Stories of the Flea | by tyson moore

Daudi Rainmaker - Up the Coast

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 18:55:16 GMT

Travelling with the Daudi part 3 : Up the Coast

where Daudi and the gnomes break into the San Diego home of his sister - Mekkhala, start a fire, and convince her to join them in Los Angeles for a special engagement with their brother

with photo review and guest photographer - Phil Gibbs

"First, we had to set her house on fire. Yeah. Can you believe that? This is how Madaam’s plans usually went. She might as well be working for the Phoenix. It is common knowledge that my sister has electrical problems. Sometimes the ON switch for the toaster gets stuck or a piece of aluminum makes it into the microwave.

Surprisingly, aggressive music is her living. Usually this involves some sort of electric interface. For her, however, she plays acoustic guitar and percussions while singing bombastic lyrics. She was the underground influence to rap music back in the days of acoustic blues. Bob Dylan and Freddie Mercury saw her live under two different pseudonyms in two different eras. She was a muse for both of them. Russel Simmons tried to sign her on the East Coast, but she refused. Instead she pointed him out to the whole Fresh Jive bunch, all of them inspired by her styles. On the West Coast she started a group called NWA and faded out before they cut an album. She bangs. Most recently she pointed a group called Korn out of Bakersfield into the rap rock fusion technique. I think Phoenix was a precursor to the lead. All the familial abuse is totally the Bird’s style. She also got on with Ani Difranco, but we don’t like to talk much about that."

Daudi Rainmaker - Through the Desert

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 18:31:37 GMT

Travelling with the Daudi part 2 : Through the Desert

where our hero, Daudi the Rainmaker, must travel across the dry deserts of Arizona, home of the Phoenix, to California and find out more of his secret mission

with photo review and guest photographer - Cameron Grant

"Colorado is so nice this time of the year I hated leaving it. The desert breeze blew steam into our lungs, a bonus for me, but not enough. Unnatural rain fell in the sky, evaporating before it hit the ground. I hate screwing with the order of the world. It is against the code. Although my direct action was not involved, my simple presence was an abnormality. You could see the streams coagulating hundreds of feet above our heads. We even got a double rainbow over tortured cracked rocks on the first day. I was getting nauseous and could barely see straight. It was dizzying. Jeeps are not known for their climate control. The girls found a silly audio book to keep me awake. They figured if my mind were occupied, my body would not care. It did."

Daudi Rainmaker - Over the Mountains

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 03:03:24 GMT

Travelling with the Daudi part 1
modern fantasy short story about Daudi Rainmaker, the half fae, who travels from Boulder to the Enchanted Forest in Durango for a secret mission | plus a photgraphy review of Maggie-Me

Traveling through the mountains this close to the solstice can be tricky, especially for me. The cycle of condensation and precipitation for you is a scientific explanation. To me it is a means from one place to another. It is not my only method. Like, say I need to get to the grocery store, I can walk like the rest of you or drive a car. Now, pretend I need to get over a mountain range and cut through a valley between them to a hideaway camp for the half fae folk. A car would do it. The emission faeries would be pleased. It would take a while and who wants to sit on leather seats for hours on end when you can fly. Ask a businessman. Flying is always quicker, even if it isn’t.

Saying I Love You

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 03:00:01 GMT

a prose form short story about expressing love in the post modern era after a long series of jaded experience | plus a photography review of Ryan Davis

"I am a member of the modern socially disaffected who has difficulty with traditional folkways that long ago lost their meaning. Among those that I question in the department of commitment are marriage, career, and saying “I Love You”. We no longer expect our marriages to last forever, which is obvious by our divorce rate. If we do, then we are as delusional as the burgeoning twenty something thinking they will keep the same job until they retire or the college graduate hoping for a future with a Philosophy degree. Recently, I have come into skepticism of my skepticism about saying “I Love You”.

The King of Eavesdrop and TwoSense

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 20:42:10 GMT

a short story by tyson moore about the faeries that use our ears and mouth to randomly speak and listen

"In my head there lives two other creatures beside myself. They whisper in my ears and speak with my mouth like the fabled lament of Rumi. They tell me what others are saying around me and force me to respond, although, I know, it is absolutely none of my business. It would not be so bad if it were not the most unusual quips that fall from my chords. I am left defending them, if the conversers wish to pursue the matter, or I am laughed at with a discomforted funny look that seems to ask, “Who is this guy? Do you know them?” Their partner returns with a glance of “I have no idea who he is. I thought maybe you did.” Then, the voices either speak again with something more bizarre or they remain silent, allowing me to speak for them, which usually leaves me worse than before."

The Good Fight

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 20:40:11 GMT

a character sketch / story about Samuel, a homeless UFO abductee, who ponders fighting the Good Fight against the Bads and Uglies in the inevitable aliens vs earth war that is secretly being fought in the media

"Samuel knew things. He saw things. People just thought he was another homeless bum begging for change to buy cheap 40s of malt liquor. They were wrong. He hated malt liquor. He did not even like beer all that much. He was a vodka man. He would drink beer if he had to. If the spanging was not lucrative that day, he would have to resort to the less than finer brews to dull his sensations of life. That was what life was all about, anyway - the ability to escape from it in an intoxicated haze. He had no insurance. He had no job. He had no way of getting a job at this point. He was too far gone. To compensate he kept going on the destructive path until it was a lifestyle. He felt no pity for himself and expected nobody to feel pity on him either. Unless, of course, it meant the difference between a bundle of pocket change and actual bills. He loved bills. They did not weigh him down as much as coins did. Even a gallon of Carlo Rossi weighed less than the pennies and dimes it took to buy it. "

Daudi Rainmaker - beloved trickster -

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 20:36:51 GMT

a short story by tyson moore about a dirty half-fae who plays and pranks with the flower ladies for the sake of the sad children at the Tulip Festival.

