An excerpt from a project in the works - currently named ‘Untitled.dox’ on my laptop.

A great struggle begins once a pressure cooker is put to flame. With each second the water gets hotter, edging closer to shedding its bonds and floating away, a faint ripple in the air. Only the water doesn’t do that. It can’t. Its warden denies it that luxury. The water beats helplessly against the walls of its prison. At some point the struggle becomes so great that civility is abandoned. The water rises up and tests the pressure cooker’s seal, challenging its structural authority.

Then the steam cap is released. In a deranged euphoria the steam bursts out all at once, each molecule racing the other towards freedom. But what is freedom when it’s been granted? What is freedom when you will inevitably condense back into your former-self and be returned to that same vessel? That's not freedom at all. It's permission.

If (by human or mechanical doing) the steam cap malfunctions and fails to disengage, there comes a defining moment in which the repressed contents become free. The vapor, rather than merely slip from its shackles, breaks them; the pressure cooker very suddenly becomes shrapnel, guided by the power of physics into whatever lies in its path.

The pressure cooker no longer exists. There is nothing for the water vapor to be crammed back into, no new oppressor to obey. There is only freedom; true freedom.

-

Daniel dropped his pen and took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes harshly. The clock on his paper-strewn desk read 5:12 AM. Daniel yawned. Tired. He was well past tired. Tiredness had become a permanent state to him. The realization made him giggle; aren’t we all just tired? Wake up, drink coffee. Pretend you’re not tired. Repeat. His laugh was alone in the room; that and the click-clack of his keyboard. He laughed at his aloneness, at the fact that it didn’t really matter how much noise he did or didn’t make. He lived alone. There was no one to be rudely awakened by his laughter. Daniel cackled at the world and all its hypocrisies, it’s pretentiousness, until his chest started to hurt and his eyes filled with tears. And then he was crying, sobbing like a kid who'd fallen from a playset - I want my mommy! Tears dripped from his cheeks, staining the already-stained sheet of paper lying in front of him. He realized it’d been years since he’d cried, and that brought more tears. He smothered the tears and snot on the elbow of his shirt and leaned onto his desk.

When Daniel looked back up the clock read 5:10 PM. He squinted at the number and rubbed crust out of his eyes. Shit. Not that it really mattered; he wasn’t exactly being missed. Rising, he shuffled away from his desk and changed out of his grimy clothes.

Inside Daniel’s office was an impressive assortment of books and things, the only possession he truly valued. The shelves were crammed with used, torn-leaf works – Dickinson, Lovecraft, 70’s pulp magazines. He included none of his own works, less out of modesty than self-awareness. He acknowledged the averageness of his own writing.

At 31 Daniel was already a multi-time New York Times bestseller. Two of his novels had been adapted to the big screen, both of which performed admirably at the box office. His days living on Carl’s Jr. chicken sandwiches (2 for $3) were long gone; his current neighbors were among Hollywood’s richest and most glamorous, all trapped together inside their own glitzy gated community with its own private security force. Daniel remembered first cruising through the steel gates in the old ’98 Civic that he'd bought off a shady unsecured loan when he was 18. Pulling through the gates he was mesmerized by the driveways inhabited by Bentleys and supercars. You finally made it. You really did it. The next day Daniel junked the Civic in favor of a midnight-black '03 Escalade, the highest trim. But it mostly just sat parked in his 4-car garage; he preferred to meander about the Hills in one of the golf course’s club-carts.

Money Trail was Daniel's biggest hit yet. It topped the New York Times best-sellers for over 2 months. His protagonist, Aden, was mostly just a doppelgänger to George Clooney’s character from “Ocean’s 11” - sprinkle in a few witty side characters, a nefarious antagonist (the CEO of the world’s largest financial institution - no one gets upset when the rich guy gets robbed) – and the book soon became a “Worldwide Phenomenon!” The special edition copies read "Soon to be a major motion picture!" just below, which was partially true. Daniel had offers in hand from Paramount and Universal for the movie rights, but he was in no hurry to sell out. Let the thing keep climbing the bestsellers, Daniel’s agent had told him. Let it break some records. It made sense financially - for his agent, at least. It didn’t matter to Daniel. He already had more money than he could spend. What he needed now was a drink.

Dressed in dark jeans and a lightweight button-down, Daniel crossed his legs and slouched back in his office chair. He poured himself a drink and downed it. He appreciated the burn in his throat. He glanced at his stained notebook but tried to ignore it, closing his eyes and letting the alcohol do its work.

