Green Desert - Chapter 2.1.2 - Fírí

I stared at my face in the bathroom mirror. Had I dreamed the whole thing? My forehead was smooth, cut-free. My elbows and ribs, too. I must’ve at least dreamt the tripping and hurting myself part. The shooting and the old couple and the foreign kid were all too real.

I opened the door, flipped the lights off, and headed down the ocean-blue-painted hall. Vata was cooking breakfast. The kid––Bhanar––sat rumpled on the living room couch. He didn’t make eye contact. I glared at him. “Nar.”

He looked up and mumbled a question.

“Don’t stare.” Teenagers are so immature. As I walked away, I smiled. Here on Narasha, Bhanar probably wasn’t even ten yet.

The whole house was one bold color after another and the kitchen was no exception. Ugly-ass bright green. Vata stirred something in a fryingpan. Meat. My stomach turned. “Just sit down, dear. It’s almost ready.”

The table had already been set, minus the plates and glasses. I pulled out a creaky wood chair and sat on the floral cushion.

Behind me, Bhanar shuffled across the linoleum. “What are you cooking?”

Vata smiled broadly. “Rabbit.”

Strange memories––dreams––flashed through my head. Darkness. Flickering firelight. A bloody knife. A cloaked figure in shadows. An old hand reaching at me.

I found my sock!

You know that sock that had been missing? I found it. It was wrapped up in the fitted sheet that I washed the same time. . .

Never throw the lone sock away!

Breakfast

Here was my view during breakfast:



And half a bowl of oatmeal later:

Green Desert - Chapter 2.1.1 - Bhanar

I awoke to sunlight. Yellow curtains, flower wallpaper. Where the hell was I? I sat up. The sofa springs squeaked. My trip-clothes bag lay on a magazine-covered coffee table. Someone was whistling in another room.

And then it hit me––the gunfights, the police questioning me far into the night, the kind old couple, the blonde woman. . .

I wore shorts and a tshirt––a different one than last night. The smell of bacon cooking––but no, it wasn’t bacon. My stomach growled anyway. I disentangled my feet from the sheets and blanket, but right before I stood up, a door down the hallway opened and out stepped the blonde––Fírí. She, too, wore different clothes now––gray sweatpants that hid her figure and a small white tshirt that didn’t. As she walked towards me, it was apparent she’d unfortunately put on a bra.

“Nar,” she said, stopping with contraposto and arms akimbo. Barefoot.

“Yeah, what?” Nar is my nickname.

“Don’t stare.” With a flick of her long hair, she strutted off towards the whistling and the almost-bacon.

I hopped up, accompanied by a loud squeak from the couch, and followed her. Green kitchen with white cupboards and a big wood table. Through the screen door, a backyard full of chicken coops, cages, and pens. A pig wandered into view. I turned to Vata by the stove. “What are you cooking?”

Green Desert - Chapter 1.5.5 - Vata

Pí‘oro set the wet rags on the table beside me. I put the bloody towel on the clean, dry ones so as to not stain the wood, and picked up a wet one.

Fírí’s eyes were wide open, her jaw tight.

“Just relax, dear,” I murmured. “We’re here to help you.” I dabbed the wound on her temple, picking out bits of dirt, wiping the blood away.

Fírí remained very tense. Her forehead continued to bleed, bright red pinpricks appearing after my towel lifted from her raw flesh.

I removed the last flecks of foreign matter and stood back. Fírí stared at me, her eyes growing moist.

“Don’t worry, dear.” I took the bottom clean rag and held it out to her. “Take this. Hold it to your forehead.”

She adjusted how she held her dirty sweatshirt and took the cloth. As she pressed it to her head wound with her left hand, I leaned over and began cleaning that elbow.

I wondered if anybody else needed assistance. Several gunshots had sounded since we came inside. If they hit anybody, we’d have to help them, too. “Pí‘oro dearest, could you please see if anyone out front is injured?”

“Yes, dear,” he grumbled and wandered toward the front door.

Fírí winced. A tear ran down her cheek.

“Don’t worry, dear. We’re here to help you.” I kept cleaning her elbow wound, bloody and torn.

Through clenched teeth, the young woman hissed, “Don’t help Zhíno. Whatever you do, don’t help that fucking bastard.”

Syria

Why, if the Syrian government says something, do I automatically assume the opposite to be true?

I know none of the facts, but Damascus says that their interior minister committed suicide.

Methinks he knew too much.

It's not my fault.

The global climate is changing, but you can't lay any blame on me. It has always changed, from way back before I was born. Sometimes it gets really hot. Sometimes it gets really cold. Sometimes the change comes quick. Sometimes the change drags out over millennia. This is what the data shows.

And another thing: everyone is all atwitter about carbon dioxide, but the major "greenhouse gas" is actually water vapor. We're wasting time/money/energy worrying about carbon-dioxide emissions when a small percentage change in water-vapor emissions could accomplish the same net reduction in overall "greenhouse gases."

Of course, that's just if you actually think humankind is powerful enough to change the entire massive ecosystem. Nature is very resilient. When's the last time you didn't see grass growing through cracks in the sidewalk?

