I have no idea how I was able to post those links in the sidebar when I put this blog together 4 years ago, but I can't anymore! Anyway, here is a link to my story "The Floor Champion of Foosball" on Identity Theory: http://www.identitytheory.com/fiction/hall_foosball.php

I haven't been updating this blog much recently, since I've decided not to post from the novel until it's done, but I couldn't resist posting this little pic. Taken in Oaxaca City, Oaxaca.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, when I google Fred Armell (who many of you know is a real person, and not just a character in my prologue) I find a link to a website that says this "... Caucasian crow you better saddle up your Equus caballus, and Fred Armell, you better weave your ticker cause were goin to the Viking barroom! .." Compare to my line: White Crow you'd better saddle up your horse and Fred Armell, you better wind your watch 'cause we're goin to the Viking Bar! When I click on the link, though, there's nothing about it on the site.

What gives?

Anyway, I know I haven't been doing too well with updating this blog. The novel is coming along pretty well but I decided not to post any more of it-- it's changed a lot, and it keeps changing.

By the way, the names have been changed. Sorry Fred!

Hey, everybody, I'll be reading at Dog Eared Books this Thursday, May 31st at 8 pm. Dog Eared is in San Francisco at 900 Valencia in the Mission. Hope to see you there.

UPDATES!!!



I know, I know, I've been terribly behind the damn times. Some new news: I'm in graduate school. I finished the first draft of my novel, but I'll be damned iF that's not enough. You actually have to keep going until you finish a FINAL draft. I'm not posting from the novel right now because it's in such a state of upheaval. However, my short story "The Quadfather" is soon to be published at www.somalit.com. It's a real heartwarmer, folks, about an attendant to a perverted and inappropriate quadroplegic.

Also I'll be reading at an event called "Babble-On" at Dog Eared Books in San Francisco. More on this later.

I'm not reading, but I made the poster!

UPCOMING READING!

InsideStoryTime Reading Series presents:

ENEMIES

June 15th, 7-9 pm

RICKSHAW STOP, SAN FRANCISCO

For more info, visit: www.insidestorytime.com

-Chapter Two-

SORRY! THIS CHAPTER'S BEEN REMOVED!

UPCOMING READING!

Kerouac Project Writer in Residence,

Carrie Hall, will be reading on

THURSDAY, APRIL 27TH at 8 p.m.
at the DMAC in Orlando
39 S. Magnolia Avenue

visit: www.dmacorlando.blogspot.com for more info

--Chapter One (Part Two) --

SORRY-THIS CHAPTER'S BEEN REMOVED!

BECAUSE OF HOW THIS BLOGGER BUISNESS WORKS, THE STORIES WILL BE POSTING BACKWARDS, THAT IS TO SAY, THE MOST RECENT CHAPTERS WILL BE AT THE TOP.

SORRY-THIS CHAPTER'S BEEN REMOVED!

-Prologue-


At its neck, the Mississippi isn't mighty. It’s weak and it’s slow. You could toss a rock from one side to the other. You could crawl just as fast as its current. Up north, there's no indication that the river is relentless enough to slink another two thousand miles. No hint that the mud could carry anything from Minnesota to the sea.

In the hours before dawn of the first day of spring, snow smothered grass that fought to survive and thin branches broke under ice and fell. The only sign of thaw was the river, which had begun to murmer like a sleeping child.


A Lakota named Dog Soldier, a Dakota named Fred Armell, an Ojibwe named Ruth Little Wounded and a white guy named Crow all sat around a pile of unlit twigs by the riverbank and stared wistfully at the branches, as though trying to wish them into flame. Fred twirled a dead cigarette between his fingers, occasionally bringing it to his lips and back down again. A watch, tattooed on his left wrist, always read 11:45. The rest of his arms were covered with the same style of prison tattoo: "born to lose," "love," "mom," and "hate," scrawled on him, bruise blue and haphazard, as if by a drunk. A woman on all fours was sketched on the soft flesh inside his elbow, with the words "sock it to me" written beneath her.

Dog Soldier, an enormous man with long greasy hair and coke bottle glasses, opened a paper book of matches and ran his calloused thumb over the tips.

"Don't do it," said Ruth. "Those cops find us down here burning a fire, they'll drag us downtown and forget all about us Indians." She grinned. She was always grinning at the strangest times, not embarrassed of the many teeth she was missing, but proud of the half dozen that remained in her mouth.

