If you read his FBI file, Tony Francony had been a prodigy. He may be a worn old man now, but once he had been the youngest and most talented “cleaner” in The Family. Tony ‘TNT’ Francony was a killer early in life, and earned his nickname 100fold. Clearly, he never actually used TNT to kill anyone, although he did delight in the use of more modern and useful explosives. No, in addition to his love of explosives, TNT Francony also earned his nickname because he was so explosive and volatile. It could be assumed that if you didn’t handle him the right way, there was a good chance you’d wind up missing your hands, if not your face and life as well. He’d been able to survive the turmoil of mob family politics by staying out of the middle of disputes. He never chose sides, and people always saw his value for making “problems” of various natures “disappear.” Thus, by now, he’s already outlived the life-expectancy of most in his line of work by decades.
Category brian
2:32 am. [trigger #107]
Tristan lay there in the darkness, staring at moon shadows on the ceiling. Against his better judgment, he looked at the clock again. 2:32. He had to be at work in five and a half hours. The best he could hope for now was four short hours of sleep, and that’s if he fell asleep right away. The anxiety made it even harder to rest.
He’d been bone tired when he slipped into bed. Certain that tonight would be a night when he would slip off to sleep quickly. Yet, here he was almost four hours later, growing more restless and awake with each passing moment.
Tristan started doing the math in his head. Realizing circumstances didn’t offer much hope of sleep tomorrow night either, how many days in a row could he make it with little or no sleep before his body simply gave out and he crashed, wiped out and exhausted, losing a week or more while he waited for his system to recover. He couldn’t afford that, now especially. There was too much that needed to be done in the coming weeks. If he went out of commission now, it would most probably result in the collapse of his fledgling design company. He might lose everything: a realization that hardly made sleep any easier to come by.
Best get up, get some work done now. If he wasn’t going to sleep at least he could get ahead on some work before dawn, try and be far enough ahead that he could weather the storm on the horizon.
the 4 yard line. [trigger #106]
And it all comes down to this. With the Giants down by five here in the closing seconds of Super Bowl XLVII, Eli Manning is four yards away from beating his brother Peyton, and thus becoming the first Manning brother to a second Super Bowl win, as well as the victor of Manning Bowl I.
It’s nothing new, to have speculated at times during a season about the potentiality that Peyton and Eli might face off in a Super Bowl. Yet, there is something especially fitting that it would happen this year, for the first and perhaps only time. Fitting because of this year’s host city of New Orleans, where the boys grew up, and where Archie Manning made the Manning name famous, before his two QB sons came along to make it a household name.
Thus far, the game has lived up to the hype. An epic clash of two great teams who refuse to accept anything less than Super Bowl glory. Just as it was last time Eli played in the big game, a late drive by his opponent had things looking grim; but an unlikely drive full to the brim with clutch heroics by likely MVP Hakeem Nicks and his counterpart Steve Smith has the Eli on the verge of the second championship winning drive of his much debated career.
a ghost’s perspective. [trigger #100]
***Woot! Triple figures!!!***
The majority of ghosts seem to complain about being a ghost most of the time, but not Marianne. She loves it. She honestly wouldn’t have it any other way. She likes it even more than she liked living.
Most ghosts go around wailing and moaning, finding chains to rattle, doors to slam, objects to move, people to haunt. Such a bother! Marianne just likes to sit and read, watch movies, or listen in on people’s conversations. She always was a solitary woman. Now, she doesn’t even have to pretend to be interested in another person, because if she accidentally materializes enough that someone actually sees her, they run away screaming anyway.
It’s not that she never haunts. Once in a while the mood strikes her. It happened last when a librarian at the local branch snuck in that old baptist preacher from down the road. Well, Marianne was just going to ignore the whole thing, but then the preacher shows up and starts with the hollering. Marianne was just trying to read Franny and Zooey (a fitting book in light of this sort of preacher), but he keeps on with his, “In the naaaaame of Jeeeeeezuuuss-ah, I command you-ah to get out of this house-ah. Be gone from this place-ah and go back to the domain of Satan-ah.” If interrupting her reading with his hollering wasn’t enough to perturb her, insinuating she had something to do with the domain of Satan, or even Satan-ah, pushed her over the edge.
