New Play/ Web Page

Kerida 2, oil on Linen 15" x15"

My new play, "The Man in the Black Pajamas", is being produced this November at Space 55, here in Phoenix. It is a psychological drama about what happens to a man when he is accused of a horrendous crime they call the "incident." Although we never clearly see what that "incident" was, we do see him processing his situation and the phases of his reaction to his captivity. There is much heart felt humor, surprises and truth in this story. The play is being directed by the muti-talented Raymond King Shurtz, with a great cast. So pleased so far.

More info on my new web page:

http://www.charleshinckleyfineart.com/

Open studio sketches

Deam State (Continuation of a novel) Bookends agency

Carla, Carla, Carla

Shortly after my first “dream State,” that early winter morning lying in the hallway of my East Side apartment, in that confused and frightened condition, I stopped having the dreams for a while, thanks to the love I felt for a woman. Francine, the bike rider "dream" had haunted me for months. I had thought I was going to lose my mind. Then I met Diana, and the dreams suddenly stopped.
I was studying writing at NYU and working nights at a pizza joint/restaurant on the Upper East Side named Delish. Diana was young and blonde, with large blue eyes and a smile that lit up my heart. The three years we spent together were the best and worst I’ve had. There’s something to be said for getting lost in ones work, but when that obsession becomes a woman, man you are in trouble. I was writing short stories at the time and they all revolved around our relationship, and usually featured an alluring siren pulling the protagonist into a deadly snare he eventually had to fight his way of, but was always doomed to fail. She was an intoxicant to me. I would lay with my head on her bare belly, taking in her smells, the aroma of skin, run my fingers through her hair and never get bored, look into her eyes for hours, or watch her sleep. I wanted to live in her, breath her, taste her, make her cum, look into her eyes as I came, have sex with her always, all night all the time. My school work began to suffer. The writing became less focused, rambling, as I attempted to capture elusive feelings I didn’t or couldn’t understand. I not only wanted to marry her, I wanted to crawl inside her womb and live there, poke my head out every so often to eat and maybe watch a football game, then crawl back inside. I began eating all the time and gained twenty pounds. Unwarranted jealousy filled me whenever she answered the phone or talked to a clerk in the grocery store. I began imagining her affairs, illicit, sexual, taunting me at every turn. I began snooping into her computer files and monitoring her emails. I even considered tapping our phone but couldn’t afford the electronics. Then she broke up with me. I couldn’t function. I felt like my brains had been cold pressed and left out to dry. It was all about me, me and me. What I was thinking, feeling, and hearing. Was my heart beating too fast or too slowly, why were my hands shaky, why couldn’t I walk in a straight line? Then one night, I was sitting on a bar stool next to Millar, listening to how awful his life was and it all lifted. Somehow the old version of me suddenly walked into the bar and settled back inside my body.
I still haven’t figured it all out, because I’ve had other relationships before and since, and never came close to being so completely lost in a woman. Looking back, I even thought she was better looking than she really was, because when I look at photos of her now, I just can’t feel that same magic. So was it just a phase I was going through? Were the dreams a catalyst that pushed me into a vulnerable and fragile state whereby I latched onto her for comfort and support? I think I’m getting warm. Anyway, past relationship mistakes is what drives me now. It’s always at the back of my mind, knowing I could go off that ledge again. As far as women go, I can’t say I’m sex obsessed or a dependant personality so much as a worshiper of women. I empathize with the more fragile emotional state, am aware of the “femaleness” of their bodies. The supple curviness, forbidden recesses and especially the roundness of the female hip, can drive a heterosexual male insane with desire. And I’m no exception. I guess what I’m saying is I’m a sucker for beautiful women. Where most men are intimidated, I’m invigorated by them. So when Carla called the next day, I knew I could be headed for trouble.
She was brief, said she wanted to meet me for coffee downtown near her work. I didn’t bother asking what she did. Actually, I didn’t ask her anything, my mind just drew a blank the minute I heard her voice. I took a bus downtown and waited outside a typical building by the South Street Seaport. Cool autumn winds blew dust around the corner of the building and I turned away to shelter my eyes. I looked up in time to see her walking toward me. She was stunning in a short skirt and calf high boots. Her skirt flew up in the wind and I turned away, not wanting to embarrass her.
We walked to a nearby, upscale touristy café and sat at a window table. I ordered coffee and she a cappuccino. I felt reserved, polite, not wanting to give her any impression other than business. She thanked me for meeting her, took a sip of her drink and started to cry. Quietly, at first, then she had a few seconds of real tears and nose blowing. She finally caught her breath with a heavy sigh and apologized.
“Don’t. You don’t have to,” I offered.
Gathering another breath, she removed the black leather gloves from her hands and started talking.
“The reason I called you, and I’m sorry for the first time we met, but you know how it is. I wanted to see you again because the police, well they’re getting no where. They have no leads, little evidence and I’m afraid my sister’s killer is going to go free.”
I looked at her and she lifted her eyes to mine. Bloodshot and red rimmed, they were tired, worn, but still had that spark.
“I don’t know what I can do to help,” I said, but that was a lie. I knew exactly what I could do, if it was possible for me to conjure that dream again. I just didn’t want to face it. I could see it even as she spoke. Flashes of the crime scene shot through my mind. Emma, lying against a brick wall, her lips slightly apart as her last gasp escaped, the limpness of her body as she released from this life, her dead eyes staring up through glazed pools.
“I would pay you,” she said.
I paused, looking at her clothes and purse. They were not exactly fifth avenue couture.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked.
