Viking Sword
Mallory had just put his Dr. Pepper down and un-paused the Xbox, 23 flavors dancing on his tongue. Silently, maybe a little creepily, Zack opened the unlocked front door and crept behind the intently focused lump of young adulthood.
“Shay Patrick is the ish, bruddah,” said Zack, his mouth mere inches from Mallory’s ear.
Mallory didn’t flinch. “Where have you been?” he asked flatly.
“I thought I had you,” said Zach, laughing.
“Not even close. My senses are acute, Zack. The world is my nightingale floor.”
“Lemme get a turn, Mal. You suck,” said Zack grabbing at the controller. Mallory leaned back and gave Zack a push, using his brother’s momentum to send the younger Bishop flying into the glass topped coffee table. It creaked but held firm.
“You suck,” said Mallory, guiding the Morrigan through unfriendly waters. Zack hopped up off the floor and plopped down next to Mallory, jostling the fine leather couch. “Fatass,” said Mallory, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“All muscle, Mal,” said Zack.
The two boys didn’t speak as the Morrigan slipped along the River Valley’s waterways. After a minute or so, Mallory broke the silence. “I want the Viking Sword.”
“Which one?” replied Zack, a little bored.
“Old Growth.”
“I know where it is,” singsonged Zack, suddenly interested.
“Don’t tell me.”
Zack thought about this for a few seconds. “Go to Fort Soleil.”
“Shut up,” barked Mallory.
“Don’t go straight to the forest.” Zack was undeterred.
“Zack, I want to do this on my own.” Mallory sounded a little less insistent.
“Get the boat at Otentiani.”
“I hate you.”
“Cross the river and go through the cave. Then dig.”
“You’re a little punk, Zack.”
“Don’t suck so much.”
“Seriously, where were you?” said Mallory, pausing the game and taking a sip of his Dr. Pepper.
“Out and about. Doin’ my thang,” said Zack, maybe a little ironically.
“Is this where I go?” asked Mallory, ignoring the answer to his previous question.
“Yeah,” said Zack. “Off to the left a bit.”
“Okay,” said Mallory, guiding Shay Patrick to glory.
“I got a couple forties stashed in the bushes. Are mom and dad home?”
“Zack, I’m twenty-three.”
“You’re old. Why’d college take so long, Mal?”
“Red shirted, remember.”
“Oh.” Zack picked up Mallory’s Dr. Pepper and took a gulp. Then he belched.
“I’m out. Fuck college.”
Mallory continued maneuvering Shay Patrick, occasionally vanquishing a foe or two. It was the Seven Years War. There was much killing to do. “It’s only half way through your first semester. You’re on the football team.”
“You wouldn’t get it. You were a pitcher,” said Zack.
Mallory looked confused, but blew the comment off. “Wait, what do I do?” he asked, motioning to the flat screen with his head.
“Get the boat at Otentiani.” Shay Patrick moved nimbly across the screen. “Juco sucks. The team sucks.”
“Well, my team won the College World Series,” said Mallory.
“You pitched three innings the entire tournament,” said Zack, fiddling with the speaker system. The death and destruction was now visceral, a hidden subwoofer palpitating.
“That’s beside the point, Zack.” Shay Patrick shot someone with a firecracker dart just because. It was loud. “You’re boy is on tonight.”
“Hell yeah. B gone light ’em up.”
“You don’t like Las Palomas?”
“You went to Vandy, bro. Paly sucks.” Zack had a point.
“Okay, here’s the cave,” said Mallory.
“Just go through. No, don’t stop yet. Okay, see? There. Dig.”
“Then what?”
“Just dig,” said Zack, exasperated.
“No, dumbass. No Paly? Then what?”
“Army Ranger, bro,” said Zack, as if this was somehow obvious despite his family’s complete lack of military tradition.
Mallory looked at Zack. Shay Patrick stopped digging. “Really?” said Mallory, scrunching his face.
“Fuck yeah.”
“Like, seriously?”
“Keep digging. Get the sword.” Zack gulped Mallory’s soda.
“Noice! Got it,” said Mallory.
“Go to New York. Kill some gangsters.”
“Nope. Gonna’ sack some ships.”
“Sack,” said Zack, chuckling reflexively. Mallory rolled his eyes. “Don’t roll your eyes at me. You’re thirty and live at home.”
