fiction – Page 3 – The Creative Chronicles of Dave Stancliff

The ‘Tagger’ Who Brought Peace to the Barrios

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East Los Angeles. A cop putting handcuffs on a 14-year-old “tagger” named Paz.

There’s no resistance and few words are spoken. In spite of himself, the cop keeps glancing at Paz’s work in progress. An angel surrounded by names of gang members.

Not just any angel. The loving look it had automatically made him smile. A sense of peace descended – for just a moment – and the cop thought of his deceased mother. The moment passed as he walked Paz to the squad car.

Paz was homeless. By choice. She never knew her parents. She bounced from one foster home to another throughout her life. When she turned ten she started running away from the foster homes.

Each time she was caught, she was passed on to another home. At first, she was only able to hid from the cops for days. With practice it turned into months. She was 13-years old the last time she ran away to East Los Angeles. One year, and counting, until she was caught again.

Paz was able to do what many people in East Los Angeles couldn’t get away with. She intermingled with all the gangs without injury. The fact was, people liked being around Paz. She made them feel better about themselves.

While Paz was in custody a fight broke out between the Bloods and the Crips on North Gage street near the I-10. Two Crips were killed. No arrests made. Other outbursts soon followed.

The Clarence Street Locos ambushed two Gage Maraville boys, and beat them to death. Meanwhile the King Cobras had declared war on the City Terrace homies and members of both gangs were patrolling the neighborhoods looking for trouble.

It took a year, but Paz was finally able to escape from her temporary guardians, returning to the barrios of East Los Angeles. She knew now that she was on a mission. Her life came into more clarity the last year as she pursued her art.

A member of the East Los Angeles Dukes took Paz in and provided her a place to sleep in his house. A day later, Paz was painting a mural. It was on the side of a small liquor store in Boyle Heights.

Nearby residents were amazed that no one bothered Paz. Gang members would stop by and look at her work, often without saying anything. The angel she was creating was her most ambitious work to date.

It glowed with some inner lighting she’d never used before, something reminiscent of Renaissance masters like Raphael, or Botticelli. As the days turned to weeks Paz knew it was her greatest, and last work.

Groups of people began gathering at the tiny liquor store, day and night, silently studying the angel. The King Cobras and The Terrence Street gang called off their war. Peace was declared between the Bloods and the Crips.

Shortly after the painting was completed Paz was hit by an out-of-control garbage truck and died on the scene. As an ambulance took her lifeless body away crowds began to gather in front of the angel as word got out.

People filed by and gasped with wonder. Somehow, it had to be a miracle, the angel’s face had changed, and now Paz was smiling down on all of them!

As It Stands, I’d love to see a miracle happen in all the barrios of the world.

Why Bo Was A Lucky Man

A Harlem Legend

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“Riders on the storm, riders on the storm
Into this house we’re born, into this world we’re thrown
Like a dog without a bone, an actor out on loan
Riders on the storm…”

The Doors

Some people are just born lucky. Others get lucky for various reasons.

Lucky people are sometimes called survivors. Bo was the luckiest kid born in East Harlem. All the residents pointed him out to strangers and friends, telling them how lucky he was.

“He had white horses
And ladies by the score
All dressed in satin
And waiting by the door
Ooh, what a lucky man he was…”

He Was A Lucky Man by Emerson, Lake and Palmer

“Car went right over him the other day,” one woman said to another, as he walked by with his funny gait, and a twinkle in his eye.

“He was just lying there in the middle of 4th street and a car drove right over him, but didn’t even mess up his suit,” the woman told her friend. Her friend noted she saw a stuntman do that, and only someone looking for trouble would lay in the road in the first place.

“Maybe you don’t understand,” the first woman said. That Bo has been shot seven times and you just watched him walk by like the lord of Harlem.

Bo could hear them as he walked down the street. He smiled for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. He recalled when his luck first started. Six years old. Everything was so wonderful back then.

His mom, on a whim one day, asked him to pick some numbers for the next lottery drawing. He did. She used them, and the next day she won $250,000! She couldn’t stop smothering him with her joy.

It made him feel a lot better about the deal he made the night before with his new friend Lievd.

But lucky as Bo was, he still ran into a lot of trouble. He did dumb things like jump from a second story window during a party, because he thought he could fly while high on LSD.

He survived. He wasn’t surprised.

For twenty-one years Bo had the art of being lucky down. He was banned from the game rooms in Harlem. His reputation as being lucky had it’s setbacks. Having to stay in Harlem was one of them.

It was in his deal with Lievd. As the years slid by, he forgot about how he got so lucky. But not everyone envied Bo. Those that knew him felt sad about his phobia…that he couldn’t leave Harlem.

