Indignation

The inferno of my indignation
brings a deluge of emotions.
My eyes twitch with the shock,
and mirror my inner warrior,
a sleek cheetah running across
the glass tundra of my anger.

Frustration Dreams

Kill the Demon

Run, run furiously and hide
Beneath dark shadows of lustful flesh
Am I healing or aggravating my wounds
In this temporary comfort of a drug?
I have seen that place free of poverty,
A neutral world less the savage societies
I trade a reality of cold shoulders
For an illusion of warm embrace
To live is to be a warrior
To love is to risk the pain of loss -
This is every man’s common ghost
Maybe I am justifying my own demons,
Submitting to their promises of bliss;
But they are wavering vows bound to break
That only intensify my recklessness, my despair
Where is it written - the wisdom, the courage
To point my finger at me?
If this unfair life is a stage divided into 2 sides,
Only a single curtain comes
Between destruction and progression
I would like to learn to stand on the right side
Before it gets gloomier than gloomy

Remembered

I do not want to be mere words
Engraved on an epitaph:
Child. Sibling. Friend. Lover.
Parent. Grand Parent.
Poet. Artist. Entertainer. Visionary.

I want to be the joy I have caused,
The joy that stays even when I am gone
It is good to be that way, not remembered
As anyone or anything, just remembered
For even famous people
Simply come and go, then forgotten

Rainbow

Not long ago I saw a rainbow
On the bumper of a car
On the door of a store
On a flag carried by a shirtless man
Among thousands of marching men and women
I saw a rainbow on a jean jacket once
I saw a rainbow on a schoolbag where it was sown
Not long ago I saw a rainbow and I walked away
It was not my rainbow
It was not my day
Not long ago I saw a rainbow in a store
A tall, thin, and blue-eyed rainbow
A pretty rainbow that looked at me like I look at girls who catch my eyes
He looked at me, and I did not turn away
I did not anger
I wanted to stare back at the pretty rainbow in front of me
I think I wanted to be with the rainbow
What does that mean?
Not long ago I saw a rainbow
And I walked away
I think I wanted to be close to the rainbow—close with the rainbow
What does that say about me?

Beards are Out of Style

The rowboats are all tied up in Central Park because
Of the storm.
I don’t care.
I don’t have the money anyhow and I could do without
Rowing.
I kick the dying leaves and dream of killing
Soldiers in autumn.
Will I have the courage to kill them?
Pacifists are principled cowards or cowards because
Of their principles.
Do I have the nerve to yell at the protestors that beards
Have gone out of style?

Our Couple In Love

I watch the birds circle from my back door
thinking of my cat, wanting to hunt their caw
waiting to lunge after a shake at the tree tops

I think of the pigeons on the city sidewalks downtown
that seem to want to test us as we walk by,
hope for a scrap of bread, your refuse for food

I think of the two Mallards that would come by our house
we’d watch the Mallards every year,
know they mate for life, look for joined couples

In the beginning of the season I’d see
one Mallard couple, and one make Mallard following
and I’d think, “find your own girl”

But one Mallard couple always came by our house
enjoy the grasses, walk together alone
we’d watch two so in love, made for each other

And one day he came home to tell me
a car on the main road hit our happy couple
and nothing felt right for some time

So I try to think of these creatures meant for flight
and I think of how they’re so misunderstood
but at least our couple in love died together

Menu Poem

You were raw and sweet
like white corn & cherry tomatoes
but you left me, your parmigiano,
you left me shaved
raw and bitter

Hills of my Childhood

Once those hills were hopeful.
Great rolling waves of Green,
They guarded the edge of my world.
I was never allowed to touch them
Or else I’d fall off into oblivion.

Before K-Mart crushed the virgin grass
The forbidden fields of Eden beside my home
Stayed firmly locked from me.
They never left my mind.
My first boyhood lust.

Now they’re just hills.

Sacred and Profane

Pray for me. After years I’m going to mass
As always, because of a woman
We’re on vacation in Montreal and she’s a deacon to be
Here we go into the Cathedral of Notre Dame
It’s glorious, most statues, most art, most clergy
Do I have a plan, to say a prayer maybe? For what?

Six- year- old me in St. Anthony’s in the village
My Italian grandma shows me how to disguise
The penny drop into the collection basket
Twelve- year- old me sent off with brother to Sunday mass
While at home - Dad with the paper, Mom with the sauce
College- age me and Dad at St. Peter’s Rome
He sees the towers of gold asks
They tell us to give to the poor
Why not slice up these towers?

Now, the mass about to start and my girl leads me through the crowd
When a move I can’t explain, I sneak a grab at her ass
When she begins to feel my touch, her quick right hand reaches back
With perfect timing grabs my balls and I flinch and then smile
We find seats and I think of a news article that says church down
But prayer up, ‘do it yourself’ spirituality

Goes on to say only four types of prayer Wow! –praise
Gimme! – request Oops! – forgive Thanks! – gratitude
Well, on the way into church I may have prayed a gimme
Which quick led to an oops, and considering I have
Never had my balls held in church, even for a moment
As service ended, I gave thanks and a wow

BIO SKETCH

Greg Moglia is a veteran of 27 years as Adjunct Professor of Philosophy of Education at N.Y.U. and 37 years as a high school teacher of Physics and Psychology. His poems have been accepted in over 100 journals in the U.S., Canada and England as well as five anthologies. He is five times a winner of an Allan Ginsberg Poetry Award sponsored by the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College. His poem ‘Why Do Lovers Whisper?’ has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize 2005. He has been nominated by the College of William and Mary for the University of Virginia anthology BEST NEW POETS OF 2006. He lives in Huntington, N.Y.