So, she made sure to dematerialize and stay good and quiet so that the preacher would think his exorcism was a big success. Then she followed him home. She would watch all the time and wait until he was doing something ‘unpreacherlike,’ and then she would start yelling and hollering herself. “Preacher-ah! Be gone from this town-ah in the name of Jeezus-ah! The angels of the Lord-ah are coming to bring down the hand of retribution to the wickedness of your soul-ah!”
Well, she got such a kick out of how scared he would get, but then he would just pretend like nothing was happening whenever anyone else was around. He tried a few more exorcisms, but to no avail. After that first two weeks, just when she was getting ready to call it quits, the preacher told his congregation that he was terribly sad, but that he was feeling the “Spirit” leading him to another parish. Well, that’s exactly what spirit of Marianne was telling him, but somehow she didn’t think that was the spirit he was talking about. She never could have gotten rid of a nuisance that quickly when she had been alive, but as a ghost it had been easy.
After that success, she made her way to another branch of the library and resumed her reading and after-hours movie watching again. She always fretted during life about the books and stories she would miss because life was so short, and her reading list was so very long. As a ghost, she didn’t need sleep or food, and all she had to do was head down to the graveyard or the old Episcopal church to chat with some other ghosts when she wanted some company.
As far as Marianne was concerned, life was alright, but death is good.
homeless. [trigger #98]
I’ve been homeless for twelve weeks now.
I must be really weird, but it’s the little things I miss the most, so far. I lived alone before I got kicked out of my apartment because I couldn’t cover rent, so I don’t miss family or roommates. I’ve been pretty comfortable in my van, so I don’t even miss my bed. It’s actually been kind of fun going to sleep in a different place every night. I expected to miss having a TV, but I really haven’t so far.
What I really do miss is having a place where my mail goes, instead of having to pick it up at the post office. I guess a kitchen is a big thing, and I do miss that. It’s a pain in the ass having to cook everything on a camping stove. My books and records are in storage now, and even though I’ve read almost all of the books I still miss having them around. I miss my neighbor’s dog but not my neighbor. I miss all the plants I had to get rid of because they wouldn’t all fit in my van. I miss the sound of the building’s furnace kicking on. I miss the girl I never talked to from 3E who would ride the elevator with me sometimes.
grappa. [trigger #96]
Ree drank grappa for only one reason. Not because it tasted good, or even because she liked alcohol, but because Hemingway drank grappa. So, she felt the best was to begin writing her novel was to honor Hemingway with a toast. Sadly, she isn’t much of a drinker, and she should have had a much smaller amount than she did. Instead of pouring the small amount that a novice should sip with a liquor of that strength, she instead poured what would be a very large glass of white wine.
The grappa quickly went to her head. In her impaired judgment, she went about pouring herself a second large wine glass of grappa. It cannot be overstated how horribly prepared Ree’s body was for this much alcohol.
To her disappointment, she didn’t have the prolific night of writing she’d hoped for. Instead, she had a prolific night of vomiting.
dreaming while taking a cross-country train. [trigger #93]
The gentle rocking and the rhythm of the track usually helped him to sleep quickly, but tonight he was having trouble. He finally fell asleep somewhere between McCook and Fort Morgan.
It wasn’t long before he was dreaming.
He was in a vast room, like a huge ballroom in a Victorian mansion. Aside from the wall furnishings, the room was empty. The room was utterly silent aside from the sound of the tracks in the waking world. Somehow, it was as if he could hear the outside of the train in his dream, the clicks and clacks of metal wheels interacting with metal tracks.