“My program starts in the spring. What should I do?”
“Not be a little bitch,” said Zack.
“What would mom say about your mouth?” said Mallory, trying to hold a straight face. He cracked. “Wanna’ put the game on?”
“Yup.” Zack pressed a number of buttons on the remote.
The boys eyed the screen, looking for the slot receiver. “There he is,” said Mallory.
“Lookin’ good out there,” said Zack. “Already involved.”
“Think they can beat the Beavs?” asked Mallory. Zack laughed again. “Jesus you’re stupid.”
“No,” I don’t think they’ll win,” said Zack. “Desmond and Tompkins. Unstoppable.”
Mallory nodded. “Tech needs a secondary.” They watched a play. Andre Chance behind the right guard for six. “Zack, how about those forties?”
“Oooh, I’m twenty-three,” said Zack. Andre Chance. Right guard again. Two more yards.
“Go get the forties.”
“Fine, fine. I’m getting them.”
Zack hustled outside to his beer stash. As he dug through the bushes, Mallory screamed, “Oh shit! You’re boy!”
“Pause it, bro! Pause it!” yelled Zack, stumbling toward the door, an Old E in each hand.
Mallory turned around and looked at Zack. “Just kidding. They’re punting.”
Zack, crestfallen, sat next to Mallory and handed him a forty. “That was messed up.”
“You have much to learn,” said Mallory.
The two of them sat watching OTech get trounced, drinking malt liquor and Dr. Pepper, thinking about nothing but right then and right there.
Shay Patrick sharpened his sword.
And I Love It
Woke up, checked some emails, took a shower, put on my pants, got my youngest a cup of milk, tucked him back in, put on my shirt, brushed my teeth, took a razor to the stubble, turned on the Keurig, refilled the carafe, popped in some toast, brewed a cup of coffee for my wife, iced the coffee, brewed a cup of coffee for myself, turned off the alarm, opened the door for the dogs, brought the coffee to my wife, put on my shoes, unlocked the front door for my mother in law, tied my shoes, put on Octonauts for my youngest, changed my shirt, put in my contacts, took my medicine, kissed my people goodbye, and headed out the door.
Forgot the toast.
To Nobody, To Somebody
Kat. Kat. Kit Kat.
God that was stupid, but, if I’m being honest here, we were stupid. 90 m.ph. through Golden Gate Park stupid.
But you should be able to get away with some stupid, right? At least a little?
Not really though. Stupid tends to win. When you moved away, your mom?
Yeah, she thought she was being smart. From her perspective though…
No, let’s keep the focus on you.
Because you were something to focus on. That’s minimizing it, Kat. Minimizing you, but I can’t lie. You were fine as hell. And not to sound obsessive or anything, but I still see you. I don’t see you, but I still see you. Like the barista at Joe’s? She’s you.
Except we both know she’s not.
Yeah, your mom was being smart. Maybe not smart, but she was trying. She knew. I mean, look, that neighborhood in Daly City was alright. It was better than ours anyway. And your dad said he’d pay for that Catholic school. Those Catholics would whip you into shape. Of course they would.
So anyway.
I don’t get it though. Looking back, I just don’t get it. Do you remember when Tabitha — you know, Tabby, senior when we were freshman? Do you remember how she died? A month before graduation? I mean, shit. No seat belt. Drunk. Seriously. We were hit by that. Changes to make. Tabby was gone.
You’d hope maybe we’d internalize it.
Yeah, I actually do get it. Our prefrontal cortexes were underdeveloped. How else were cave teenagers supposed to get the courage to charge a goddam mammoth with nothing but a sharpened stick? We were all impulse. Blah, blah, live fast, die young, blah, blah, puke.
No.
I don’t get it, because I grew up with you, and you know what? You will always be that little girl who shared your ice cream cone with me when I dumped mine on the Boardwalk. You will always be that kid who cried when the bottle landed on Jake O’Dell, because I was supposed to be your first kiss.
Spin the bottle. Ha. I pushed Jake and kissed you. Attaboy, right?
But Kat, I’m being serious, there was no way for me to save the day. I know that kid you were with, and I can’t see it.
I mean, were you with him at Rick’s when he maybe shorted that new kid? Did that kid call him out? I know your boy could scrap. Did he talk a little shit? What were you doing? Did you run your mouth? You could run your mouth, Kat. You could definitely do that.
