short story – f-your blog

Philly The Man, The Myth, And His Machete

Over the Years My Mother has Employed a Colorful Cast of Various Characters to Help Out around Her Farm. It’s Nothing glamorous mind You it’s usually some form of Strenuous Manual Labor (Weeding, Clearing Brush, Planting, Landscaping, Tree Trimming, and Painting for Example), But She Treats Them All as Her Equal and Pays far Better than Most Around these rather Impoverished Parts.

One Day She calls Me Up out of the Blue and informs Me She recently Hired a Latino Man Named Philly to Clear Brush, and that He was in Her words and I quote “Incredible”. She then proceeded to tell me that watching Him Work as “Amazing to See”. I found this strange because what the fuck was My Mom doing standing on Her porch Staring at the Poor Guy while He worked? It painted a pretty creepy mental image is all I’m saying. In all honestly I didn’t understand what the possible appeal could be in just observing a Person Working so I declined to come by. Well fuck My life the next thing I know these Philly Calls as I referred to them started to become more and more common. My Mother is No Stranger to Using Constant Pressure to wear someone Down until the simply give Up usually out of Frustration or Exhaustion. I am No Exception and it didn’t take My Mother long to Steam Rolled Me into Complying. I told Her the next Time Philly came I would pop by to see this fucking 8th Wonder of the World.

Even After Conceding My Mother still went out of the Way to fucking Track down some shitty Video She had shot previously of Philly on Her Laptop. She then of course Immediately Texted it to me with some sort of excited caption and a line of Goofy Smiling Emoji faces. The Video though in all Intents and Purposes was one of those Crappy and Cliche Poorly Recored Videos. You know what the fuck I’m talking about the Videos that are completely out of Focus and Blurry as fuck for the Entire Video. Also The Subject of the Video is constantly out of frame as the Camera waves around Wildly. It gives You the Impression the Person Shooting the Video are having Convulsions while Riding in the Bed of a Pick Up Truck that’s Barreling Down a Gravel Road. In Response to the Garbage Video I didn’t the only thing I could think of and I utilized the Principle of White Lies, and told Her it was Cool and I was psyched to see Philly in Action.

Inspire of the Fact I am NOT anything fucking close to a Morning Person and that’s the Understatement of the fucking Millennium. I was irritated that My Mother required I arrive before Philly so I wouldn’t miss anything. Thus I got up at the Ass Crack of Dawn and Drove Over to My Mother’s Farm to see the Show Live and in Person. At 7:30 am a Small Dark Blue Pick Up Truck started making its way Down the Long Drive up to the Farm House. It pulled up and Stopped outside of the Gate My Mother Installed to make a designated a Yard Area. She did this because well the Farm House sits on 1,150 Akers of Land, and She wanted some Definition to the Land immediately around the Farm House Itself.

A Short Latino Man hopped out of the Passenger Side of the Truck and walked around back to the Bed of the Truck which I assumed was to get His Tools or what have You. I was right and I was Dumbfounded since the Gentleman retrieved Only Two Items from the back of the Truck. The Man grabbed a 72 Ounce Igloo Water Thermos and a Menacing Looking Machete and that was all. The Truck pulled away and headed off towards the Main Road as the Gentleman walked purposefully towards the front Porch. It was then I realized I could Fault Philly for wanting to get an Early Start since it was the Middle of July and the Days had been Topping Out at 100 Degrees with Ease. Starting Early meant cooler Temperatures insuring Philly would be Well on His way Before the Sun was High in the Sky glaring Down on Him like a Massive Space Heater.

The Other thing that’s important to mention was the Job Philly was here to do was Nothing Less than Dounting as He was there to Clear the Brush that Dominated the Tree Line that Bordered the so called Back Yard (though the back of the House isn’t Fenced just the Front and Side I have No fucking Idea Why). It’s a Real Deal cluster fuck thats for sure. The Tree Line had become Overwhelmed by a Variety of Parasitic Vines which had made Their way up the Tree Trunks and them Blended together in a seriously Thick Canopy. The Canopy obscures ALL light from hitting the Forrest Floor, Chokes Out Saplings, and Ultimately Kills the Adult/Juvenile Trees.

