Fiction and Poetry 3am Magazine Contact Links Submission Guidelines
Literature
Arts
Politics
Nonfiction
Music

 
   
 
 

Page 3



bus after about an hour. He got off in a high crime poverty-ridden area.

"Bye, Bye," Marty said to the bus driver.

The bus driver just nodded his head with squinty red eyes, and drove away from the curb, leaving Marty standing on Fifth street. Marty marched like a gimpy soldier down the street, staring at the massive brick rotted buildings. A car with thumping bass music drove by, and a passenger threw a milk shake at Marty's face. He wiped off the strawberry goo with his shirtsleeve, and ran after the car, huffing and puffing. The car disappeared in to the distance, with a middle finger sticking out of its window.

Scabby Granny had the cops at her house now. She was weeping to them about finding her precious Marty.

"He's not right in the head," she told them, as the cops scribbled down notes, reassuring her they would find him. The cops got back in their car.

"What a joke, we got better things to do then hunt down a grown man," one of the cops said to his partner."

"Ya, know kidding, lets go get some doughnuts and coffee," the other one said, crumpling up the police report, tossing it in the backseat.

Marty limped by a liquor store on Third Street, oblivious to the shoot out going on between cops and two masked gunmen in the liquor store.

"Birds, birds, birds" Marty mumbled to himself, staring up at the sky with his binoculars. A young kid peddled by on a bike, almost plowing into Marty.

"Watch it chump," the kid said, spitting at him.

Marty limped on, dragging his sore ankle, looking out for birds. A greasy looking man with a hooded sweatshirt was leaning against a run down apartment building, smoking a cigarette.

"Hey, hey, come ere for a sec fella," the man said, in a raspy voice.

Marty walked up to him, getting real close to his face.

"What?"

"You wanna buy some rock? Good shit man, only the best for you,"

"I don't like rocks, I like birds, but sometimes I skip rocks in the creek."

"You got any money? I'm telling ya, this shit will make you fly."

"I got money, I always told Grandma I would fly some day."

"You all fucked up, ain't ya fella? You one of the biggest mo fuckers I ever laid eyes on. Come on, follow me, we gonna go fly."

"Ok," Marty said, following the man into the apartment complex.

They walked up to the fourth floor and the man gave two quick knocks, then three fast ones, on a door.

"Who the fuck is it?" a voice asked. "It's me bitch, open up."

A skinny man with huge pupils and a gun in hand unlocked the door.

"Who da hell is he?" the man questioned.

"Chill out, he's cool, he wants to fly."

"Get yo stupid ass in here," the man said, locking the door after them.

"Sit yo fat ass down, you make me nervous," the skinny man said.

Marty sat down on a chair; the chair collapsed and Marty fell to the floor, as a cockroach ran by.

The two men started laughing at him. "Goofy looking fucker, ain't he?" the man with the hooded sweatshirt said.

"Got dat right, shit," the other man said, still cackling.

Marty got up, and sat on a mold-smelling couch.

"How much this punk ass want?"

"You still wanna fly? Hey fella?"

"Yes sir," Marty said

"Gimmee some money then, fat boy."


Previous Page       Next Page
Copyright © 2001 3 A.M. PUBLISHING ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
www.3ampublishing.com
Page: 1 2
3
4