High School Fight

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Category: Creative Writing

Written by Victor Rios

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The sun had just begun its late assault on May. With it came short shorts and tank tops. The thought of freedom in less than a month weighed heavy on senior’s heads. Fights and absences,as teachers used to say, "increase exponentially around this time." And I, a senior, found myself going along with the flow.

Midway through the school day—right after lunch actually—we stared hard with chests pumped as we passed each other. Then, from behind me, Javier screamed “Whatchoo looking at bitch?!” I remember thinking “fuck it!” I turned, dropped Totem and Taboo, ran like Speedy Gonzalez, and swan dove into his gut. I would have escaped unscathed if Tanya hadn’t followed her impulses by yelling “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

She was pumping her fist in the air, so I still wonder who she was cheering for. Or was she just a thrilled by the spectacle?

As I was pulled away, Javier crashed his right Timberland into my face. Inevitably, out rushed a brook of blood. That red liquidy sight lost me the fight. It sucked ‘cause I’d just pummeled his face into purple pulp. That damn incessant Joker laughter he had as he was dragged away still haunts me!—not to mention the additional jokes at my expense that followed.

After the nurse plugged my nose, she said “You my third one today, y’all just crazy.” The guards escorted me to Mr. Muniz’s office—Harding High’s Punisher. He wasn’t there. Thank goodness for that short amount of time though, I really needed to think how to excuse my partaking in the fight.

The best I could think of saying was that Javier was my ex-girlfriend’s attack dog. That she got him last year right after we broke up. That we teetered on the verge of a fight for a while and that if his boys were not always there for him, the asswhooping would’ve been sooner. That our beef boiled over when I told him in front of my ex I would not fight for the “bitch!” I couldn’t say that to Mr. Muñiz though.

That would’ve been a big mistake, because it was a big mistake.

My ex swung her palm so hard she left a red handprint across my face for a couple of hours—she may as well have tattooed it on me—efficiently making any fighting unnecessary. I remember the crowd around us burst into “O-oh!” The fuzz quickly dissipated as I quickly left in defeat. But many of the bystanders remembered and would later ask me, “hey, how’s that cheek?” I remained silent and just kept on moving, so they generally answered their own question with laughter.

Still, Javier’s existence as a sore in my pride was not going to cut it. I thought. My ex left Harding at the start of the semester and she had broken it off with Javier shortly after the slap.

Mr. Muñiz arrived, looked my way, shook his head, and dictated with a roll of his index finger that I follow him. He had as serious a face a guy who looked like the Puerto Rican Santa Claus could put. His secretary gave me the “you’re deep in it” look.

First, Mr. Muñiz asked for an explanation. I told him a bullshit story in which I was the victim. His smile slowly rose to a hysterical laughter that forced him to periodically wipe the tears of joy from his face. He said, “You know we have security cameras right? You just rammed right into him.” He then began to rewind the security tape, stopping right at the moment I slammed into Javier, over and over again. At that point his laughter had become contagious.

When we’d filled our bellies with laughter Mr. Muñiz said, “Don’t worry. Take this week off…unless you want to get your ass kicked.”

Upon my return to school I found out Javier was expelled. And the icing on the cake arrived by way of a letter from his probation officer asking, “Do you need help paying medical bills incurred by our client?” I was light-headed, but too giddy feel it.

Ironic Departures

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Category: Creative Writing

Written by Jean Christensen

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Ironic Departures Featured Piece

 