Unfortunately for Philly the Boarder had been Neglected for over a Decade at Least so He was Facing a Virtual Wall of Tree Limbs incased in a Spider Web of Vines that were Strangling Everything. Philly walked right Past Us on the Porch waving Politely and saying a Quick Casual Hello as He headed Straight toward the Back. Philly was walking with Definite Determination ready to Attack the Task at Hand with all He Had to Muster. I must admit that My Mother if anything Under Sold Philly’s unique Set of Skills and Flawless Talent. Once He reached the Back where He’d be Working for the Day He gently set down His Water Thermos, tighten His Grip on His Machete, Evaluated the Situation, and then Kicked into Action. Philly went Full fucking Tilt All Out and Started Slashing Away as if He was a Super Human Cyborg declaring War on the Woods. He looked like a One Man Landscaping Crew as Debris went Flying all Over as Philly Fought His Way Through the almost Impervious Wall of Vegetation. Before We Knew It Philly Was piling Up Insane Mounds of Cleared Brush like a fucking Madman on a Rampage.

Philly worked for almost Ten Hours Straight in the Brutal Heat and Stifling Humidity, But He Never Stopped for a Break, Lunch, or Even to Use the Bathroom. In Fact Philly never Slowed His Frantic Pace the Entire Time. It was as if Philly went into a Meditative Trance where all there was int he World was Him, The Brush, and His Trusty Machete. Philly was the True Master of HIs Machete wielding it at Break Neck Speeds with Surgical Persuasion. Something to Behold doesn’t Even Begin to Cover it. Even though I started to feel extremely self conscious Watching Philly Work I couldn’t Look Away to Save My fucking Life as I was Overcome with an All Encompassing State of Awe. I remember thinking to Myself that Philly must Legitimately have a Heart as Strong as a Race Horse because that Job was the Most Brutal Cardio I have ever Witnessed.

A While later on I realized My Mother hadn’t mentioned Philly in quite a while so I inquired as to What was Going On. My Mother told Me that Philly had gone Missing in Actions as it were and She didn’t know What was going on or if She would Ever See Philly Again for that matter. Now People go MIA around here and its not uncommon for People to Disappear only to Reappear Days Later with an Explanation. Time Passed and still there was No Sign of Philly at All until so much Time had Passed We had to Accept the Inevitable Truth of the Matter. The Inevitable Truth was Philly for whatever reason was Long Gone and Wasn’t Going to Be Back on the Scene for Good. The one thing I regret about the whole affair is that I didn’t take a Good Video of Philly Myself but that would have made Me Feel Ungodly Creepy. I still hold the Hope that One Day without Rhyme or Reason Philly will Suddenly Sow Up Again. Who Knows Stranger Shit has Happened.

Thanks For Reading,

By Les Sober

Lee Jonitis: Professional People Watcher (37/365)

“Filthy, come On Bud You’re blocking the fucking Doorway.” said Dizzy with a Hint of Frustration and Concern.

“Must have been Rotated by The Serpents in My Sleep is all.” replied the Bum in a Gravely Growl like Bear Yawning after Rising from Hibernation.

“Sure Thing Filthy I’m sure it was the Sleep Serpents and What have You just Please get the fuck out of the Way.” said Dizzy growing more Demanding by the Minute.

The Bum strained and sighed as He dragged Himself to His feet. He then peered around on the Ground collecting His various Belongings into a Pile after which He then Inspected with Great Concern that Each and Every Item was accounted For. Once the Bum had completed His process He inquired about a Possible Green Assistance Program Payment.

Lee had absolutely No Clue what the Man was referring too, that was before Dizzy smacked His arm to get His attention. Lee watched as Dizzy pulled a Couple of crinkled Up Dollar Bills from his Wallet, and a Joint from behind His Ear which He then promptly handed to the Man. Lee looked at Dizzy who Nodded His Head Slightly and motioned towards the Man by Rolling His Eyes with the Classic “I’ll Explain this shit Later, Now JUST DO IT.” Expression Plastered across His face. So still trying to process the whole situation Lee forked over Five Dollars adding He wasn’t Holding.

“Thank You Sires for Your Divine Tribute to this truly Down Trodden Old Soul. Go Be on Your Way Now Royals the Court will not Wait as The War Tribunal is Chomping They are Chomping at the Bit. They want to Cry Havoc and Release Their Dogs of War Upon the World, and Revel in the Retribution!!,” Hollered the Homeless Man in a Grand Fashion while Bowing Ceremoniously Ushering Lee and Dizzy into the Apartment Building.

Dizzy followed closely Behind Dizzy as They entered the Cramped Little Lobby which must have Measured a mere 10 feet by 10 feet and Not a Hair more. There was a Bare Light Bulb suspended from the Low Lying Lobby Ceiling that Swung ever so Slowly back and Forth flickering every so Often which Lee found to be a Bit Unsettling to say the Least.

