch a woman alone on a stone step and close the fissures in her arms and neck, wave my hand over the heads of the sick and sleeping in their beds, and step out from the shadows so the man on the floor with his white shirt un-tucked and his red tie dangling in a puddle of spilt booze can no longer ignore me. Bedridden patients cant smile or gasp, but I feel their thoughts and know they see me in their dreams. Woman on the street looks up at me, eyes going from narrow to wide in two seconds; I manage a half-smile and wipe the sweat from her forehead, the motion letting her know she still has a chance. Probably wont make it, and go right back to the needle, but maybe not.
Guy on the floor sniffles. In the world, people see him, think success. In here, he looks up at me, tears desperately clinging to the backs of his eyes. He doesnt shout, doesnt crawl, doesnt question. A blink, and he recognizes me even though weve never met before. I know you. Its not a question. I cant do it, he says. I just dont know anymore. Maybe never did.
I dont reply, kneel down instead to match his gaze with my own. His cheeks are puffy, nice leather belt no match for his bulging midsection. The chemicals inside him swim though his blood on the backs of the calories and false promises the bottles label never mentioned, several factions breaking off for a frontal assault on his brain. I keep my hands at my sides.
Help, he says. He doesnt say please, doesnt have to; help is enough. I smile sadly, twirl the outline of a halo over his head with my finger, dont bother to look inside again because I know the alien flow in the body is already slowing. Then I direct the pills up from the floor and back in the bottle like a conductor without a staff. Then the bottles in my pocket, heavier than it really is, and I tell him simply, I dont need to anymore. He cringes, doesnt understand, but he will. I would see him later, healthy and free, if I didnt know today was my last day.
Back on the streets, feel the pulse of the city through my fingertips as though swiping them across the top of a candles gentle flame. Gus leaning against the crumbling wall of the empty parking garage, interpreting the citys life and death through his trumpet, letting the ebbs and tides of all the dreams, fulfilled and broken, guide his notes. He tips his hat to me, knows Im the only one who hears what hes really playing, plods on thick bare feet across the cracked pavement, each step bringing a new pitch in his music. Passerby furrow brows, frown; they hear only noise and cant fathom the foreign rhythm.
Im on Fayette Street, beasts of steel and stone at my back piercing the sky and staking their claim. Its still here, quiet, this part of the city holding its breath, waiting for the next cry of pain. Im on Baltimore Street, pinned by rowhouses and facing the heart of the city, tauntingly in sight but always out of reach for those who call this place home. I feel the acceptance of the residents; they know their world, and know where it ends. Im on Fulton Avenue, being ignored by a woman shouting at her young son, smacking him on the back and shoulders with an open palm before moving to his face. I needed that money, you little fuck. I needed that money.
I meet myself on Baltimore Street, enduring the curious stare from the man stumbling aimlessly out of a building. He takes a hesitant half step before every movement, like hes not sure he really wants to walk in that direction. Hes big, droopy skin, hangs off his face like mud dripping from a rock. Casual touch to the knee; he staggers backward, arms flailing against the plywood door that covers the vacant behind him. He knows. You, he stutters. Yes, I say, me. I give him a wink, then move on.
Two steps down, woman peeking through the spider web curtains sees all that just happened. Rushes out, steps in front of me. Skin clings to her bones for dear life, already cut in seven places. Thin, diseases at war inside her. Got the bug. Wait, she says. Please. She ducks back inside, reappears with a smaller version of her, no more than four years old, looking up at me with an innocence she wont live to see die. Help her, the woman says. Just her. Her arms can barely hold the child, as small as it is. I cup her face in my right hand, like a lover, but I dont look at her; rub my hands under the childs skin, feel her immune system strengthen, all at once, and hunt down the bug. Itll take a few days for everything else she has to clear up, but her bodys up to the task now. Mother knows, tears welling up. She heaves, hands to her mouth, laughing and crying all at once. I cant fight a smile, graze my fingertips across her forehead. She doesnt feel it yet; wait til tomorrow. I didnt go all the way; she goes back to a needle, lets a man use her again, shell be right back where she was. Her tears dry; she knows that. I wont be back, I tell her. Her lips quiver, voice dying in the desert of her throat. She hugs her daughter, wholl now live past the age of innocence. Have I done a mercy or a curse?