“That does it! I’m outta here,” shouted Randolph, nodding his head emphatically. “I can’t take it anymore: I feel like a total stranger in my own house!”
Wanda just stood there, not knowing what to say or do. Finally she mustered up her courage. “But this isn’t your house. What are you doing here, mister?”
“See what I mean?” argued Randolph. “Even Spot ignores me,” he added, indicating the ginger cat sleeping on the arm chair near the radiator.
“Her name is Biffy,” corrected the woman. “And if you don’t...”
She stopped, cut short by the arrival of her husband, Kent, who had been waxing his surfboard in the garage. Kent shot a quick glance at the stranger and turned to his wife: “What’s up?”
“This man claims this house is his. And now he says he’s leaving!”
“That’s right, mister. And I’m not coming back. Ever!” announced Randolph.
“Oh no you don’t, there, buddy,” ordered Kent, picking up his cell phone and barring the front door. “I’m callin’ the cops. So don’t move.”
Randolph stood still, intimidated by Kent’s powerful orange frame from which dangled an epoxy shark’s tooth. And the osprey tattooed on Kent’s sinewy shoulder indicated a man to be reckoned with. A young boy entered, curious to see what was happening. He looked to be about ten but was actually eight.
“Billy! What are you doing here?” asked Randolph.
“His name’s Keyth, mister. And stay away from him!” yelled Kent, grabbing Keith by the arm. “You know this guy?” he asked his son.
“Nope. Who is he?”
“This man says that this is his house,” explained his mother, “and he says that he’s leaving and never coming back. The nerve of ‘em.” The door bell rang. In fact, it was a chime but, due to the circumstances, it sounded like a ring. It was the cops; Kent opened the door.
The senior officer briefly examined the entrance before asking: “What seems to be the problem here?”
Kent spoke up: “This man says that this is his house and he’s leaving – for good.”
The senior officer turned to Randolph: “Is that right, sir?”
“Yes, that’s right, officer. “And this man here won’t let me leave.”
“OK, then. Let’s see some ID,” he ordered, hand on taser. Slowly he examined Randolph’s credentials. “Hmm,” he muttered, “the address checks out.” He then considered the orange-chested, barefoot man in beachcombers standing before him. “So, you’re a surfer, then? We don’t get to see that many surfers in Nebraska. How about showing us some ID, buddy?”
After a rapid examination, he called over his partner, a rookie named Windsor. “Call home and have them do a 39-821 on a certain Kent Waters.”
Nine minutes later, the results came back and an extra squad car pulled up, packed with sixteen special agents wearing bulletproof vests, followed by a portly, important-looking lieutenant with a bad tie.
“OK, Waters,” he announced. “Looks like you and your family are in the wrong house: you should be in Oxnard, California. I’m afraid you’ll all have to leave, sir.”
“But he’s the one who wants to leave – not us,” tried Wanda.
“She’s got a point there,” observed Windsor. Two of the special agents came through the back door. “We just bashed in the garage door, Lieutenant. No firearms or drugs, but there was a freshly-waxed surf board and a few Jan and Dean records in a cardboard box.”
The important-looking lietenant turned to Kent with a dubious eye. “Well, Waters – what do you have to say to that? You’re gonna have to come with us.”
Kent, Wanda and Keyth stared blankly at each other, wondring where they had gone wrong. Biffy just continued to half-sleep, purring with folded paws, dreaming of California.

 

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This piece was created from our "Honing the Skill - Writing Challenges" prompt on "Ironic Departures." To participate of new challenges, please check our Facebook page.

El Palenque

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Category: Creative Writing

Written by Victor Rios

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It was my first time away from the city in the six years since I’d been dropped on this rock. Don Carlos and his adolescent son, Juan, sat quietly in the front, and keeping me company in the back was battle-scarred Palomita, a two year old white Rooster nearly at the end of his prime, and on his way to his seventh fight at the Palenque in Santa Ana. Don Carlos was counting on the 50 pesos to pay the electric bill.

The breeze on this two lane highway was strong, but I kept my head out the window admiring the first sweltering barren land I’d ever seen, and where only a few bushes and Cacti managed to survive. I saw an indigenous pilgrim kneel-walking all the way to the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe at the summit of La Montana de Fuego.  And for a while there were not many other things to see. I could have spent some time talking to Palomita who seemed to be meditating, and perhaps, longing for some attention, but the fumes from Don Carlos’s 7 chain-smoked cigarettes were unbearable—it was no coincidence that he had a raspy and long voice. Juan was not bothered one bit, nor did he talk at all. Don Carlos didn’t spend more than 10 minutes without a stick-of-death pursed on his lips.

Finally, an hour into the trip agave fields soaking up the azure sky and neatly laid in rows appeared in the distance.  Then, they conquered the panorama. For 20 minutes Agave was all we saw. Don Carlos spilled his knowledge of how Agave plants are turned into Tequila.  Then, right before passing a Coca-Cola poster with Santa Claus still cheerful three months after Christmas, Don Carlos took a sudden right turn into a recently moistened dirt road that cut across two large corn farms.