"The pretty one," she pointed a long finger at Crow, "the pretty one, they'll let him go, but us they'll lock up."

Crow ran his soft hands through his sandy hair and looked up from the frozen twigs with the same profound expression of one who's lost themselves looking into a fire. He was twenty years old and had the chiseled face of a Greek statue or an underwear model. He’d forsaken his given name, Johnathan Casey Smithson, after he'd left his parents' home two years before. On his right forearm was a tattoo of a circle segmented into quarters—one white, one black, one yellow and one red, which he meant to signify the four directions as well as the four races of man. The tattoos on his left forearm, silhouettes of flying birds, running deer and lumbering bear, were much darker black than Fred's.

"It's true," Crow said dreamily. "Racism runs deep. They would lock you away just for trying to warm yourself by the fire."

"They would rather have you live in the towers," he threw his hand toward the hi-rise apartments up the hill from the river. "They would rather have you take their welfare money and live up in one of those air-conditioned, heated boxes than to warm yourself by a simple fire." He took a twig from his side, snapped it in half and threw it on the pile, then pulled his shirtsleeves down over his arms and hugged himself.

"They walk by the trees every day, but they don't see them. They walk by the river, but they don't realize that the flowing water actually helps them survive. They hide from life and they hide from death." He picked up a dead bird from the snow at his feet.

"This," he shouted, "is li..."

"Welp," Fred giggled, looking at his wrist, "'s a quarter to twelve—time for a smoke!" He grabbed the book of matches from Dog Soldier and lit his cigarette, glancing at the twigs, then the tiny flame, before he dropped the lit match in the snow.

"You got another one of those?" Ruth held out her hand.

"Cigarettes all around!" Fred cheered. "Cigarettes for all my friends! And the rest a you guys!"

"This is not astute," said Dog Soldier. It seemed that he was addressing his cigarette, which he held tenderly between thumb and forefinger. He always spoke as though reciting an important document from memory.

"Once we finish smoking our tobacco, the Mississippi will be nearly frozen. And so will we."

"Aah, lighten up," sang Fred as he slapped his own wrist. "'It's a quarter-ta-twelve! Time to go to the liquor store!"

Crow smiled wisely. "No need," he said. He pulled a plastic bottle from his jacket pocket. "I have a pint of whiskey right here."

"Well," Ruth grabbed the bottle and guzzled, "you're a regular white man, bringing the whiskey."

"Yeah," Fred adjusted the cowboy hat on his head. "That's mighty white of ya!" He swigged from the bottle and shoved it into Dog Soldier's hand. Dog Soldier took slow, graceful sips without visibly moving the muscles in his throat. He held the bottle to his lips for a long while, almost as if he were just resting it there, but by the time he handed it back to Crow, it was empty.

He stood up and steadied himself. "I am going home," he decreed.

"You don't have a home," cackled Ruth, flashing her six good teeth. "You're home-less!" She, Fred and Crow laughed. Dog Soldier nodded.

"To the reservation," he said.

"North Dakota?" Ruth hooted. "Say hi to my Grandma!"

"Yeah," said Fred, "we'll see ya at a quarter ta twelve!"

Dog Soldier leaned down and pressed his book of matches into Fred's hand.

"A quarter to twelve, my friend."

The two men shook hands then Dog Soldier turned and plodded up toward the city. Fred watched him sadly.

"Where do ya think he goes all night?" Ruth slurred.

"Walks around all night like an owl," Fred replied. "Probably would make it to South Dakota if he didn't walk in circles."

"Owls," Crow spoke into the pile of twigs, "don't walk around."

"S'at so?" Fred nodded. "Got any more a that whiskey, John Wayne? ' Skeepin me warm."

"I'm all out," Crow mourned.

"Allout?!" Fred looked genuinely shocked. He pondered the situation for a second, then bolted upright.

"Okaythen! Toothie Ruthie, you better put on yer best dress, White Crow you better saddle up your horse, and Fred Armell, you better wind your watch cause we're goin' to the Viking Bar!"

"Viking Bar!" Ruth jumped up.

"It's a quarter to twelve," Crow said. "Time for a drink!"

So the three of them tromped off together in the direction of the few city lights, swaying their heads back and forth like they were singing in chorus. Even though Dog Soldier was just a few steps ahead of them, he didn't look back.

The great river slid along like syrup.

SHE WAS KILLED BY BOOKS!!