Jesus, I never really thought about it, but did you short him?
How come your boy didn’t get hit? How come? Close range, Kat. I think he was aiming for you.
But I don’t know.
I hope you weren’t scared, Kat. I hope it didn’t hurt. I hope you didn’t see it coming. I hope it shut you off like a switch.
That new kid’s still incarcerated. Can’t get parole. Dipshit kid, dipshit prisoner. Your boy? He’s an accountant. Mother fucker posts TED Talks on his Facebook page at least twice a week. But Kat, you don’t know what TED Talks are. You don’t know what Facebook is.
You know what the worst part is? I think I lied when I said I still see you sometimes. Because Kat, no one sees you. And no one ever will.
You are no one, Kit Kat. No one, but some one. You are the smell in the air as we shared an ice cream cone in Santa Cruz, and the taste of mint gum when I kissed you that spring.
And you will never be anything more.
Boboli
“I think Ronnie is going to kill himself,” said Tom as he grabbed Olivia’s plate.
“He’s all pissed off he got the job.”
“If he didn’t want it, why’d he interview,” asked Olivia, brushing some crumbs off her cashmere sweater.
“What do you mean,” asked Tom. “What’s he supposed to do, turn down Mal’s dad?”
Olivia collected her thoughts and checked her eye roll impulse. Then she said, “Yes.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Tom brought the rest of the dishes over to the sink in silence. Olivia sipped a glass of Columbia Crest Merlot and looked out the window. From the second story you could see a number of dumpsters and the car park’s sloped, tin roof.
“Did you like the pizza?” asked Tom. “Goat cheese. Ronnie told me about it.”
“It was fine.”
Tom wiped the crumbs off the table cloth. He had one of those waiter’s scrapers he stole from the Olive Garden when he was 19.
“Want some more wine?” Tom asked, rolling the sleeves of his denim shirt up.
“No. I’m good.” Olivia looked at Tom, and despite a sincere effort, her eyes welled.
“Did the pizza suck? I’m sorry babe. I thought you liked Boboli.”
Olivia didn’t answer. Her eyes continued to fill as she thought about whether or not to say it.
“I can go get you something else,” tried Tom.
Olivia stopped thinking.
“Fuck the pizza, Tom.” One tear dropped. Then she stopped herself.
“What’s wrong?”
Olivia, pushed her dark brown bangs out of her face. “I can’t do this.”
Tom stopped scrubbing the pizza stone he wasn’t supposed to wash. He dried his hands, walked over to Olivia and pushed his own brown hair out of his face.
“What’s wrong.”
“We’ve talked about it, Tom.”
“Like, a week ago. Am I just supposed to change like that?”
“I don’t want you to change, Tom.”
“Umm, yeah you do.”
“No, I don’t,” she said calmly.
Tom was thinking about what he wanted to say. He went with: “I don’t understand you at all.” Although he would later swear he hadn’t, he kind of yelled it.
The foam on his forearms made him look a bit ridiculous.
“No you don’t,” said Olivia.
Tom looked incredulous. “What are we doing here, talking in codes? Should I get a Navajo or something?”
“Don’t be an asshole. You’re not an asshole, so don’t be one.”
“Then what do you mean?” asked Tom, drawing out the word mean.
“I don’t want you to change. I don’t expect you to. But Tom, I’m out.”
Tom looked like how you might expect a cow looks right after it’s been hit in the head with the air gun. Olivia stood up, not quite knowing what to do.
“What?” asked Tom.
“I’m tired, Tom. This isn’t fun. This is kind of sad.”
“We love each other.”
“Do we?”
“What the fuck, Olivia?” He was about to cry, so he turned away from her. “Are you serious?”
Olivia stared at Tom staring at the wall. “Yes. I’m serious, Tom. I’m out.”
She walked over to the front door, grabbed her car keys and left.
Tom could see her as she walked to her car, the condensation on the window from the hot dish water blurring her image. As she got into the turquoise Mini-Cooper they called Franny, Tom crumpled to his knees and began to sob uncontrollably. He began to cry like he did when he was just a little boy and the monster in the closet was after him. He cried, and Olivia did, too. But she kept driving, and Tom couldn’t move.
Dinner at the Wayfare
“Leidesdorff isn’t a stupid name. Leidesdorff is a kickass name,” said Robert.
“No,” said Mallory.