After his second whiskey Daniel unfolded his laptop (the same one his grandmother bought him years ago when he graduated college, oddly enough) and began throwing ideas on the screen.

oil baron’s son and heir legitimizes his claim after  [DELETE] – HAMLET BUT SHITTY… smalltown girl finds herself in the Big apple chasi – [DELETE]

Unsolved murder in the Rockies leads Deputy Sharon Bunker to danger – [DELETE] – SILENCE OF THE LAMBS MEETS FARGO, CMON DANIEL –

A reality tv show host accidentally becomes president. Ha.

In this wacky-waterpark, there’s can only be one lifeguard, and his name is Barney Linkletter. Adam Sandler is – THE LIFEGUARD. Coming soon!

ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg

gggggggggggggggggg

ggggggggggggggggggggggg

gggggggggggggggggggggggg

ggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg

gggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg

SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT.,FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKMEANDFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKMEFUCKWRITER BLOCKANDFUCYOUYOUUNORIGINALSHITBAG

Daniel glanced at the clock. 8:04 PM. He looked at what he’d accomplished and decided it was time for another drink. Might jostle the imagination.

Daniel admired himself in the mirror, tucking his shirt into his jeans. He winced. You look like an off-duty insurance agent. A dad. Daniel cleaned up his beard and gargled some mouthwash to mask the whiskey-breath. He turned and snuck downstairs through the empty house.

Daniel reached for the little turn-key to the golf cart out of habit but second-guessed himself. The thought of another night getting cornered by some tipsy 50-something trophy wife at The Woodcutter (the shitty little wine-bar just around the block) made him queasy. They liked to ask him things like "So, where are you from?" or "So, have you ever been to Chicago?" and graze their manicured nails against his wrist. He reached instead for the keys to the Escalade.

When it rains, it pours. It was time for a change of scenery.

- 

Daniel had nowhere specific in mind to go to. Just cruise down the Strip. Park and let your feet do the rest, Daniel told himself drunkenly. He never got the chance to do so; he swung down towards West Hollywood, where a flashing sign warned him:

CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION

NOVEMBER 4

FOLLOW DETOUR

Shit. He did not feel like sitting in traffic. Daniel sighed in defeat and pushed the Escalade into reverse.

“Yo.”

“Shit!” Daniel shouted. Daniel squinted at the voice outside his window. It belonged to a scruffy-looking man. He had mangy brown hair flowing down his neck, which was distinctly scrawny; Daniel could see the tendons working around his Adam’s apple despite the absence of light. Daniel cracked his window down an inch.

“You lost?”

“Naw. Just took the wrong turn.”

The man grinned at Daniel. His teeth were sharp like a dogs. “Ya don’t sound so sure bout that.”

Fuck’s your deal, guy? A common scenario fluttered through his inebriated mind; Young black man shot over minor traffic violation. Daniel smiled nervously. The man smiled back. “Oh, I’m just looking for a voice to hear, I guess.” Daniel blinked. The man’s eyes turned downwards like a dog begging for table scraps. “Got any cash?”

Guy’s homeless, Daniel realized. Surely he wasn’t the only one hawking for cash on this side of town. Daniel wasn’t feeling charitable. He had planned on drinking all the cash in his pocket.

“Sorry, guy. Gotta go.”

Daniel sped off, checking the rearview mirror to make sure he’d left the man behind. The man had disappeared. Daniel shook his head and exited onto the 101.

-

La Bamba Bar & Grill was a hole-in-the-wall that mostly drew in a blue-collar crowd, the majority of whom sorted fruit for Dole or installed DirecTV receivers. They were loud, burly Chicanos who attracted equally loud, curvaceous Chicanas. When Daniel entered through the flimsy swing door he immediately felt like an interloper. He didn’t match with the throng of Dodgers hats, exposed tattoos and hooped earrings that surrounded the U-shaped bar. But no one seemed to pay him much mind, and if they did they were either too pickled or disinterested to say so. After his first whiskey Daniel felt his anxiety slip away. It felt good to get away from home, to not be surrounded by rich assholes for once. He ordered another drink from the tattooed bartender and downed the first half, then sat and admired the jean-clad couple singing and dancing to the jukebox selection – “Smooth” by Santana. Their faces were young and unwrinkled, the girl’s smile being consumed by her partner. Their hips caressed one another, swinging in and out of rhythm. Daniel couldn’t help but picture his and Audrey’s faces photoshopped on top of the couple’s shoulders. Daniel finished his drink. We were the dancing couple, a sad drunk voice reminded him.