She turned away. I could almost see a cigarette between her index and middle fingers as she placed her thumb between them and moved it.
“What does that matter?” She asked.
“It doesn’t. I just don’t want to feel guilty collecting my check.”
“Don’t worry about the money. I can pay.”
“I haven’t said how much.”
“You’re not going to fleece me are you?”
“That’s not the way I operate.”
“How do you operate?”
“I’m not sure why you called me. The other day I got the impression you thought I was a clown.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. I try to tell people I’m a seer, and they want to run. Smiles turn to fright.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“There’s no reason to be.”
She put the imaginary cigarette to her lips, and let her fingers fall to the table.
“How long?” I asked.
“How long what?”
“How long ago did you quit smoking?”
She smirked and looked out the window. A young couple walked by arm and arm hunched together against the wind.
“I just want to know if you can help me. Really, I just want to pick your brains a little. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Shoot.”
“In your vision-“
“I like that. See you’re already becoming accepting of what I do.”
“Well, you say you saw the mugging. I want to know if you saw the muggers face. Did you report anything, any details to the police? Did they take you to a police station and fill out paperwork?”
“I didn’t go to the police. At first I didn’t think there was an Emma. I still couldn’t accept that what I was seeing was really going to happen. I found a few likely names in the phone book. I narrowed it down over a few days until I came to your sister. I knew it was her the minute I laid eyes on her. You see, I did see her that night. Her face, I mean. Not the killer’s. I followed her to work, to a bar afterward and sat near her and her friends. She was popular, your sister, people all around her. I caught up to her near the bar, offered to buy her a drink. She declined. I tried to use my charm. She rebuffed me. Finally, I took her arm, like this." I grabbed Carla's arm and gently pulled it toward me. She didn't resist, her eyes clued to mine. "I warned her to stay away from midtown if at all possible, not to go out at night alone. I told her she was in danger and I wanted to help her.”
My grasp on Carl’s arm grew tighter as I talked.
“I told her I was a friend. That something bad was going to happened if she didn’t leave town.”
Carla’s arms were up, off the table now as I held them. She jerked away, giving me a disgusted frown. I immediately raised my hands in a conciliatory gesture. Glaring at me for a second, she rubbed her wrist and sat back in her chair.
“No need for theatrics,” she said. “It’s contemptible and untrustworthy.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. It’s a gut reaction. I see bits of the dream when I think about it. I've lived with it for months.”
“And you never went to the police?”
“You know what the police do with someone who comes in and foretells a crime? They arrest him after the crime is committed.”
Again she looked startled. I remained silent. The small tree in front of the building moved as the wind picked up, forcing loose a few anemic leaves.
“I don’t know why I called you,” She said after a few seconds.
“That was quick. That’s pretty much how you felt the last time we talked.”
“It’s just too weird. I’m sorry. You’re stranger. A strange, stranger mixed up in my life in the worst possible way. There’s nothing…”
“What?”
“Nothing, no way to…”
“Make it better?”
“Make you better.”
“I see. Thanks.”
“That’s not what I mean. The circumstances suck.”
“I know.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Okay,” she said finally, “My idea is to hire a private investigator and have him pick your brains, follow any and all leads.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, suddenly crest fallen, aware she had no intention of working with me directly. “Look, I’m sorry I grabbed your arms," I offered.
“And I’ll pay you for your time, like I said.”
“You said that, yes.”
Suddenly she wasn’t hearing me at all. She stood and put her black leather gloves back on her long fingers. “We’ll call you.”
“You do that.” I remained seated. “I’ll get this.” I pointed to the check.
She glanced down at it, turned and walked away.
My nerves were tingling. I felt high on adrenaline or caffeine or both. I didn’t know her, but every cell in my body wanted to follow her out that door. Like rusting unused bolts to a magnet, I was drawn to her. I jumped from my seat and walked quickly after her. As I turned the corner outside the cafe, I got a glimpse of her at the end of the block. I jogged up to her and started talking.
“You’ll be wasting your money, you know.”
She kept walking. I took stride next to her.
“I mean, you’d be paying someone for what I do anyway. You’d be paying me for what I already do.”
“Come again?” She asked.
“Look, I’m a detective. You’re going to pay another detective to pick my brain and act upon that information?”
She stopped and looked at me.
“Maybe.”
“I just think you’d be paying out twice what you should.”
“You’re a detective?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Well, almost. I’m taking the licensing exam this week.” I lied again.
“I thought you were a psychic?”
“I hate that word, but yes, I am a kind of psychic.”
“And now you’re a detective?”
“Soon to be licensed. But I’ve been tracking people down for years. It’s what I do.”
She looked up at the sky, as if searching for answers.
“Look, I recently had a break through," I continued. "By experimentation I was able to bring myself into a dream about a particular subject. That’s never happened before. Usually, the subject just comes to me and I have no say about who it is, but now I have the ability to focus on an individual and see them in a my dream state.”
“How do you know this dream is what really happened, not some fantasy?”
“I’ve never been wrong. I see it as it happens, or as it has happened. If I go back and look at a dream, sometimes I can control it, stop it, and see it from different angles. Even identify faces, license plate numbers. Sometimes I see a date; a number jumps out at me, like on a calendar.”
She seemed unsure.
“Okay, you think about it,” I said. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, but really, I’d rather not go through another individual, least of all a detective. A middle man will just muck up the works.”
She thought a second, and then said, “I’ll let you know.”
“You have my number. Call me when you’re ready.”
She nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “See you.”
I turned and walked away wondering if I’d ever hear from her again.