His entire life was spent roving the streets looking for adventure. The decades slid by and Bo outlived his family and friends in Harlem. But he was still mentally sharp and went to the senior center twice a week to play chess.

One day he was playing a letter scamble game with the center director where the object was to make a word out of the letters given.

The letters were; evlid.

Bo tried to sort out what the letters said, re-arranging them in numerous combinations until he came up with a word that stopped him short: devil. He thought about Lievd and his deal.

It was only then that Bo realized he’d made a bad deal. He didn’t know what a soul was at six! At that moment he heard someone chuckle behind him. The Devil said, “Time to collect,“ with a wicked smile.

As It Stands, there’s been many variations of the devil making deals with helpless humans. This was my take on the genre.

How Little Tim Made A Bigfoot Run

Bigfoot

“Did you hear that?” six-year old Tim asked his four-year old brother Tony who was already beneath the blanket.

“Yessss…” Tony groaned.

“Someone’s outside our window. I saw a face.”

Tony’s low groan turned into a high-pitched whine of fear. He was afraid of things that went bump in the night. His active little imagination pictured a loathsome creature intent on eating him and his brother.

Tim pulled the blanket away and slithered down to the carpet. Moving cautiously, he crawled over to the window. Peeked through the lower part. Full moon. Lot’s of shadows. Something was out there.

He didn’t believe in the boogeyman. That was a four-year old’s fear. Nothing to it. But there were other things. Bad things. Bad men. Thieves.

He thought about the baby-sitter in the living room. She probably had her cell phone glued to her ear talking with her dumb boyfriend. He bet she didn’t hear anything. Someone would have to kick the front door down to get her attention, Tim grimly thought.

Just then he spotted a hulking figure picking apples off their tree in the backyard. Tim had sharp eyes. Everyone said that. Right now they were wide open trying to make out what the figure was.

A big man wearing a furry coat? Could be. It could also be something else. Something his dad once told him about living where they did in northern California. “It’s Bigfoot Country,” he told Tim ever since he could remember.

But Mom and Dad said Big Foot was just a legend that everyone liked to talk about in these parts. He was never sure. More than once he caught a couple of oldtimers sitting outside Lud’s General store talking in serious tones about a Big Foot sighting.

Was that the real thing eating their apples out there?

Suddenly he heard the back door open. Then to his utter amazement the babysitter, Lulu, walked right up to the hairy hulk who had stopped eating an apple and turned her way. Before Tim could gasp the hairy thing enveloped her in it’s shaggy arms!

Without thinking, Tim grabbed his baseball bat and ran out the back door. He heard funny noises as he came up on the thing that had Lulu. Babe Ruth, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle…all of them would have been proud of Tim the way he weilded that bat!

Screams. Lulu’s high-pitched screech tore the night in half and the Bigfoot made some wounded sounds then staggered off into the forest grunting in pain.

The next day when Tim and his family went to the local football game – his parents were volunteers – there was a short announcement about the school mascot not being able to perform tonight, but don’t worry, the doctor’s said he’ll recover in a week or so.

As It Stands, as the school mascot found out, life is full of surprises.

Man’s Best Friend Has A Secret…Maybe Two

pug

A very short story for animal lovers today:

When the front door locked and all the lights were turned off, except for the front window display, Seth, the German Shepard (who had the best view), barked once and said, “All’s clear!”

“Just in time too,” said Penelope the Poodle, “I was ready to tell that human to shut up already!”

“Easy with the tough talk missy,” Perry the Pug warned. “You’re supposed to be a sweet little doggie that someone would want to adopt.”

“Blow it out of your ear you stupid pug!” Penelope huffed.

“Both of you take a chilly bone. We don’t want to hear you two argue again all night,” Bob the Beagle interrupted. “Oh look! Larry got out again…”

Just then Larry the Labrador Retriever came around the corner. He stopped in the middle of the aisle and greeted them all; “Told you. No stupid human can keep me locked up if I don’t want to be.”

“Why you calling humans stupid Larry? Bob asked, with his southern drawl. “They feed us, give us a place to live, play with us and if we’re lucky they love us.”

“You know what I like about you Bob?” said Larry.

Bob smushed his snout into the cage door bars and asked, “What?”

“Your an optimist. You also come from a championship litter and humans like that. Take mutts. Mutts usually end up in dog pounds and shelters where their options are; get put down for the endless nap; live their entire life in a five-by-five cage; or someone MIGHT adopt them.”

“You can’t compare pedigree breeds with mutts. We’re bred to be superior, while mutts are usually an accident between two breeds,” Penelope proclaimed in her high (and highly irritating) snooty voice.

“Well, we must be as stupid as humans if that’s the case,” Chico the Chihuahua chimed in.