The sound of the train on the tracks reverberated against the empty walls, filling the space powerful echoes. The rhythm started to slow down, the space between the beats growing to create an eeriness in the silence in between, Chic-koooom! one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand, Chic-kooooom!
The room began to shake like it too was on tracks, as the lights began flickering and flashing on and off like the lights in a New York subway car.
He walked to the window. Outside, the landscape was moving past. Yet, it wasn’t the landscape that he would have seen in the waking world. It was an entirely alien landscape. Buildings that looked centuries old towered above the window. They were buildings that looked far older than the relatively young history of masonry in his country. Buildings that appeared to be at least 400 years old were cracking and crumbling as far as the eye could see.
There were also faded images of people watching his window move past. They were people in the dress of every era and geographical region imaginable. They were all still, not moving at all aside from the gentle turn of their heads to follow his movement as he sped past this odd world.
usurper. [trigger #80]
The Usurper was huge, over eight feet tall. With the exception of size, his body was much like that of a man, but with many remarkable differences. His skin was smooth and purple, from his forehead protruded two massive horns. He had two heavy chains connecting his horns to his wrists, ever keeping his arms from extending to a comfortable angle. His hands were human hands, but with a constantly burning fire surrounding each without ever consuming them. He had long ago become accustomed to the pain.
His physical appearance had once been that of a normal human being, but his shape was now a part of his punishment for trying to take the throne from the rightful king.
Of his 700 years of imprisonment and solitude, he had known how to free himself for the last 400. Yet, he had continued to bide his time, to grow in power, to wait until the day was right for the inauguration of his plans. That day had finally come.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, the chains connecting his wrists and horns snapped in the center, surely the chains had been set with wards and alarms, so word of his escape was just now beginning to reach others in the kingdom.
The Usurper opened his eyes and stretched his arms for the first time in 700 years. He looked at the door to the room of his imprisonment and waved his hand before him. With a grinding screech the massive metal door tore from its hinges and flew off into the distance.
He walked to the door, looking down some 400 feet from the lone prison tower. Below was nothing but waste and wilderness. They would never have risked placing his prison anywhere near people, they feared his influence would extend beyond the walls and recruit allies in his escape.
He breathed in the air and looked up at the hazy sun. For a moment, he rested his hand against the wooden doorframe, charring it with the fire of his hands. He smiled, a lonely, tired smile. It was finally time to reenter the world, finally time to take his vengeance, and finally time to make things right.
tequila. [trigger #71]
Many great literary figures have one glaring weakness. For Dr. Jekyll, it was fear of his own animal nature. For Dorian Gray, it was hedonism. For Ahab, it was obsession. For Superman, it was and still is Kryptonite. For Oscar Wao, it was the fukú. For Oedipus, it was having sex with his mom.
For Leon Fitzwalter, it’s tequila.
Just about every bad decision he’s ever made stems directly from the copious consumption of tequila.
The time he wrecked his dad’s BMW: tequila.
The tattoo on his right shoulder of Nancy Reagan: tequila.
Deleting his master’s thesis at 3:30 in the morning while showing it to a beautiful woman, the beautiful woman who turned out to be a cat sitting on top of Marty Brecker’s little brother’s college laundry bag: tequila.
The time he drunk-dialed Virginia Wallis, and talked his way out of the longest and healthiest relationship he’d ever been in: tequila.
Selling me The Amazing Spiderman #1 for $32.00 and an open box of condoms: tequila.
Getting arrested for taking off his clothes and running naked through The Mall of America: well, that time he was actually sober, but you get the point.
the winter wood. [trigger #37]
**continuation of trigger #29**
‘All seasons must end, though some last longer than others. It’s time for the Winter Wood to thaw.’
The phrase had been running through Rowan’s head for days. He had no idea where he’d heard it, but that sort of thing happened quite often when you were as old as him. Things were always coming and going, entering and leaving his mind without much in the way of order. He didn’t know what this phrase meant either. Was it an excerpt from a book? A prophecy? Poetry? He couldn’t place any part of it. Yet, for some odd reason, whenever he found the phrase rattling around in his daydreams, it had the ring of significance.
