Story Stuffs:

• 2010-11's Great Bamboo Ridge Short-Short Story Contest Entries:
  • July 2010 entry: "To Bend Air"
    Scott's arguing the last master hasn't been born. Second to last, maybe, but never the last. "Like saimin, brah. Always be
    more. If every noodle shop on earth doesn't fold, noodles will happen."

    We're at a Kalihi ramen place. I'm hungry and order another bowl. They say they've run out of noodles.

    Scott laughs. "Just no more noodles tonight. Doesn't mean no noodles ever again."

    Next day I go back. I imagine they'll say they thought it was made clear last night: No more noodles. Ever.

    Wonderfully, they serve me steaming saimin, and the air bends in waves above it.

  • August 2010 entry: "A New Lease"
    Interviews were in-person only. I met him at Manoa Starbucks, an elderly Japanese gentleman wearing a Sakamoto for Lt.
    Governor T-shirt. When I mentioned I'd recently lost my wife, he stood and led me outside. We drove to a mansion on the
    west slope of Manoa Valley.

    The room was enormous. I asked about all the empty clothing racks.

    "My wife," he said. "This would have been her closet. She loved dresses. Do you like jazz?"

    I nodded.

    "Good." He smiled for the first time. "At night, I play jazz. I hope this will not be a problem."

  • September 2010 entry: "Going Home"
    I hobbled off the bus, my artificial hips giving me their usual grief from sitting still too long. Looking toward the huge
    double gate at the end of the bright white gravel pathway, I saw him, waiting for me.

    Vigor. He'd outlived his son, my father. Even at this distance, I could see his ageless, smiling face. The blood came back
    into my stride. Speeding up, I waved to the man who'd shaped my early life with endless summers of swimming, fishing, and
    laughter.

    I'd been away a long time.

    I shouted, "Open up the gates, Grampa, I'm coming home."

  • October 2010 entry: "A Kind of Escher Thing"
    Begin raking. Nutgrass! Return to house for weeder. Nutgrass eliminated. Continue raking leaves together. No trash bag.
    Retrieve trash bag from house and load it.

    This bush needs pruning. Back to house for pruning shears. Back to house for another trash bag. Back to . . .

    Next morning new fallen leaves cover the lawn I'd raked. Still, the bush has not grown back its limbs, and the nutgrass
    hasn't resprouted.

    Yet.

    More and more, the less progress I make in everything -- with the finding of myself not just not finishing -- but always
    back at the beginning in the end.

  • November 2010 entry: "Four on the Floor"
    Dad clutches, "First" . . . "Second" . . . "Third," and I shift from the "death seat." On H1, we'll fly into fourth.

    The first three times his black '64 Impala's stolen, it's undamaged. He parks right outside our front door to keep an eye
    on his baby.

    Today it's storming. We're in the car waiting for a break in the downpour. Suddenly my dad throws open his door. Slam! I
    look. A neighbor boy's down on all fours. Dad offers a mechanical hand.

    "I'm okay," he mumbles, bleeding. Rocking upright, he wobbles off.

    Dad closes the door. "He steals my car," he says, nodding.

  • December 2010 entry: "Three Worlds"
    "The water's surface isn't a world. It's an in-between. Like . . . ." He drags on his cigarette, exhales a steady stream
    of smoke. "Like an almost something that's really nothing. A nearly nothingness that lies between the above and the below."

    We're on the edge of the quarry pond. He stoops, looking into the water. "A cloud shimmering on the still pool . . . a
    fish stirs under the water. You remember that one?"

    "I do."

    "It's an ellipsis, a breath between, separating the two. The third world -- it's ours. Us. It's us looking at the trees'
    reflections, the leaves, a fish."

  • Final entry for 02/03/11: "Mother of Mercy! Is this the end of Rico?"
    This was when The Willows was fresh, dark. I was four. Our Sunday family ritual.
    Me and my burger and fries.

    My parents voices went low; their whispers ran high. Back and forth with
    intensity. Finally mom turned to him.

    "Are you Edward G. Robinson?"

    "Why, yes, ma'am, I am."

    "Oh my God!"

    "And who might you be?"

    "I'm Chris. This is my husband. Our daughter. Our son."

    He reached over and plucked me from my chair. "And a fine looking boy he is,
    ma'am," he said, tousling my hair and bouncing me on his knee.

    Me and Eddie G.

• 2011's Great Bamboo Ridge Fishing & Wishing 100 - 100 Contest Entries:
  • March 2011 entry: "Fading Away" (1142 words)

  • April 2011 entry: "One Devil in Baggy Pants" (502 words)

  • May 2011 entry: "No Going Back" (287 words)

• Read Guy's latest poem.

• One love story.

• One for Lia.

• Love is . . . busting open one can of tomato soup and forcing your kid for down um, choke sodium an all. Well, at least you went heat um up, right?

• Hal! Al! Hal! Al! Hal! Al! . . . Hell! Shut up already! Mahalo . . . Banzai!

• One dog story .
  

  "Fool! Do you not recognize me?"

  Abarenbo Shogun

• Da Legend of Fort Binky: Introduction (18 KB) . Way strange story! Da editor guy said was one magnetic opossum or someting li'dat. Maybe going make your brain cells burn little bit, but if you like read, chance um.
  • Like go more deep? Try Part II(26 KB) .

  • Get even more time fo'kill? Geev'um wit Part III(9.2 KB) .

  • Not past your bedtime yet? Let Part IV(11KB) knock you out.

  • Too much caffeine? Go at Part V (11 KB) .

  • Not snoozin? Keep cruisin wit Part VI (19 KB) .

  • Or say "Heck wit da old stuffs, what's da latest news at da Fort?": Part VII .

HOME