Youth in Asia

To euthanize
the youth in Asia
is to slaughter
the first-born
daughter of
every land owner;
illegitimate parents
breeding offspring
to adorn a barbed
crown of thorns,
with their chapped
vaginal lips stitched
shut and flowering
feet bound within
the confines of
concentrated
interment camps;
equaling one-billionth
less individuals,
for the benefit
of government.

Amnesia, In A Sense

I really don’t remember
Being there
I just remember
The anger
How it all seemed to flood out
How close the staff watched me
They defied a request
I threw a fit
They sedated me
I awoke in a fog
Nurse Peggy
Was standing in the doorway
“I didn’t mean for you to be
Knocked out like that” She said

Later I heard how my sister
Would sometimes visit
I would be so doped up
Unresponsive
She would leave the place in tears
I missed Christmas
Asked twice
To see the pictures
My mother was afraid
To let me come home over-night
She broke down and said:
“I don’t feel safe with her.”
I made no progress
“What do you want from us?”
Nurse Vi asked
I just wanted
Everything to be all right again

Rappin’ Pentagon
(the Joint Chiefs do Joints)

Five distinct points of view
Man is an animal
Man is a dominant animal
Man is the whole of all the Earth
Man is a larger creature from bigger times
Man is a paranoid schizophrenic, backed into a corner

Man, of course, is an ant in a rain barrel
But those people don’t advance in rank

My Patriotic Essay
(What Do I Win?)

I am a nonviolent person
Excepting in my writing
Or that time that dude harassed me in high school
Or, really, anything involving high school memories
At All
BUT!
The point is
Me no never hurt nothing non-high schooly-related
So, with that disclaimer:

I only ever watch two movies, on a continuous loop
Independence Day and
Earth vs. the Flying Saucers
And every time the Capitol building
Gets blown to tatters
I boom,
“BOO-YAH!!!!!!!”
And that is why I think I am glad to think I am free

Jump Rope

I jumped in the rope
Until
I got caught
I tried again
And set it free

Pen To Paper

That‣s how I deal with this shit.
I don‣t talk to someone,
I commune with words.
Fuck the therapists.
How can they help me?
They don‣t know anything about me
except what I tell them
and that‣s not a whole hell of a lot.
They make a diagnosis
based on assumptions and statistics,
shove meds down my throat
and send me back into the world;
the same frigid heartless abyss
I was trying to escape from in the first place.
So I put the pen to paper,
let the ink run,
pretend it‣s my blood.
This is my tortured heart screaming off the page.
This is my demented mind laughing at my own misfortunes.
Hope seems hopeless.
My worth is worthless.
This is the part where a friend would come in handy
but I say fuck them too.
A friend is only a friend
when it‣s in the friend‣s best interest.
When my demons were staring me in the face
not a soul could be found.
Cowardly pricks, the lot of them.
So I shut up and shut down and shut everyone out.
Put the pen to paper and let the rage write itself out
until I‣m writing in tongues and even the words themselves
don‣t understand what I want them to do.
Until trust melts away and respect turns to bitterness
and all the misdirected emotions cover the page like a bloodstain.

bio

Amber Rothrock is an environmentalist, animal rights advocate and outdoor enthusiast as well as a writer. Her poems have appeared in journals such as Write On!!, Haight Ashbury Literary Review and Children, Churches & Daddies. She is also the editor of the online magazine, Illogical Muse.

It was bound to happen

It was bound to happen,
sooner or later
a kind of numbness takes over
along with that slow death of ideas
and a tell tale loss for words.
It’s something like an effusive stream
freezing silent in winter
or a glowing lava flow
entombed by stolid stone.
It happens to us all; although,
by working through those fears,
I’ve come to know
this time
it’s more like spring
when shards of ice
flow down a river
and a line or two
sprouting from pooling snow
start to flower.

Haiku (sky)

Hot cumulous day.
Blue sky gossomered
By white haze.

Tracy M. Rogers Biography

Tracy M. Rogers, Editor and Creative Architect for The Aurora Review: An Eclectic Literary and Cultural Magazine, is a photographer, writer, and web designer. She grew up in Fayetteville, a college town in northwestern Arkansas. She holds a history degree from the University of Arkansas and dropped out of graduate school due to “creative differences” with her faculty advisors. Her poetry can be found in Poetry Kit Magazine and the current issue of Prism Quarterly. When she is not masterminding The Aurora Review, Tracy is either busy writing her first novel or working on her ongoing “Clouds” photo project.

Slave Rebellion

Choose a needle,
Sharp, thin, long, and
Surreptitiously press it into the baby’s scalp.
Stifle the scream.
The sweet boy at your breast will grow up to
Rape your children.
Dab guiltily, fearfully at the blood
Smearing his blond curls
Amazed, shocked at the tender give of his skull
Stealthily closing around the tight metal promise.
Quiet rebellion.
Will he slowly turn into a ninny?
Whose cries would you rather hear?
There is less betrayal in the needle than when he forces your love to
turn to hatred.
Quell the love pouring from your breast.

