Curly Bob

The sun had just begun to creep over top of the hills when Curly Bob stepped out of his front door.  Not one for much sleep, Bob released a bucket of fresh water in which to wash his face.  The rainwater collection system he had installed the previous year came in very handy during dry times such as these.  After washing, he poured the remains of the water into a dish on the porch, shortly to be appreciated by the dog.

After finishing his breakfast and getting dressed, Curly Bob stepped out his front door, whistled for his horse Honeykins, and being careful not to catch his hoop dress on the saddle horn, began the two-mile ride into town.

The year was 1882, the place, southern Arizona. Curly Bob had come out to Arizona from New York City nearly two decades ago, greatly desiring to get away from the crowds.  This he certainly did, for this part of the country, so far away from civilization and close to Mexico offered Curly Bob the silence and freedom he sought.  Slowly more people moved into the area and a small town developed.

Curly Bob rode into town, his golden ringlets, bounced and blown in the wind, encircled his bearded face. Bob dismounted, being careful not to catch his dress on anything and ambled into the tavern. "One glass of milk, please," Bob requested from the bartender.  

Just finishing the milk, Bob sat down the glass and turned to leave, only to come face to face with John Redbeard, resident thug.  "And what the hell are you?" The thug spat in his face.  "Well," Bob began, "as your question is somewhat ambiguous, I'll do my best to answer.  Biologically speaking, I am bi-pedular mammal. From a theological perspective, I am an Anglican.  Ethnically speaking, I am Norwegian. And if you are wondering about the ontological perspective, well, that question is possibly one of the more difficult philosophical questions that has plagued man even since the time of Plato." Bob paused and looked his opponent in the eye.  "Judging from the glazed over expression and confused look, I will assume that my brief discourse failed to answer your question in an acceptable way.  I will try again.  I am a transvestite. And though I am sure you understand the meaning of that word, for the sake of those in your present company, I will explain.  Etymologically, the word is prefixed with "trans" meaning "across" and the root of the word, which I'm sure you'll recognize from the Roman Catholic term "vestment" meaning "to clothe."  Thus the term means to dress across standard clothing norms.  In other words, I wear women's clothes." Bob's head suddenly snapped back and upward as Redbeard's fist made contact with Bob's chin. Bob picked himself up of the floor, apologized for any inconvenience, and bowing, stepped out of the swinging doors.

Bob paused for a moment and caught his breath.  He then straightened himself and worked his way across the street to the post office. Upon entering he was greeted by Sally, the assistant post matter.  Clarence, the senior postmaster, glared at Bob, grunted, then turned his back.  "Good morning Sally," Bob said. "Do I have any mail?" "Just this one magazine you receive each month.  What is this anyway? Russian?" "Yes, that's right," he replied.  "My grandparents on my mother's side were from Russia.  I like to stay up on the language.  Thank you, Sally.  Have a good day." Bob turned and left the post office, heading back to his horse.
"I don't know why you even talk to that freak," Clarence suddenly ejaculated.  "I mean, what kind of man walks around in a dress?  It's just not right.  No good is going to come of that guy."
"No, you're wrong," Sally retorted.  "Don't you remember when my Clement fell and broke his ribs?  It was Bob who came over and took care of all our animals until Clement could move around again." Sally paused.  "And remember when old man Johnson died?  It was Bob who helped widow Johnson get her farm in order and sell off the animals.  Now she has enough money to take care of her needs."
"Well, that sounds all nice and everything, but Jim Anderson told me that he was out one night on the back portion of his property when he saw your Bob there standing buck naked, up to his ankles in that swamp that borders between their property.  He was waving one arm around like he was swatting at flies or something.  Some kind of pervert or something, that guy is." "I think you're wrong Clarence, Bob is an unusual but a good guy. You know full well that Jim always has bottle in his hand."  Clarence just grunted.

Later that evening, as Bob sat in front of his fireplace, reading, a sudden beating upon the door jarred him from his introspection.  "Bob! I know you're in there, come out with your hands where I can see them!"  Bob calmly sat down his book, slipped on his high heel shoes and opened the front door.  He met the barrel of a shotgun, at face level, along with the sheriff, who held the gun, and three deputies stood in the immediate background.  "Hello sheriff, what's this all about?" Bob asked.  "Like you don't know, you sick freak!" the sheriff growled.  "We found the little girl's body where you left it. Now be quiet and come with us."  Bob said nothing and obeyed the sheriff's commands.  Within an hour, Bob was in the town jail and small mob had gathered outside. 

"Bob," the sheriff said, "we've got a witness claiming they saw you sneaking away from the Anderson ranch, just after dusk.  And about an hour ago the Mr. Anderson found the body of their little girl in the trees just outside their farm.  You better just admit to it and maybe a judge will have some mercy."  Bob looked the sheriff in the eye, but said nothing.  Without another word the sheriff unlocked the cell door, and turned and left the building.  The mob quickly filed his absence.