The Floor was so Gritty from the Layer Upon Layer of Compounded Dirt and Grim it felt like walking on fucking Sandpaper. The Walls were Painted in a Shade of Sickly Olive Green that reminded Lee of a Defunct Prison, a Mental Hospital Throw Back from the fucking 60’s, or perhaps an Abandoned Military Facility.

The Paint was Not Only Faded and caked with Filth it was Cracked and Chipping off all over the fucking Place. For all Intents and Purposes the Lobby Didn’t resemble that of an Legitimate Apartment Building, but that of a fucking Abandoned and Decaying State Run Institution that had been fucking Shut Down and Forgotten About all those Many, Many Years Ago.

Lee was beginning to Suspect that This Apartment Building as Dizzy claimed was in Fact a Shady Run Down Fleabag Hotel where You can Rent Rooms by The Hour, and Who’s Residents consisted of Late Stage Alcoholics Drinking Themselves to Death, Junkies of All Kinds, Mentally Ill People whose Family as well as Society had Left Behind, Petty Low Level Criminals and Thugs, and Wards of The State.

Be Sure to Catch Next Weeks Riveting Installment of………

LEE JONITIS: PROFESSIONAL PEOPLE WATCHER (38/365)

Thanks for Reading,

By Les Sober (Posted 1:33 AM)

The Lingering Ghosts of Days Long Gone

Holt Mulligan was considered a good many things, but human never seemed to be one. You see Holt grew up in the tiny rural community of Wayward Louisiassippi. Now its no wonder no one outside of Wayward heard it referred to as Louisiassippi and if They did it was an anomaly.

Back when the community was first settled in 1630 just 10 years after the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. Louisiana became a State in 1812, and that didn’t much affect Wayward as a whole. It wasn’t until Mississippi became a State itself in the year 1817 that Wayward was presented with an unique dilemma.

Once Mississippi became a State the State Line was created which cut the Wayward Community right down the middle of Main Street placing half of the Community in Mississippi, and leaving the remain half on the Louisiana side.

The Citizens of Wayward had no intention of dividing their Community in any way, shape or form so They had Wayward reclassified in the Federal Land Commission as a United States Territory like Guam or Puerto Rico. And by doing so this allowed the Wayward Community to stay united in spite of the Government implemented, and inforced State Line.

With the exception of Main Street there were no other paved roads in Wayward which instead was connected by an intricate network of Dirt Roads. The system of Dirt Roads bobbed, and weaved through out the dense forests, and along the various Swamplands of Wayward like a Ancient Spider Web.

Holt lived in an old dilapidated Trappers Shack circa 1880 on the outskirts of of Wayward. The Locals referred to it as Hobgoblin Swamp. Being considered by most to be a highly undesirable place to live Holt was left on his own (aside from the stray Hunter/Trapper wondering through the Swamp in route elsewhere), and seemed to embrace the Isolation.

Holt had being living in His Trapper’s Shack in Hobgoblin Swamp as long as the Oldest Elder of Wayward could remember which only helped to fuel the rumors about Holt that ran through Wayward like a Wild Fire. And there were plenty believe you me.

There were the cliche Urban Legend Rumors such as Holt lived in isolation because He was a Drug Smuggler. Then there were others such as that Holt was an escaped Convict or Mental Patient hiding out in the Swamp. Some thought Holt was your garden variety Serial Killer who avoided detection (and capture) by committing His killings deep in the dark heart of Hobgoblin Swamp.

Other’s believed Holt was some sort of Immortal Swamp Shaman that chose to live in seclusion so He could practice His Dark Arts in the Shadows. Now not all of the Rumors were nearly as Dire.

Some though Holt was a Shell Shocked (PTSD) War Vet who had lost His sanity fighting on the Battle Field. Others were inclined to think Holt was some how involved with/in the Witness Relocation Program, but weren’t sure if Holt was a Good Guy (like a Law Enforcement Officer) or a Criminal (as if Holt testified against dangerous Criminals in Court as part of a Plea Deal.)

The Rumor Mill even had a other Holt related Gossip. Holt drove a massive 1976 Ford M151 Military Jeep which Holt had repainted in Battle Ship Gray. No one even entertained the idea Holt had just bought the fucking thing or perhaps got it from a Family Member or Friend (Though Holt didn’t seem to have either).

The Gossip about the Jeep was Holt stole it from a near by Military Base, The Military gave it to Holt as an accommodation for being a prolific Solider, Holt dredged part of Hobgoblin Swamp and salvaged the Jeep then, The Jeep belonged to one of Holt’s alleged Murder Victims, or the Jeep was stolen by Holt from some Drug Dealer/Gun Dealer/Human Trafficker after he killed them.