In our society there are takers and there are those who contribute. Nine times out of ten, it’s a taker who sniffs out the life of a giver. I didn’t expect anything different in Emma’s case. As I looked into her background, the more I discovered, the more I admired her. She’d gotten a degree in economics from NYU and was working toward her masters at the time of her death, all the while holding down various jobs. Most recently she’d been a teaching assistant at her ala mater. Because teaching assistants generally earn less than seventeen thousand a year, she’d been working as a part-time short order cook at Café Classic, hence the memoriam poster I’d seen on the wall there. I figured I’d start at the café and work my way over to the school. I wasn’t going to wait for Carla to call, nor was I going into a dream state if I didn’t have to. I’d had enough bad dreams and bloody noses to last a while. Hopefully, when Carla did call, I’d be ready with as much background information as I’d need to get a running start on the case. That was when the phone rang with a call that would change everything.

Alla Prima Portrait Workshop with Rose Frantzen

We had 16 people. Two models. We worked four days, two days on each model. She did a wonderful demo the first day. She asked us to not post any photos of her demo, so I don't have anything to show, but it was gorgeous. The first two days I did the painting of the female model. I struggled a bit as I was pretty far away and was having trouble seeing the details of her face. But as the time wore on I was seeing more and more. For the second model I was a few feet away and it was easy to see his face. Loved that! Rose is a dear, wonderful gal and I would highly recommend her workshops. Well worth the time and money. She is a true living master! Her knowledge of color alone is worth the cost of tuition.
Nearly finished last day.







Had a great week working with the master painter Rose Frantzen. She's a bundle of energy and a great teacher as well as artist. Took her lessons to heart and had a great week.

Dream State (Fiction) Continuation of a novel

In this posting we learn more about Millar's charcter, and August has a trip in "dream state" to a watering hole...where a girl drowns.

Got To Run!

