Mariachi Radio

Sun, 06 Apr 2008 08:09:24 GMT

This was based on a prompt that went something like: set your music player on random, and write ten drabbles over the duration of the first ten subsequent songs. Only write one per song, and stop immediately once the song has finished.

Oh, and since I have a great memory, Joseph used to have a '94 Escort, but now has a '93 Corolla.

Day 1 – Say Anything – Baby Girl, I’m a Blur

It’s not that Wes is clingy. Because he isn’t. Wes is maybe the most independent person Joseph knows. He’s independent to a fault, almost.

It’s not that Joseph feels bound to Wes. Because he doesn’t. Because that would be ridiculous.

It’s not that Wes needs him. Because he doesn’t.

It’s all more about Joseph. Because it’s not that Wes is clingy, it’s that he gets himself into these situations. These situations where he can’t quite handle the mess he makes for himself, and he needs someone to help pull him back out.

It’s not that Joseph feels bound to Wes. Because he doesn’t. He just is.

Day 2 – Kaya – Paradise Lost

Joseph wakes up, and everything’s a blur again. He’s gotten used to it.

“You passed out again,” Joseph hears the smaller man say from somewhere off to his right. It makes him feel sick, but the first thing he does when he regains his motor functions is reach into his pocket. He starts to feel panic tighten in his chest when his fingers find nothing but his car keys and lighter.

“It won’t do you any good to look for it. I flushed it,” he hears again. Wes’ voice is bitter this time. Joseph registers a note of hate. He thinks it might not be hate for him so much as Wes’ own hate for himself.

Day 3 – Molmott – Hurry Up

Joseph misses these kinds of summer days. Just driving around town. Going to the park and laying in the shade of the large birch and olive trees. The kinds of dumb things you do in high school when you’re so bored and your body’s so overwhelmed by the sweltering heat you can’t even think straight.

He’d rather be hanging out with Wes at some shitty outdoor concert or something, but he supposes sitting in the grass, looking out into Tempe Town Lake, eating Burger King, and sharing a pack of cigarettes with Wes is okay, too.

Day 4 – The String Quartet – Tira Me a las Aranas

He had felt silly, going to sleep like this. With Wes curled up next to him. Like he needed babysitting.

In the end, it works out. It’s a cold, winter night – or, as cold as Phoenix gets – and the heat at his back is warm. In the middle of the night, he starts itching, and there’s someone to hold him back from gouging too deeply into his forearms.

Day 5 – Akira Yamaoka – Wail of Warning

Wes wakes up in a cold sweat.

He worries. Every second of every day, he worries, and he doesn’t know why.

Even when Joseph is right in front of him, Wes feels like he’s slipping through his fingers. Like sand, blowing away in the wind. Lost in the desert.

Wes promises himself there is no way in hell he’s going to lose one of the only people he has left to care about.

Day 6 – David Bowie – Andy Warhol

Wes thinks it’s a little funny, sometimes, how surprised people are when they find out that Joseph is smart. He supposes that when you’re so firmly rooted in your beliefs that you think everyone who has a GED instead of an actual diploma is a blight upon society, it must be surprising, talking to someone like Joseph. Joseph, who has a great respect for postmodernist art and foreign films. Joseph who can’t get a job much better than the one he has at Wal-Mart.

Day 7 – Blaqk Audio – Snuff on Digital

Wes isn’t really a huge fan of electronic music. If this were any other situation, he would eject the CD from the player in Joseph’s car without hesitation.

As it stands, it is two o’ clock in the morning, and Joseph is driving them down the I-40 toward Los Angeles at well over 90 miles per hour. Joseph is gripping the steering wheel so tightly Wes can see the lack of color in his knuckles, bright in the pale moonlight coming through the windshield of the ’93 Toyota Corolla. Joseph has his jaw clenched so tightly, Wes can hear any and every bump in the road via his friend’s grinding teeth.

So, Wes thinks, maybe he can deal with the tinny voice of a female vocalist, backed by thumping house music.

Day 8 – John Murphy – Searle Sees the Sun

Joseph kisses Wes, once. Just a peck on the cheek. He had been high and a little bit too happy with his raise at work.

There’s a strange look that crosses Wes’ face when he does. It’s not disgust or revulsion. It’s just an odd, contemplative look. Like Wes is trying to decide.

It’s gone as soon as it came, and within two days, Joseph forgets about it.

Day 9 – Oblivion Dust – Sucker

Sometimes, just seeing Joseph is enough. Sometimes, it takes him doing something. Saying something. Sometimes, it takes Wes remembering something. Sometimes Wes thinks it’s everything. He doesn’t know.

It takes years for everything to go full-circle. For Wes to stop quashing whatever it is that had continued to well up, obnoxiously, every time Joseph smiled his big, wide smile. His real smile. Not the smile he uses out of habit at work. Not the smile he uses in photos.

It takes a long time, but when it finally comes back around, it makes more sense to Wes than anything ever has in his life.

Day 10 – Fall Out Boy – 7 Minutes in Heaven (Atavan Halen)

It’s not that Joseph ever really means to get sick the way he does. He just goes overboard sometimes. He just gets a little distracted and doesn’t pay attention to what he’s doing.

Most of the time, he just chocks it up to good karma. Like maybe, he’s helped Wes out enough that the other man randomly happens to decide he needs to come over at all the right moments. Because, really, Joseph is Irish, but he doesn’t believe in luck.

He figures that maybe, even though he can sin with the best of them, that if he loves enough, it’ll come back full circle, and he’ll have something else to fill him up.

When he wakes up, everything’s a blur again. He’s gotten used to it by now.

“You passed out again,” Joseph hears Wes say from somewhere off to his right. He reaches into his pocket and can’t help but think he’s doing a shitty job with this karma stuff.

Sun, 20 May 2007 11:31:48 GMT

I N Y O U R W O R L D
Artemio Díaz San Miguel, Kaleb Chandrakant
340 words

There are times when Artemio wonders just what kind of world Kaleb lives in that makes him so happy-go-lucky. They certainly don't live in the same place, not with Kaleb acting the way he does. Kaleb Chandrakant is fearless, cheerful, and seemingly without a care in the world. And Artemio...isn't. Artemio has little to no faith in the current state of the world and often loathes being a part of it.