Elizabeth De Sa bio

Elizabeth De Sa was born in England, though she is originally of Indian descent. She now lives in a Quaker intentional community in northern California where she is involved in teaching peace, justice and sustainability to high school students. She is a writer, seeker and mother.

Snapshot of an All-Nighter

Breathing through hollowed-out pens from the tabletop,
passing the night at the speed of light depression,
we punch the keys that strike the levers
that string our livelihoods together.

We step out to devour a nicotine snack
and play catch with ideas and grandiose plans,
and try to grab a meteor from the sky
but it burns up before it can hit our hands.

Benjamin C. Krause’s poetry has been published in Counterexample Poetics, Leaf Garden Magazine, and Foundling Review. He edits and publishes the poetry blog The Weekly Poet, and is working on a website that publishes e-chapbooks to raise money for various charities.

The Devil’s Realm

Will man ever look beyond the day, when seeking to improve his lot?

Sometime in the 1980’s a group of billionaires formed a committee dedicated to finding resolutions to the problems that faced the country. With the support of the executive branch, the clandestine venture was trying to accomplish what congress had failed so miserably at: solving America’s domestic and world problems that seemed to be worsening by the decade, and were rapidly becoming insurmountable. The committee knew that time was of the essence and the consequences of failure were immense.
They scoured the world, finding fifty super intellects, from all fields of learning, to brainstorm the problems.
For several years the group labored hard to find answers, but no plausible ideas came forth. There were no real fixes only stop-gap measures the problems had been ignored for too long.
Time and time again they agreed that the only possible way to correct these problems was to go back to their beginnings, when they were manageable. The geniuses were actually suggesting time travel as a means to altering the certain progressive decline of our country.
The committee was outraged. This was the best idea the world’s greatest minds could come up with? Had it been a big waste of time? They’re solution to the monstrous problems facing mankind was the sci-fi channel?
However, the committee reassessed their position, when the select group spoke of a physicist, Professor David Steinberg, whose calculations on time travel had picked up where Einstein had left off. His initial experiments had shown great promise, but he needed substantial funding to continue his research.
Money was the least of the committee’s worries; they had access to almost unlimited funds. After several months of evaluation, they decided to back the Professor’s project. They were actually supporting the idea of traveling back in time to correct man’s numerous problems — problems that had been created by many years of poor and selfish decision making.
The eventual plan was to send highly trained people back in time to alter events or decisions that have contributed to these major problems. Hind sight was twenty-twenty. Why couldn’t we redirect the course of these troubling issues from their concept?
The missions into the past would take whatever measures necessary to achieve their agenda. From impersonation to assassination, the end would justify the means.

In a vast underground structure, somewhere in northern Wyoming, the countdown to an historic event approached two hours. After almost twenty years and billions of dollars, man was ready to attempt the impossible — travel back in time.
As the zero-hour approached, the enormous facility was a beehive of activity. Technicians were scurrying around checking and double checking every piece of instrumentation.
Two huge power generators towered over the crew’s capsule. The discovery of how to safely combine anti-matter and matter for a power source has been essential in going forth with the project. The amount of controlled energy necessary to disrupt the space time continual had never been attainable before.
Meanwhile, the crew, James Thorn and Lucas Foster, were getting their final briefing. The project was dubbed “Mulligan,” because the team hoped it would offer mankind, like the golf expression, the opportunity to “do over” or make a better effort the second time around.
James was to captain the first mission. The famed historian and explorer had been involved with the project from the onset. Lucas was a late choice, when Mary Bissell, the astronaut, had to drop out due to a family crisis. Lucas, a former athlete, was a renowned computer analyst.
Professor David Steinberg entered the room where seated in mid nineteenth century clothes, fitting the mission’s agenda, were the two crew members.
The professor was a man in his early seventies whose untidy baggy clothes and non groomed appearance with a full gray beard made you believe he had no time for self maintenance, which was probably true. David had spent his entire post graduate career 24/7 wrestling with the possibilities of time travel.
“The time is neigh. In less than one hour, Project Mulligan shall undertake its first mission. Gentleman, over nineteen years and fifty-six billion dollars have been spent on this project. Another one hundred billion has been offered, if we are successful with this initial operation.
I am so fortunate to have been involved in something that has always been my dream. To be in a time where race is not an issue, yes I say time not country. In the 1930’s the Jew was not welcomed here, anymore than in Germany. My parents told me many ugly stories about that period. It should be labeled the depression for more reasons than just the economy. This country was very lucky to have a President like Roosevelt during that era. It could have easily gone differently. A less scrupulous individual could have leveraged those prejudices held my many against Jews and Blacks for his own advantage.
I must now get off my soap box, and get down to the task at hand.”
“I understand we’re to witness the Gettysburg Address,” said James.
“That’s correct.” replied David. “You should arrive in Gettysburg on November 19, 1863 at noon. I must remind you both, not to disturb anything. If you alter anything in the slightest, it could have profound consequences on history. I can’t stress that enough. There will be a time in future missions, when our purpose will be to change an event with the greatest calculation, but not now. Only observe and record your findings. You will have exactly 12 hours, before the capsule will automatically return to the present time.”
“Professor,” said James, “I hope we are being cautious enough; you know the saying about the best laid plans etc... Sometimes, you are only in the rough, and then your mulligan puts you in the water.”
“James, that reminds me of my father’s comments, when he realized how devoted I was to solving the enigma of time travel. He told me that the present time was man’s domain, and the future belonged to the will of God, but the past was the property of another. You best not disturb things that are dead and buried only harm can come of this. Man should never venture there; it is the devil’s realm.”
“Who knows, he might be right?” said James.
“Adventurous men have always had their distracters,” said the professor. “People warned Columbus that the earth was flat, and he’d certainly fall off the edge. The first jet pilots were told that their aircraft would explode if they tried to break the sound barrier.
What may look like an overwhelming abyss today, may be tomorrow’s walk in the park.”