Im moving, rowhouses at my back. Im being followed. I expected that. Guy who wants to be the big man on the corner, doesnt know what to make of me, but figures Im not just another hopper out of nowhere. Being cautious. Smart.
Different buzz in the Harbor. Upbeat, foreigners, wandering about hoping to see a body fished out of the water or to be approached by a dealer. Get the real Bawlmer experience. They dont head west, they dont head east; they know what lies in store for them there. They want the danger, but they want to be safe when they see it. The kids know better; they laugh, run, say ooh, look at the ship. Theyre wise, but as they get smarter the wisdom will fade.
Im winding through Fells Point, stepping on the echoes of the past that have been paved over by upscale restaurants, college drunks, corporate-sponsored self-described artists. Progress. The dead live under the streets, in the old cobblestone paths where they fell. Gus is here, his trumpet catching the ghostly cries and giving them to the drinkers and revelers. They frown and look about themselves, uncomfortable, as if suddenly remembering something they were happy to forget. Most of them get up and move on, cant even explain why. Theres a different hurt here, all around, but I dont have the time anymore. My follower has a purpose, and I have one more job to do before he makes his move.
Mount Vernon, both young and old, green. University, traffic and disposable stress. East side, an opera of shouted commercials for red tops, WMDs, the new batch. A hill of vacants, walls charred so thoroughly that not even memories survived. Stench of stale vomit, a dead junkie lying behind a plywood gate a block ahead, alone and unnoticed for three days. I call his spirit, clinging to the cracked paint on the wall thats about to collapse on his body; I assure him hell have an easier time of it the next go around.
Guy behind mes got a singular focus now, hardly even aware hes out of his element. Got to move fast. Kid, names Clay, runs up to Spyder, bringing him a wad of cash. Spyder counts it, pockets it, turns back to his corner. My cut, Clay says. Ill cut you, Spyder says. Sorry son, next time get some chrome. Now get the fuck outta here. Clay stares daggers at him, then runs away. In twenty minutes hell be back with a gun and hell shoot Spyder in the head, and thatll be the story of both of them. Thats why I step up to Spyder and flash a small bag of powder. What? he says, recoiling as I get in his face. Back off, nigga. No one here has seen me yet; to them, I am just another nigger. I crack a stupid grin, let a bit of spittle drip out the corner of my lips, and casually toss the bag at Spyders chest. He catches it and peers at it, trying to read it but not knowing its in a different language. Stupid-ass fuck, he mutters, then shoves me away. Get the fuck away from me. He ducks inside an open-topped vacant.
In five minutes hell be dead, his insides ablaze as if acid itself had coursed through. Clay will be the one to find him, and hell see what murder really looks like. Hell drop the gun and never pick one up again for the rest of his life.
I know what you are. I turn around; my friend from the west side is right before me, unblinking. Hes got an ulcer, putting on a brave front not to let the agony in his stomach carry over to his steely gaze. I know, I say. He stabs me with a rusty blade, once in the stomach and twice in the chest. A woman somewhere shouts, but I cant tell if its for me or not. I slowly crumble to the ground, no expression at all on my face. I accepted this. The guy kneels and leans over me, leering like hes a kid and Im the first dead animal hes ever seen. Before he can blink I reach up and cup his cheeks in my hands. He doesnt pull away. I drop my hands and wait.
He absently rubs his stomach. Then he knows. He inhales sharply and pulls up his shirt, patting his inner tube belly. Looks up at me. Yes, I nod. Its yours now. I dont speak the words, but I know he hears them. He tests himself, gently grazing a hacking old man whos come over to see the commotion. The man stops coughing, his thin gray hairs multiplying and darkening in three seconds. The powers fresh. My assailant starts shaking, glares at me one final time. Hes terrified. So was I, once upon a time. But hell learn how to listen soon enough. Thats the price, I whisper.
Gus leans over me too, trumpet resting on his shoulder, letting the song of my passing stay only with me. Thanks, Gus. He tips his cap; I give him a nod. Content, I close my eyes. Through chapped lips, I manage a smile.
This one is called "The Baltimore Touch." Enjoy.
Pratt Street penthouse, day gray and hot without warmth, but the guy in the corner shivers and looks for the mark where the chills keep biting him. Cold in here, no doubt, but not like that. He reaches for the bottle again, but stubby fingers cant clinch it; tips over, tumbling red and white pills over the edge of the counter like a waterfall on Mars. This corners dark, but not enough for me; guyll see me when he turns his head. I dont mind; thats why Im here.