The other gaggle of Gossip surrounded Holts “Dog”. I put dog in Parenthesis because according to the various rumors it was considered anything BUT a Dog by the residents of Wayward. Holts dog was an undeniable Beast weighing in at right around 225 or so, and stood so high that Holt had to lift his hand from his side to pet its head while standing. It sure as shit wasn’t a pure bred anything, but rather it had a sort of Frankenstein aesthetic as if Holt had built the Dog Himself one late night alone in the Swamp.

This led to gossip from the Dog was a Holt’s Spiritual Totem, and that the Dog was a bonafide Hellhound Holt raised from a Pup once He rescued it from the clutches of the Devil Himself. Others speculated the Dog was in fact a Hyena that Holt had acquired in some shady back ally manner. Still some thought it was a Russian Wolf Hyena Hybrid a sort of home bred make shift Monster.

Holt and His Hound were so tightly bonded that if they were both sitting out on the Front Porch of Their Trapper Shack when someone or thing approached Holt and the Hound would slowly turn to look in unison. Holt never had to use a single vocal command with His loyal companion as they seemed to communicate using just Their eyes alone.

No matter how much Holt may of enjoyed the quite isolation out there in Hobgoblin Swamp He still had his daily routine. Holts truck could be heard pulling onto Main Street every morning around 10 am.

Holt habitually parked his Shit Kicker Jeep in the same parking spot directly outside of Old Ed’s Hardware and Mercantile before exiting with purpose. He would then stride right over to Grover’s Guns’n Ammo to spend the rest of the morning mulling around the Gun Shop inspecting the wares so to speak.

At Noon Holt would leave Grover’s and walk over to The Greasy Spoon Diner arriving right at 12:30 for lunch. Holt ate only Steak and Eggs with Several cups of Coffee served black. It had reached a point long ago that The Staff at The Greasy Spoon got in the habit of preparing Holt’s Usual as it were everyday without even thinking about it having it ready, and waiting upon His arrival.

After ravenously devouring his meal as though it was His last Holt would make His back over to Main Street. Holt would walk down one side, and back up on the other with a slow, and deliberate stride. By Three Holt was holed up at The Boozehound which served as the Local Watering Hole.

Holt would sit at the far end of the Bar facing the Door, and start the afternoon off drinking Budweiser. Once 5 o’clock hit cloaked in a cloud of Cigarette smoke (Holt had a penchant for Unfiltered Camels) Holt would switch from Beer to Bloody Mary’s (usually holding up 4 fingers to signify “Make it a Quadruple” a drink they would only make for the sole reason that Holt was the one asking.) Finally somewhere around 7ish Holt would switch one last time from Cocktail to Strait Booze, and Holt’s pick was 3 fingers of Maker’s Mark.

Holt would remain at The Boozehound until after closing as the staff had to clean and prep for the next day so they let Holt stay until they left. Once it was time to kill the lights the Bar Tender would hand Holt a pickled Egg propped up in a shot glass, which Holt would then throw back like an actual shot as He walked out into the night.

Since Holt came from a Strict School of “Don’t speak until Spoken too” so normally He would just nod his head or flash a fleeting smile, but never spoke. There was an acceptation and that was when He was at The Boozehound nightly. Even then He didn’t Indulge in Idle Chit Chat or Engage in Gossip (another favorite Southern Past Time) the few times Holt did speak were more than memorable. Especially since what Holt said was as bizarre as Him talking in the first place.

Holt was noted as say things such as “Sure, Meet Up and We’ll fuck each other up with a Rubber Spoon”, “Smooth To The Groove Like Sandwich Bread.”, “Never Met One I didn’t want killed.”, “Death Comes Quickly For Those Who Wait”, “Guess he Killed By Death”, “Pay it Never-No Mind” and other such oddities.

Holt’s life had gone on in this fashion for more years than anyone could remember (Holt included) until one humid Summer day in 1980 all that changed forever.

That day had run on like any other swelteringly hot and horrendously humid Summer’s day complete with Holt arriving on Main Street around 10. Holt rummaged around Grover’s as he always did, and then He ate lunch at the Greasy Spoon before heading to The Boozehound. Holt’s routine remained the same until 5 o’clock.

Holt approached the Bartender Terry and ordered a Double Quadruple Bloody Mary. Terry baulked at such a extreme drink request, but obliged just the same as it was at Holt’s request. Terry made the drink, handed it to Holt who paid for it, and promptly exited The Boozehound.

Holt stood for a moment or two in front of The Boozehound before downing His Bloody Mary in one solitary swallow. He then lit an Unfiltered Camel, and took a long drag, and vanished into thin fucking air leaving nothing behind, but a lingering cloud of exhaled cigarette smoke.