So, one day, Artemio asks Kaleb why he is the way he is; he asks him how he manages to so adeptly delude himself into thinking he has a good life. Kaleb stares at him, surprised, for a good minute before speaking.

"Is 'at what ya honestly t'ink, 'Temio? You t'ink I ain't got a care in the world?"

Kaleb looks at him inquisitively before continuing, as if to emphasize how totally and completely wrong Artemio is in his opinion.

"In the kind o' world we live in, it's hard ta be really happy. You know 'at, I know 'at, e'ryone knows 'at.

"I'm afraid e'ryday for the people I love. Can't go a goddamned day wit'out 'earin' about fifteen people what died in some war in a faraway place. Can't go a day wit'out wonderin' when people're gonna start dyin' like 'at 'ere."

Artemio looks down at his hands and rubs at one of his tattoos, beginning to realize that his thoughts and Kaleb's are very much the same.

"Can't go a day wit'out wonderin' when they're gonna start draftin'. Can't help but be afraid o' losin' my family. Can't help but be afraid o' losin' you.

"I don't t'ink they'd take some crazy Muslim kid, but I'm sure they'd be fine wit' a God-fearin' Catholic boy whose parents jumped th' border."

Artemio continues to stare at his hands, frowning.

"Nah, 'Temio, I ain't happy. I'm scared as all fuck. In t'is world, you'd 'ave ta be crazy not ta be," he says, taking another drag off his cigarette.

"I'm jus' good a' hidin' it."

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 02:25:54 GMT

Bored, tired, and on my way to screw around with the DS.

I'm a dork, and I have character playlists on iTunes for...uh...mood music to assist me in the linguistic process. These will be updated as I update them. More randomness. I should actually post writing/art instead of this crap...

Artemio
The Arcade Fire - Crown of Love
The Bravery - Honest Mistake
Carissa's Wierd - September, Come Take this Heart Away
Carissa's Wierd - The Piano Song
Carissa's Wierd - Blankets Stare
CKY - Escape from Hellview
CKY - Close Yet Far
The Eels - Whatever Happened to Soy Bomb?
HIM - Killing Lonliness
Iron & Wine - Faded from the Winter
Margot & the Nuclear So & Sos - Dress Me Like a Clown
Margot & the Nuclear So & Sos - Light on a Hill
The Mars Volta - El Ciervo Vulnerado
The Mars Volta - Roulette Dares (The Haunt of)
Panic at the Disco - Time to Dance
The Rasmus - Funeral Song
Sunny Day Real Estate - How it Feels to Be Something On
Thursday - The Other Side of the Crash/Over and Out (Of Control)

Kaleb
CKY - Attached at the Hip
Cursive - Flag and Family
HIM - Vampire Heart
Iron & Wine - Two Hungry Blackbirds
Manu Chao - Me Gustas Tu
Margot & the Nuclear So & Sos - Skeleton Key
Mindless Self Indulgence - Last Time I Tried to Rock Your World
Mindless Self Indulgence - Bed of Roses
Mindless Self Indulgence - Bring the Pain
Mindless Self Indulgence - Straight to Video
The Misfits - Hybrid Moments
My Chemical Romance - Helena
Orishas - A Lo Cubano
Panic at the Disco - Build God, Then We'll Talk
Pink Floyd - The Happiest Days of Our Lives
The Receiving End of Sirens - The War of All Against All
The Rolling Stones - Gimme Shelter
Thursday - Autumn Leaves Revisited

Wes
AFI - The Boy Who Destroyed the World
Björk - All Is Full of Love
The Blood Brothers - Camouflage, Camouflage
Cursive - Butcher the Song
The Offspring - Staring at the Sun
Onesidezero - A Point in Time
Pure Reason Revolution - The Bright Ambassadors of Morning
Reel Big Fish - Beer
Taking Back Sunday - Liar (It Takes One to Know One)
Turbonegro - All My Friends Are Dead

Joop
10 Years - Slowly Falling Awake
Apoptygma Berserk - In This Together
Assemblage 23 - Horizon
The Deftones - Hole in the Earth
The Killers - When You Were Young
Steve Conte - Heaven's Not Enough
Counting Crows - Perfect Blue Buildings
The Offspring - Have You Ever
Pink Floyd - The Thin Ice
Pure Reason Revolution - Goshen's Remains
Taking Back Sunday - Spin

Wed, 27 Sep 2006 07:24:03 GMT

H A N D S A W A Y
Joseph Malloy, Wesley Zeilinski, Aidan Chandrakant
prompt 04: autumn
481 words

They're sitting on Joop's shitty orange sofa that looks straight out of the sixties watching the evening news. Wes looks out the window of the apartment for a restless moment. It's 6:45PM, and the sky is all painted in dull orange and green. He thinks that it looks like vomit and dead leaves, fluttering in the cold, autumn air.

As always, the news is buzzing with new developments in Iraq and in "The War on Terror", reports of protests against the GOP national convention in New York, Hurricane Frances, tax cuts, welfare. Whatever. Wes huffs fitfully and pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. He places it between his lips but does not light it, instead opting to idly tongue at the end.

Joop remains silent. He likes watching the news. He imagines that when he lies on his deathbed, Dan Rather's flat, even voice will lull him into black oblivion.

Break for commercial. Joop mutes the television.

Wes fidgets with the hem of his shirt briefly before speaking lowly, almost under his breath.

"It's fucking sad. I can't even feel anything about this war bullshit anymore. I mean, I *know* people fighting over there, and I'm just numb to it. Does anyone care anymore? Does it even matter?"

His voice gradually crescendoes in frustration.

Joop still does not speak. He pulls the cigarette from Wes' lips, places it between his own, and lights it. He puffs at it and continues to stare blankly at the flickering screen.

"Yeah. There are people dying over there. It still matters."

The news is on again, and Joop brings sound flooding back into the room.

"Since the beginning of the war over one year ago, it has been our goal to remember the troops who have sacrificed their lives for our country. As of this week, 648 service-men and women have died in Iraq. We leave you this evening with our latest tribute to our fallen heroes."