What really has me worried is when the magnetic poles destabilize and flip. There's a period of time when we have multiple magnetic north poles and multiple magnetic south poles, all scattered around the globe and moving. If that won't mess up our civilization, nothing will.

Happy Columbus Day!

Don't look at me that way. I know what day it is. I know that Columbus Day wasn't on Monday. That's just the "observed" holiday. Columbus Day is October 12 because that's when he landed in North America. Well, on that little island off the coast somewhere in the Bahamas.

So if you really want to party like its 1492, today's the day to do it. I know I will. I already got my Spanish conquistador helmet on!

Green Desert - Chapter 1.5.4 - Zhíno

170 kilometers per hour. 180. This bitchin’ car could fly. Headlights behind me, way back. The fucking sheriff’s deputy, no doubt.

Pain coursed through my veins. My left hand was numb. I clenched it against my side with my injured right arm. No fucking time to make a bandage. I needed more aspirin. Something stronger. Something a hell of a lot stronger.

The highway was straight for at least another ten kilometers. Nothing out here in the flat desert to get in the way. The police car in my mirror got a bit smaller, but not by much. The bastard had to be doing 160 or 170. I accelerated, the steering wheel shaking in my right hand. 190. I had to ditch that fucking cop. Nowhere to go but straight ahead.

And I couldn’t turn and kill the bastard because that fucking rifleboy had shot me down to one good hand and I needed that one to drive.

The cop car wasn’t falling back. Shit. I needed a fucking plan and I needed it now.

Road sign. One kilometer to the turn off to Suívıpíko. I gently hit the brakes. This was no time to spin out into the ditch or roll the car. Should I turn? Or should I make the bastard cop think I turned?

A lone gas station at the intersection, its lights off. 40 kilometers per hour. Headlights behind me growing quick. I slammed on the brakes, cranked the wheel left––toward the gas station and the road to Suívıpíko. The tires skidded. The car fishtailed and spun. I yanked the wheel back to the right and the car spun to a stop.

I killed the headlights.

Green Desert - Chapter 1.5.3 - Pí‘oro

I set the remaining rags on the table and nearly tripped over the phone cord. I bent over, my back complaining, and picked up the receiver. It incessantly buzzed, letting me know it was off the hook.

“Pí‘oro, could you dampen a couple of these?”

The sheriff’s office had hung up. Did they think I was a crank call? I put the receiver back on its hook on the wall and turned back to the table. The blonde girl’s face was covered in blood, Vata wiping it with a rag. The girl was still topless, but she covered her chest with her sweatshirt. Her elbows were all bloody, too.

“Pí‘oro dearest?” Vata snapped. “Could you dampen a couple rags for me?”

“Yes, dear.” Vata could be a bit snippy at times.

I took the top two rags––old hand towels, a wedding present, I thought––and carried them to the sink.

What was Vata planning to do with this girl after we healed her? And what about the crazy foreign kid in our driveway? Would the police take him away?

I turned on the cold tap, let the water soak into each towel in turn. Not sopping wet. Just damp.

If the blonde was mixed up in it, as she seemed to be, and not an innocent bystander, would the cops want her, too? Would they want to search our house looking for her?

I lay the wet towels beside the dry ones on the table. Vata picked one up and began cleaning the girl’s forehead wound.

If the cops did come looking, we’d have to lie.

Bueller?

Are any of you regular readers (I know who you are) actually reading the story? I'm not going to stop posting chapters, no matter what you say. But I guess I would like to know if you're confused, bored, interested, agitated, etc.

Gripe Aviar

Uno de actualmente, tendré que llamar en enfermo y decir que tengo la gripe del pájaro. "Estoy apesadumbrado. Tengo que quarantine." Y entonces podría permanecer en el país y lograr algunos artículos de mi lista. Completo Green Desert. Extienda mi calendario diario. Pinte mi condo. Ponga para arriba las decoraciones de Navidad. Tome hacia fuera la basura. Lave el lavadero. Limpie el piso con la aspiradora. . .

Green Desert - Chapter 1.5.2 - Fírí

The large old man left the room and the small old woman said, “Let’s see your injuries, dear.” She could clearly see my bloody elbows and my scraped-up ribs.

Her clammy hand touched mine and pulled it away from my face. Her wrinkled cheek twitched. Her eyes momentarily narrowed. My injury was that bad.

The lights dimmed. The world swam.

Vata steered me toward the table. I grabbed a chair, plopped down on it. The room twisted and the table hit my shoulder. The tablelegs squeaked and scratched the floor. Vata laid a hand on my other shoulder, held me in place.

“Careful, dear. Sit up straight.”

I pushed against the table with my hand, bumping my elbow in the process. Agony pounded up my arm and replaced the dull void in my head. The room snapped into focus. Green walls––somewhere between seafoam and grass. Oak table, dark and solid. White and tan plaid linoleum. Through a doorless doorway, a living room with pink floral wallpaper, thick brown carpet, yellow curtains.

The old man returned, carrying a stack of ratty paisley bath towels. I held my sweatshirt over my breasts.

“Thank you, dearest.” Vata took the top towel and put it to my face, rough and soft at the same time. I held still as she wiped my cheek, the yellow cloth instantly dark red. She dabbed my temple and pain seared my brain. I could see every wet fiber in the towel, glistening scarlet in the artificial light.