Roadside (shortened version for fiction contest)

Roadside

                The engine rumbled as Danny rolled the throttle and worked the gears of his Harley through the twisting canyons. The small brown package was strapped to the rear fender as the sharp aroma of wildflowers hung powerfully in the air. He was standing on his porch when it came, nondescript and foreboding, wrapped in plain brown paper.

He’d received this type of package many times before. Inside was a picture, a small scrap of yellow legal paper which had instructions and an address. It was always the same. The only things that changed were the who and the how. This one needed to look like an accident.

He had taken this route many times before and knew each bend and line that flowed through the jagged granite walls. His bike’s power band was in the driving torque of 3^rd gear and as he throttled out of each turn he slipped it effortlessly into 4^th screaming black streaks towards nowhere in particular.

                The destination never mattered to Danny; the road was a place where he could free himself from the burdens of life, marriage, work and everything in between. Its subtle mysteries called to him and he was drawn to it as easily as migrating birds are drawn south to escape the harsh northern winters. Another sharp curve quickly materialized from the liquid haze of the road and Danny lightly pulled the clutch in and downshifted back into 3^rd. He found his line and locked into the turn as cleanly as he has previously threaded the deadly needle of mortality from behind the safety of a sniper rifle. Danny swung the bike out wide and swiftly dipped into the curve, rolling on the throttle hard. The bike dove down and fit itself neatly into the sharp lines, sticking to the blurred asphalt below.

There’s a hairpin turn on the bottom end of the summit that has a beautifully deadly view. Like the siren song from mythology, the view pulls unsuspecting overconfident riders in, promising a glimpse into heaven and lures the ill-fated travelers to their death. He knew that curve all too well. He had flirted with it dangerously many times and had always ridden safely away. Not every rider had Danny’s success or skills. This was punctuated by the makeshift crosses and roadside memorials that nestled mournfully next to the scrapes and gouges created by adrenaline.

There is no substitute for a life steeped in experience, and Danny had lived his free from regret and (for the most part) independent of repercussions. It wasn’t until she came into his life that things began to change and he found himself in a standoff with reality. Relationships need the opportunity to grow and foster, finding true love is rare and finding a lifetime companion is even more elusive. She was both and, for a while, Danny had it all.

He had met her one night at a bar in Monterey. She was drawn to the beauty of the area and she quickly fell in love with the scenery… and Danny. Monterey is a beautiful place with dramatic views that leave cash infused tourists slack jawed and awestruck. Monterey also has a darker side. Immigrants from Sicily came to fish the fertile waters of Northern California and helped to create the vibrant history of the area. Organized crime came too. There was a time past when a case of Italian whiskey could get you a driver’s license, payoff the police, or a night with a beautiful woman. Danny worked for these men and had a taste for gambling. He owed them a lot of money and they used his services often to help cover his outstanding debts.

He thundered down the asphalt and the world sped by with Danny comfortably tucked into the slipstream of his existence. Getting away from the pungent salt air and drawing down deep into the valley roads, not readily known by the eager Midwestern tourists who plunge their blindingly white toes into the frigid ocean waters, was an escape for him. Tight corners, poorly paved roads and the wonderful heat of midsummer, where the coastal breeze gets forgotten by the dry burn of the valley in Northern California, was the fuel for his existence.

The scenic view was breathtaking. He had spent so many years of his life and so many miles trying to avoid its beauty. Today, it called to him and he curled his wrist downward, opening up the throttle wide. He gently slipped the bike into 5^th gear and all his senses went numb except for his sense of sight. The beauty of that view, the mountains slowly melting into the expanse of the Pacific Ocean, burned itself into his mind.

He stopped thinking about everything. Veronica, the boys, money, debt, friends, it all faded away into the panorama that stretched out before him. The speedometer on his bike read 110mph and he didn’t have time to focus on the rusted steel guardrail hurtling towards him. The view was mesmerizing and its beautiful siren song flooded his head with its toxic invitation. The vista charged at him, fate pulling him into his next reality. Closer it sped at him, opening up before him like a beautiful flower in a time lapsed video as the sun caresses its petals, enticing it to open. He felt the warmth of the sun settle on his cheeks and he saw her beautiful face smile upon him one last time as he floated off into oblivion, the brown paper wrapped box with his picture and address inside still tightly secured to the rear fender.