“Do you know anything about William Leidesdorff?” asked Robert.
“Why the hell would I know anything about William Leidadorffer?”
“Because he’s more interesting than you. William Leidesdorff was a part Carib, part Danish, part Jewish guy from St. Croix. In the mid-1800s, he moved to New Orleans and became a U.S. citizen. Then he moved to California, which was still Mexico at the time, proceeded to dominate, and became a titan of industry and what not. He is the perfect Californian: a European-Caribbean-Jewish-Mexican American.”
“Do you have a fever?” asked Mallory.
“No. Fuck this place. I looked it up on Wikipedia last week so I could impress some clients. That’s who I am now.”
“This place is sweet,” said Mallory, looking around the Wayfare Tavern. “What do you mean fuck this place? There’s cool hunting shit all over, and the kitchen’s all Top-Chefy.”
“Not this pace, dumbass. This place as in figuratively. This place. Where I am. What I do.”
“You need another drink, brother,” said Mallory, noting the faint tint of crazy at the edges of Robert’s eyes.
“I need another drink,” agreed Robert.
Mallory’s eyes glazed over as a notably beautiful server plopped delicious popover bread things on the table. “Hey, Robert. What if Padma walked in? That would be awesome.”
“What if Michael Voltaggio walked in?”
“What if…nope, I’m out of Top Chef hot chicks.”
“I could keep going. You have absurd standards, Mal,” said Robert, tearing into a popover thing.
“How’re you and Jonathan?”
“Good. Whatever. Same as always.”
“That good, huh?” Mallory liked Jonathan, but had a strong suspicion Robert would get tired of dating an out of work archivist, whatever that was.
“Actually, yeah. Things are really good. The novelty’s over, but it’s kind of nice being comfortable with someone.”
“Do people still ask you about your girlfriends and shit. Work people? Clients?”
“Yup,” said Robert.
“You’re pretty fucking hetero.”
“I’m pretty fucking gay, Mal.”
“Yeah, you know what I mean though. You don’t act gay.”
“You mean I don’t like musicals?”
“Well, yeah. That’s a pretty good example,” said Mallory, realizing he was being an idiot.
“You spent too much time in the South, little brother,” said Robert, used to ignoring the minor slights that peppered his existence. Who pays on a date? You don’t sound gay? I’m open-minded. I can joke about this stuff. He didn’t feel that way about Mallory though. Mallory and Zack were cool. So was his dad. So was his mom. It was probably for the better that grandpa wasn’t around though.
“I lived in Nashville,” said Mallory.
“So.”
“That’s not really the South like you’re thinking.”
“Whatever.” Robert finished his popover and grabbed Mallory’s. “Bother tax.”
“Is it weird dating a guy with the same name as your dad?”
“Jonathan is named Jonathan. Dad is named John,” replied Robert, way too defensively.
“Jesus, Rob. Lighten up.”
The waitress came with a Ketel on the rocks for Robert and a highball for Mal.
“See. I told you. You seem like way less of a douche ordering highballs instead of Seven and Sevens. The waitress thinks you’re sophisticated,” said Robert.
“I’m not really worried about what people think, corporate guy.”
“Why’d you order a highball then? And fuck off about the corporate thing. You’re getting an MBA.”
“So. I ordered a highball because it has ball in the name and I thought I might craft a joke around it at some point.”
“Craft a joke,” said Robert, rolling his eyes.
“I sure do love drinking those highballs. Mmm, mm. Balls. Balls in my mouth.”
“You sound like Zack.”
The two brothers sat quietly and watched powerful people eat expensive food for a minute or so.
Mallory broke the silence. “What’re we gonna’ do about him, Rob?”
“I can’t believe he got Secret clearance,” said Robert.
“123 GT. Even better APFT,” said Mallory. I knew he was athletic, but apparently he isn’t an idiot.”
“Did he cycle off finally? Does the Army drug test?” asked Robert.
“I don’t know.”
“No Mal. Seriously,” said Robert, pounding the table. “Did he cycle off? They’ll put him in the brig.”
“Does the Army say brig, or just the Navy?” asked Mallory.
“Focus, Mal. Focus,” said Robert, snapping his fingers in Mallory’s face.
“And it’s nautical. Who cares? You know what I mean.”