Allen the bartender was in one of his rare good moods. He greeted me with a wink and asked me if I wanted my usual pint of ale. I nodded with a half smile and sat next to Millar, who evidently had just finished a burger.
Wiping grease and ketchup from his chin with a stained napkin, he said, “I’ll try another one, too, please.”
I sniggered to myself and then gave Millar a serious look.
“What exactly does that mean, I’ll try another one? Was that one no good? Don’t they all taste the same? Is one bottle of stout different from every other bottle of the same brand?”
Turning to me with a slight grin on his face he said, “I’ve been trying to figure that out for years.”
“Ah, research.”
“Exactly. It takes years, even for a discerning palette like mine, to adapt, conceptualize, catalogue and present findings on these matters.”
“I am so happy you're happy in your work.”
“Oh, don’t be happy for me, I hate my work. It’s a burden. I bear this only that others may not have to.”
“And when does this great volume, this tome, this wondrous work from the master of beer tasting come out?”
“Ah, I feel like shit.” Standing up, he bent at the knees. “Oh, oh!” is all he could manage. Stumbling a few steps toward the bathroom, he stopped and said, “Oh!” again and then disappeared into the head.
I turned back to the bar and said to no one, “Thanks for the drama.”
Allen stood at the end of the bar, staring at a taped soccer game.
“Hey, Al, how goes it?”
“All right,” he answered not turning away from the game.
“How about another beer for my friend, here, Al?”
“Right, coming right over.”
Allen continued to stare up at the game. I waited to see how long it was going to take for him to serve his only two customers.
Millar sat back down next to me and said, “Whew that was a close one.”
“Spare me the details.” I tapped on the bar and said, “Al, how about that beer for my friend here?”
Allen grabbed a bottle, popped it open and walked over to us. Placing the bottle in front of Millar, he leaned down and stared in my face, his buggy eyes bulging out at me.
“My name is Allen, not fucking Al! You got that? Don’t ever call me Al or tap on my bar again, you got it?” His pallor was scarlet. Huge sweat stains outlined his armpits. The veins on his neck were popped out, making him look like a great snapping turtle.
I put my hands in the air and said, "Sorry."
Swaggering back the cash register and again taking his position beneath the TV, he propped his foot up on a milk crate, elbow on his knee, and stared at the soccer game.
“What the heck was that?” I asked.
Millar just shook his head. “Too many vitamins.”
“Too many roids.”
Millar leaned in and whispered, “Don’t worry about old Allen. I got a fix on him.” Then he winked and turned toward the kitchen doorway. Manuel, the day cook looked at Millar and nodded. He then carried a ramekin perched on a small plate over to the bar.
“What’s this?” I heard Allen inquire.
“Chocolate pudding. 70% cocoa. No sugar, no dairy. Made with soy milk, just the way you say.”
Allen managed a smug smile, nodded to Manuel and turned back to his game.
Millar whispered to me, "He gets a shot of that, he’ll be cleansed for days.” A rumbling chortle rose from his chest, followed by a fit of coughing.
I squirmed on my stool. “Why would you want to do that?”
“The fucker deserves it. I had Manuel put some laxatives in there. I’ve seen my cousin do the same thing. It’s funny.”
I wasn’t laughing.
“How do I know you won’t do the same to me?” I asked.
“You aren’t a prick. Manuel can’t stand him, either. He’s a prick to the whole kitchen staff.”
“How has he managed to keep his job, if he’s so unpopular?”
“Cousin to the owner or something, I don’t know.” Millar lost some of his humor as he stared at the ramekin of laxative pudding. “Just enough to teach him a lesson.”
I took a swig of my ale. “It’s only a lesson if he knows he’s getting it and who it’s from.”
“You want me to tell him? Oh, I’ll tell him, right after his third trip to the john.”
“That’s cold, man.”
“Yeah, but ain’t life a bitch?” Millar wiped the top of his fresh beer bottle on a sleeve and took a long slug. We surreptitiously watched the ramekin for a while and finally I asked, “What can you tell me about The Fat Man, Frank?”
“I told you all I know.”
“He’s a member of an online astrology club, and that’s it?”
“I can make some inquires if you want. Ask some of the other members about him.”
“That’d be good, Mill. This guy is turning out to be a freak, and I want to know if I should just walk away.”
Mill poked me in the ribs. “Oh, shit!”
Allen dipped a spoon into the pudding. Mill rumbled into muted laughter. I got up, finished my brew, put some money on the bar and turned to Mill.
“Let me know what you find out about The Fat Man, will you?”
Mill’s attention shot back to me for a second. “Huh? Oh, yeah, the group thing. I’ll ask around.”
I thanked him, and glanced at Allen just as he placed the empty pudding container on a kitchen tray. Then I walked out of the bar.

