And then there were three: November Year of the Dog Contest rules

Feel free to add on to any one of the following choices. They’ve been narrowed to three. Don’t forget to include the preceding parts of the story when you post your your addition.

They’ve been narrowed down to three story strands. Next time they’ll be narrowed down to two choices.

This time you can write

EXACTLY 100 words

or

EXACTLY 200 words

or

EXACTLY 300 words

* * * * * Story Number One * * * * *

Dat Buggah Ma Fadda

(Part 1)

“So what da buggah said?”

ma madda asked afta

ma fadda dropped me off.

“About what?”

“About what?” she said,

mocking me. “How about

what he promised fo pay

me in child support?

About what?

How about what he owes

me for trowing one brick

tru my windshield?”

She sat at the table looking

out da window, her eyes

neva looking at mine.

I always hated wen she

brought him up.

Even yeas afta, wen

I tot she wen foget him

longtime already, she

go, out of da blue,

“Dat buggah was one

real piece of shit

I tell you.”

(Part 2)

I neva saw ma fadda

trow da concrete brick

true da windshield of

ma madda’s cah

but was obvious wen

I wen come home from

school an wen see da

brick laying on her dash

dea must have been

plenny angah, plenny

violence fo lodge da brick

halfway true da glass.

Ma madda could do

dat to one man, drag

her finganails true da

chalkboard of his back.

She wen leave da brick

like dat for days an den

wen call all her friends

fo checkom out.

“Imagine driving around

town wit dat!” she would

say, an everyone

would laugh.

(Part 3)

When I was small

ma fadda moved us

to one small town fo

make one new life.

He really moved us

so he could be wit

his new fling.

Ma madda neva knew

til was too late.

Da night she found

out, she came home

smelling like cigarettes

and booze.

I could hear her

sobbing in her room.

I opened da door

and saw her laying

naked in bed, crying.

I wanted fo comfort

her but I neva knew

wat fo do since she

no mo clothes.

All I did was stand dea

quietly as she cried

herself to sleep.

(Part 4)

One story ma madda

could tell ova an ova

again is da one wea ma

fadda wen almost get

run ova by his mistress

in our yard.

“She was da crazy one,

driving around in her cah,

screaming at da top of

her lungs, ‘I goin kill you!’

An just like one tru punk

he go diving in da bushes

afta she wen accelerate,

lights blazing in his eyes.

Dat witch used to drive

by our house every

damn night!

I could see her from

our lanai, her head

sticking out da window,

driving back an fort,

back an fort.”

* * * * * Story Number Two * * * * *

So What da Buggah Said?

(Part One)

“So what da buggah said?” Rudy the barber asks me.

“Some bullshit about Denise and Chris.”

I’m waiting for a haircut. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Christopher Andaya enter. He’s dark, looks real Hawaiian.

“Chris, whas’up?”

Suddenly he pulls a knife, comes at me. I grab my gun inside my jacket and shoot him three times, but instead of dying, he turns around and staggers outside. I follow.

I say, “Chris, you’re supposed to be dead already,” and boom, he goes down. I flip him over.

His face looks weird, his eyes all glassy, looking up at me like I’m God.

(Part Two):

“Hey, Chris. No ack. We bot’ know dis not no real gun. Don’ go Deadman’s Gulch on me.”

“You mean Old Pali Road?”

“Yeah, wotevahs. Wit’ one trunkload of pork.”

“An’ da cah when stall.”

“An’ no staht.”

“Bumebye dey trow away da pork.”

“Hey, if dey when turn da cah aroun’ an’ head’m back down da mountain . . .?”

“Not.”

“What?”

“Dey gif da peeg to somebody goin’ da uddah way.”

“To town?”

“Whatevahs.”

“K’den, bra. Bra, you doing OK?”

“Yeah, no. Nevah bettah.”

“Den gif back da gun.”

“Dis not no real gun.”

“Gif’m to me, Chris.”

“Firs’, da shiv.”