“It’s all set,” said Luther.
“You’re sure everything is ok,” said James. “If something is wrong, I’m going to kick your black ass all over the court next time we play.”
“Now you’re scaring me. Don’t worry, I’ve been over every inch of the capsule. You’re as ready as you will ever be.”
James looked up at him and extended his hand.
“See you in about month, dude, your time,” said James.
They shook and then hugged each other. Luther gave him a big thumbs up and opened the hatch door. James entered the capsule, and strapped himself in. Lucas was already inside, dialing in the final settings. The two were ready. Everything had been pretty much theory up till now. For the first time, time travel was going to be attempted by humans.
The hatch door was closed, and the crew had nothing left to do but wait.
Thoughts that they might be going off into eternity crossed both their minds for an instance, but they quickly refocused as the countdown went under one minute.
“Here we go,” said James.
“Ten, nine...”
An instant after zero everything went blank, as both men blacked out. Suddenly, a jolt brought them to their senses. Everything had stopped.
“Look at the panel,” said Lucas. “Something is wrong — big time, it’s stopped and it’s reading that were in Austria, in 1891.”
“Whatever that jolt was it must of altered our program, said James. “We’re stuck here. Everything is automated; we’re in the recharging mode. In twelve hours we will be headed back.
“We can’t just stay in here,” said Lucas. “We must verify that we did travel in time. All we have for proof is what our instruments are showing.”
The capsule’s onboard clock indicated it was eight AM on the twenty-first of July, in the year 1891. The computer indicated they were near the town of Braunau — population at that time was about five thousand.
They surveyed the surrounding landscape. The immediate area seemed to be uninhabited. They were on the foothills of a mountain range, next to a river, and could see the town of Braunau to their south.
“Lucas, we may as well hike into town — looks like it will take a good couple of hours. I think what were wearing is fine for the period; we should blend in well.”
“We better find some brush to camouflage the capsule,” said Lucas, “just in case.”
After covering the capsule with some tall shoots of maiden grass they found near the river’s edge, they started towards town.
“Have you got any ideas,” said James, “just how we’re going to prove that we were in 1891 Austria.”
“Newspaper, money — I don’t know,” said Lucas.
“I guess really all we have to do is convince ourselves,” said James.
It was after eleven AM when they reached the town. The cobblestone streets were busy with activity. The dress of the shoppers, the street vendors’ wares and the horse drawn vehicles confirmed the time period.
“Definitely looks like the 1890’s to me,” said Lucas.
“I’m satisfied,” said James,” “and before we get into any trouble, let’s get back to the capsule.”
But just then, right in front of them, some groceries fell out of a woman’s shopping bag and onto the street. The items were dislodged by her small child who was throwing a temper tantrum, kicking and screaming. James quickly assisted her in picking them up.
“Here you are maam,” he said.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“You speak English?”
“A little, my name is Klara.” She said looking down, while partially covering her face with her babushka, not wanting to make eye contact.
“I am James and this is my friend Lucas. We are visiting from America.”
“I hear wonderful things about America,” she said. The talk of America had obviously perked her interest. She smiled and looked directly at them. “It is the land of opportunity.”
The wind suddenly caught her babushka, to reveal an attractive, but noticeably mistreated woman of her late twenties.
They saw her blackened eye, as too late she pulled the scarf back in place. That along with several scars on her face made Lucas assumed the worst. “If I could only get my hands on that low-life,” he thought. Lucas calmed down momentarily, but when he remembered the days of his father’s abuse, it pushed him to blurt out. “You should not stay with a man who beats you.”
The comment took her by surprise. She bowed her head and then hurried off, up the street.
“That’s exactly what were not supposed to do,” said James.
“What?” said Lucas.
“Interaction, you can’t tell what the consequences will be?”
“Sorry, I couldn’t help it. Anyway, you picked up her fruit; you talked to her first.
“Oh, let’s just drop it, and get back.
“Fine with me,” said Lucas as he spotted the day’s newspaper that had just been thrown in the doorway of a candle-shop. “That would be a good souvenir,” he said as he ran to get it.
James yelled, “No, don’t.” He then grabbed Lucas’s arm and pulled him back. “We have no reason to stay here any longer.”
“Ok, ok you’re the boss.”
Soon, they were on the outskirts of town heading back to the capsule. They traversed the forest and were back at the capsule site with four hours to spare.
“This would make for a lousy movie,” said Lucas, “we didn’t even cut it close.”
“Close enough for me, said James. “Had someone misinterpreted our intensions with that woman — I mean the way she practically ran away. We might have been detained. We might have spent the rest of our lives here.”
“Well, that would have been a first,” said Lucas.
“What do you mean?”
“We would have been the first people who ever died before they were born.”
“Very funny ... I sure hope are meeting in no way alters her life. Her name was Klara ... hmm, why Klara, that’s really going to bug me.”
“Why’s that,” said Lucas.
“I don’t know. I’m sure it’s nothing, but then again.”
Ah, you worry too much. There was no harm done. Everything that happened was insignificant — totally insignificant. You’ll see when we get back.”
Soon they were speeding through the years back to the present.

