One block, two block, red block, blue block

The sky says it's magic hour. The suburban street is quiet; no kids playing in the front-yard, no fathers mowing the lawn. The rubber wheels of an old bike make a grip skip sound as they roll across the pavement. Shallow puddles from yesterday's rain in patches on the road, splash up, almost elegantly.

PF Flyers don the feet that engine the pedaling of the bike. Size 9s. The wheels turn at an even pace, the rusty spokes spin like the beams of a ferris wheel - smooth, steady. On time.

They turn and turn, and turn onto a patch of street blocked off by construction signs - road work seized until Monday morning. A piece of rubble, ashphault debris flings up from underneath the rubber, and the wheel swerves sharp. No longer is its roll in sync over the pavement, but completely helter skelter. And the entire bicycle falls diagonally. Gracefully and in slow motion. The metal masterpiece clanks sideways to the ground.

Henry Lincoln lies on the road, his legs tangled in the bike. Blood trickles from his eyebrow, dirt buff on his cheeks and palms. After a moment he opens his eyes. Black and neon dots of light sprinkle the darkening sky. He blinks them away. He doesn't groan, but it looks like he's trying to - desperate to release the pain of what will be a mass of bruise and scrapes on his outer thigh.

Water builds up in the corner of his eyes. He manages to lift his arm, reaching over his right shoulder grabbing at the black strap that fastened his guitar case to his back. The strap falls loose from his grip, frayed at the edge - snapped off from the body of the case. He closes his eyes.

***

It's dark now and the porch-light of nine seven J.M. Barrie Lane goes on, a glow already filtering out from the front bay-window of the two-story. It's warm inside.

Henry Lincoln stands alone in the garage, unzipping the black case. He pulls out his Gibson acoustic by the neck which is no longer attached to the body of the instrument. He touches one of the broken strings. There's two that snapped - B and E.

"Twang." He plucks at it and the sound physically hurts him.

Moments later he's inside, standing in the doorway of the dining room. The house is neat, breakable, but not ivory tower. There's a meal set out on the table, untouched. "Pasadena Pantry Bistro" printed sans serif on the serviettes.

Henry creeps into the living room, and sees his twelve year old sister Kelsey lying on her stomach in front of the tv, her face planted in a geography text. He watches as she covers the page of the book with a paper and begins to recite the inscription on the page from memory.

"Plate tectonics is a theory which describes the large scale motions of Earth's lithosphere. It is vital for the existence of life on earth because of the role that it plays in the global cycle that maintains the balance of carbon between the biosphere, pedosphere, geosphere, hydrosphere, and atmosphere...'

Henry shifts his weight and Kelsey looks behind, noticing him lurking.

"It's cold. And there's meat in everything." She turns back to her book, rather bland.

"...A similar process likely takes place on other celestial objects when they are sufficiently similar to Earth. The theory builds on the older concepts of continental drift, developed during..."

***

A beautifully made up women in her mid-forties, business casual, begins packing up the dining table. Henry walks back into the dining room and sees her. She's uptight, kurt. He always finds himself staring at her haircut, her Kate Gosselin hair cut. And her ass.

She's nearly his step mother by common-law. He can't stand her, but still jerks off thinking of her. He really CAN'T. Stand Her.

She sees him and pauses for a second. Her face displeased. Her clenched forehead saying, "glad you finally decided to show up."

He looks away uncomfortably, trying to wipe his thoughts from his mind, and then back at her without much success.

She sees he looks like shit, but continues packing up the table - which by definition involves an open garbage bag and her tossing everything inside. Without care.

Henry flinches. Now he can't stop wondering why she orders so much meat, when she's such a calorie-counting freak. Meat. She likes his meat.

"Where's your brother?" she asks. And POP goes his thought bubble.

Henry shrugs... "And dad?"

"Away," she says.

Silence. "How was yer--"

"Take this out." She shoves the garbage bag into Henry's arms and walks out. Boy, does she leave a chill.

He stands there disheveled. What a bitch.

***

In the middle of the night, lights out, Henry's under the covers in his bedroom beating off to the thought of his near-step mother's Kate Gosslin haircut.

The knob of his bedroom door turns and he stops abruptly. Hard as fuck.

A dark shadow stumbles in, drops a knapsack at the bedside and collapses onto the twin bed across the room. His brother's home and he's wasted.

Henry turns onto his side, stares out the window, then closes his eyes praying to sleep easy. The thought of his broken guitar enters his mind... his broken bike left at the construction site. His brainwashed little sister. His where-in-the-world old man. His deadbeat brother, and his cunt near-step mother.

Nope. Sleep won't come easy tonight.

Lola

and these random little stories.