Wes sighs heavily.

"These things are always so fucking depressing. Turn it off."

He reaches for the remote, but Joop places a hand over it protectively.

"No. Just watch. This is the part that matters."

As Dan Rather continues, a picture and name are summoned to fill the screen. Number one, two, three, four, five, six.

Although the hair is cut short, the face is familiar. Wes' stomach clenches, and he feels like he might throw up. His hand is still covering Joop's, and he can feel his muscles tense. His hand is shaking.

"Corporal Aidan Chandrakant. Chandrakant was one of many troops of the Islamic faith in the service of our country. He was engaged to be married this December. He leaves behind an elder brother, also in the service, a younger sister, a fiancee, and a one-year-old daughter."

The list continues, but neither of them hear it.

Joop closes his eyes, and he leans forward. The cigarette falls from his mouth.

"Fuck."

Wed, 27 Sep 2006 07:04:56 GMT

T H E T H I N I C E
Joseph Malloy, Alison Malloy, Wesley Zeilinski
prompt 03: delirious
242 words

The room is spinning and shifting, even though he’s lying down. It’s nauseating. His hands are shaking slightly, clutched around the plastic baggie, and he’s so, so thankful that Wes isn’t here. Wes is a year younger than he is, and despite the fact that he’s already fourteen, he still hasn’t lost his naïve, innocent outlook on the world. He still thinks that Joseph Malloy is the coolest fucking person in the whole world. Joop doesn’t even want to think about what Wes would do if he found out about this. Probably refuse to speak to him ever again, or worse, he would copy him. So he makes a pledge to himself, that no one will ever know about this. Ever.

There’s a harsh knock at his door, accompanied by a somewhat shrill, feminine voice: “Hey, Joe, mom says dinner’s ready!”

He struggles to get up and stumbles over to the small mirror that sits atop his dresser. There’s nothing there, but he still wipes at his nose subconsciously before throwing the baggie in his top drawer and vigorously shaking his head in an attempt to get his wits about him.

“Yeah, I’m coming!”

He unlocks and opens his bedroom door, only to find his sister leaning against the opposite wall of the hallway, waiting for him.

“You okay?” she asks, glancing up at him from where she’s inspecting her nails disinterestedly.

“Yeah, of course.”

He hopes it sounds something like the truth.

Wed, 27 Sep 2006 06:02:09 GMT

T U R N I T O U T
Wesley Zeilinski, Tom Zeilinski, Joseph Malloy
prompt 02: bathroom
422 words

There’s blood and spit smeared on the pristine white tile of the bathroom floor, and it’s more of the same. Wes slides open the window and sits on the toilet before lighting up a cigarette, not caring that there’s blood soaking into the filter. For two seconds, he wonders how in the hell a fifty-year-old man can kick his ass so badly, but then he remembers it’s because Wes lets him. He can’t hit his fucking dad. It would defeat the purpose of letting him do it in the first place.

Wes has never seen his father happy. Not once in his life has he seen him smile. Until Wes was fifteen years old, his dad was just this depressed lump on the couch, watching TV and living off of welfare and his mom’s life insurance policy. After fifteen years of watching that, Wes felt like it would drive him crazy if he had to see his dad sit there for one more day, so he decided that maybe starting shit with him would help. Maybe it would let him blow off some steam, release some endorphins, whatever. Make him feel alive. Maybe it would help.

Even seeing his dad pissed off was better than nothing. After a couple months of being a horrible son, he didn’t even have to take the initiative anymore. Wes would get home, and a fight would be there waiting for him. Wes didn’t know anything about his father, save for one thing: he had loved his mother more than life itself. Her death was the reason his father had become such a depressed lush of a man, and since his mother had died giving birth to him, Wes was, by default, responsible for her death and for his father’s rampant depression.

In all honesty, he respects his father for holding back as long as he had. Wes has never really held any kind of grudge against his dad. Still, there’s only so much he can take at a time, so he pulls out his clunky, old cell phone and dials Joseph's number.

Joseph has never really understood this arrangement they have. He feels a little bad, subjecting him to this kind of emotional abuse: seeing his best friend beaten to a pulp two or so times a month. It’s necessary, though, and he doesn’t really feel like explaining himself to Joseph, no matter how close they are. No matter how many times Joseph threatens to report his dad to the cops.

It’s just the way things are.

Wed, 27 Sep 2006 05:29:51 GMT

C R A S H I N T O M E
Aidan Chandrakant, Iris Lee
prompt 01: disease
236 words

It had started to worm its way in the first night that they had played. Their band was opening for another band, a popular band, from their high school. Their name had something to do with teeth, but at the moment, he couldn’t remember what it was, and he didn’t honestly care much. A gig was a gig. And right now, there was this girl, left center and maybe ten feet back, with the nicest burgundy hair and soft, kind-looking brown eyes looking at him with adoration written across her face.

Prior to that night, Aidan Chandrakant had never really been that into girls; they had just been easy targets for gross jokes or pranks. But when she had walked over to him after their set and had started to chat, when he found out that she liked guitars almost as much as he did, he felt something start to clutch at his stomach, and when he went home that night, he ended up sitting in front of the TV all night, random bursts of nervous giggles bubbling up from his throat. At the time, he didn’t know what it was he was feeling. He just knew that he had never felt it before in all of his thirteen years.

Two years later, when he asked Iris Lee to prom, he thought to himself that love is like a disease, and it had completely overtaken him.

Wed, 27 Sep 2006 05:04:20 GMT

I've decided to challenge myself via one of the theme tables from 100_situations. This is going to take fucking forever.