“Ok sleepy head, time to rise and shine.”
“Who are you?” said James.
“It’s Peter — Peter Schmidt. I guess they were right about time travel causing memory problems. It’s only temporary, I’m sure.”
“Where’s David — where’s Professor Steinberg, the mission’s director?”
“Boy, you are delusionary. Imagine Steinberg being director. Although, between you and me, we did use a lot of his theories.
Anyway, James, we see from the damage to the internal components that we ran into something, we hadn’t planned on. Some kind of dimensional obstruction, I surmise. I guess we need some additional testing before we try it again.
I see from the computer log that you wound up in Austria, and more importantly, in 1891. Boy, that’s still quite an achievement.”
“And Lucas?” asked James. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s fine. He’s having a little rougher time than you are. I’m afraid it’ll be a couple weeks before you can see him. I’m glad you got his name right, guess you’re not too far out of it.”
James shrugged off the whole experience, and after days of debriefing, he was finally cleared to go home. He had promised his family a long vacation out west when the mission was over. But first he had to see Luther, he promised to give him a complete rundown.
When he went back to the facility, Luther was nowhere to be found, and when he inquired he got the most puzzled looks in return.
“Nobody by that name works here,” was the typical response.
“What did traveling in time do to me? What happened to these people? I really need a vacation.”

James’s family was all packed up and ready to go when he got home — leaving all most immediately, from their home in south Chicago. They made good time, and were nearing their first vacation stop in South Dakota, after only two days.
James made out like he was having a good time, but so many things were troubling him. What happened to Professor Steinberg and Luther and why was there such disdain in their replies when he asked about them? But most of all — Klara — why couldn’t he forget about that woman?
They pulled off the highway, and were within forty miles of the monuments. It would be the first time, that he’d ever seen Mount Rushmore in person.
The figures weren’t quite visible to the naked eye, and his son Fred wanted a better look.
“Mom let me have the binoculars.”
He took them out of the case, and trained them on the target.
“How is it now?” she asked.
“Terrific, I can see every detail. It is really spectacular. Especially, the great one.”
“Which one do you consider the great one son?” said James.
“The one on the far left, of course.”
“Yeah, Washington is a good choice.”
“No dad, to the left of Washington.”
James mumbled to himself, “To the left of Washington, what’s he talking about? Washington is the furthest left.”
“Here dad you look.”
James put the binoculars to his eyes, and took several seconds to find the memorials. He slowly brought them into focus. “What!” His mouth dropped open, as he concentrated on this new figure. “Oh no, it can’t be,” he shouted.
He continued to look intently for what seemed like forever, Jill, his wife, finally had to say. “Breath taking isn’t it, dear?”
Sculpted from the waist up, the monument dwarfed the other four. From the distinct parting of his hair, the signature mustache, and the right arm raised out high in front of him, there was no mistaking its representation.
James put the glasses down and staggered back against the car. The color had completely drained from his face. He looked down and shook his head. “It all makes sense now. Klara was married to Alois Heidler — Heidler was the original spelling.
Our chance meeting caused her to leave her husband, and come to America.
But, she didn’t come alone. She brought that child — that wicked, evil monster. What did we do? Dear God, what did we do?”

Monolith

The monolith was a frightening person, a looming figure flooded with rage and paranoia. Almost 7-feet-tall, he looked like a pro-wrestler or NFL football or NBA basketball player. But he had no athletic ability. Fortunately, he was a gifted and prolific writer who wrote science fiction novels. One of his novels had been sold to MGM for 7-figures. A commercially successful writer, he had enough money to see a top-notch shrink every day of the week if he wished. He chose to see Dr. Samuel Woods three times a week in his office on Ocean Avenue in Brooklyn, New York.

The monolith sat across from Dr. Samuel Woods, a tiny, balding man of 80, with dark brown eyes and a weak chin. A gentle man with a soft, quiet disposition, the doctor possessed a cornucopia of compassion and emotional strength.
“Why do you want to kill me, doc?”
“What gives you that impression?”
“Don’t know. Just call it raw, animal instinct.”
“Is that proof?”
“Maybe not. But you got me doped up on Risperdal, Seroquel, Depakote, and Ambien.”
“Are you taking the meds?”
“Sometimes. They make me sick. Guess I’m gonna go away for a couple of weeks. The Voices warned me about you and the others. Said You might be aliens.”
“Aliens?”
“Yes.”
“Did they command you to do anything?”
“Well, of course. They told me to kill you and my family. Don’t worry. I won’t. Not yet. Maybe never. Got to get away.”
“Where are you going?”
“Can’t tell you. You might follow me there and... Well, I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Take your meds. You’ll feel better.”
“Maybe.”