For another 20 minutes the Beetle took a beating; at one point, the road became a bumpy sea of clay. The rear wheels were both sucked into the dirt-road equivalent of a pot-hole. Juan and I pushed as hard as we could while Don Carlos pressed the accelerator and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Come on! Put your backs to it!” My Power Ranger sneakers sunk deep into the dirt each of the three times we had to rescue the beetle from immobility (Mom gave me hell for this).

We arrived at Santa Ana a bit late. But what a strange place it was. The first obvious sign that it was different was the dirt roads. Cement was nowhere to be found. Houses were made out of adobe, and were shedding overly dry paint. The roofs were sheets of rusted metal. I didn’t see any lampposts. Pigs, goats, ducks, and chickens were roaming the streets like normal pedestrians. And, where there weren’t any homes there were tall grasses, trees or farmland. I would never want to live in a place li

Don Carlos was lost. He pulled over in front of some shoddy houses and wiped the sweat from his brown, over-tanned forehead. He banged his forearms against the steering wheel, and said, “I don’t remember there being so many houses.”

Juan agreed, “Stop at one of these corner stores and ask where the Palenque is?”

“I have a better Idea Juan, why don’t you go and ask, and while you’re at it, get me a pack of Marlboro’s,” said Don Carlos smiling as he came to a stop.

With a slight sneer Juan said, “Why can’t Manny go.”

“Because his mother said he is too young,” Don Carlos said. “Plus, you want an allowance right? That girlfriend is not going to be waiting for you to ask her out on a date forever.”

It took Juan a second to accept his father’s checkmate, but eventually he opened the door. That’s when I asked, “Can you get me a Motita (gum)?”

Juan said “No.” But, Don Carlos interjected, “if there is any change left get some Motitas for everybody, or as much as you can get.”  When Juan returned, he said there was no money left, but I heard that distinct high-pitched rattle in his pocket which Don Carlos faulty hearing would never have detected. But I let it go as I owed him one—He caught me taking some change from Don Carlos’s pants which I was going to use (and did) to play Mortal Kombat at the arcade.

“All we have to do is go straight two blocks, turn left, and there should be a big sign with a bloody rooster that says ‘Palenque,’” Juan said. True to his word, there was a Giant picture of a bludgeoned rooster. I took Palomita’s cage in my hand, and handed it to Don Carlos after he stretched, took a last puff. There were some boys playing soccer with a soda can on the road, I asked Don Carlos if I could play, but he said, “Not today, you can play with your friends when you get home.”

The Palenque was the tallest structure in Santa Ana. But the initial palatial feeling was lost once we passed through the small black metal door. There was just one room, the kitchen, and a huge dirt patio with maybe a hundred people, mostly men, busy in conversation. There were stacks of Corona, Tecate, and Cahuama boxes leaning against the wall. There were woman with long silky braids and colorful dresses palming tortillas flat, and checking over the roasting pig. The girls my age were jumping rope, or playing tag. The center of attention in the patio was the pit though.  There were four ascending circular rows for people to seat. Above them was a blue tarp tent just in case the sky tossed some water their way.

In a corner of this adobe encampment were the rest of the Roosters. Their cages, tagged with unique numbers, are spaced far enough to keep them from a preliminary fight. Juan and I were led by Don Carlos, we headed in the direction of the tallest guy around and with the large sombrero and a golden belt buckle, Don Pedro.

“You are back Carlos. We missed you around here,” Don Pedro shared a handshake with Don Carlos and continued, “I see Juan’s really growing. And, who’s this little guy?”

“Manny here is going to be my grandson soon; Javier, you remember my other son right? He’s going to be his father,” Don Carlos said and very quickly shifted the conversation, “Looks like a good day to be here. And it better be after that dirt road we just came from. When are you going to fix it?”

“Don’t worry Carlos, the Federales are working on that, but for now, let’s just get your bird checked so that we can figure out who you its fighting,” Don Pedro said.

Don Carlos turn to Juan and me, “You can go and play now.”

Juan said, “No, I want to see the fight.” I followed with “me too.”

Before Don Carlos could disband the mutiny he’d just heard with a violent outburst Don Pedro interrupted, “Juan go to Lupe over there, she’s standing there cutting the pig, ask her for some food, and wait for us to finish talking business.”