-

“Wakey wakey, compañero,” the bartender grunted, nudging at Daniel. Daniel removed his elbow from the bar, squinting at his watch. 3:03AM. He slid away from his glass and rose shakily. “Thanks,” he slurred, stumbling out of the saloon doors.

It was well past dark but the little gravel parking lot was lit like a movie set. The moon was in full glamour, peeking through the L.A. smog. Streetlamps buzzed with moths above him. Tracking his own footsteps, Daniel breathed in the cold night, shoving his hands into his pockets. The Escalade sat alone. Slow and steady, a voice warned him. Daniel fumbled for his keys and lost them in the loose gravel.

“Awful strange to be out worshippin' this late, don’t ya think?”

Daniel fell when he heard the unexpected voice. He scraped his palms against the gravel. Clutching for his keys, he spun towards the speaker. Loud guffaws echoed off the pavement.

“You look like you could use a ride, amigo.”

Daniel gulped and looked up at the man. He had to squint against the light to make out the shadowy figure. He blinked and realized it was the homeless guy who’d tapped on his window earlier. He strode over to Daniel and offered a gloved hand to help him to his feet. Daniel stared at the offer, then examined the man's face for the first time.

He had a warm smile with sharp, evenly-spaced teeth displayed before a pair of thick cracked lips. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of bulky squared sunglasses, but the crinkles of a man who smiles often jutted out from behind his shades. His nose was bent out of place as if it’d seen better days. A drop of spittle hit Daniel on the cheek.

“You just gonna sit there and gawk at me or you gonna help yourself, son?”

Daniel obliged and was pulled to his feet. He placed the keys confidingly into the man’s gloved hand. The man grinned at him.

“Let’s go for a ride.”

-

“So,” the man started, pulling out of the dusty drive. “Where we headed to?”

“Sterling Estates,” Daniel said dryly. The man waved a hand.

“Ah, so you’re a rich man! Damn near spoiled I bet!”

“No, I live there. Got my own place. I’m a writer”, Daniel slurred. “Ever heard of Money Trail? That’s me,” said Daniel defensively. The man chuckled. His voice took a mocking tone.

“Oh yes, I know who you are. But I must say, I found the plot to be a bit… dry. Not a lot of action, if you know what I mean.” Daniel was about to protest but was interjected. “Alright. Sterling Estates it is - your Majesty.”

The ride lasted for ages, though the old man (Old, Daniel thought, yet he could not discern the man’s true age) drove with startling aptitude. He cranked the radio at full blast, first The Beatles on XM and then classical. The old man hummed and swayed to the rhythm and the car obeyed both he and the music. Daniel sank back into the passenger seat, comfortable despite the man’s startling presence. Finally, they climbed Daniel’s steep driveway and parked. The man sat still. Daniel waited and realized he wasn’t going to say anything.

“Uh, thanks. For the ride, I mean. I appreciate it, honestly - I was fucking drunk..." Daniel slurred off momentarily. "If there's I can do to pay you back, please, just let me know. Did I catch your name, by the way?”

“Oh, don’t thank me, boy." The man's voice was strangely mutative. It'd adopted a Southern twang. "Payment is where things get complicated. You see, I like to consider myself a purveyor of things - perhaps businessman might be more accurate. I sign contracts with people, you understand?” The man motioned towards Daniel’s home, which seemed to brood over the car. “We’re talking biiiig bucks. But maybe it'd be best if we saved business for a later time. As to the latter, feel free to call me whatever you like; Lucy, Stan, Beelzebub – hell, why don’t you just call me Guy. How's that sound?”

Daniel smiled nervously. “OK, Guy.”

Guy raised his finger as if he were testing the wind. “Now that I’ve introduced myself, why don’t you tell me your name, guy?”

“Daniel. Daniel Lockwood.”

Guy looked pleased. “Ah, Daniel… a fine name. But don’t lie to me, boy – Lockwood is merely the name you print for the world to see. Your real surname is…”

“Korabou.”

Guy’s eyes crinkled behind his sunglasses. “Yes. How perspicacious.”

Still smiling, Daniel reached for his wallet. Guy placed a gnarled hand on Daniel’s shoulder. His touch was warm - no hot. It seemed to tingle with some kind of unspent energy. Daniel jolted in his seat, suddenly sober. He removed Guy’s hand from his shoulder.