“Why’s that?” Perry asked.

“This talk about one type of dog being better than another is racist. Just look at the humans. They’re divided up into groups who barely tolerate one another because they look different or have different beliefs,” Chico explained.

Horace, the Blood Hound puppy, had been listening intently to the conversation. He finally spoke up, “Hey guys! How come we don’t talk with humans?”

A stunned silence.

“It’s to our advantage.” Seth said. “We always know what’s on their mind because they don’t think we understand them and speak freely in front of us. It’s way better than trying to read expressions.”

Horace seemed happy with the answer, and snuggled up with his two litter mates.

Larry then made his rounds seeing if any dogs needed anything – a midnight snack? No problem. The place was full of treats. Whenever Larry got adopted someday they’d all miss him.

“It’s nearly time for the human to show up!” Larry warned as he headed back to his cage.

“At least I won’t have to listen to you talk anymore you ugly pug,” Penelope snidely whispered.

As Jean the shop owner unlocked the front door store she thought – just for a moment – that someone said, “Stick it up your ass bitch!”

As It Stands, when I was young I really believed animals could talk and I just wasn’t lucky enough to catch them conversing. It’s a fantasy I still have.

How Bob’s Lyin’ Eyes Led To Doom

Another very short story for your entertainment;

“You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes
And your smile is a thin disguise
I thought by now you’d realize
There ain’t no way to hide your lyin eyes”

The Eagles

Julie and Ben loved their son Bob, but realized at an earlier age he was a consummate liar.

His first word was a lie.

“Did you do that?” Julie asked while pointing at an overturned trash can in the middle of the kitchen.

“No,” the two-year old replied, as he looked directly into her eyes. She didn’t know whether to celebrate that he had spoken his first word, or to be concerned that his first word was a lie. Laugh, or cry?

She decided to laugh that time.

As Bob got older, the lies became more clever. He was blessed with a quick wit and the ability to size up a situation instantly. By grade school, Bob had a bad reputation because he was caught lying numerous times.

Outwardly he was a social guy, had a good sense of humor, and was a quick learner. Despite his tainted reputation, Bob had friends, both male and female. He wasn’t interested in athletics, but was interested in computers from the fourth grade on.

His teachers tolerated his lies, always calling him on them, but they also seemed to like him as a person. By junior high, Bob was a certified nerd. His grasp of computer programing brought him praise from his teacher.

In the 11th grade Bob built his own computer. While scanning the internet one night he came across an article about the dark web. He discovered that there were dark nets – overlay networks which use the internet but require specific software, configurations or authorization to access.

The dark web is not indexed by search engines. This fascinated Bob. He knew right then that he had to get the software and instructions on configurations and authorizations to satisfy his curiosity.

First time visit. Bob found software exploits, weapons for sale, illegal drugs (one of the most popular sellers was a site called Evolution), child porn, how to build bombs, and how to hire a killer.

The second time he visited a chatroom. The discussion was about how well the participants concealed their home-made bombs at Washington High School for tomorrows big surprise. Bob’s high school!

He looked up at the Spiderman clock above his computer. Two a.m. What should he do? What could he do? His eyes returned to the screen as the participants signed off. A video suddenly appeared of Alice Cooper in concert.

He was singing “Schools out Forever!”

“School’s out for summer
School’s out forever
School’s been blown to pieces…”

First choice. Wake mom and dad up. He did. They looked him in the eyes and, as usual, couldn’t tell if he was lying or telling the truth. It was a toss-up. They tried to compromise by telling him they’d talk about it in the morning.

“Go to bed now dear,” His mother said.

“No!” he screeched, “you don’t understand!”

Trying to keep the irritation out of his voice, his dad said, “Go back to bed son. It’s probably a bad dream.”

The End

As It Stands, I’ve always enjoyed the story about the little boy who cried wolf once too often. This is my version of that wonderful tale.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want

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A very short story for your amusement today:

Mick Jagger’s voice somewhere in the night singing “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”

Drunks staggering out of a bar after last call. Grotesque creatures casting shadows beneath the neon sign of a cowboy riding a horse. They scurry off into the darkness and get into waiting cabs.

Jagger’s voice, high and shrill, emanated from the juke box inside and sent shivers down Alice’s back.

She stands next to the open bar door. Waiting for her taxi that was late. The silky midnight blue dress clung to her amble breasts and hips like a second skin. She clutched a blue satin purse that sparkled with rhinestones.

Alice was fuming. The jackass that had come on to her too heavily in the bar had gotten under her skin. He ended up getting arrested for disturbing the peace. That was hours ago.

Here was the thing. Alice was used to getting what she wanted. As an only child she was spoiled beyond redemption. Throw that in with her natural beauty and you had one headstrong woman.