In my darkened bedroom, I spread the yellowed newspaper on the floor in front of me and laid down on my stomach to look at it. I couldn’t shake the image of Frank lying on his bed, his fat fingers joined over his bloated belly, eyes half closed as if he’d been saturated in opiates. Images of his room, and the hallway crowded with boxes, his fat pet cat rubbing on my pant leg, flooded my mind. Momentarily lost in these images, the tinny sound of blood dripping onto the paper brought me back to awareness. As I put a finger to my nostril, a sharp jolt of pain flashed through the center of my brain. I lost my orientation, and was swept into a vision.

Surrounding me were dark shadows, back lit in a moonless night. Trees framed the outline of a wooded clearing. Children laughing and talking unintelligibly echoed through the field. The sounds of water splashing, feet kicking, and another splash informed me of the direction I would take. In front of me, shadowy forms moved on gray horizon lines. A voice called,
“Frank, stop it!”
Instantly, I was in the pond. The coolness of rippling water caressed my ears and mouth. A small face appeared in front of me. Carole? I wanted to ask, but no voice would come from my throat.
“Frank, cut it out!”
I see the girl in the water. A shadow takes her under. The water moves slowly in circles round and round the pond and I fight to stay afloat. The vortex is pulling her under. She is choking, coughing, fighting for her life. Her struggle engulfs me and I take in the same water. My mouth opens and water pours in and fills my throat and sinus, drowning my senses in her screams. I am consumed in the echoes of her struggle. Then a quiet stillness, a dark figure standing on the shore. Slowly, I swim forward where banking meets the water. He is there, looking down on me, but I cannot see his face, only a mask blackness shaped vaguely in horror and disbelief. I rise up, floating far above the pond. Water gushes from my nose and mouth and I struggle to breath. The dark figure glares at me. Ignited in ruby red, the eyes follow me as I rise above the trees, far above the field and into the cold blackness beyond.
When I awoke, my nose was still dripping blood. I rolled onto my back on the bed and put an old t-shirt to my face. The trobbing in my head was slowly dissipating and when I recovered enough from this frightening dream state, I opened my eyes and found the newspaper. Slowly I turned the pages until I stopped on the obituary section. There I found mention of a young girl who’d drowned in a back woods swimming hole near the town of Manchester, New Hampshire. She was seven years old at the time and her name was Carole Cosh. The drowning details were not listed, but at the bottom of the column it read: She is survived by her Mother, Janet, her Father, Franklin and her older brother, Frank, Jr.
Could this be another of Frank’s relatives? Was this in fact, his sister? And if she were already dead, why would Frank tell me he feared for her life?

Peter the rabbit bore no resemblance to a real rabbit beyond its long elliptical ears and buck teeth. I wasn’t even sure rabbits had buck teeth, but they fit the face well. I pulled him toward me and gently rubbed the very convincing gold colored eyes. They were smooth glass, cold and secured tightly to the face. The fur was matted on the belly and back and almost completely gone on the sides. I searched the seams for any breaks in the stitching. On back of its head, I felt for any holes, rips or tears. I found nothing out of the ordinary. The rabbit was clean. “I’ve frisked a thousand young rabbits.” I said out loud thinking, of the line spoken by the corrupt policeman in The Godfather. I held a cold cloth to my nose and wondered what had sent me off into dream land. Had it been the newspaper? Or was it Peter the rabbit doing his job, as Frank had almost predicted? Either way, for some reason unknown to me, for the first time, I was able to conjure dreams at will. Well, not really at will, pretty much whenever they wanted to come, but I was able to influence who they were about. And that was a major breakthrough.

to be continued...

Make'n Stew

Just a quick painting I'd done a while back. Fixn's for stew broth. Oil on canvas on baord. 9 x 12 2010

The Pequeña Señora

The two men dripped sweat after the short chase. They sat in the patrol car, hot and miserable, in the mid-day heat. Officer Barrett wrote in his log.

The prisoner looked up and smiled. “Hey hombre, they say if you breathe in the smoke of the burning Pequena plant you will come face to face with the demons that hold you back, keep hidden in a world of shadows, far away from the life you truly should be. You know what I’m talking about?