Im in the suite, and Im crunching empty vials at the corner of Fairmount and Addison, and passing through the wince-inducing light in the hallways of Bon Secours, offering an eye and a hand, surfing the cresting waves of hope and despair from all the people hurting themselves to be healed. Their cries are many and they are one, both spoken and unspoken; I answer in my way, touch a woman alone on a stone step and close the fissures in her arms and neck, wave my hand over the heads of the sick and sleeping in their beds, and step out from the shadows so the man on the floor with his white shirt un-tucked and his red tie dangling in a puddle of spilt booze can no longer ignore me. Bedridden patients cant smile or gasp, but I feel their thoughts and know they see me in their dreams. Woman on the street looks up at me, eyes going from narrow to wide in two seconds; I manage a half-smile and wipe the sweat from her forehead, the motion letting her know she still has a chance. Probably wont make it, and go right back to the needle, but maybe not.
Guy on the floor sniffles. In the world, people see him, think success. In here, he looks up at me, tears desperately clinging to the backs of his eyes. He doesnt shout, doesnt crawl, doesnt question. A blink, and he recognizes me even though weve never met before. I know you. Its not a question. I cant do it, he says. I just dont know anymore. Maybe never did.
I dont reply, kneel down instead to match his gaze with my own. His cheeks are puffy, nice leather belt no match for his bulging midsection. The chemicals inside him swim though his blood on the backs of the calories and false promises the bottles label never mentioned, several factions breaking off for a frontal assault on his brain. I keep my hands at my sides.
Help, he says. He doesnt say please, doesnt have to; help is enough. I smile sadly, twirl the outline of a halo over his head with my finger, dont bother to look inside again because I know the alien flow in the body is already slowing. Then I direct the pills up from the floor and back in the bottle like a conductor without a staff. Then the bottles in my pocket, heavier than it really is, and I tell him simply, I dont need to anymore. He cringes, doesnt understand, but he will. I would see him later, healthy and free, if I didnt know today was my last day.
Back on the streets, feel the pulse of the city through my fingertips as though swiping them across the top of a candles gentle flame. Gus leaning against the crumbling wall of the empty parking garage, interpreting the citys life and death through his trumpet, letting the ebbs and tides of all the dreams, fulfilled and broken, guide his notes. He tips his hat to me, knows Im the only one who hears what hes really playing, plods on thick bare feet across the cracked pavement, each step bringing a new pitch in his music. Passerby furrow brows, frown; they hear only noise and cant fathom the foreign rhythm.
Im on Fayette Street, beasts of steel and stone at my back piercing the sky and staking their claim. Its still here, quiet, this part of the city holding its breath, waiting for the next cry of pain. Im on Baltimore Street, pinned by rowhouses and facing the heart of the city, tauntingly in sight but always out of reach for those who call this place home. I feel the acceptance of the residents; they know their world, and know where it ends. Im on Fulton Avenue, being ignored by a woman shouting at her young son, smacking him on the back and shoulders with an open palm before moving to his face. I needed that money, you little fuck. I needed that money.
I meet myself on Baltimore Street, enduring the curious stare from the man stumbling aimlessly out of a building. He takes a hesitant half step before every movement, like hes not sure he really wants to walk in that direction. Hes big, droopy skin, hangs off his face like mud dripping from a rock. Casual touch to the knee; he staggers backward, arms flailing against the plywood door that covers the vacant behind him. He knows. You, he stutters. Yes, I say, me. I give him a wink, then move on.
Two steps down, woman peeking through the spider web curtains sees all that just happened. Rushes out, steps in front of me. Skin clings to her bones for dear life, already cut in seven places. Thin, diseases at war inside her. Got the bug. Wait, she says. Please. She ducks back inside, reappears with a smaller version of her, no more than four years old, looking up at me with an innocence she wont live to see die. Help her, the woman says. Just her. Her arms can barely hold the child, as small as it is. I cup her face in my right hand, like a lover, but I dont look at her; rub my hands under the childs skin, feel her immune system strengthen, all at once, and hunt down the bug. Itll take a few days for everything else she has to clear up, but her bodys up to the task now. Mother knows, tears welling up. She heaves, hands to her mouth, laughing and crying all at once. I cant fight a smile, graze my fingertips across her forehead. She doesnt feel it yet; wait til tomorrow. I didnt go all the way; she goes back to a needle, lets a man use her again, shell be right back where she was. Her tears dry; she knows that. I wont be back, I tell her. Her lips quiver, voice dying in the desert of her throat. She hugs her daughter, wholl now live past the age of innocence. Have I done a mercy or a curse?