The next morning the men carried the lifeless body of Curly Bob out and buried him behind the jail with only the county judge in attendance.  At the same time, across town, Mrs. Anderson found a small package behind the chair on their front porch.  Inside was a wad of cash and short note, reading, "I hope this helps - B."

Later that afternoon, Sally slowly picked through the meager belongings inside Bob's log cabin.  In a tin box, high on a shelf, she found several wads of cash and a slip of paper with the names of several townsfolk.

James

James wept at the sight of his car.  For the last four years, he had scrimped and saved.  Every spare nickel and dime went into “the jar”, one less time out for dinner per week.  Four years of cutting every corner and now this.  It was with immense pleasure that he drove the 2014 Lexus off the dealer’s lot, fully paid.  And now, out on a celebratory dinner with his wife, James exited the restaurant to find that his car had left him.  An hour later, James and the police stood together, gazing upon what remained of his car, now almost impossibly wed to a telephone pole.

Southworld (Part 3 of 7)

Sunlight oozed and tumbled through the ancient windows sleeping six feet over Richard’s head.  Enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and light, Richard sat entranced in a carefully structured “lecture as poetry”.  He could feel his heart in his throat.  For his entire life, for as long as he could remember, the authority of the Bible was not something to be questioned.  But now, in his sophomore year at college, Richard had his eyes opened.  Never before had a teacher so opened up the world of literature and textual criticism.  Error upon error, fallacy after fallacy, and contradiction after contradiction were revealed to his blossoming mind.  Professor Landry Browning had held the philosophy chair at Corning/Owens University for the past 27 years.  His combination of textual criticism and artistic license had changed the worldview of his students from the beginning, and Richard was no exception.  

Richard tore his gaze from the creative genius of Professor Browning and looked around the room, wondering at the wide variety of expressions upon his fellow students.  Some sat in dirges of boredom, others, by far the majority, sat wide-eyed, all ears, on the edge of their seats, taking in the lecture.  One older student, leaned back in his seat, a smug expression upon his face, caught Richard’s eye and winked at him, a knowing smirk across his lips.  After class, this same student approached Richard.  “Quite the lecture, eh?” he said.  Professor Browning has a real knack for exposing the lie.”  Richard started.  “What do you mean, “the lie?””  “Oh, come on, dude,” he shot back, “all this Christianity stuff.  You know, virgin birth, ex nihilo creation, resurrection from the dead.”  The guy leaned back on his heels with the same smug expression as in class.  Richard knew exactly what he was talking about.  Professor Browning had seemingly deflated all the foundational tenets of the Christian faith.  And Richard knew it.  “Tell you what, dude.  My name is Alex.  A few of my friends and I are getting together tonight for a deeper discussion of Professor Browning’s points.  I’d like you to come over.”  Richard took the step.

Waiting

Waiting for the change he feared would never come, he sat...and waited.  All efforts had been expended in vain, for nothing he did could change anything. Like wishing for snow or praying for a winning lottery ticket, a pathetic voice casting into the empty void.  Redundancy was pointless.  No monumental amount of effort mattered at all.  He had tried and he had failed.
Lawrence rubbed his hands and discreetly stared at the young woman across the room.  This woman was no stranger, not in the literal sense anyway.  Though the years had made them seen as such.  Lawrence choked back tears as he continued to gaze and ponder how much has been lost.  All the words in all the libraries of the world could be spoken, but nothing seemed to help.  It was only words she said.  But that was all he had. 
Lifting himself from his chair, he again approached and tried to embrace her.  But he may as well have been hugging stone.  With a choke he turned and left the room.

A side note from Vivien

Malodorous, repugnant, he laughed, and maybe a little smarmy. Andre lifted his fingers to his eyes and laughed again.  Those standing nearest to him, on this glaring city of technology, stepped a little further away, pinching their noses.
Andre had been on board for three weeks now, not having bothered to shower. But he was wearing his most glorious outfit to date, lots of sequins and glitter.  The hair gel allowed him to stand his hair on end. Being the fourth child, and an accident at that, his family had little time or patience for him.  Thus his move to Atlantea, the floating city just outside of US waters, off the coast of San Diego.
Andre had purchased a condominium on board for only $22 million, a mere pittance for his family fortune.
Peeking through his fingers, Andre giggled and spied at the other occupants.  They took another step away and turned their backs. Andre sighed and turned elsewhere.