THATS RIGHT KIDDIES!!!

Holt was the ONE Thing NO ONE Guessed the whole fucking time.

Holt was A BONAFIDE FUCKING ALIEN!!!!

SUCK ON THAT TITTY TWISTER OF A TWIST M.NIGHT!!!!!

Note to Reader : I started this piece and it didn’t turn out at all the way I wanted. Needless to say I got pissed off as a son of a bitch, BUT I couldn’t pull the fucking trigger and delete the thing. So as I was mulling this motherfucker over when this jumped into My mind:

………HE’S A FUCKING ALIEN. He’ll fucking just up and vanish end of fucking story. Why not the post already shit the bed so why not just take it out in a Blaze of Absurdist Angst.

ALSO just in case Anyone is Wondering I have no clue why I took a shot at M.Night considering I’m a fan of a few of his films.

Thanks for Reading,

By Les Sober

Part 2 The Forgotten

The lady had arrived at the final destination. She did not know how final it was or if she would be happy with the person next to her or the person inside of her in the morning, but she saw a shimmer in those eyes, like alpenglow cresting forth before the dawn.

There was no rhyme or reason. There was no great parade, no grand procession as she was accustomed to seeing. And so forth she went.

Well that lady is me. It is you. It is everyone of us. We all forget things that should not be forgotten. I personally have about five years of my life that I have blocked out due to PTSD. I treated myself deplorably and lived as such in almost every single facet of my being. I have difficulty distinguishing up or down, wrong or right, nearly every moment of those five years is a complete blur.

It is like it almost never happened but unfortunately it did. I sometimes tend to forget the year I am in, the age I may be, etc. at the given moment.

Several of my friends have gone through ECT, so I can relate with some degree of empathy with the lost thoughts, days, months, places. Except mine are in a more accessible place, a place I frankly choose not to access and which my conscious mind does not allow me to bring forth.

A lot of people I talk to think I am crazy. They do not wish to see the optimism I see in things to the point that I almost do not believe in it anymore. I have not forgotten that the world we live in is not a place of innocence, it is not a place of the nice guy never finishes last and the asshole never wins. It is opposite.

So as I sit here trying to break some kind of bread with Anne Frank, swastika emblazoned on my forehead. As I sit here wondering if all of my causes are noble or whether certain rocks should never be turned there is one thing I do not forget.

That there is still some kind of love, some kind of hope in this world. What brings me hope in the closest sense of the word is rather private but there are always rocks which need to overturned. Some should never have been touched but I touch. I feel, I learn. It has taken me a very long time to believe something I had forgotten for many, many years.

Luckily yesterday going to see a Pearl Jam concert on Halloween returned some of that lost innocence just a little bit more. Probably only for a little bit, but that’s a little bit more life in me then I had yesterday or the day before.

By SpaceDog

Obligations, Broken Down Caravans, Piecemeal Puppetry Part 1

One day, a lady sat down by her dank and musty window. Her eyes barely remembered the landscape that stood before her. Yet yesterday she knew all the intricate shades of the kaleidoscope that stood before her. This moment of temporary insanity she tried to hold onto, but it was not something that wanted to be held. It was something she needed to let go and give back to the universe, whatever darkened and imperfect part of the universe it had come from.

Still the lady had to live today as today, not as yesterday or not as one of the forever distant tomorrows trapped within the recesses of her mind. Most of those tomorrows would never come, yet in this darkness that surrounded her, she would have been ill-fated to predict which apples were oranges, which princesses would turn into pumpkins.

On the ground nearby, she found a small piece of paper. She didn’t know how to make odds or ends of it. She sat there and stared at it. There was something about it which made her smile but since she had forgotten so much of her life, her existence, her being, she only just stuck it away in an important place.

Yet she did not have much faith in the importance of this place, so she called upon one of the other shadows that had recently crept its way forth. How was this shadow even deemed as friendly you ask? It was just a feeling, it was just something she could not explain at this given moment. Her belief in anything and everything around her had stopped but she remembered that as recently as a few days ago or a few weeks ago, there was infinite possibility.

She knew this could flower and flourish again so soon in the distance but she needed his shadow to take her into the light today. She sat down in her motorized scooter and asked for his help. They hovered off into the distance. It was as if he had crowned her with hope, dipped her in holy water, or gave her her first kiss. But she did not remember any of those things, so it was all of those things melded into one and tied with a tight double knot of innocence.

By SpaceDog

Obligations, Broken Down Caravans, Piecemeal Puppetry Part 1

By SpaceDog