001.	Disease	002.	Bathroom	003.	Delirious	004.	Autumn	005.	River
006.	Sunset	007.	Relief	008.	Silence	009.	Night	010.	Cry
011.	Fair	012.	Allergy	013.	Death	014.	Table	015.	Early
016.	Criminal	017.	Play	018.	Numbered	019.	Fun	020.	Full
021.	Pack	022.	Taste	023.	Bleach	024.	String	025.	Flu
026.	Court	027.	Dark	028.	Succeed	029.	Truth	030.	Lies
031.	Business	032.	Deception	033.	Enter	034.	Leave	035.	Sneer
036.	Gun	037.	Office	038.	Enemy	039.	Father	040.	Bastard
041.	Furious	042.	Accident	043.	Joke	044.	Benign	045.	Insult
046.	Call	047.	Bonus	048.	Inside	049.	Outside	050.	Traffic
051.	Hand	052.	Lock	053.	Trust	054.	Drugs	055.	Trip
056.	Smoke	057.	Test	058.	Survive	059.	Hang	060.	Commit
061.	Polish	062.	Brave	063.	Cheeky	064.	Rough	065.	Struggle
066.	Relocate	067.	Misguided	068.	Scatter	069.	Bitter	070.	Sweet
071.	Aim	072.	Lost	073.	Confront	074.	Forbid	075.	Disaster
076.	Creature	077.	Organize	078.	Elevate	079.	Safeguard	080.	Emerge
081.	Wild	082.	Fan	083.	Sushi	084.	Crash	085.	Myth
086.	Languid	087.	Nocturnal	088.	Blood	089.	Pitch	090.	Stash
091.	Burst	092.	Rush	093.	Limited	094.	Grim	095.	Beautiful
096.	Writer‘s Choice.	097.	Writer‘s Choice.	098.	Writer‘s Choice.	099.	Writer‘s Choice.	100.	Writer‘s Choice.

Sat, 23 Sep 2006 23:05:58 GMT

So, to the maybe two people who ever read this journal, this is really, really spoiler-heavy material. It completely gives away how the first chapter ends, and gives a pretty strong indication of how the other two chapters end. So you guys may not want to read it. I just finally shoved it out of myself and felt like posting it, though. Anyhoo...

L O V E M E L I K E Y O U L O V E D T H E S U N
Artemio Díaz San Miguel, Sophia Gómez
332 words

She's sorry. She's so, so sorry. If she hadn't been out of the state... If she hadn't been visiting her sister in Texas...

He can hardly hear her, a piece of something - metal, wood, concrete, he doesn't know - embedded in his left ear, and if she hadn't been out of town, what? It wouldn't have changed anything. It wouldn't have stopped the house next door from being bombed. It wouldn't have stopped the east-facing wall of Sophia's house from getting blown in or stopped half of her roof from collapsing on him and Oceana. It wouldn't have stopped them from ending up in this goddamned emergency room full to bursting with other people sporting injuries similar to Artemio's own. Looking the same as Artemio feels. Namely, like he's bleeding his life out of a gaping hole in his back, which he pretty much is. He thinks one of his kidneys and maybe half of his liver are ground into Sophia's living room carpet.

You know, she says after a moment, grabbing one of Artemio's blood-stained hands, I owe you my life.

"What?" Artemio croaks through the blood that's bubbling up stickily from where it's pooling in his lungs.

You saved Oceana. I owe you my life, she says slowly to him.

"Oh," he replies, smiling weakly.

He's glad and all - honored, even, which is a first for him - but there's still the fact that death is looming right in front of his face. Any other time, the prospect of an early death due to unnatural causes would scare the shit out of him, but now, he can't bring himself to care. Aiden's dead, Kaleb's probably dead, and he's sure that by the end of the coming week, most of the people he knows will be, too.

Right now, he's too tired to care about anything anymore. He says so, resting his head on Sophia's shoulder, his blood continuing to drip heavily onto the grimy, mint green linoleum floor.

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 06:00:30 GMT

Way before anything that occurs in the actual Mariachi Radio timeline... Aidan's thirteen, Artemio's fifteen, and Kaleb's seventeen. Will probably lead into Artemio getting his first tattoo, and general silliness.

T H E H A P P I E S T D A Y S O F O U R L I V E S
Aidan Chandrakant, Kaleb Chandrakant, Artemio Díaz San Miguel
353 words

It’s eight in the morning, and the winter sun is filtering weakly through Aidan’s bedroom window, causing him to gradually stir to wakefulness. He yawns before pulling on a T-shirt and heading down the hallway to the upstairs bathroom. When he gets there, he finds the door is locked, and kicks it in mild annoyance.

“Get out of the fucking bathroom, Kaleb! I have to take a piss!”

No answer.

“Hey, did you hear me, you asswipe?”

Still, no answer

Aidan presses his ear to the door, and his countenance is a mixture of offence and perplexity. He can hear the shower running and someone singing. Someone singing in a voice that doesn’t belong to his brother. Someone singing Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd.

There was really only one person he knew who liked Pink Floyd enough to sing them in the fucking shower.

“Wha’ in the hell’re ya doin’, ya li’l pervert?”

Aidan glares daggers at his brother, whose blonde hair and clothes are mussed with sleep.

“You know the band’s been looking for a vocalist since Mark left.”

"I ain’t got no idea wha’ you’re talkin’ abou’,” Kaleb replies after a short pause, looking at his younger brother, completely dumbfounded.

“Listen,” Aidan says, rolling his eyes. So Kaleb does. And he finally realizes what the other boy is so riled up over.

“You’re thirteen years old. You ain’t got no band; not anythin’ serious, anyway,” Kaleb scoffs quietly, crossing his arms over his chest, “An’ in any case, him, he’s prob’ly got more important things ta do.”

“Stop being such an asshole. He can sing, and you never told me,” Aidan snaps back, pointing an accusatory finger at the bathroom door, which is now open.

Artemio stands in the doorway, shivering, with a towel wrapped around his waist, looking completely bemused.

“Um…good morning…guys,” he says, looking to Kaleb for an explanation. Kaleb simply rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Sorry for holding up the bathroom. I’m…uh…gonna go get dressed,” Artemio mumbles before walking down the hallway to Kaleb’s room, throwing another confused look at the two brothers, still frozen mid-argument.

Sun, 17 Sep 2006 07:19:32 GMT

Reading Way Too Much Chuck Palahniuk

Thu, 14 Sep 2006 21:57:29 GMT

A U T U M N L E A V E S R E V I S I T E D
Artemio Díaz San Miguel
248 words

Everyone, we all mostly pray for the same things. “Please let me get that job I interviewed for last week.” “Please let me have enough money to make rent.” “Please let so-and-so ask me out.”