On August 1, the monolith drove off to Ogunquit, a small town in southern Maine. He left Brooklyn an hour before the hurricane arrived. When he heard the news on the car radio, he realized he had escaped more than a storm. The aliens had arrived, he concluded. The aliens were finally here.

He stayed in Ogunquit three weeks. He felt safe there, and thought of relocating. But he had to return to Brooklyn. It was his home.

He returned to Brooklyn on a hot, humid dog day afternoon. When he got out of his car, the toxic, suffocating air assaulted him.
“Christ! They poisoned the air!” he cried out. Then he sauntered off to his 2-story Manhattan Beach house one block from the beach.
Soon, he was home. The manicured lawn looked different, perhaps, too perfect. And the Voices whispered to him at first and then screamed inside his brain: Kill your wife and two daughters!
When he entered the familiar surroundings, that seemed eerily strange, he began to sweat. His heart beat rapidly-uncontrollably, like a runaway train without a motor man. His hands trembled and his body shook. Dizzy and faint, he felt an alien force sucking the life-force out of him, replacing it with the foul scents of human debris, death, feces, urine, vomit, and sweat.
“Anyone home?” he shouted.
Suddenly, his wife and two daughters descended the stairs. They smiled lovingly at him, but he knew they were aliens. He rushed to the door and scurried off.

The monolith sat across from Dr. Woods.
“They’re aliens, doc-not my flesh and blood. They came in the storm, an alien virus that kills humans. They snatched their bodies.”
“What evidence do you have?”
“Pure animal instinct.”
“Did you hurt them?”
“No.”
“That’s good. But what about me? Am I an alien too?”
He gazed quizzically at the doctor who removed his human mask.
“What are you?”
“Death.”
Propelled by rage and only a trace of his life-force, he lunged at the grotesque creature that now possessed the little doctor’s body. The other took out a .357 Magnum and blew the monolith’s head off.
Grinning sardonically at no one in particular, it waited for the next storm and the arrival of its alien comrades.

BIO

Dr. Mel Waldman is a licensed New York State psychologist and a candidate in Psychoanalysis at the Center for Modern Psychoanalytic Studies (CMPS). He is also a poet, writer, artist, and singer/songwriter. After 9/11, he wrote 4 songs, including “Our Song,” which addresses the tragedy. His stories have appeared in numerous literary reviews and commercial magazines including HAPPY, SWEET ANNIE PRESS, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), NEW THOUGHT JOURNAL, THE BROOKLYN LITERARY REVIEW, HARDBOILED, HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, DETECTIVE STORY MAGAZINE, ESPIONAGE, and THE SAINT. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. Periodically, he has given poetry and prose readings and has appeared on national T.V. and cable T.V. He is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Private Eye Writers of America, American Mensa, Ltd., and the American Psychological Association. He is currently working on a mystery novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. Who Killed the Heartbreak Kid?, a mystery novel, was published by iUniverse in February 2006. It can be purchased at www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. Recently, some of his poems have appeared online in THE JERUSALEM POST. Dark Soul of the Millennium, a collection of plays and poetry, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2007. It can be purchased at www.worldaudience.org, www.bn.com, at /www.amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in June 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites.

