brni (brni) wrote,

Un Chien Andalou

Two blocks from my house is a little corner store: Yang's Farmers Market (Farmers Parking Only). Mr. Yang is getting on in years. Still vital, but shrinking. His full-time guy, Mark, deals with much of the day-to-day stuff.

I hadn't seen Mr. Yang in a bit, and then, a couple weeks back, he was there, trying to help customers, though he was clearly having some problems. He had cut his eye, I was told, badly, and this was his first day back. I found out yesterday exactly HOW he cut his eye.

Seems that about a month ago, at the end of the day, Mr. Yang closed up shop and walked to his truck. He got in the truck, and two boys walked up to the truck. One of them was a kid who had worked at the shop. Both kids go to Conestoga High School. So, the kids come up to the truck and open the door.

"You should have locked your door," one of the kids said.

"Why?" asked Mr. Yang.

Then they dragged him out of the truck. One of the boys punched him in the eye with a knife blade protruding between his fingers, puncturing all the way through the eyeball. Then they robbed him.

The police have finally caught the kids.

Mr. Yang is blind in one eye. They believe they can restore his sight by inserting a new lens, much like cataract surgery, I suppose, but not until he heals some more. Unfortunately, the multiple surgeries involved are expensive, and while Medicare will pay 80%, he's not sure how to come up with the other 20%.

My thought is to sell his attacker's organs, but I understand that is frowned upon. I understand that one of his regular customers has started a relief fund for him. I don't know the details, but will post them when I know something more.


Words written: 581 on the steampunk story


Voices emanate from the smoking room, wafting upon clouds of pungent pipe-smoke through the doorway. Three voices, all male, her father's among them.

She doesn't recognize the language. Clipped and stacatto, it bears the faintest resemblance to French. One of the voices speaks it with the fluidity of a native speaker. Her father's voice struggles to shape certain sounds, and to find certain words, but he is surprisingly deft with this gatling gun language that she has never, in all her fifteen years, heard him speak. The third voice is fatter, rounder. Rough and somewhat gutteral, as if its owner is trying to talk with an unpeeled lychee in his mouth. He sounds like he is constantly spitting, and though he, too, speaks this strange language, Arighdai knows him for a German.
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