“Listen, thanks for the ride - but I gotta go. I can pay you if you want; I’ve got food in the garage, beer, whatever... take whatever you want” Guy placed his hand again on Daniel’s shoulder, this time tightening his grasp. His mark grew hotter by the second. Guy grinned toothily.

“My boy – I take such offense. What, do you figure me to be some plebeian, some beggar? Ha! No, I am no less rich than you – I need not your money, nor your kind regard, good sir.”

Daniel smiled, habitually. This guy’s pretty charismatic.

“Yes,” Guy said aloud. He moved one hand to Daniel’s cheek and removed his glasses with the other. “Now, there is one way in which you might repay me for this favor – and it won't cost you a dime.”

Daniel blushed. “Sure. What can I do for you?”

Guy moved his hand to Daniel’s chin, forcing his gaze onto his. Daniel looked into his eyes. He had imagined watery, wind-worn eyes, the sort of eyes that a kindly old-man should have. In their stead were two empty sockets filled with smoke.

Daniel let his gaze wander into the void. He watched the smoke spin and coagulate; he saw men women and children dying by the thousands, incinerated all at once in a bright flash. Row upon row of plumed soldiers propping men up on crosses, throats being cut in front of stone altars, men walking in busy places and suddenly disappearing, leaving carnage in the space where they’d just stood. Daniel was thirsty, so he drank in the black smoke and felt full. Guy’s next words hissed inside Daniel’s head.

Why don’t you just sit down and chat with a nice old-man?

-

“Wakey-wakey, asshole”.

Daniel’s eyes flicked open. He swallowed and unstuck his cheek from the wooden table with a grimace. Must've fallen asleep at work again. He patted his dry tongue against his mouth and reached to wipe away the line of dried drool on his check, but his arm refused to move past his midsection. Daniel glanced down and saw that his wrist was cuffed to an iron bar underneath his desk. He shook his wrist wildly – the bar did not budge. Glancing around saw that he was not at his desk as he had first thought. He was sitting at one end of a rectangular metal table. A lone fluorescent light lit the room, reflecting off the center of the table. An unseen hand plopped down a thick file in front of him.

“Open it,” the gruff voice from the other end of the table instructed.

Using his free hand, Daniel unfolded the yellow cover. His eyes widened at the folder’s contents. A plastic stool studded with holes. A severed arm lying uselessly by its owner. A permanent black circle painted on concrete, a burnt, twisted metal-looking shape lying next to it. An exposed jaw grinning through melted skin, pools of blood and flesh and –

“Look like you’ve seen a ghost. Guess that’s probably all you can see now,” the voice sighed from behind a thick wall of cigarette smoke. A hand reached through the smoke and offered him a cigarette. Daniel accepted with a shaking hand; he put the cigarette to his lips and it was lit for him. Inhaling smoke, Daniel opened his mouth to talk but could only summon a few light gasps. He scratched at his throat, eyes wild, brow furrowed in confusion. He tried to speak again to no effect. Tears filled his eyes; Daniel screamed and no noise escaped his throat. He shuttered and sucked on his cigarette. He looked towards the voice at the other end of the table in desperation. Where am I? Who are you? What happened? Who am I?

Daniel heard the man suck away at his own cigarette, then saw an ashtray be produced to squash out the leftovers. Once more a hand reached through the smoke wall, this time offering a pen and paper. The hand pointed to a dotted line on the bottom.

“Just sign here and it’ll all be over, my friend.”

Daniel sniffled and looked down at the paper - "CONFESSION OF GUILT".

It's all over, Daniel thought. The words flowed through his head, warming the neurons in his brain. He felt a warm hand lift his wrist from the table. Daniel smiled at the touch and let his hand be guided.

-

Ryan leaned back in his plush desk chair. He groaned and loosened his tie. It was almost 2:00 AM. The printers needed a final word by 4. He stared at his screen and realized that he was in the same spot where he’d started. A decision would be made;

Sunday, August 28, 2005

IN MEMORIAM:

HONORING THE VICTIMS AND SURVIVORS OF THE LA BREA BOMBING

Sunday, August 28, 2005

KATRINA CRUSHES NEW ORLEANS

DEATH TOLL UNKNOWN

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Ryan? It’s Jo.” Ryan nodded. It was Jo.

“Anything new?”

“Yup. They just found the bomber’s manifesto.”

“Really? What’s it say?”

“We’ll can talk about it later - I’ve got Aaron on that.” Ryan waited for her to finish her point.

“The police brought in their suspect. He just confessed.”

Ryan clenched his hair. He deleted what he had written for the day’s leading headline.

“Well? What’s the guy’s name?”