Last Stall

Lydia Conklin Waiting for her boyfriend, Carrie lifted her tank top to adjust her belly button ring. The ivory bubble of her stomach popped out as she peeled back the fabric. Since she and Ty began to date she had gained thirty pounds and now stretch marks fanned out from the center of her belly in dark red lines. When she first noticed the marks, sitting up naked and shiny from a hot bath, she thought it was her parakeet’s claws that had done it.
Across the parking lot Ty moved slowly, stopping to talk to the grass seeder. They were spraying the teal mush all over Regis today: up the hill, around the paths and right to the edges of the convent and class buildings. The machine sputtered as the guy turned the dial down to talk. Ty’s job cleaning went year round, and the only people left now were summer school students and grounds workers.
Today Carrie had parked the car far from Ty’s building so she would have time to think after his dark, heavy body emerged and smeared across the white rectangle of the dormitory door. When he stepped onto the lawn she thought about the day they met. The way she dropped a notebook in the hall and he swept it with his broom into his plastic pan. When he took it out he turned as if to dust it off but really wrote his number across the front with an industrial sharpie. The digits, black and thorny, corralled together against their will. It wasn’t until she raised her eyes from the cardboard cover that she really saw him. The grey patch over his nipple that said Tyrone in stitched cursive, his round shiny eyes like brown marbles.
“Now you got my number, baby,” he said. “And I hope you use it. Otherwise it’s taking up that notebook for no good reason.”
Then he turned on his heels and lumbered down the band of sunlight that skunk-striped the linoleum hallway. She didn’t call, but she did think of him. She saw his marble eyes watching her like she could so easily make his day, like she was a pet dream of his.
A week later they were in the elevator together, Ty standing with his yellow slop bucket and mop. As they ascended, the water in the bucket slapped the sides in gentle, dusty waves. He did nothing until the other girl got off – one of the many that didn’t acknowledge Carrie that first semester. But once the doors slipped closed and their reflection came back together into one piece, he bear hugged her.
At first Carrie was terrified. She thought he was going to flip her on her back and rape her. But he just kept hugging. A minute or two passed in his soft body and she started to feel calmed, like wearing a lead apron at the dentist. It was such a chaste gesture, she felt like his kid, like she’d made him proud. She wanted to stay with him longer. But then the door opened and Petra walked in.
Carrie fumbled out of the embrace as Petra whisked herself to the corner of the elevator. Her eyelids drooped as she mumbled on her cell phone. Then she clicked it off and dropped the phone in her bag, swaying and humming. Petra was a celebrity freshman; her name weaving in and out of conversations of all topics. There were rumors that she was serviced orally by the theology professor, that she masturbated with a gold lamee belt around her neck, that she lost her anal virginity in eighth grade. Carrie had stood outside of circles and listened to the Regis girls with their hooded sweatshirts and diamond promise rings squeal about Petra.
The three of them watched their shadows on the steel door as the elevator climbed through the levels of girls. Carrie got off first. She rushed into her cinder block dorm room and flopped on the bedspread. She kept her face in her quilt for ages listening to her roommate type up a document one key at a time. At five o’clock Carrie ignored the magazine swatting at her back.
“You’re going to miss dinner,” her roommate said.
She did.
But that evening Petra approached her at the smoking corner. It was a dark green night and the corner was tiled with slimy leaves and wormy orange cigarette ends. Petra squished over and pricked Carrie’s shoulder with her finger.
“You dating that janitor?” she asked, smoke escaping her nostrils. She appeared hopeful, pulling both ends of her scarf so it tightened around her neck. Carrie hoped she wasn’t preparing to masturbate.
“Yeah,” Carrie said. “He’s Ty. I really love him.”
Petra ashed her Marlboro Red and grinned.
“Good taste. My boyfriend’s in maintenance, too. It’s better to have a man that works with his hands, if you know what I mean.”
Carrie called Ty an hour later. The three of them had rarely spent a night apart since, double dating with Petra’s endless queue of men at Lemon Flower and complaining about the stuck-up Regis girls.
“It’s like she doesn’t know what money is,” insisted Petra once of a girl with a flat screen TV in her eight by eight dorm room. “She thinks it’s free or something.”
“Like you are?” Ty asked, a cup of jasmine tea hovering below his bottom lip.
“Hilarious boyfriend,” Petra said to Carrie, but she was smiling.
Carrie pulled Ty’s heavy arm over her shoulder and they beamed around the tabletop. The whole restaurant was watching them.
Carrie tried not to think of those good times as Ty plodded nearer. She tried not to think of Ty holding her through the night, engulfing her with his arms as she slept dreamlessly, watching her in the mornings as though she was a star that had fallen into his orbit to preen for an instant before going on to bigger things. If she didn’t tell him this afternoon, as planned, she never would. They could drive up to Saugus, go to the restaurant, but if she didn’t tell him before he lifted that first bite of greasy Chinese to his puckered lips he would never know what happened after her accident two weeks ago. Once food fell into his stomach and they started eating together, it would turn into every other delicious date before that. Carrie was happiest when warmth was filling her and she was remembering how many meals she had eaten in her parents’ house alone, all through high school, kneeling on her quilt with an order of garlic bread while a gourmet smell floated up from below. That time was over, because now she was an adult. Her parents would never again be chewing under her knees, happy she wasn’t with them making everything difficult. Carrie felt her stitches coming loose in her hair and waited.
Ty raised his hand but he was still far off, just now hitting the lip of the concrete. She waved back, trailing the smoke of her cigarette down through the air. From this distance, no one would know Ty was thirty-four and overweight. No one would know he had accepted a maintenance job so he could take classes at an all girls’ school to meet people outside his neighborhood. People, as he said, on a higher level. No one would know his near-black skin was pock marked, his black hair was freckled with white, that he didn’t dress to hide his fat and that he had a tattoo circling one elbow that said BIG MAN T from when he was fifteen. Once people put together these details they would stare rudely or scuff their feet and look away. But if Ty wanted he would get them back with his odd charm or an off-color comment, and then they would reluctantly begin to like him. Or, as it happened with Carrie, love him.
Carrie had come to Regis at eighteen to study nursing. She arrived relieved to see that there were only girls spilling over the grass and that even nuns glided up and down the hill in small groups like an old movie about boarding school. She never had a boyfriend in high school, just a bad collection of kids who rubbed up on her one week, leaving with unfocused eyes and stains on their shorts, and laughed about her the next. Before she met Ty she never had someone to gather her bleached-out hair, rub her pudgy thighs, threaten anyone who stared. She tried not to think about Ty’s soft body, his smooth talk, the way his presence at dinner transformed her parents into deferential fools. She tried not to remember Ty batting the cringing back of her father and joking that Carrie was ripe for marriage.
“You gotta get them before they hit twenty,” Ty said. “Otherwise they change their damn mind.”
“Right,” said her father, his head bowed like an out-ranked dog.
Carrie was a person who made decisions when Ty came for dinner, not the girl whose reports showed rows of C’s that could be nested into each other endlessly like sets of bowls or commas. Not the girl whose only friend in high school had been a sixteen year old with a baby, with whom she fought as nastily as the girl fought with the baby’s father. Carrie had a real life now away from her parents that took place at night and was lit with burning cigarettes. This life implicated people like Petra, who everyone talked about, and she smiled through those tense family dinners in Concord. Ty, her accomplice, her pillar, sat on her parents’ chair at peace, coating everything he was served with pink blankets of hot sauce.
“You know, birds are dirty,” he said once, tipping his fork at the parakeet that sat on Carrie’s mother.
“Excuse me?” Her mother said, her head listing away from Leopold as she spoke.
“They carry diseases,” Ty said. “Hepatitis, for one.”
Carrie’s mother rolled her eyes when Ty went back to the hot sauce, but the next day Carrie walked in on her bending over the kitchen sink, scrubbing between Leopold’s claws with a toothbrush.