“Zack cycled off a long time ago. He must have. He’s skinnier than me now,” said Mallory. Rob’s bacon wrapped filet and Mallory’s LeGrand came. Mallory suspected Rob was right about the waitress, but Mallory was also self-aware enough to know that he eventually thought everybody was into him.
“You ordered a burger,” laughed Rob.
“Not just any burger, a LeGrand,” said Mallory.
“Alright burger boy.”
“Ronnie’s gonna’ be so pissed.”
“How is Ronnie?” asked Robert, cutting into his steak.
“He works with Colton Jennings. How do you think he is?”
“Colton’s a pig,” said Robert.
“Yup. Worst guy I’ve ever met,” said Mallory. “Ronnie’s okay. Not gonna’ last much longer.”
“What’s he got planned?”
“He’s doing it.”
“For real?” asked Robert through a mouthful of beef and bacon.
“CIA. Gonna’ be up in Napa for a while. We can visit. Take some of your stooge clients. Go wine tasting.”
“Chef Hilliard. Nice,” said Robert, ignoring Mallory’s cheap shot.
“Yup.” Mallory finally took a bite of his LeGrand. “Oh shit. This is fucking good.”
“Of course it’s good.”
“No mufuggha, i’s fughin good.” Mallory was speaking with his mouth full.
“Mal, you’re a work in progress.” Robert looked around and went silent again. After about a minute, he said, “We swear too much.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” replied Mallory, mouth still full.
“Hey, here comes your girl, Mal. I’m gonna’ order something good.”
“My girl?”
“Yeah, the waitress. You like her, right?”
“I dunno.”
Robert looked at the waitress and asked, “Can you recommend a good whiskey?” Then he looked at Mal and asked, “You can crash at my place, right?”
“Scotch, bourbon, rye?” she asked, staying focused on Robert.
“Um, rye,” said Robert.
“Pritchard’s? Maybe Leopold Brothers. Do you like a sweeter whiskey? Smokey?"
“Pritchard’s for the both of us,” said Robert, realizing he was over his head.
“Alright, sir.” She was off.
“She called me sir. Kind of a trip, right?”
“Kind of a trip,” agreed Mallory. “You gonna’ Wikipedia whiskey later? You need work.”
“No shit,” said Robert. “Hey, see what I mean? She likes you.”
“She didn’t look at me once,” said Mallory.
“That doesn’t matter, Mal. She likes you.”
Mallory too a big bight of his LeGrand, shrugged, and said, “Wewsee.”
“What?” asked Robert. “You had your mouth full.
“Mallory swallowed and almost took another bight before looking up and saying, “We’ll see.”
“We’ll see,” said Robert.
The waitress came with a pair of double old fashioneds, two fingers of Pritchard’s neatly waiting in each. Mallory and Robert grabbed them greedily, raised them to the sky, and took big sips. “She likes you, Mal. I’m telling you.”
“I’ll wait for her to acknowledge my existence before I make my move.”
“Typical. Your’re gonna’ die alone,” said Robert.
“To a sad, solitary life,” boomed Mallory, raising his glass again. Robert did the same. They clinked and drank. The guys at the neighboring table, a couple of nondescript banker types, laughed. So did the waitress as she walked by. Mal didn’t notice.
He took a big swig, then went back to his LeGrand.
Zip Ties
I hold stones in my hands and lucidly wonder where to cast them.
Oh, there he is.
Crack.
Crack. Crack.
I hold no stones in my hands because I lucidly cast them.
Damn, that felt good.
Haha. Look how mad he is.
Oh, wait.
Slow down.
Man those lights are bright.
Umm, no officer. I don't know.
Impulse control, right. I know. I know.
Wow, he's strong.
Hmm.
I want those stones back.
I held them in my hands. They were right here.
Yes. Right to remain...
Yes. Cannot afford...
Yes.
Zip ties hold my hands and I lucidly wait for my phone call.
Why this site works for me
I'm new to Prose. as well. Think about this: someone I don't know read a short story of mine today. How cool is that? I've been writing for fun since forever, but have only recently started to post my stuff. Expressing our ideas is central to who we are as people. We aren't meant to isolate ourselves. Of course, sharing your work with friends and coworkers can be a little awkward. I've shied away from it. Prose. is a great outlet for me. Will I ever officially publish? I guess if I'm very lucky, but knowing that a few people out there are reading my words is good enough for now. Maybe good enough forever.