Officer Barrett kept writing in his book and did not look up.

The prisoner continued: “You know, that gentle nibble, the irritation gnawing at your soul.”

Officer Barrett wiped sweat from his brow with a white handkerchief, and glanced in the rear view mirror at his prisoner.

“You got illegal plants, Golton?” Barrett asked.

“Illegal? That plant? No. Extinct in the wild, very endangered world wide.”

“Extinct huh?”

“The smoke sets you on a journey you wouldn’t believe. You like to try?”

“I know you don’t have anything on you, unless it crawled out your ass.”

“I know where to get it. Close by.”

“I don’t smoke amigo. But you keep talking like this, I’ll book you on more than just being a public nuisance and intoxication, understand?”

“I can get it for you now. You see what it can do.”

“Did wonders for you, huh?” Officer Barrett chuckled as he wrote in his log.

“You see what I mean? I have an offer for you that could change your life and all you can do is write in your police book. Why don’t you look around, Hombre? People are living other people’s lives.”

Barrett glanced in the side mirror for oncoming traffic and merged quickly onto the single lane highway from the shoulder.

Golton made a clucking sound with his tongue and rested his head against the back cruiser door. The desert heat penetrated the car and washed over the men in rippling waves.

“Hey Hombre, how about turning up the air in this bucket?”

“Don’t worry about it; we’ll be at headquarters in fifteen minutes.”

“You telling me you don’t have air?”

Barrett said nothing.

Golton kicked the seat and slumped down.

“You kick that seat again and I’ll close your window.”

The two men stared at each other in the mirror.

Golton hummed quietly the Spanish song, De Colores as he turned away and looked out the window.

Distant, low mountains tops gleamed in the desert sun. Sequoia cacti dotted the sparse landscape. The occasional tumble weed blew across the dusty road.

“I see a few lonely plants out there, Hombre. But none like the Pequena. She has the most beautiful flowers of any plant, more beautiful than the cactus flower. I can take you to see it.”

Barrett smiled into the mirror. Golton frowned. “Hey, these cuffs are hurting my wrists. Why don’t you fix them at the next stop?”

“Next stop for you is the jail.”

“Before that.”

Barrett started to roll up the rear window.

“No, no! Please the air is all I need!”

The rear windows rolled back down and Barrett smiled into the rear view mirror.

Golton Nodded. “You have a heart, Amigo.”

They sat in silence for a mile or so. Golton coughed and sighed, then said, “The first time I tried the plant, it was such a beautiful day. It was at my Cousin Celia’s house in the back yard. We sat under some trees there and she pulled out the little dried piece of the Pequena. The air was thin and dry that day, too. Some clouds were trying to roll in from the foothills, but the sun was keeping away. Celia, she lit this little twig and pulled a shawl over us to breath in the smoke. I coughed and choked, Amigo. Oh, man my throat closed up and I could hardly breathe. But, that was when I saw her. She came to me under that tree. She appeared to me first from a cloud and took the shape of a beautiful woman with long flowing gowns. She had flowers in her hair. . I said to her, ‘Where do you come from?’ And do you know she looked right at me and her eyes sparkled, little silver sparkles like tiny bits of sun came from her eyes. ‘I have always been with you,’ she says. Then she spread her wings and covered me, she took me in her arms and…”

Barrett looked at Golton in the rear view mirror.

“She took you for a ride, huh?”

“No man, she made me see. I saw my life the way it should have been instead of all the way it is now. I was a different person. I was me, but a better me. Different…”

Barrett pulled his aviator glasses down his nose a bit and glanced at Golton. “Yeah, you weren’t a screw up anymore? That’s rich. Most drug trips just kill a few thousand brain cells, right amigo?”

Golton looked out the window. “You wouldn’t understand even if I told you the whole story. You would just laugh. People like you always laugh at people like me.”

“Laugh at drug addicts? I’m not laughing at you Golton, I’m laughing with you, you and your story.”

Golton began to cough. He gagged and choked and tried to catch his breath. Barrett pulled off to the side of the road and got out of the patrol car. Opening the back seat door, he leaned in to see to Golton, when the spray hit him squarely in the face. Barrett shot straight back and put his fingers to his nose and wiped. A fine dark purple power covered his finger tips. The earth began to spin. Round and round it went until he could no longer hold on, until he staggered back and fell.

“I forgot to tell you, Amigo, it comes in powdered form, too.” Golton laughed.