Resisting against a smooth talker with a gun on his waist is impossible. Both the Don’s went over by the roosters as Juan and I walked towards the woman who did not talk, just served. Juan was pissed off. He turned to me and said, “Go and get us some food.”

“I am not going to get it, I don’t even know these people,” I said. “I am going to play some soccer.”

“No you are not,” he insisted. “You didn’t hear what Don Pedro said.”

“I don’t have to eat if I am not hungry.”

Juan reached for my arm, but like a frog on the run, I jerked my armed back, spun 180 degrees, and ran towards the exit where the boys were playing soccer. Juan was close behind me until I heard Don Carlos yell, “Let him go Juan.”

There was no problem joining a team since one of them was a man short. We each had to choose a soccer name (as we did back home) so I chose Luis Hernandez, but it had already been taken, in fact every good Mexican player’s name was taken so I settled for the Argentinean Diego Maradona.

Two hours later, Juan came out the door and yelled, “Manny Don Carlos wants you.”

“Alright, let me finish this game and I’ll be in.

“He said ‘Now!’”

The raggedy kids didn’t say a word as I was pulled out the game. They were too focused on winning, as was everyone inside. Don Carlos was now in the pit, Juan dragged me by my forearm as we cut through the man that seemed like tall sombrero trees.  We got to the bottom of the pit right at the moment when the referee fired the initiating shot.  Don Carlos gave Palomita a kiss on his circumcised crest and let Palomita flap its wings to the bloody ground. Don Pedro smiled and pushed Fueguito (“little fire”) towards his opponent.

The birds raised their plumage on their protruding necks. They did a circular dance, occasionally attempting a damaging peck. Then, they turned into a feathery tornado. Their wings were flapping around as they each attempted to make good use of the blades attached to their talons. Within a minute, lines of red appeared on their plumage.  At a minute and a half, the birds were given a break. There was no definite winner at the moment. I was told the battle-hardened Palomita defeated his previous opponents with deadly blows, usually in the first round.

It wasn’t long before we realized that we would not be going home winners that night. Fueguito, with his sharpened beak held on to Palomita’s right eye, and did not let go. Palomita squirmed violently, but a last flap of its wings said enough, and the referee stepped in to separate the birds. Blood spurted out from Palomita’s eyes as he was pulled away. Don Carlos poured disinfecting alcohol on what was left of Palomita’s eye, and then wiped it, and placed a gauze Juan passed along in his eye.

Don Pedro went over to Don Carlos, shook his hand , and said, “Well that was a good fight.  Surely, you are not going to fight Palomita again are you? I only mention it ‘cause we also buy meat here.” Don Carlos shook his head,  and said “I’ve lost enough already.”

They walked out of the pit to let the final fight of the day begin. Don Pedro blew a sharp whistle and called for his son Jose –who also had a gun. He instructed him to come along with us, and to come back. Jose asked him which car he was going to take, but for some reason, Don Pedro told him that he was coming back in Don Carlos’s Beetle. Juan asked why, but Don Carlos shut him up before he asked a second question.

At least we had an extra person to push us through the road on our way out of Santa Ana, and into civilization. Jose pushed the car when it needed to be pushed, but he also drove the whole way.  When we arrived at our lit city block, the four of us got out the car, and Jose drove off. Juan spilled a few tears took Palomita’s cage off my hand, and ran into his house. Don Carlos sat on the sidewalk, and told me to go home, and not to tell my mom where we'd been.

 

On these Units of Capacity. (bookends and odds)

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Category: Creative Writing

Written by Karneeleus Bobbeaux

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On certain objections against Leviathan (more often quoted than carefully and thoroughly read.)


my living by the labor (No one runs to revel)


Fear had helped imagination and said nothing (He has been dead for centuries.)


Leaves the matter doubtful. (DEEP SYMPATHY)


I couldn't change a flight of stairs into a creek.(Feb 3-1952)


No one will ever love you the way I do. (Let me introduce myself.)


A wide smile and perfect hair (complete control of the rising tides.)


For All Inquiries Call Toll Free (don't write a letter.)


Science Wonder Stories (Tell me how much you like me."


CAGEFIGHT (suntwinkling and chocolate.)


Soda Rots Teeth