But every once in a while, we pray for different things, things of of a much darker nature. “Please let my family live to see tomorrow.” “Please help me stop this.” "Please save me from this hell."

Anymore, all Artemio does with his free time is watch the news. He doesn’t have a TV, let alone cable, but Sophia has both, so he spends most of his afternoon or morning or whatever sitting with Oceana on the couch while Sophia’s at work, eyes glued to the television where CNN flickers behind the glass.

The war is getting worse, and Artemio’s stomach is sinking a little lower every day. All he can feel anymore is the tightness of his throat closing in on itself and the stiffness in his hands, paralyzed by hours of clutching at the knees of his pants, white-knuckled.

When he was a kid, when he was a teenager, until December of last year, he used to pray for normal things. But now, the only thought that runs through his head in the dead of night, despite what he said last winter when he was cold, naked, and having his heart ripped out, the only prayer he can think of is:

“Please let me see him one more time before he - or I or both of us - dies.”

Thu, 24 Aug 2006 11:26:01 GMT

A drabble that was thrown in with Artemio's profile in my notebook:

For a long time, now, Kaleb Chandrakant has harbored feelings for his best friend, Artemio. He isn't exactly sure why. Although he's never been particularly concerned with what sexual category he fits into, he does wonder, 'Why him, of all people?'

Artemio carries himself with a strange sort of grace, and he thinks that that must be it. It must be the fact that, of all of his male friends, Artemio is the most demure and vocally reserved of the lot, even though most people wouldn't think so, to look at him: tattoos peeking out from beneath his sleeves and collar, strange piercings, and half-bleached hair.

Most of all, though, he simply enjoys spending time with the other man. They think alike despite their vastly different personalities, and they always manage to find a way to make their somewhat inconsistent interests correlate with one another.

He supposes that's why he's doing this, as he watches Sophia's body move beneath his own, her warmth enveloping him. He supposes that this is his way of reaching out for something he can never have - getting to him through her - and he's never felt more selfish and ashamed in his entire life.

Artemio Díaz San Miguel

Thu, 24 Aug 2006 10:52:10 GMT

NAME: Artemio Díaz San Miguel
GENDER: male
AGE: 24
MARTIAL STATUS: single
BIRTHDATE: October 5
BIRTHPLACE: Phoenix, Arizona
RESIDENCE: Peoria, Arizona
EDUCATION: high school
OCCUPATION: bartender
PARENTS: Guadalupe (40) & Fausto (45)
SIBLINGS: none

Artemio Díaz San Miguel is a 24-year-old bartender who lives alone in a dilapidated studio apartment on the east side of Peoria. Although both of Artemio's parents are from Mexico (Monterrey, Nuevo León), they emigrated to the United States before Artemio was born, making him a U.S. citizen. Artemio's mother, Guadalupe, currently lives in south Phoenix and works at a local hotel, and Artemio's father, Fausto, is in prison in Safford serving a life sentence for gang-related homicide. He was imprisoned when Artemio was 10 years old.

Artemio attended the same high school as Kaleb Chandrakant, Aidan Chandrakant, Sophia Gómez, Joseph Malloy, and Wesley Zeilinski. During junior high school and high school, Artemio and Kaleb were best friends. When he was 16, Artemio started dating Sophia against his mother's wishes. A year later, he found out that Sophia and Kaleb had been sleeping together behind his back for several months. Despite Kaleb's best efforts to rectify the situation, Artemio refused to speak to him for nearly four years after the incident. The last time he spoke to Sophia was after their high school graduation ceremony. Several years later, Kaleb came to Artemio, telling him that he (Kaleb) was being sent to Iraq to serve in the military. This turn of events triggered a reconciliation between the two of them (although Artemio hadn't been genuinely upset with Kaleb for some time, at that point), and ultimately ended up sparking a romantic relationship between the two.

Artemio is currently helping Sophia take care of her newborn daughter, Oceana, and is busy pretending he doesn't miss Kaleb.

APPEARANCE

HEIGHT: 5'5"
WEIGHT: 130 lbs.
EYE COLOR: brown
HAIR COLOR: black/blonde (bleached)
ETHNICITY: Hispanic (Mexico)

PIERCINGS: Ears - Left: 3 in lobe; 1 2-gauge, 2 12-gauge
1 industrial (14-gauge)
Right: 3 in lobe; 1 2-gauge, 2 12-gauge

Nipples - Left: 2 14-gauge
Right: 2 14-gauge

Navel - 4; 2 14-gauge barbells

Surface Piercings - Neck: 2 14-gauge barbells

TATTOOS: Arms - Left: sleeve; snakes, tribal, patterns
Right: sleeve; snakes, tribal, patterns

Neck - patterns

Back - koi, chrysanthemums

SCARS: Four inches, along his left hip, from falling while trying to scale a chain link fence after getting caught stealing from a liquor store during junior high.

HAIR STYLE: Short in back, medium-length bangs; gradual bleaching from bottom to top.

CLOTHING STYLE: Vintage; no particular brands
Black dress shirt, black jeans, and black Vans for work.

HOBBIES

MUSIC GENRES: alternative rock, indie rock, folk, psychedelic rock

MUSICAL GROUPS: The Mars Volta, Manu Chao, Iron & Wine, The Decemberists, Carissa's Wierd, Pink Floyd, Tokyo Police Club, Action Action, Dave Matthews Band, The Killers, The Puzzle Super Fly

SPORTS: soccer, video games

MOVIES: Seven, Fight Club, The Life Aquatic, Donnie Darko

BOOKS: "Survivor", "The Stranger", "A Tale of Two Cities", "Lord of the Flies"

GENERAL HOBBIES: reading, listening to music, telling stories, watching Lifetime, making drinks, getting people drunk

DISLIKES: people who treat him like he's stupid because he didn't go to college, rude people, birds, pop music, iPods, Pepsi, doing laundry, children, politics

THEME SONG: Margot & the Nuclear So & Sos - Light on a Hill

Thu, 17 Aug 2006 12:45:13 GMT

Now with 100% more Artemio!

It needs a little cleaning, but for now, it'll do.