Barrett was rigid on the ground. His body convulsed once, and then went limp.

“Oh, shit, Amigo. Don’t die on me now. I still have to get you off the road.” Golton dragged Barrett around the back side of the cruiser and lay him face down in the dirt. He removed the keys to the cuffs and unlocked them from his wrists. “These hurt me, Amigo. For that you will pay.”

Gloton went trough the deputy’s pockets and found cigarettes and matches and lit one up. In the front seat he found a bottle of water and drank his fill. Water droplets tickled his nose and he rubbed his fingers under his nose and wiped. When he pulled his fingers back he saw they were purple. “No!” He said out loud and looked in the rear view mirror. The purple was in his nostrils and on his fingers. “Shit, shit!” Golton wiped his face on the deputy’s shirt. He found Barrett’s hanky and used it in each nostril, but it was too late.

Golton looked far across the desert plane and as far as he could see, a small dark cloud lingered in the distance. But soon that cloud was rising up. And he could see her coming. On a galloping cloud she rode. Her teeth bright white and clenched, her hair flowing back into the wind. In an instant she was there. Her wind horse screamed and the dust flew up into his face. She sat on the thundering horse cloud as it reared up before him. Her shadow cast him in darkness and the wind blinded him with sand. “Please leave me now! Please help me!”

She leaned forward on the swirling mass and spread her wings.
“Forgive me mother soul! I am a wicked man! Please. I know I have not done what I am supposed to do. I have failed you! Please!”

Her voice ran through him as an electric current would tickle skin. It yanked and pulled his flesh, yet was a smooth and comforting. A voice other worldly in gravity and charm. A voice that grounded him pinned him to the floor of the Earth and opened him as a frog on a dissection table. “You are. No more or less than eternal truth has created you.” She said. And it all went black.

A buzz reached is ear and pulled him through a dark tunnel back into the light. The voice was harsh and hard to understand. Then it came back to him that he was human and had ears and could hear and understand these words. “Come on, get your ass out of the car, I said!” Barrett pulled Golton from the car and steadied him as they walked to the police station door. Golton strained to open his eyes. They stung and felt filled with sand as he tried to concentrate on Barrett’s commands.

“I don’t know what stunt you pulled on me, Golton. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you get away with it. Assault on an officer is a serious charge!”

“Hey, Amigo. I’m glad to see you’re all right. I thought maybe you had a bad accident or something. Last I saw you, you were lying by the side of the road.” Golton said, as they made their way to the processing room. Barrett sat Golton at a chair and cuffed his hands to the table there.

“Hey, Amigo. Have I told you about the Pequena, the lady in the wind? She comes to me and tells me when things are going to happen.

“Yeah? Did she tell you you’re gonna spend a few days in lock up?” Barrett said as he filled out a form.

Another voice charged the air. “Barrett, what the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing, Sarg. I got the wind knocked out of me is all. Damn little prick hit me with some kind of spray.”

“Yes. Yes, she tells me many things, Amigo.” Golton said out loud but not so loud as to be heard.

"Well, you look like shit." The voice said. "Barrett? Barrett!"

Golton still could not see, but he heard now a banging, a fall. Men scuttled toward him and then to Barrett. They said things like, “Get the EMT’s. And, “Put his feet up.” He heard the chest compressions being performed. More men scuttling back and forth and the far off siren as it raced across the desert toward them.

“Hey, Amigo? Are you still there?”

A voice called, “Somebody get him out of here!” And Golton was being led to a cell. The blurry path to the back was lined in tan uniforms and shiny guns and badges as the whirling sounds of life and death played out in back of him.

“Amigo. Don’t fight it, Amigo. I see now what she told me. Yes, she told me she was coming. For you, I guess. I thought it was me. But she covered me with her wings. It must have been you, Amigo. You! You see? The Pequena Senora, she never lies. I told you, Amigo. She sends you on a trip, eh?” Golton laughed and coughed. “A trip, eh?”

Golton grew suddenly tired and rested his head on the bench in his cell. The sirens were there now, just outside his door, but they could not keep him awake. They could not bring him back. He fell slowly into the desert's swirling winds, covered only by her wings. Protecting him from all that will ever be.

The End
Disclaimer: The Pequena Senora is NOT a real plant, it is not used to get high or smoke or ingest in any way and does not make you high. No drugs or plants should be used for any kind of ingestion. This story is fiction.