junkmail oracle

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stories & essays


nick roberts
nick roberts is in the military & he is sometimnes angry. his work has previously appeared in deep cleveland junkmail oracle.


story excerpt (p-kelly)

Flick our cigarettes out into the street, early morning airport traffic, cars limping without mechanical pain, just the determination of the driver to move as slow as possible, just enouth to be considered moving. If they stop for a second a little Green camoflauged National Guard guy comes whistling, pointing, yelling (like all idiotic faggot traffic cops) lips pursed around a plastic tool of their 'masculinity', emitting shrill threats like elementary school crossing guards on uninhabited roads, stern face, reflective clothing with arm straight forward, palm upturned in stop position to cars that aren't there. As paranoia sweeps America, squeezing tight testicles this country doesn't have (as in God), but money makes people think they are strong, immortal. This little fucking green guy, maybe 5'6", doin his one weekend a month, one week a year bullshit, obviously not commited enough or 'patriotic' enough (hollow misconstrued word today) to enlist full time, but taking so much pride in a whistle, in the sound of his own voice echoing through roofed thoroughfares of airports, intimidating old people. This old guy directly in front of me waiting for his wife, incapacitated in an electric wheelchair, to come in through the door so he can place her in the car, take her home, love her, take care of her. Which is plainly obvious to even a child, to anyone who has noticed God gave you the ability to turn your neck for such reasons, but Mr. Green just keeps yelling and blowing hard on his whistle, his mass destructive weapon of annoyance and hearing damage The old man doesn't notice, doesn't hear, doesn't look, just keeps his eyes glued to his wife slowly approaching. His eyes start to smile through thick lensed glasses. His mouth follows suit. Mind wanders back over a length of years that i can't imagine and thinks forward welcoming death, just hoping she dies before him so she doesn't have to suffer the loss, doesn't have to suffer anymore period and won't as long as he's there for her. Noble old man. Matyr for love of an old man. Having a little bit of seet satori until 'blap blap! "Move it old man!" Mr. Green's bloodless whiteknuckles rap on his window. White colorless hands. One of the reasons i know white is not pure, never could have been in race and now doubting in the terms of holy text. That the Lord must appear as something beyond, but words are limited to failing eyes. Perception is deceitful. The word asshole flies from my lips, involuntarily, wasn't planned, but then i take pride in my remark as the guard rotates his stupid head clockwise and counter. I just keep my eyes focused on him with barely concealed hate. Ole man looks up, head trembling, not from fear but from age, and wonders why this man is so angry, why he's trying to scream through glass. He fidgets with the door console until he rolls the window down. "I told you to get movin now move!" driver of the car tries to explain- "Yes, but. ." gets cut off by the guard. "NO buts just move!" at which point the old man opens his door pushing slightly to ease the rent-a-guard back. He slowly rises upon his wobbly legs and points to his wife coming through the doors. Mr. Green just nods. No apology expressed, not even noticing the hat upon his head with navy logo and the ship he was on before retiring. All of this making me wish i hadn't cast the hot ember of my cigarette into the indifferent street, wasted, when it could've been tossed into the face of that piece of shit.


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