Showing posts with label John Patrick Robbins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John Patrick Robbins. Show all posts

Not the California Kind- John Patrick Robbins

Bio: John Patrick Robbins is the editor in chief of the Rye Whiskey Review and also Under The Bleachers. His work has been published in Ariel Chart, Punk Noir Magazine, San Pedro River Review, San Antonio Review, Piker Press, The Blue Nib and The Black Shamrock Magazine.
His work is always unfiltered.


We sat there on the bleachers of our old high school.  Passing a pint back and forth, it was near sunset in more ways than one.

“I just don't get what you're afraid of.”  Vicki said frustrated as she stared off into the distance.  “I mean, you hate everything about this place!  You’re always saying how you want to escape. Here's finally your chance and now you get cold feet?”

“It’s just not that simple and you know it!”  Tommy blurted out.  He knew his friend was hell bent on leaving the small town that had become an overrated prison cell for too many and a death sentence for others.

Nobody left Talbot and ever returned.  It was like once they hit the outskirts of town, they fell off the end of the world never to be seen again.  And while the thought of that didn't bother Tommy, still he knew it was different in Vicki’s case.  His friend was a total train wreck much like himself.  Neither one barely had a sense of purpose let alone a sense of direction.  They were the true misfits of Talbot.

“Bobby would have made you go.  Ever since his death all you seem to give a damn about is getting wasted and staying as numb as you possibly can.”

Tommy just shot a look at let her know she had crossed the line.  But as in anything that's laced with truth, seldom did it not hurt.  Tommy hadn't been the same and neither had she.  It was just a case of one wanting to escape the past and another trying to constantly numb themselves to it.  Neither solution worked but at the time, it’s what worked best for them.

“You know there's something more than this. Hell, anything is better than simply just wasting away here waiting to die.  Just think of the stories you could pen out there. With me becoming an actress and you a famous writer, we would be unstoppable!”

“Yeah we would become something alright. The main thing is homeless.  I never was much for the beach and sleeping under piers doesn't sound all that glamorous, Vickers.”  Tommy said as he kicked back the pint of Beam.

Vicki knew it was pointless to argue with her friend, just as much as Tommy knew there was no stopping her from leaving his town.  She was sold on the illusion of fame.  Movie stars, bright lights and swanky parties. It was everything this poor little nowhere town in North Carolina was not.

Bobby had been the glue that held them together. The loner who pretended to be an outcast. The cool kid with a true soul.  Vicki loved him as deeply as Tommy loved her and just never could say.  Bobby was heading home from work when some idiot on their cell phone drifted into the other lane causing Bobby to swerve and slam into a telephone pole.  And that was the end of his closest friend.  Vicki went off the deep end and Tommy just wanted to feel nothing at all.  She was heading out to California come hell or high water.

She had grit considering she had no car and no real way of getting there.  And in a weird way, Tommy felt he owed it to her to either make her stay or at least see her there.  But he hated the idea of California. It was everything he and his words were not.  It was the land of stars and beauty.  Tommy was far from the leading man or even a character worth recalling.

It wasn't fear that bound him to this town. A writer needs only a page to work.  The location is simply a backdrop.  But from penning unread stories, even he knew this was a tragic comedy at best.

“You still planning on getting out of here first thing in the morning?”

“Yes, and if you are any kind of friend you will meet me at Huck’s first thing and we can take off from there. I got to go Tommy. Hopefully this is not goodbye.”

Tommy watched his friend that was as wild as the wind as she took off.  It would be the last time he would see Vicki. At least that's what he believed.

When her face popped up almost fifteen years later, much like Tommy, most everything had changed.  She was now married to some truck driver living in Arkansas with two kids.  It was far from the bright lights of Hollywood.  Seems she had hit the road and found there are far worse things than small towns going nowhere.

Years passed and she found her way through the maze that is life and discovered some sort of happiness along the way.  Tommy never did respond to her friend requests.  Too many years had passed and the story, much like this, had found its end.

Tommy never was the California kind, and apparently, neither was his old friend either.


Flash Fiction: Last Call For Old Friends

By: John Patrick Robbins


Tom knew his old friend Rusty was on his last leg. And much like his owner the promise of a new day was shaky at best. The old dog kept more to his bed during the long winter months as his owner kept more to his recliner. Pouring drinks and watching the days pass slowly.

"Hell old man, don't we make a hell of a pair." The old dog with gray on his muzzle just looked at his owner, knowing full well at the end of almost anything said to him would be followed by a treat and his owner pouring yet another drink.

The only time it seemed either one moved from their posts these days was to either get dinner or relieve themselves. The old man was getting worse and old Rusty himself ached from the cold yet he kept holding on for his friend and owner.

He watched him go through his usual phases. From his rough morning ritual of cursing the world and spending hours in the bathroom getting sick. To his first few drinks poured and the semi happiness that ensued. The blaring music the deaf old bastard played. To the eventual tears when a song hit upon a memory and all too familiar nerve.

"Hell old man, looks like it's last call for me you old mutt." His owner said. Rusty just took his tossed treat, got a drink of water, and returned to his warm bed. Turned round and round in four circles and eventually laid down again.

That morning, Tom awoke like any other, rushed to the bathroom feeling half dead. After evacuating the scene of the crime, it certainly smelt so. His gut burned and his head ached. He made it back to that recliner and just laid there, wondering how much longer this could continue.

"Hell old man, you ready for breakfast?" Rusty was always ready to fill his gut much like Tom was always ready for another round. His old companion didn't even budge.

"Hey you old son of a bitch! Time to wake up stink up the world and bark at the neighbors."

Rusty still didn't move.

Tom knew his old friend had passed. He didn't need to check on him. For the silence said everything. The tears came naturally. Tom had lost more than a pet. He had lost a friend. They had known many a mile together and the road ahead was a dismal view from here on out. Tom poured a huge drink and toasted his best and only friend. That half gallon of Beam wouldn't be a match for him today.

He was into his twelfth drink when it hit him. The pain in the chest was as sudden as a bullet. And all too quickly, Tom much like his old friend, had left the confines of this dingy room to something far better.

There was just something not right in the noise his owner made that finally awoke old Rusty from his near coma. He viewed the old man slumped in his chair, a full glass on upon the table. Rusty knew the old man was gone. He ached as he arose from his bed to join his friend's side. He sniffed his hand. And although it shot pain through his aching bones he jumped up in his owner's lap. Gave the old man a farewell kiss, drank his drink and laid down upon his lap. Taking a final nap to join an old friend again.

Some friendships never truly die. They simply change locations.

Bio- John Patrick Robbins is the editor of The Rye Whiskey Review, Under The Bleachers and Drinkers Only. His work has been published with: Ariel Chart, San Pedro River Review, Mojave River Review, Red Fez, Punk Noir Magazine, Outlaw Poetry Network, Piker Press, Blue Pepper, Blognostics, Synchronized Chaos, Romingos Porch. He is also the author of Smoking At The Gas Pumps with Soma Publishing. Available everywhere eBooks are sold. His work is always unfiltered.