Sat, 17 Jun 2006 10:40:57 GMT

Sun, 11 Jun 2006 09:44:29 GMT

H O U R S P A S S E D I N E X I L E
Artemio Díaz San Miguel + Sophia Gómez
658 words

One Cesarean section and thirty pounds later, Sophia was still the sexiest, most beautiful woman Artemio had ever seen. Or, at least, the sexiest, most beautiful woman he had seen in real life. In fact, he actually found himself more attracted to her now that she had a life of her own and her feet planted more firmly on the ground. She wasn't the irresponsible, flighty teenager she had once been, and he liked the change.

He'd catch himself staring at her sometimes - feeding Oceana, doing chores around the house, talking to her mother on the phone, whatever - and would immediately feel the cold hand of guilt clutch at his stomach.

It would hurt so many people if they started that up again. It had been fine in high school, because, really, what consequences had there been aside from each of them getting a lecture from their respective parents? But now... Now, it would hurt Sophia because Artemio wasn't quite sure if he had stumbled back in love over the past few months or if he was trying to fill the gaping hole the lack of Kaleb's loud, obnoxious, entirely over-the-top prescence left in his human contact quota.

It would, of course, hurt Kaleb. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did. Even though they had only been together that one time, the line was there, that boundary he had silently promised not to cross, because it would break the fragile thing they had. That, and the probability was very high that Kaleb would see the whole thing as Artemio getting back at him for high school, which he really didn't need to deal with. Although the thought of Kaleb simply coming back alive, even if all that awaited him was a sour break up and the loss of his best friend, was like a little piece of heaven.

It would hurt Artemio himself. He'd be losing two good friends, two of the only people he had left. Although, he thought to himself, maybe that's exactly what you want: to repent for some unknown something in the most efficient way you can think of.

Maybe that was why. Maybe that was why, when one morning, as he watched Sophia on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor, he decided he couldn't take it anymore and kissed her for the first time in six years.

Now that she was sitting limp in his lap, her cheap cotton underwear and baggy shorts discarded on the floor, his fly unzipped and his dick softening inside of her, he wished he'd never stuck around after Oceana was born, because he'd just royally fucked at least five really good relationships.

"You were better back in high school," she said, chuckling lowly and burying her face in the junction between his neck and left shoulder. He didn't know whether or not he was supposed to laugh, but he did.

"Yeah, and you've got some practice since then, slut," he said with a grin he didn't feel.

She looked up at him, a smile spreading across her face.

"Yeah, whatever," and her expression changed to something solemn.

"We won't talk about this again, okay? I don't want you to lose Kaleb over a fling, and -"

The look he gave her was cold, and his words were flat as he spoke: "What about Kaleb? Why would he care?"

Sophia just scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Nice save, there, Art. You really need to learn to put the correct postage on your letters."

"What the fuck? You've been looking through my mail?!" he said, his incredulous tone matching his expression.

She just shrugged.

"You know what they say."

"No, I don't, actually. What do they say? Please, indulge me," Artemio asked, anger present in his voice.

She smirked at him, leisurely rising and putting her clothes back on.

"Curiosity killed the cat. Although I guess that goes for both of us."

Sun, 28 May 2006 08:54:08 GMT

B R E A T H E M E
Wesley Zeilinski
237 words

For years now, Wes has been telling himself not to get attached to things, to people, to places, to anything. But then, without fail, on some day no different than any other, he realizes that he’s already become attached to something, to someone, to someplace. ‘It’s a wonder,’ he usually thinks to himself, ‘that I’m still able to get pissed off over it.’

Wes has never really been able to rely on anyone. He can’t rely on his father because he’s senile and an asshole. He can’t rely on Kasper because, while his heart’s in the right place, his body never seems to be. He can’t rely on Alison because what kind of loser goes to his best friend’s older sister for help, really? All in all, Wes has stopped trying.

Joseph A. Malloy is the one exception to this rule.

And that’s why, when Joop’s taken him away when he’s bloodied up from a fight with his dad, or when he’s lent him money when he needs it, or whatever – when he’s been there for any of a thousand reasons – Wes says out loud the sorts of things guys never say to each other.

Without you, I feel like I’m falling.

If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I’d be able to draw breath.

You are everything, everyone, everywhere to me.

And somehow, it never surprises Wes when Joop just laughs and ruffles his hair.

T H E L A S T T I M E W E S A W T H E S K Y
Wesley Zeilinski + Joseph Malloy
99 words

The two of you are lying in one of the many deserted backlots of Phoenix. You're somewhere near downtown, but you don't know where, exactly. Joop was driving, and, surprise surprise, you weren't paying attention.

You pull the cigarette, burnt to the filter, from your lips, holding it between your middle and ring fingers. You close your eyes against the glaring sun and hear the roar of jet engines pass overhead from Sky Harbor.

Joop taps your arm lightly and you open your eyes, throwing him a questioning look. He nods at the sky far above.

"What the hell?"

M E G U S T A S T U
Artemio Díaz San Miguel + Kaleb Chandrakant
1,982 words

Artemio closes his eyes against the glare of the television across from the bar and leans on the edge of the back counter. It's 12AM on a Wednesday, and he's really starting to wonder why he's still here. In theory, he could walk out right now, and they wouldn't be losing a whole hell of a lot of business. No employed person comes in this late on a Wednesday night.

He hears the door scuff against the rubber doormat and sighs heavily. Scratch that. He keeps his eyes closed and watches the flashes of red as CNN flickers between news anchors and embedded reporters ("Well, John...").

"Hey, babe. How're ya doin' tonight? Business's lookin' kinda slow."

Fuck. He should have known.

For a very long time, Kaleb Chandrakant has been Artemio's most confusing attempt to connect with his fellow human beings. He is more confusing than his father, who was imprisoned years ago for gang-related homicide. He is more confusing than his mother, who wouldn't let him date girls until he was 18. He is more confusing than Sophia, the girl he dated anyway.

Artemio has never known exactly how he feels about Kaleb; throughout the many years he's known the other man, their relationship has been anything but stable.

There were all of the days that they had sat in the park with Kaleb's old CD player, headphone cord split down the middle, listening to the same Manu Chao songs over and over again because they were too drunk or high or fucked up in general to remember that they had done the exact same thing the week before.

