David Rich

Some samples just for you

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Excerpt From Infinite Shell Checkered black Cilogear pack—you inanimate traveler. My confidant and companion. I see memories and moments in your stains, runs, tears, and knots. The pack has aged accordingly, reflecting character gained over years of experience. On the back pad a beige outline that changes shape contingent on where we are. It is the result of lower back sweat—dried and ready to reabsorb, then drenched again. Bleached with salt and sun, the result of organic tears. The underside: perma-stained. Forever encrusted in mud, dust, sand, and snow-dirt. The two straps: the burden bearers. They drape based on the mercy of the task—when it is ready to burst, they erect and tighten to reveal the vein-like tubing that runs underneath, and when it is called upon to carry only what fits at the bottom, they fall limp and flaccid. The yellow and red cords dangle in braids, penduluming back and forth. Their plastic coating makes them easily-assessable itching tools, coming in clutch when the mosquitos insist. 
Excerpt From Where I Ought To Be I blame Dorothy for the jaded idea of home being the only place that’s like home. Home, at its essence, is calm, clean, and comfortable. A place that we rest and let the outside stream down our windows and blur what’s beyond them. Home can make us uneasy. Where we are trapped between walls that constrict, and barricades between safety and reality? Home is a place to return to, sure, but somewhere to escape from also. 
Oregon is beautiful. Or at least the distorted Oregon that I can make out through rain-dropped eyeballs and sopping lashes. I intentionally stand next to the gutter to be in full effect. In Waldport there is a grocery store, a post office, a local contingency that simultaneously try to avoid eye contact while at the same time staring into your soul with elephant eyes, and someone who wants to get the fuck on. My disposition is certainly the product of three nights in wet socks. Thirty days on a bike has left me with a saddle up my ass. I count. Thirty seconds between full body shivers. 
Excerpt from Straddling Distortion It’s late March in California, the season of the Superbloom. I am tired and burnt out from a week of cooking and thinking. My skin—oily from hot skillets, and dry from their heat. I have been inside for days. Only getting air between walks from the car to the kitchen, or to class, or to the gym, or to my apartment that wreaks of broken concrete from the insistent installation of new sewer lines. There is hope in an escape though. While I am pretty low on motivation, and a part of me just wants to sleep the weekend away, which is impossible without the help of Quaaludes because I live a block from the Bart station, and I don’t have any. There is a quiet place, far from public transit and downstairs neighbors. I’ll swallow the wilderness, and let it be my Ambien.
Excerpt From Donuts are not Doughnuts Genie is often the Witch to my Hansel, stuffing the waxy white bag with more morsels than I should ever eat. The first time she did this I tried eating all of them, so I wouldn’t seem unappreciative for the freebies. To put it delicately, I needed to make a stop at home before heading to work. Now when she pipes my bag full of sweets I eat my ordered portion and give the remaining ¾ to Milly, the soft spoken lady that sits on the curb with a half empty cup of change. Her “thank you” hits me in a whisper but reverberates fully. 
Excerpt from All Afterthought I still consider the job at the Y the best job I’ve ever had. There are about 27 others that haven’t lived up to that one, in terms of sheer joy of the job. Kitchens have burned me. Handy work has scarred me. Landscaping has messed up my back. Liquor stores have impacted my liver. Tutoring has made me stagnant. Working for others has driven a wedge into the chip on my shoulder. The Y was the perfect job for a high schooler who got into enough trouble at school and needed a place to color. I am just now finding work that gives me the same feeling as picking from a fresh crayon box and seeing what color the pony’s mane would be that day, the kids always wanted silver sparkle. I still remember using those Eight dollars an hour towards an 87 octane fill up. I didn’t need much more than that back then. Everything else was an afterthought.   
  Excerpt from Waiting for How Long The pizza is ridiculous; I let the cheese singe the top of my mouth and drip down the back of my throat like wildfire. I dip the crust in the residual grease, wiping the sides on my mouth with my thumb and forefinger, and rub them together. I drink nothing until after the slice is finished. The tea has steeped only a bit but the idea of it is still comfortable. I stand up, still pretty much as wet as before but with a drier disposition. With one last “thank you,” but an actual one this time, I pick up my pack and let out a little squeal when the icy lower back pad punches me. I step outside and let the water from the awning drip inconsistently on my head. Looking down, I see my shadow. Sunlight has peaked out a bit just over the horizon and the clouds are racing toward the ocean. It must be clear in the east tonight.