The Writing of Cloud Buchholz

The Harken Bridge had been built in 1941 by a dozen flat-footed boys eager, but unable, to serve their country in the war.

In their zealous haste, they neglected to properly amend the suspension brackets on the center beams, and several years later, under the weight of a parade caravan of returning soldiers, the bridge collapsed.

Four soldiers, two wives, and a child died. The bodies were carried several miles by the swift current before they were retrieved.

The bridge was soon obsolete and remained in disarray due to the newly constructed freeway.

Many years before, two brothers, Ricky and Ryan Rothman, climbed the metal outcroppings and peered over the edge as a juvenile stunt.

The crowd of excited classmates jeered and hollered for them to jump. The two brothers, easily provoked and more than willing to prove the hardiness of their spirit, leaped from the dangerously high ledge.

The observers faint-of-heart screamed for the police, for God, for their mothers, but not one of them jumped in the water to aid the two brothers.

The authorities searched the river for several days, but failed to retrieve the bodies. They feared the current had taken the boys as far as the ocean.

The following Saturday the two brothers, battered and weary, walked into town alive and grinning.

Babble and Ace, confined to a cage and diet of green pellets, had lost, or perhaps given up the spark that once ignited their relationship.

Chewing blocks of wood, a task they once enjoyed together, had become tedious to Babble. Even the metal spinning wheel could not stave off her disinterest in their tiny two-tiered prison.

She curled into a corner, refusing to eat or drink despite Ace's pleas. She became thin and weary. She would not leave the corner even when the tiny door to the cage was left open.

Ace tried nuzzling pellets of food to her, even chewed them into smaller pieces for her weak digestion, but she would not eat.

He curled beside her and died several days after her body was taken from the cage.

A bone thin man with long, braided hair sits in front of a large fire. He spits into the dirt and mixes the bones of small animals into the mud until peculiar shapes and patterns illuminate the outcome of future events.

A great hunt, a war with pale demons, the roar of metal horses, a young girl that will dream of his old and wrinkled face.

On Sunday afternoons Enzo lays in the plastic lawn chair and watches his young and beautiful wife swim the length of the pool.

Once she is thoroughly exhausted from her swim, he dives in beside her, shoves her head under the water and lightly chokes her.

As she coughs, and gags, and claws at his arms, he fucks her hard, until he feels her thighs and stomach jerk from pain and arousal.

When he lets her up, she curses his name, and slaps him, and staggers back into the house bottomless, leaving her bikini floating on the water for him to carry inside.

The next Sunday, she dives into the pool, waiting for him to lounge in the plastic lawn chair and stare at her white thighs splashing against water.

Her husband, Enzo, had not noticed the leaves and rotten fruit accumulating in the pool, nor her attempts to remove them. Since she had gotten pregnant, he had little interest in dipping into the cold water, or her.

Most nights he returned from the office smelling of alcohol and other women's perfume. She had tried more than once to entice him, but not even her fanatical hormones could unseat his coldness.

Stacy did not care for cheerios, but a man the day before had cooked what was left of the eggs. He was nice enough to share them with her. Not all the men were so generous.

He bought a carton of orange juice too. It was so good that the two of them drank it all before her mother got up.

And he had a tattoo on his arm. It was of a beautiful dark-skinned woman. He said nothing of the tattoo, but his expression was heavy and sad when he saw Stacy staring at it.

After he washed the dishes, he shook Stacy's hand and left a pile of twenty dollar bills on the table.

Stacy wished he would return and cook her breakfast and shake her hand again, but he never did.

"213 Women" was the title of the book published by William's oldest daughter, Jenna, after she discovered his journal.

The book became a best-seller and within the first year had been banned at numerous libraries and academic institutions for its graphic and profane content.

It was August. The afternoon heat had stripped the women's shirts and the men's inhibitions.

The beach was crowded, and the sharp static buzz of sex and skin pulsed through the cherry college students like cold waves splashing against the sand.

They wanted one last night of freedom and fucking before mediocrity and math books consumed their time.

Willy loved this brief moment of the year, watching these few minutes before the clock counted down to cold weather and colder people.

He could get away with anything during these few weeks if he spoke in the right way, and not too much.

That's when he met her, Janice with no last name. They fucked hard, and soft, and strangely, and without hesitation as if all the oxygen in the world was bleeding out of a hole in the atmosphere.

Willy devoted three pages in his journal to Janice with no last name, more than any other women he had or would ever meet.

Whether it was art or obscenity, Frank could not say, and in truth, did not care. He had gone to the exhibit with the singular purpose of investing his money in a piece that would be worth double or triple the asking price years later.

He had brought two consultants and his checkbook, ready to purchase something he would keep boxed in a temperature controlled bank vault.

He stood, for nearly an hour, staring at the photograph of the sullen woman spread-eagle on a cheap mattress. Her eyes pierced his chest and stole the air from his lungs.

There was something dark in her, something that he saw in himself but could not articulate.