                

Dark Roast (short story)

Dark Roast

by: Michael Bryan

                Maria had grown so tired of her daily routine. The realization that her life was deliberately passing her by lazily pressed upon her like a scratch in the back of her throat before catching a cold or coming down with the flu. The weight of this realization had burrowed into her consciousness and had begun to claim more and more territory. At first, it was just a shadow that was easily lost in the fading red bricks and art inspired shop signs that spread before her daily like an industrial art gallery.  Lately, it was a blaring alarm screaming its symphonic interpretation of the mundane, suffocating her creativity and rendering impotent her passion for life.

                “What do you think, babe? Do you want to try the dark roast today? Maybe a little soy milk as well? Oh, I know. How about an extra shot of espresso?” Patrick said to her with the infuriating enthusiasm that only the dull and boring can muster. It was just coffee for Christ’s sake. Patrick would talk about a new cup of coffee like others talked politics, art or music. The way she used to talk about those things . . . with passion.

                “Sure honey, let’s live a little today” she hissed sarcastically at him.

                “Fantastic” he replied, completely oblivious to her tone. It wasn’t even a tone at this point, it was an outright plea for aid. Help me! She would scream into her mind, trying weakly to chip away at the concrete foundation poured into the solid forms fastened by routine.

“I’ll go grab us a table,” she spat. “Why don’t you wait and grab the drinks.” At least she could feel the adrenaline rush of choosing where to sit. She always picked the window. She liked to observe other people as she blithely sipped her coffee, longing for adventure. Maria wasn’t a daredevil. She didn’t have the need to skydive, plant her flag on some foreign mountain summit or scream black streaks on the back of a motorcycle at 120mph. She just wanted something different, something more than the missionary position and dark roast.

Maria burned for a real man, dangerous and unpredictable. A powerful, passionate man who could make her scream in ecstasy. Patrick was not a man. He was hipster cool with his black framed glasses, ironic flannel shirts and pomade slicked hair. On first appearance, he looked like the man she wanted and it was nice to pretend with him; however, after a while, she identified him as a fraud. He was the dollar store knockoff, camouflaged in shirts that would never see a drop of grease and hands that would never turn a wrench, get a drop of blood on them or touch her in the way she needed.

As she plodded towards an open table, grimy yet clean in only the way public furniture can be, she noticed a man sitting alone. He was reading an old nondescript book, yellowed and worn, quietly sipping his coffee. As she brushed past him, he looked up at her and effortlessly twisted the left side of his mouth into a subtle smirk, narrowing his eyes a bit which intensified their speckled auburn coloring. She stabbed a conspirator’s grin towards him, exposing her pearl white teeth, lightly stained from the daily coffee and the tar of a social smoker.

“Hi,” he said, “how’s your day?” His voice, with a subtle rasp, echoed off the windows behind her.

“It’s going just fine, thank you. How about you?” She whispered back, not wanting to raise her voice to a level where Patrick might hear. “Just waiting for my coffee, you know how complicated a coffee order has become these days.”

“Not for me, I always just drink mine black with two sugars. Coffee shouldn’t be complicated, you know.” He tightened his face a little and nodded towards Patrick.

She could feel the sudden rush of blood painting her face pink. She noticed the painting above the man. It was a retro inspired painting which said “Ski Vail” and showed caricatures of people in embroidered snowflake sweaters skiing fresh snow and warming themselves by massive stone fireplace as a blizzard raged outside. It was pop culture at its finest, exactly the type of art you would expect to see in a coffee shop.

The floodwaters of fantasy quickly enveloped her consciousness. They were in Vail, effortlessly sliding down jagged mountain peaks as the sun lightly branded their exposed cheeks the ruddy color that only comes from being active outdoors. They sat by the fire and talked, she lightly snickering and touching his arm, lost in one another in only the way that true lovers can.

She snapped out of her daydream with a renewed purpose. She decided it was time to take charge and stop complaining about life. He was going to be her salvation, delivering her from the bondage of complacency. She quietly wrote her number down winked at him and whispered, “Give me a call.” She quietly moved to an empty booth away from the stranger, ready to tell Patrick it was over.

Satisfied, she slid into the booth with a renewed purpose. Suddenly, the police burst into the shop, grabbed the man and violently slammed him to the worn tile floor, handcuffing him.  

“We finally got you, you sick bastard,” snarled one of the officers. “We found the heads. . .you’re gonna rot for this forever.”

The man looked over at her, the shock splashed across her face and bent his mouth into a grin. “All I wanted was just one more,” he whispered and blew her a kiss as he was rushed out the door.