Rowan walked down Main Street in Fishkill, New York, muttering to himself as he tried to remember why these words felt so important. It was dusk, the air was humid and warm. It was a late summer day. Technically, it was autumn, but summer heat had been making a final appearance for several days, creating an odd contrast between a fire of orange and yellow and red in the trees as they began to fall, while the air was far too warm for the season. He sat down on a bench next to a Friendly’s, resting his old feet, cracking his old knuckles and spine.
He sighed and closed his eyes as he leaned forward, rubbing the bridge of his nose, wishing he could find a deeper rest than this. The bench creaked as someone sat down beside him. Rowan looked up, finding a middle-aged man with a thick beard of red hair sitting beside him. Even through the beard, you could see the man’s deep dimples as he smiled, which he was doing now, at a towering four scoop ice cream cone balanced precariously in his hand.
The man started humming. His voice was deep; not in pitch, in actual depth, like he was humming with three throats instead of the one. It was a song Rowan recognized, from centuries ago in a far away place. The humming stopped long enough for the man to speak through a mouthful of ice cream.
“Well, Rowan. What are you waiting for?” The voice was gentle and soothing, but somehow cavernous enough to curl up and sleep in.
Rowan raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
“Can’t say as you do. Still, what are you waiting for?”
Rowan shook his head and looked down at the ground, chuckling to himself. “And what, exactly, might you be referring to?”
The man laughed briefly, using only his breath. When he spoke, it wasn’t with any sarcasm or disdain, but overflowing with sincerity. “Why, the Winter Wood of course. The time for the thaw has come. I can’t really imagine someone else being better suited for the job. Can you?”
Rowan laughed, with enough fervor to sound maniacal in this particular context. However, when you’d lived through several centuries, there isn’t much that surprises you anymore. When something does surprise Rowan, he’s long past the age of fearing it, he mostly finds it enormously entertaining. Thus, he laughed heartily that this man he’d never seen before sat beside him and proceeded to mention Rowan’s inner thoughts over the past several weeks. The sound of his old laughter was wheezy and crackling, like someone was breaking old, dry twigs in his throat as he laughed.
He looked back at the man, who was slowly eating some more of his ice cream. He wasn’t doing so fast enough, and the ice cream was dripping down all over his fingers and onto the ground. The man was paying no attention to the dripping ice cream, and it required a conscious effort for Rowan not to jump up and grab the man a napkin.
“So, this Winter Wood. What would that be?”
“Hm? Oh, exactly what it sounds like. A forest of unending snow and winter… well, not exactly unending. A forest of very, very long winter.”
“Heh, and I would find this forest… ?”
“Closest door to where we are now is in Seattle.”
More crackling laughter. “Sorry friend, I lived in Seattle for nearly four decades. It’s many things, but a place of unending snow is not among them.”
“Oh, the Winter Wood isn’t in Seattle, it isn’t anywhere in this world. I said the closest door is in Seattle.”
“I see, where in Seattle would this door be, then?”
“The bathroom building, at Gilman Playground in Ballard.”
Rowan’s laughter turned into a heavy rattling, his whole body shaking. It was hard to tell if he was racked by hilarity or emphysema.
“The bathroom building, you say?”
“Yup, that’s the one. I wouldn’t dally much longer. Time is of the essence, it’s an important moment we find ourselves in. Then, all moments feel important when we’re in them I suppose.”
The man stood, only halfway through his ice cream cone. Rowan looked up at the man from the bench.
“If you need anything, Rowan, I’ll find you again.”
And he walked around the corner and was gone.
None of this made any sense, but Rowan didn’t exactly have much to fill the time these days. There was at least the chance of finding some amusement, which was reason enough to investigate. He’d been meaning to visit Seattle again, anyway.
He stood up and walked back the way he’d just come to catch a train into the city.
trigger fiction. 