There were all of the weekend afternoons that they had gotten shitfaced drunk off PBR in Kaleb's room and just stared up his Bob Marley posters, laying together on his bed and holding hands.

There was the evening in October that they had gone out to Lake Pleasant, and Kaleb had kissed him when he was feigning sleep.

There were the three years that he refused to speak to him after he found out that Kaleb had been sleeping with Sophia while they were still dating.

There was that familiar exhiliration that he felt whenever he was around him, whenever someone talked about him, whenever he thought about him.

Artemio rolls his eyes without opening them and briefly entertains fantasies of beating Kaleb to a bloody pulp for being so goddamned enigmatic ("And stupid," he thinks to himself, "definitely stupid."). It's unfortunate that, in reality, Kaleb is at least half a foot taller and significantly stronger than he is, thanks to four years at a military academy and seven in the Army reserves, and Artemio is...well...a short, scrawny bartender with zero skill in any of the arts, let alone the martial ones.

Upon detaching his eyelids from one another, he is met by a triumphantly grinning Kaleb sitting directly in front of him with his chin resting on his crossed forearms.

Shit. He must have slipped and showed some vague sign of approval in the midst of his little Fight Club fantasy. He makes up for it by giving Kaleb a scathing look. However, he's not sure if it reaches him, because there are a pair of particularly gaudy sunglasses covering his eyes.

"You look like fucking Lenny Kravitz with those things on."

"An' this's a bad thing, why?"

Artemio glares for a few seconds. When this scare tactic proves ineffective, he removes Kaleb's sunglasses, places them atop his own head and draws them back over his hair so the frames hold his bangs out of his face.

He hears the scuff of door-on-doormat again and tries to look at least moderately cheerful as he averts his gaze to the bar entrance. An old, bedraggled man enters, and Artemio gives him a light nod.

"How're you doing tonight, sir? What'll it be?"

The old man slowly lowers himself onto one of the bar stools and leans dejectedly over the counter as if he were holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Jus' a beer's fine."

Artemio delivers the order and sets about cleaning an empty glass, reverting his attention back to Kaleb.

"So, what brings you all the way out to the lovely city of Glendale at this hour of night? Looking to pick up a hooker, or what?"

Artemio doesn't think the remark was particularly amusing, but Kaleb lets slip a few loud guffaws before slamming his fist down on the counter and looking Artemio straight in the eye, completely deadpan. The old man to their right looks alarmed for a few seconds before he concludes that he is not in immediate danger and returns to his beer. Artemio remains unfazed.

"Not quite. I came here b'cause I need ta talk to ya."

"Really? Do you, now, you fucking weirdo?"

"Yeah, really."

Either Kaleb doesn't pick up on Artemio's sarcasm, or he's ignoring it.

"I got some bad news for ya, honey."

Artemio feels a slight sinking in the pit of his stomach, but he keeps up what is now a facade of barely restrained annoyance.

"Like what? You found someone else to use your dumbass pick-up lines on? Oh, watch as I throw myself from a cliff in despair. And don't call me 'honey', cabrón."

Kaleb chuckles softly, and the feeling in Artemio's stomach starts to become painful.

"Naw, 'course not. 'M gettin' shipped out tomorrow."

Artemio clenches his eyes shut. He needs to be outside; the walls are starting to feel as if they're closing in on him, and he's fucking pissed off at himself. For a long time now, he'd pretty much forgotten about Kaleb and the fact that he was the closest thing to a best friend - to someone he could tell anything - little old Artemio Díaz San Miguel had ever had. And just like with everything else, his best wasn't good enough. He had tried so hard to dig a grave for those feelings and bury them, but just like with everything else, it didn't. Fucking. Work.

He glances up at the clock, and it's over an hour before he's supposed to close up, but he doesn't care. He tells his sole customer that it's time to leave, that he can take the glass home with him, for all he cares, and the old man looks indignant, but he doesn't protest.

Kaleb leans against the brick wall just outside the door and takes a few long drags on a half-used cigarette as Artemio locks the front door to the bar. After he's done, he leans against the wall about a foot away from Kaleb, and his expression is pained as he slides down to the trash and weed-littered sidewalk. He begins to roughly massage his temples, staring out at the train tracks and strip joints half a block away. Kaleb crouches next to him and holds out what remains of his cigarette, but he does not take it, so Kaleb flicks it out into the parking lot where it smolders for half a minute before burning out completely.

There is a painful desperation in Artemio's voice when he speaks.

"What do you mean, you're getting 'shipped out'?"

Kaleb scoffs quietly, fiddling with his lighter in his left hand.

"You fuckin' know wha' I mean. 'M gettin' shipped out. Got a one-way ticket to th' motherland."

Artemio stares at a cigarette butt over to his right.

"Dumbass. You're not even from fucking Iraq."

His voice has been reduced to a near-whisper.

"It's close 'nough."

They are both silent for several moments. A train rolls by, and after it passes, Artemio's ears are ringing and his hands are shaking.

"Ya sound kinda put ou', there. Almos' like you're gonna miss li'l ol' me? You're still mad at me for th' whole thing wi' Sophie, r'member?"

Artemio lets out an airy laugh.

"I'm not mad anymore. I don't even fucking care. It's water under the bridge."

Kaleb raises his eyebrows and looks as if Artemio's just made a very interesting proposition.

"It ain't if there's a dam, copain. Now, you got a ques'ion you wanna ask me, an' 'm gonna answer it."

Artemio stares at him in incredulity.

"I told you, it doesn't matter anymore."

"Jus' ask th' ques'ion. 'Why'd it hafta be you, of all people? Why were ya sleepin' with Sophie behind my back?'"

He looks at a scrap of paper that's been caught against one of Kaleb's second-hand loafers by the breeze.

"Why now? Why in the hell are you making me ask this now, of all times?"

His voice cracks near the end of his inquiry, and he shuts his eyes againts the streetlamps and the stars.

"Tch. I swear, you're th' most uncoop'rative person I know, boy. 'M tryin' ta be all dramatic an' shit."