The jerk backed out of helping finance Alice’s latest tech start-up unexpectedly. He wanted some fringe benefits – as in sex – before he’d spring for any cash. Alice would have preferred to have sex with a camel before letting that greasy little imp touch her.

Looking back.

Alice always got her way. That’s just the way it was all her life. A new dress. As many pets as she wanted. Cash stuffed into her purse from her mother, who wrestling with demons whenever she ran out of booze.

Daddy’s girl. He never said no to her. Even now, at thirty-two years-old, he could not refuse whenever she requested help – financially, emotionally, or otherwise.

Alice was getting ready to go back inside to call the taxi company again when a late-model white Chevy with a Taxi sign strapped onto the roof pulled up. The driver was wearing a baseball cap (Arizona Diamondbacks) sidewise, and had a bushy white beard.

“You’re not City Cab, ” she accused him when he rolled his window down.

“Damn sharp of you to notice that missy!”

“I called City Cab. Why are you here?”

“Us cabbies work together sometimes when it’s really busy. I’m the sole owner of White Cab and I get City Cab’s overflow. Do you want a drive or not?”

Two thoughts in Alice’s mind. One, why did she have to go to such an out-of-the way place tonight? Two, the bar’s owner was locking up, turning off the lights, and walking to his pickup truck. Her options narrowed considerably.

She was alone. Not quite. There was grandpa playing with the car radio searching for a song. Waiting for her to decide what she was going to do. She didn’t have many friends, and none that would driven so far out-of-town (out in the middle of the desert) at 2:00 a.m.

She had no choice. Reluctantly, she opened the rear door (it groaned and made a grinding noise). “Gotta fix that,” the old man said. “Where to?”

Alice hesitated to give out the information, but knew she had to. She gave him the address of her cottage-style three bedroom house in an affluent neighborhood (Paid for. Thanks Daddy!).

She settled into the back seat, cursing her luck. This was not supposed to happen.

Oh hell, no! It was a nice little club with good music and they were going to become partners in an enterprise that would make them both wealthy dot.com wonders. But the ass couldn’t hold his liquor and got sleazy as the night wore on.

When he lunged after her, several men in the bar suddenly appeared and restrained him. The police were called. Her would-be partner was frog-walked out the door between two burly deputies.

Which left her here, in the backseat of some poorly cared for taxi. After awhile she noticed the bright city lights were receding. Not getting closer. The old man was humming something and still fiddling with the radio.

Alarm bells! Something was wrong. “You’re going the wrong way you old duffer! she suddenly cried out.

Just then the old man found the song he was looking for, “You can’t always get what you want…” He turned his head around and slowly peeled off his fake white beard. Then he smiled at her.

The End

As It Stands, the moral of the story is…take a guess?

An Incident On A Chicago Street Corner

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I’ve got a very short story with a twist for you today:

Scene: a street corner in Chicago.

LeVar’s mouth was cotton dry with fear.

He was surrounded by a group of 18th Street Boys showing guns. As a Loco Boy he was fair game and LeVar knew they would toy with him before killing him.

LeVar’s thoughts turned back into his past. He saw his mother and father, alive then, smiling at him and telling him he was a smart boy. He was protective of his little sister Diedre. He was a good son.

A police siren shrieked somewhere nearby. Startled by the sound LeVar looked around him for an opening. There were four of them. Heavily armed, bad ass killers, with no souls. Their dark eyes were pinpoints of hate.

Just yesterday someone warned LeVar that some 18th Street Boys were looking for him. He said quit messing around with one of their women, they’re crazy. He should have listened to his homie.

LeVar rallied his courage. His voice sounded high and almost girlish as he told them he was sorry and that he would give them all a lot of money if they let him live. One of the gang knew who LeVar was. His uncle, who he lived with, was a rich retired athlete.

The possibility that LeVar could come up with a lot of money had them thinking. Silence while LeVar sweated. Waiting for their answer. The leader put his Glock down and walked up to LeVar…breathing in his face he was so close.

We want a million dollars. Tomorrow. Call your uncle. LeVar pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket. In moments his fate would be decided. When his uncle came on the line and he explained the situation his uncle simply said, “Where do they want it delivered?”

A rush of relief that he was going to live made LeVar’s body tremble with joy.

When the police discovered the body of a young black man full of bullet holes on 18th Street, they sighed and went to work on the crime scene. Another death. They knew who did it. What they didn’t know was why.

The End

My apologies to the great American writer Ambrose Bierce who wrote the classic “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,” one of the most famous and frequently anthologized stories in American literature.

As It Stands, Bierce’s story showed there was no glory in war. My take on it is there’s no glory in being a gangster.

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