(Part Three)

I feel the warmth disappear, see the light. Where –

“You talk plenny kine when you asleep,” Rudy says.

I feel my face. Clean. This guy can handle a straight razor. “I fell asleep?”

“Yeah. You was talking all kine. Had someting about a Chris somebody. Someting about Denise. What’s wit all da guns an knives an shooting? Whas wit God? Tell me you not born again.”

“I . . . Rudy, I haven’t seen Denise for days. I don’t know where she is. You haven’t heard of Chris Andaya?”

“Oh, Chris Andaya. Scary. He get someting to do wit Denise?”

(Part 4)

“She nevah go your mom’s?” Rudy asks.

I tell him no, it’s my mom who said she couldn’t get ahold of Denise.

“Rudy, you know Andaya. Like I said, Kuroda been talking shit about Chris and Denise.”

“Not good. Yeah, no, I nevah hear nuttin’”

Rudy knows people. But you gotta pay up front. Like a haircut and a shave is a good start, but maybe just a down-payment depending. Maybe you gotta tip heavy kine.

Rudy knows people as tough as Chris. Maybe tougher. People who come from dark spaces, do their job, disappear. You’d never see them strolling the mall at Ala Moana. The only time you see these guys is when they materialize on your doorstep. And the only thing they bring is bad news. Sometimes a warning, sometimes a little hurt, and sometimes, well, you know. They’re like ghosts.

“Rudy, who can I talk to? I need to know if she’s gone back to work. If she really is mixed up with Chris again.”

Rudy rubs his chin. “You mean someone you can talk to, or someone who only goin’ talk to me?”

“Whoever, Rudy. Whatever you can do to help my sister. You tell me.”

* * * * * Story Number Three * * * * *

Wishing Well

(Part 1)

When you wish for something hard enough, you just might get it. Then

comes the part about how hard you thought about what happens next, as

in being careful what you wish for. Jiminy Cricket says nothing about

which star you should wish upon, nor about possible evil consequences

of choosing poorly. How about the venerable first star I see tonight?

Does that imply a filter, a guarantee against bad choices and evil

consequences? Suppose you say you’re bored stiff and wish something

interesting would happen? By interesting you mean? Who cares? Nothing

could be worse than this. Let’s give it a shot: I really wish

something interesting would happen. Oh-oh.

(Part 2)

Wisharama in Wishitopia in G-flat minor

How old were you when you realized “I wish I knew” does not

necessarily mean you want to know?

What it more likely means is that you don’t want to take the time to

find out. Or it’s not worth knowing. Or you’re too lazy. Or . . .

Or maybe you do know but telling would take too dang long. Or you

don’t want us to know. Or . . .

How old are you, anyway? What makes any of this the least bit scary? (Isn’t it?)

I wish I knew. I wish, really wish, you’d think hard about it, then

let us all know.

(Part 3)

The list of things people wish for is endless. Ever try to visualize

“endless”? What’d you see?

I see a long, long adding-machine tape with individual handwritten

entry after entry after entry, curling and unfurling slowly out into

dark and endless space, destination infinity, wherever it can be

found.

I wish I could see what Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking saw. Or what

Neil Degrasse Tyson sees.

Elon Musk. Does he really wish to spawn the movement that puts humans

everywhere? Literally everywhere? Would that be wishing well? I wish I

knew.

Wait. I know.

Only look at planet Earth. Clever humanstuff everywhere. Everywhere!

Purely natural stuff nowhere. Nowhere! (Hippie stuff, we smugly

smirk.)

Will we learn better over time? Or will we remain too clever by half

until the too-rapidly-nearing end? When the cows come home? When what

goes around comes around?

What do you wish to be when you grow up? An NFL star? Rock star? Movie

star? Media star? Multijillionaire on-line entrepreneur? Maybe a

pussygrabbing USA President? (Or, you know, grab whatever.)

How about alive and well in a shared natural setting? Are we wishing

well? Wish you knew?

You know you know.

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