Kaleb throws Artemio a disgruntled look, pulling a fresh cigarette out of his jacket pocket, and Artemio swears he hears the older man make some remark under his breath about, "Kids these days."

"Anyway, I jus' wan'ed you ta know. Sep'ration does strange thin's ta people. Though' ya migh' want some closure. Plus, I was gettin' tired a jus' sittin' aroun' doin' nothin' abou' it. An' I also wan'ed ta tell ya sorry for bein' so Machiavellian abou' sayin', 'Je t'aime' to ya, but we di'n't get ta that part, b'cause you're an uncooperative asshole."

Artemio doesn't understand a whole lot of French, but he doesn't have to. In the back of his mind, he thinks he's always known it, but that doesn't stop him from staring at his hands in shock for a good two minutes before getting up and punching Kaleb squarely in the jaw. He doesn't imagine it does much damage, but it still feels damn good.

Even though he tasted like alcohol that time at the lake, he knew it wasn't just Kaleb being drunk and stupid, and he isn't confused anymore.

"Igualmente."

Artemio nods at Kaleb, smiling.

"Th' hell's tha' mean?! An' why the hell did ya just punch me in th' fuckin' face, ya li'l bastard?!"

Artemio just laughs and starts to walk in a leisurely stroll back in the direction of his apartment.

"That's what you get for saying it in French, you fucking wuss. Let's go."

Kaleb smiles slightly and follows his lead, taking Artemio's hand in his. They follow the railroad tracks through the red light district, frieght yards, and crop fields until they're home.

__

Artemio wakes the next morning to birds squaking outside his window and people banging around in the dilapidated Italian restaurant downstairs. He does not open his eyes.

The sheets are tangled between his legs and around his hips. He knows that if he moves, he will find that the vast majority of his body is at code yellow on the pain scale. He drags his right arm out from beneath his pillow and runs it over the other side of the bed. He knew it would be cold and empty. When his hand reaches the other pillow, he can feel a piece of paper there. He opens his eyes slowly, pupils dialating painfully in the morning sunlight.

There is a small scrap of newspaper, folded into quarters, with a 2"x3" picture taped to it.

The picture is of Kaleb and himself, sleeping on his bed; they can't be any older than 18. He imagines that Aidan must have taken it as blackmail material.

He unfolds the paper slowly, afraid of what he might find there.

There are a few lines of a song scrawled amongst the Valley weather forecast in permanent marker. Holding the paper above his head at arms' length, he reads them:
Qué voy a hacer, je ne sais pas
Qué voy a hacer, je ne sais plus
Qué voy a hacer, je suis perdu

Artemio presses the paper to his face and breathes in. Somewhere amongst the musty, chemical smells of marker and cheap ink, he can smell the cologne that Kaleb had been wearing. His chest feels tight, and his lower lip is starting to shake a little. His voice is muffled by the paper, but he recites the words anyway:

"¿Qué hora son, mi corazón?"

N E P H I L I M
Wesley Zeilinski + Joseph Malloy
466 words

This has become a ritual for them.

Wes calls at some ungodly hour of night. Joop takes the 202 and then the 10, going 90 miles an hour all the way out to the east side of Peoria. Last week, he was able to make it in 22 minutes, but this time it takes half an hour.

He parks down by the communal mailbox and speedwalks until he reaches the ugly, mint green one story house with the elm out front. There are splotches of color in the long deserted flower bed that stands in solitude before the porch. They're African daisies, shining orange and yellow in the on-and-off flicker of a nearby streetlamp. He assumes that they're from Kasper's students. He's probably right.

He jumps the cinderblock wall on the left side of the house and knocks lightly on the first window. There's a faint light coming from the room.

The blinds open slowly, and he can see Wes' subdued movements in silhouette. The window slides open, and he can smell cigarette smoke. He takes off the screen and gently places it below the windowsill.

"Hey," Wes croaks.

He removes the cigarette from his mouth and holds it between his index and middle fingers, placing his hands on the sill to steady himself as he crawls out of the window. There's blood on the filter. His lip is split in the middle.

"Can you walk?"

Joop waits silently for an answer. Wes stands and thinks for a moment.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

He manages four cautious steps before yelping in pain, fumbling, and catching himself on the stucco wall. He hisses as the cement tears into the palms of his hands.

Joop pulls a cigarette and lighter out of his shirt pocket with his right hand. He places the cigarette between his lips, lights up, and catches Wes behind the knees and shoulderblades when he's not paying attention. Wes complains, but Joop still carries him, with some difficulty, to the other side of the house, through the back gate, and down the street two blocks to his car and the mailboxes.

Joop sets Wes down by the passenger door, supporting him as he gingerly makes his way into the passenger seat of Joop's '94 Ford Escort. Joop closes the door gently and walks around to the driver's side, lighting a cigarette as he goes. He stands there, leaning against the car, the metal and cheap, white paint cold in the February night. He can't see the stars this far into the city.

After five minutes, he throws his cigarette to the years-old asphalt, grinds it out with the toe of his right sneaker, and gets in the car.

He starts the ignition and lets the car idle for a few minutes. Wes turns on the heater before they begin their drive home.

Wed, 04 Jun 2003 12:22:17 GMT

I'll make an honest attempt to keep this thing organized and separate my posts into topics. Since I'm sure you care.

A little crash course in Mariachi Radio...ism:

Setting - Phoenix, AZ, USA. This was originally going to take place in San Francisco, but then I realized that, despite the fact that San Fran is a really awesome city, I know next to nothing about it. So, I got this brilliant idea that I'd just base the story in Phoenix, since I've lived here my entire life, and the story would actually work pretty well that way. Not to mention details would be five thousand times easier to work out.

Plot - I haven't quite figured this out yet. The plot was originally going to deal with racial profiling and all of that good happy stuff, because it was going to be a September 11th-centric story, but that idea got trashed. The plot that I'm pushing around now is a lot more broad. It's turned into a story about a couple of kids and the lives that they lead. Okay, so it's *really* broad, but I can't really think of a good way to condense it. X\ Whatever. Like I said, it's a work in progress.

I'm a-thinkin' that I'm just going to post character descriptions individually. The ones that I've got done, anyway.