"I rolled my jeep with the airborne sticker into the Wholefoods parking lot, blaring an insidious Steely Dan tune. I got a Starbucks in one hand and a cig in the other. Yeah, I am that guy. They say the next generation being born right now has no logical excuse to ever start smoking. With all the negative publicity tobacco gets, I would say they are right with the exception of the James Dean factor. Some people are just born to be the bad guys. Thank those clueless rebels for us. Without them even more of my friends would die. As it is they have already morphed to fit the times, but to what price? Joe C. and Marley are chock full of chemicals. Winston preaches, “No bull!” We know better. We see him in the back room loading up the papers with gunpowder just like the rest of them. Both Benson and Hedges are lying in hospital beds coughing up a lung. Spirit used to be on the straight and narrow until he bowed down to the kingdom of Phil Morris. Now, I just don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a while."

Tehachapi

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 20:34:31 GMT

a prose form story about a man reminiscing on life choices in a cheap hotel room similar to other moments of his experience. He has to make the decision to keep blazing the untrodden path or to turn around and go back.

"I feel like I did in Tehachapi. My friends dropped me off at a hotel with just a backpack. Of course, now, I have a carload of stuff, but it still rings the same. I am staying in a cheap, smoky hotel with an unknown departure date. It could be a week or another couple days. There is a slight chill in the air and my emotions that would be unbearable if I were not so active. I am scared and unsure of the future. I am solemn and remorseful of the past."

Half Price Life

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 20:30:32 GMT

short story by tyson moore about a middle aged white trash ex highschool football player with rage issues trying to sell used movies at a half price bookstore. He does not get the price he is looking for.

"I just get so angry sometimes. This is not my life. This is not the life I wanted. Not the one I was destined for. I was a highschool star. They gave me full ride to Louisiana State playing football. Until my knee injury. It is always a knee injury, isn’t it? I should have gone pro. Instead I was booted from the system and tossed aside like an empty beer can. I never finished college. I couldn’t afford it. I went straight to work roughnecking it on an offshore rig. My sweetheart was pregnant with my first boy. I guess I should be grateful it weren’t a girl. Now, I got this punk kid talking to my like I am some sort of white trash has-been-that-never-was. So what if I live in a trailer home? It’s a double wide. I do well for myself. Well, I do what I can for myself. I try to make ends meet. I try. Sometimes trying is hard, though. That don’t mean I gotta listen to his smart lip hurling garbage at my ears. I just want to rearrange that face of his. I want to crooked his nose something fierce."

Sandbox

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 17:45:27 GMT

prose form rant about an immature self imposed leader who fails to respect or understand the vision of the artisans who have designed his sandcastle.

"You are a child in a sandbox on the beach, playing with Tonka toys. You scoot those borrowed trucks around in the grains, building your fragile castle. You left the pail and shovel you brought, trading them for whines about track marks in the sand. You think of yourself as a master architect, designing the next Taj Mahal with blueprints from assistants you deem unworthy. You envision the bare bones skeleton of the Sistine Chapel, caring nothing for the artist behind the ornamentation. You argue about the brush strokes, interpreting none of the statement the brush strokes make."

Becoming the Man

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 17:42:00 GMT

short story by tyson moore about a former activist struggling to conform to the corporate machine he fought so hard to take down.

"The alarm retched John awake too early. The sun had not even broke the seems of the heavy curtains blocking the windows of his bedroom. They kept most of the light out on weekends, when he could sleep past the buzzer. Today was Monday, the first of many days until Saturday. He ambled unconsciously to the kitchen to begin his pot of coffee while he took a morning wake up shower. He brushed his teeth. While his hair was still wet he brushed it to the side, the traditional office haircut. Some nights he would dream of his once long locks. Aside from a receding hairline his mane could be shoulder length and beautiful again. He had no bald spots. John guessed that his boss, a grumpy old man with a chrome dome, detested the younger employees with the ability to grow on their head. For this talent he cursed them to waste those glory years until they were as bitter as he. Then, they would be ready to supervise a company. "

Houston Death Scene

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 17:39:25 GMT

short story about a near death hit and run in the southern metropolitan museum district. There he meets faeries and an angel to teach him a lesson about life.

"I almost died. Maybe I did. Maybe I am walking in a parallel world where the car missed. Maybe this is the mystery of the afterlife, a world where you keep on living. Is that heaven or hell?

In Houston we crossed the street of the Contemporary Art Museum to the Fine Arts. An old friend worked there. We would find out later that he had already left for the day. I was with my best friend, a girl, and this guy from Massachusetts. Two others from Salem, the town of Hawthorne, were in our group as well, but they were laid up in a hotel suffering from heat exhaustion. This was only the beginning months of the southland’s brutal summer. Another good friend called to make sure I would be at the Last Concert Café to meet him in a few hours. Since I was only in town for a short amount of time, three days, it was important that I made things happen quick and with efficiency. I was on the phone with him as I crossed the street."

Dissonance Theory

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 17:08:07 GMT

a short story about a mad scientist who discovers a microworld in soundwaves, falls in love, and develops a megalomaniacal superiority complex | originally written for Apple's Insomnia Film Festival by tyson moore | stories of the flea

"The Scientist fiddled with the knobs and dials, adjusting the frequency of the spectrograph. The sonic wavelength rose and fell as the subatomic particle vibrated dissonantly. He theorized that another world could exist within a single harmonic note. The sustained tone warbled against the microphones, being split and dissected into analog pieces. His choice of music happened to be the climactic moment of a song his ex-wife favored. Finally, he had a breakthrough."