He bought the photograph, and the negative, and all the prints of the woman.

He hung the photograph in his study, and stared at it while he drank, and smoked, and contemplated his lonesome life.

The camera was old, and heavy, and badly scratched. It had suffered a flood, two tornadoes, and several dozen drops.

By the time Heath had inherited it, the images it captured were jagged, and small strands of light bled through the case onto the film.

Even the buttons stuck and sometimes required a screwdriver to maneuver.

Heath loved the camera and the weary way it captured people.

The muffled screams and violent groans coming from his father's room kept Albert up late at night.

He imagined his father valiantly fighting the boogeyman, or ghosts, or hairy monsters with thousands of teeth, and though he was very proud of his father, the noises terrified him immensely.

He said the names of all the dinosaurs he knew. He repeated the long list again and again like a monk chanting a mantra.

Eventually sleep would overtake him, or his tongue would become too tired to speak.

Mr. Palani, despite the harshness he showed toward women and tenants, had a great deal of love for his son.

When Albert's mother died, Mr. Palani felt as if a heavy weight had dropped from his shoulders. He loved his wife on paper and in some deep corner of his heart, but his dark passions had never found an outlet in her.

He spent his well-behaved days feeling fatigued and disinterested. However, quickly after she was gone, he discovered his energy and cock had become unappeasable.

He was rough and wild with the women he brought home, whether they were prepared for it or not.

The deep and primal noises that erupted from their wallowing and weary mouths were the only thing that kept him hard. He pushed them to their limit, and if possible, much farther.

In the mornings he was pricked by a subtle sense of guilt, not for what he had done to the women, but for the baffling terror that struck his son.

During the more difficult mornings, Mr. Palani would give his son a tiny plastic dinosaur in the hopes of calming his agitation.

William Wanlass had been dead for nearly seven hours, and of those, the press was keenly aware of the latter three.

The speculations and rumors were already fierce in some circles, and soon enough those views would be reflected in the news.

Given William's bestselling book, "213 Women," most people assumed (and enjoyed doing so) that his death was a result of some depraved sexual act gone horribly wrong. Or perhaps one of the many women in his book had decided on vengeance.

In any case, the hearsay quickly became vile, and the more it became vile, the quicker his book sold. Unsurprised, his publisher and daughter did little to stop the slandering of his reputation.

While driving home from a high school football game, Young Phillip Michaels's car slid across a patch of black ice and collided with a tree. His body was not discovered until the following morning.

The paramedics, with a sudden jolt of terror, were surprised to find him alive for his wounds and the severe cold should have proven fatal.

The truth was, young Phillip Michaels had died for a very brief amount of time, and his spirit had, in fact, left his body to traverse the surreal spirit realm where he conversed with a multitude of extraordinary and terrifying entities.

When he was revived, it was as if a part of that world had returned with him, and he was able to see and sense where the two overlapped. The strange and secret skill would serve him well as a homicide detective.

possible link to Karen Ward story

Wade was of average proportions, though this would hardly have been guessed at given the pull of his magnetism.

He was of average height and build. Common in appearance and strength except for his mouth which cut across his face like a long and ragged canyon.

It was wide like that of a shark and curled at the corners whether he was smiling or snarling. Each of his teeth jutted from his gums like sharpened pearls, and he made a point of beaming them like a car swerving into oncoming traffic.

He gambled for a living, and he lived well. Tonight it was cards. He preferred pool, or horses, or even darts, but tonight it was cards, more specifically poker.

He was doing well until she crossed his vision. Her tight and perfectly rounded ass caught the gearing of his brain, and he quickly failed at counting the cards and the expressions of the players.

He lost five hands before he quit.

She was at the bar lounging like an ancient marble goddess, and he could not resist bringing her stone visage to life.

He offered her a strong drink and a toothy smile. She took both, and soon enough his cock.

Roy Kelly was, by all accounts, a good man. His vices were few and simple-minded in nature. He had spent the majority of his childhood on his father's ranch, working cattle and horses.

His only purpose for remaining so long in the city was to attend to his father's financial future and wellbeing.

The ranch had lost much of its value, all of it in fact, and his father had taken ill. The land, however, had increased in worth exponentially, and in order to see to his father's old age and worsening aliments, Roy made plans to lease portions of the land to a development firm eager to build offices, or malls, or things of that nature.

This agreement meant giving-up his passion and trade. He knew little beyond the world of the saddle and steer, and did not have the mind for much else anyway.

He was a rich man now, out of place, and idling unhappily. The one thing he was most accustomed to, working hard, early, and often, seemed an unnecessary activity, and he did not have the patience or slothfulness to be a gentleman.

Many ambitious types tugged at his attention and wallet, hoping for a wealthy benefactor. He understood little of what they pitched and even less of the future they envisioned, but he gave them a small sum, and a handshake, and sent them on their way.

Soon these micro-investments lead to even more money which he had grown tired of counting. He longed for the cool summer nights with his back to the ground, and his eyes in awe of the stars above.