The Rhythm of the Stone: Collateral Damage

By James Halister Bird III

They found him in a field half out of his mind after the whole thing went down. He still has headaches. His best friend Anthony was there too and he feels responsible. It was his idea. He tried to keep Michael from running into the field after it happened but he couldn’t. He still has a cast on his left leg. Anthony does not like the stories in the newspapers either. The articles informed us he was a gang banger. He is not. The last time I spoke with Anthony he had plans for leaving Colorado once he heals. I want to tell their story and mine, I was there. Let me tell you how I met Michael and Anthony and why I worked hard to defend them. I’m not a lawyer or anything but I did have time for a side project. I’m also going to tell you how I fell in love. It happened on the same day I ran into Michael and Anthony.

Funny how things work out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Halister Bird III
• Release date: Dec 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311626097

James Halister Bird III

James H. Bird (Hal) spent over twenty years as a Technical Writer and manager, he is a published songwriter and subject matter articles. Born in Georgia, a graduate of Georgia Southern University and as a ‘military brat’ he has a variety of employment and life experiences. His passion is historical fiction and the research this category involves. His writing style is a humorous cynic and southern charm. He is also a student of the human condition. Mr. Bird’s influences include Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, H.L.M. Mencken, Bill Bryson, Jon Meacham and the public library. He loves history of the weird and other mostly unknown facts. He currently lives in Tennessee and goes by the name Hal.Hal enjoys music starting out annoying his parents and anyone’s ear shot with a beat up drum kit. After a raucous rock and roll life, he ditched the sticks for picks, began playing the guitar at eighteen, and hasn’t put one down since. He has also noodled around on a banjo, Dobrobanjo, mandolin, doghouse bass and slide guitar. He tried a fiddle once but he fled in terror believing he had murdered a cat...He likes to write, cook, learn, explore, travel and meet interesting people. Hal has a wicked sense of humor and enjoys a good laugh and making others laugh.He sincerely appreciates everyone that follows his work.

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The Rhythm of the Stone

Collateral Damage

By

James Halister Bird III

Rhythm of the Stone

Collateral Damage

By James Halister Bird III

Copyright 2015 James Halister Bird III

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Table of Contents

Squeezing the Grape

Denver Express

Conquistadors and Freedom Fighters

Monstrous Hamster

Froggy and Beans

The Rhythm of the Stone

Firebird

The Thing I Fear the Most

World’s Greatest Grandmother

The Staggering Man

Means of Defense

There was no Answer

Manicured Man

Generalissimo

Fred Teller

Letters

About the Author

Squeezing the Grape

I talked to Michael Darnay a couple of days after it happened.

Michael had remained in the hospital for nearly a week. I did not know him then. Now I do. Many people do. He feels awful, Michael says. He still gets headaches, and has nightmares after reading bad stories about himself in the newspaper about the people he killed and how many got hurt. Some were injured very badly. The news article said he was running with a bad crowd. He was not.

They found him in a field half out of his mind after the whole thing went down.

His best friend Anthony was there too and feels responsible, only because it was his idea. He tried to keep Michael from running into the field after it happened but couldn’t. As a result, Anthony still has a cast on his left leg. He doesn’t like the stories in the newspapers as they imply Anthony was a gang banger. He isn’t. That was the last straw. During our last conversation, Anthony said he had plans for leaving Colorado once he heals.

Anyway… I want to tell their story and mine; after all, I was there. I’ll start with how I met Michael and Anthony and why I worked hard to defend them.

To be clear - I’m not a lawyer or anything but did have time for a side project. I’ll also tell you how I fell in love. It happened the same day I ran into Michael and Anthony.

Funny how things work out.

For a bit of background: It was a lousy time for me as a freelance writer in Boulder, Colorado, working against deadlines set by a fool. I was squeezing the grape and did not like any of it. The managers wanted the writing done fast. Hard to do your best when you know the end is coming.

It is the job of a freelance writer to do one’s best or business will dry up. The attitude changes though; lots of things change. Contractors are like company pets. I became part of the family… but now I have to leave. Kind of like looking at your goldfish, belly up in dirty water.

To be honest, I’m not bitter. That’s how freelancing works. When you bought the goldfish you knew one day it would go belly up. My year in Boulder will be over by the end of the holiday season. That’s bad enough, now this on top of everything else. It made me sad.

