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November 15, 2005

Fiction -- Last Chance, part 1

The fear was fading away. The lust was returning. And Gilberto started to think of himself as Crooked G again.

A few months and a lifetime ago he stood in the tiny living room of his mama's house, his sisters huddled behind her watching him with hard, shiny eyes.

"Mijo," she was looking up at him, he could see the beads of sweat along her hairline, feel the slight tremble in her hands she pressed a small, damp bundle of bills into his, "You take this. It is all I have. I have arranged it. Last chance, mijo, last chance."

He remembered her framed in the doorway as the car pulled away from the curb, her arms crossed over her ample bosom as if restraining herself. He had lifted his hand to her and she had shrugged and turned into the darkened doorway.

It startled him, but it was soon forgotten as the car moved onto the freeway and out of the city. He slumped in the backseat, his fear bright and sharp and cold and he felt no need to even talk to the stranger driving, the friend of a friend his mama had known to get him away.

CG had been kickin' it with his crew, Eleventh Street Locos, one night after the day had been hellishly hot in promise of a trying summer. The evening blew in warm with the scent of asphalt the top note of a perfume mixture of frying tortillas and hamburger, honeysuckle and citrus blossoms. They were loose and full of talk and laughter and well-admired insults. CG hadn't even seen the others until they were set upon. Silent and moving fast out of the dark to where his crew had stood in the orange tint of the sodium light. CG felt the blow across his back, knocking the breath from him, hammering him to his knees, his left arm numb. The attacker, moved beyond him, a dark silhouette with the sweatshirt hood pulled over his head, swinging a length of pipe at the others. CG's vision swam as he gained his feet, seeing swinging arms and fists, legs and bodies jerky in the artificial glow. Surprise had put his crew at a disadvantage with the invaders, but CG could sense the tide was turning. He shook his head trying to clear it, struggling to suck enough air into his lungs to join in and teach lessons. Pipe-guy got sight of him and started back, but Chanman was quicker. Chanman, small and fast, CG's friend since second grade, who made up for his lack of bulk with a ferocity and quickness that had earned him his nic after Jackie Chan. He moved in front of CG and roared at pipe-guy. It was startling to hear such a deep, guttural sound from a man who stood eight inches shorter and many pounds lighter than the advancing attacker. But pipe-man hesitated, and for one brief moment CG thought that this was it, this is where the other crew would break off their attack and run from them.

A shout, pipe-guy sliding sideways, CG moving toward Chanman's back, a metallic click and a glint that was not pipe. In the space of a single breath, CG's mind witnessed this and the sudden flash and a roar so loud as to be a physical presence. Chanman was lifted off his feet and flung backwards, striking CG hard enough that reflex brought CG's arms up and forward around his friend as he fell backwards, his head striking the street and consciousness slipping away.

When he came to, he had no idea of how long he had been out. The street was empty, the sound of sirens distant but growing. CG felt wet and Chanman was still on top of him. CG sat up, shifting his friend in his lap, understanding the wetness was blood. Way too much blood. Blood soaking his clothes and starting to puddle on the street. He looked down into his friend's face, Chanman's mouth moved as if he wanted to say something but it sounded like he was underwater. His eyes were wide and CG no longer recognized the fierce thug who always had his back. Chanman was gone. It was an eight-year-old Miguel that looked at him, eyes pleading with him to make it better. And as he watched even Miguel leave, CG ceased being. Now he was just Gilberto, sick and terrified and finding himself fleeing into the shadows.

Mama found him on the floor of the tiny bathroom, crying and vomiting into the toilet. She never said a word as she quickly undressed him, pushed him to the tub and disappeared with his Miguel-soaked clothes.
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Note: this is a work in progress. I have the start, I know where I want to go, but I haven't got the next section where I want it and it threatens to break out of the short story constraints into something much longer. I thought I'd share the story so far - partially as a way to kick me into concentrating on finishing it.

Posted by Darleen at November 15, 2005 09:16 PM

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