South World (Part 2 of 7)

Richard yawned.  He had been sitting on the hard wooden pew for just over three hours.  The sound of his father clearing his throat and the hard glare from his mother stirred him from his slumber.  He tried so hard to stay awake.  He tried so hard to be “a good boy”, as he was so often encouraged so by Rev. Johnson.  Rev. Johnson was, by the accounting of a nine-year-old boy, in a word, scary.  Sure, he smiled a lot, when he wasn’t preaching, but the man had an undeniable coldness to his eyes.  Rev. Johnson was what one would call a “hellfire and judgment” preacher.  Richard’s family had been members of First Baptist Church for as long as Richard could remember.  His father took great pride in reminding Richard of this.  “My great-great grandfather started this church just after the War of Northern Aggression,” he would say, and Richard would slip into his “happy place” as his father began another of his tirades about the infallibility of the Baptist church.   So once again, Richard squirmed in his seat and patiently waited for the sermon to end.  At least Sunday afternoons were enjoyable enough.  Richard didn’t have any chores, other than feeding the dog, and he could spend his time reading.  A hobby his father called a waste of time.  “A boy needs to learn how to work,” he would say.  “Idle hands are the devil’s work.  That boy needs to stay busy.”  So from early in the morning, and after school until dinnertime, Richard worked.  At times, his work consisted of mere menial labor, work for the sake of work.

Richard’s view of life took a drastic turn.  Just after his twelfth birthday, having left school early on account of not feeling well, Richard walked the eight blocks home.  His mother had taken a part time job at the local department store, while his father, a lawyer, worked from his office at home.  Richard let himself in the front door and the image that crossed before his eyes would be burned into his memory for the rest of his life.  Stepping through the front door, he could see his father’s bare back rising up from the couch in the living room.  And then, in a blur of movement, his father jumped to his feet, yelling, and Rev. Johnson rose from the couch as well, quickly putting on his pants.  The next few moments were a cacophony of voices and distraction.  Shoving Richard out the door, his father joined him just seconds later.  “You didn’t see anything,” his father hissed through his teeth.  “Rev. Johnson and I were having a very important meeting, that your mother must not know about.”  Richard knew better than to say anything, other than, “yes, sir.”  “I better not hear about anyone knowing about this.  Do you understand me?”  The venom that dripped from the mouth of his father tore through Richard’s confusion and fear.  Richard uttered a second, “yes, sir,” and squeezed past his father.  “I need to lie down,” Richard said weakly.  Ascending the stairs, he sat on the edge of his bed and wept.

South World (Part 1 of 7)

Part One:

Richard paused.  The last remnants of the late autumn sun crept down, hiding behind the World Bank that lay three blocks to the west.  The wind, a chill that crept under the skin and touched the bones, whipped Richard’s overly long hair around his eyes.  These eyes, chocolate brown with a particular sadness to them, had seen far too many things.   Richard eyed the toes of his shoes as they inched toward the yawning precipice that called to him.  Heights had never bothered him, and they didn’t do so now.  Even with the stiff wind that canvassed around him, Richard stood firm.  435 feet above the street that meandered below, Richard stood watching the evening traffic in its steady crawl.              The few people still out bustled about with their meaningless little lives and Richard took a deep breath.  His eyes, rolling back into his head, closed as his chin lifted toward the evening sky.  He started his lean forward, a single step into eternity, when he felt a slight touch, as though a hand had begun a gentle caress across his sternum.  Richard exhaled and opened his eyes.  He still stood, alone, on the 50^th floor of pure capitalism.  Tilting his head back down, Richard’s eyes fell upon a single piece of paper, a small sacrifice to modern man, struggling under his right foot.  Richard stooped and retrieved the lone struggler.  Turning it over, it contained a small ink drawing of an ibis.  Richard sat down on the edge of the building and wept.

The Scratch

Pondering the obvious, Carl held his head in his hands.  Not in the literal sense, but more than figuratively as well.  It was really hot in the small room in which Carl found himself and he was sweating profusely, especially down his back, the occasional bead running down the crack in his butt.

It had all started so innocently.  Carl wasn't looking at anything in particular when he noticed a policeman watching him rather intently.  His father, a former member of the American Anarchists, had taught him to avoid the police at almost any cost.  While Carl did not follow the beliefs of his father, the paranoia has been so deeply ingrained that Carl still found himself wary around the law.

So Carl innocently stood in the park, near the duck pond, looking at nothing in particular, and just happened to scratch himself, in an unfortunate place, at that unfortunate moment. The police officer then made his move.  Carl felt the heavy hand of the law upon his shoulder, literally, while his arm was bent behind his back.  "Enjoying the view there, buddy?"  The words jolted Carl back to the immediate now and made him jump.  The wrenching in his shoulder made him wince and he found himself face down on the grass.

It probably didn't help that Carl had long hair and tattoos and wore a Dead Kennedys t-shirt.  And it probably didn't help that there was a preschool group on the other side of the pond doing gymnastics.  And it probably didn't help that later, in court, Carl's dad's name came up with the judge.

So Carl sat in the small, hot, barred cell while the lawyers tried to prove him guilty or innocent of stalking and indecent public behavior.

Another bread of sweat ran down his back.