Im moving, rowhouses at my back. Im being followed. I expected that. Guy who wants to be the big man on the corner, doesnt know what to make of me, but figures Im not just another hopper out of nowhere. Being cautious. Smart.
Different buzz in the Harbor. Upbeat, foreigners, wandering about hoping to see a body fished out of the water or to be approached by a dealer. Get the real Bawlmer experience. They dont head west, they dont head east; they know what lies in store for them there. They want the danger, but they want to be safe when they see it. The kids know better; they laugh, run, say ooh, look at the ship. Theyre wise, but as they get smarter the wisdom will fade.
Im winding through Fells Point, stepping on the echoes of the past that have been paved over by upscale restaurants, college drunks, corporate-sponsored self-described artists. Progress. The dead live under the streets, in the old cobblestone paths where they fell. Gus is here, his trumpet catching the ghostly cries and giving them to the drinkers and revelers. They frown and look about themselves, uncomfortable, as if suddenly remembering something they were happy to forget. Most of them get up and move on, cant even explain why. Theres a different hurt here, all around, but I dont have the time anymore. My follower has a purpose, and I have one more job to do before he makes his move.
Mount Vernon, both young and old, green. University, traffic and disposable stress. East side, an opera of shouted commercials for red tops, WMDs, the new batch. A hill of vacants, walls charred so thoroughly that not even memories survived. Stench of stale vomit, a dead junkie lying behind a plywood gate a block ahead, alone and unnoticed for three days. I call his spirit, clinging to the cracked paint on the wall thats about to collapse on his body; I assure him hell have an easier time of it the next go around.
Guy behind mes got a singular focus now, hardly even aware hes out of his element. Got to move fast. Kid, names Clay, runs up to Spyder, bringing him a wad of cash. Spyder counts it, pockets it, turns back to his corner. My cut, Clay says. Ill cut you, Spyder says. Sorry son, next time get some chrome. Now get the fuck outta here. Clay stares daggers at him, then runs away. In twenty minutes hell be back with a gun and hell shoot Spyder in the head, and thatll be the story of both of them. Thats why I step up to Spyder and flash a small bag of powder. What? he says, recoiling as I get in his face. Back off, nigga. No one here has seen me yet; to them, I am just another nigger. I crack a stupid grin, let a bit of spittle drip out the corner of my lips, and casually toss the bag at Spyders chest. He catches it and peers at it, trying to read it but not knowing its in a different language. Stupid-ass fuck, he mutters, then shoves me away. Get the fuck away from me. He ducks inside an open-topped vacant.
In five minutes hell be dead, his insides ablaze as if acid itself had coursed through. Clay will be the one to find him, and hell see what murder really looks like. Hell drop the gun and never pick one up again for the rest of his life.
I know what you are. I turn around; my friend from the west side is right before me, unblinking. Hes got an ulcer, putting on a brave front not to let the agony in his stomach carry over to his steely gaze. I know, I say. He stabs me with a rusty blade, once in the stomach and twice in the chest. A woman somewhere shouts, but I cant tell if its for me or not. I slowly crumble to the ground, no expression at all on my face. I accepted this. The guy kneels and leans over me, leering like hes a kid and Im the first dead animal hes ever seen. Before he can blink I reach up and cup his cheeks in my hands. He doesnt pull away. I drop my hands and wait.
He absently rubs his stomach. Then he knows. He inhales sharply and pulls up his shirt, patting his inner tube belly. Looks up at me. Yes, I nod. Its yours now. I dont speak the words, but I know he hears them. He tests himself, gently grazing a hacking old man whos come over to see the commotion. The man stops coughing, his thin gray hairs multiplying and darkening in three seconds. The powers fresh. My assailant starts shaking, glares at me one final time. Hes terrified. So was I, once upon a time. But hell learn how to listen soon enough. Thats the price, I whisper.
Gus leans over me too, trumpet resting on his shoulder, letting the song of my passing stay only with me. Thanks, Gus. He tips his cap; I give him a nod. Content, I close my eyes. Through chapped lips, I manage a smile.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
I wish we could work on something together. I feel like so many of your strengths are things I lack.