I always feel sad when I have to say goodbye. There are many sad people during the holidays. always feel a dreadful year, there will be more. This is why I was feeling lousy. And very soon, I had to once again start looking for work. At the moment, I have a couple of prospects but neither of them are terribly interesting. But it is harder now to find work. People are scared to do anything with strangers.

Back to the story.

I was greeted by cool autumn wind after leaving the office; it rushed through the nearly bare trees with a sound like a wave of applause. The signs of holiday sales and Halloween celebrations seem contrived now after the world changed. I used to like the fall - gusty and warm in the sun when the leaves dance in the wind. Merchants try to cheer us… but there is no cheer. This year feels different, as if I was just going through the motions. Wounds will do that.

Still walking quickly, I crossed the red-bricked pedestrian mall littered with swirling leaves of gold, red, purple and brown. Shops, bars, cafes lined each side of the mall with unkempt planters of flowers now scraggly twigs and bare trees in a neat line down the middle. The wind burped with stop-and-start gusts, the kind that makes you walk like a drunkard after that last unfortunate drink. A line of high of slate-gray clouds tumbled down the mountain with a mutter and groan of faint thunder.

About then, a mounted police officer rode by on a chestnut stallion. The horse’s muscles twitched when walking, his hooves landing heavily on the bricked pedestrian mall. Clomp… clomp… clomp. The cop wore a black cowboy hat and eyed everyone. The police were everywhere these days. Not in a menacing way more like the ever present guards of a sacred tomb.

It was four o'clock, I had time before the 5:15 bus to Denver. I plodded along, hunched against the gusts, hands in my pocket, shoulder case bouncing against a hip, toward the Irish pub, a block from the station.

I walked past nice bookstores, stopped and took a moment to critique my reflection in the windows.

Dark side of forty still in good shape, six two in shoes, long legged, and broad shouldered. Not bad. Longish, fine brown hair fluttered in the wind. Okay… I’m on the dark side of forty, still in good shape, six-two in shoes, long-legged, and broad shouldered. Not bad. Longish, fine brown hair fluttered in the wind around a mustachioed square face, brown eyes and slanted smile. I shifted my attention to another bookstore and noticed the window was packed with new releases. Cool… I shuffled closer while putting on my reading glasses on to read the dust jackets. Long ago, flickering computer screens, website-designing, writing endless manuals and editing others’ work totally ruined my eyes. My ex-girlfriend said the glasses made me look intelligent. Whatever.

Disappointing. The titles on display were the usual stories but outdated, written in a different time before the world changed. Not many will care much about self-help, or dieting and sugar free cookies or a dreamy fantasy.

The newspapers and books will be about a world of reality and fantasy, something surreal. They will be a mixture of the unfathomable too-real horror with themes of patriotism and bravery and failed policy. The stories will also discuss boots on the ground, bombs and our angry new president from Texas. This is what the people want now. Sigh. I waved goodbye to my reflection and moved on.

The Irish pub was not crowded. My ears and nose stung from the chill. I ordered a beer and a whiskey from the bartender and sat up front in an inglenook between the fireplace and a big window. Fortunately, I had this corner to myself. Irish music whispered through the house sound system. The sun shone low through the picture window withy clouds poised to chase the sun below the horizon.

Outside, a row of small maples shook off their golden leaves as a retriever would after a swim in a lake. The blue gray Flatiron Mountains jutted up and over Boulder, framed by the big window, a storm rolling down like a slow avalanche. I wanted to climb them. From high in the air, on a clear day, Boulder looks like an accumulation of rubble that slipped down these mountains. Heaped up in neat geometric mounds, its streets are runoffs for great streams of snowmelt. I like it here.

I settled on a high stool before an all-too familiar tall table with uneven legs, retrieved a newspaper from my shoulder case, turned the pages into the sunlight and leaned on my elbow to read. Not surprisingly, the stories were more of the same grim news of that awful day nearly a month ago of airplanes crashing into tall New York buildings. I had been to those buildings. Now they are rubble. It was on everyone’s mind. The digging, constant digging, with machines now. Human touch was futile. Even the dogs gave up. Now it’s about war, showing tanks and armored personnel carriers streaming across desert sands. This terrible deed was done by the same damn people who took our embassy in 1979. Well, sort of. The attack didn’t come from any particular country, of course, but from the type of people who despise western thought and culture.

After a while, a young waitress appeared. I had seen her many times. They know me here. I