When Ty arrived at the car he grinned and held open his colorless palms. Carrie was supposed to fall into his hands, let him hold her for a while, because they hadn’t seen each other since last week when school ended and she moved twenty miles away, back home for summer. She was supposed to lie against his belly and feel him hard down there and say I missed you baby. And she would not have been lying if she had.
“We’re going to Noodle Kingdom,” she said instead.
“What’s that? Whose kingdom?”
“On Route One. I’m starving.”
Carrie was not supposed to say that part. She was supposed to tell him Noodle Kingdom, and that’s it. She wanted to just say never mind, and get in the car. She wanted to drive and drive and let him wonder why they were driving so far. She had to be harsh because it was the only way she could keep from grabbing his belly and sinking into it. She was used to letting his charm burn up her anger. But she didn’t want that to happen today.
“Whatever you say, girl,” Ty said, and got in the car.
That wasn’t right, either. Carrie had wanted to get in first, click the door into place while his fingers were still twitching and waiting.

They pulled out of the campus and rode through Weston until they hit the highway. Noodle Kingdom was up in Saugus, alongside the ugliest stretch of road in Massachusetts. Carrie had chosen the place for its distance, for its unattractive drive and tacky interior. The night of the accident, two weeks ago, she was there drunk with Petra. What she remembered most was the mildew smell that bothered her even while she vomited Lo Mein into a scarlet toilet. She wanted Ty to notice the smell. She wanted it to be worse than the one in his mother’s grim apartment in Roxbury. She wanted to tell her story with gold plastic dragons curling on the walls behind her, with the booth shedding flakes of red under her ass, and with a cheap lantern hung crookedly between them. She wanted this ending to be an anomaly, not a summary of months of lies.
Carrie liked the way Noodle Kingdom sounded, disembodied from the grim building they were heading to. She imagined a castle woven from thick udon, windowpanes of uncooked Chow Foon, hanging doors of undulating lasagna. Route One was a hill, almost a mountain, with Noodle Kingdom glistening at the top. She kept her eyes on the road and plowed upwards.
“Why do we have to drive way up here? If you want Chinese, there’s Lemon Flower right by school.”
“That’s not Chinese. It’s Korean.”
Ty was staring at her but she didn’t turn her head. She kept her eyes on the highway and the last outliers of the plastic herd.
“Are you kidding me?” he said. “What’s the difference?” He slumped to the side.“Never knew you to be so persnickety,” he said.
Since they started dating they had eaten every meal out at Lemon Flower, which was Korean-owned cheap Asian fusion. The place was full of palm trees and jaunty music. Ty always ordered Buffalo wings and beef with black bean sauce, two orders of crab Rangoon and sometimes Japanese beer, which Carrie sipped furtively whenever the waitress disappeared. When they ate in, Ty made spicy meatballs, rolled pork with pepper and flour and other powders from the red-lidded vials in his pantry. Carrie was sick the first times they ate together, not used to so much heavy food. Eventually she slipped into the rhythm of the two meals, rocking between them with ease. She learned which days were meatball days and which days were Lemon Flower days. She’d even craved the meals during the short time she’d been at home.
“I’ve been there before with friends,” Carrie said. “It’s festive.”
Ty snorted. Carrie knew she sounded like a socializing WASP, when really all she had was Ty and Petra. And the girl in Concord with the baby, maybe, but they hadn’t spoken in months, not since the girl told Carrie she was overwhelming and that they needed time apart.
“You crack me up,” Ty said.
They drove up the highway in silence. The hill got steeper as they went, until the car was almost traveling vertically. The station wagon was a rollercoaster approaching its summit. More and more the hill grew sheer enough to tip the car belly up, crashing them back down all the way to Regis.
Ty was panting from his walk across the parking lot. It was the same way he breathed when they messed around on her dorm bed, hoping her roommate wouldn’t return. They came close to having sex many times, but never did. Each time she found herself naked with him in the sheets, usually drunk with the right parts pressing, she told him no.
“Come on, beautiful,” he’d say. “You’re giving me blue balls.”
Carrie would giggle and turn her head, but he would keep pressing. Usually she would just go to the bathroom, lock herself in one of the stalls her floor of girls shared that Ty couldn’t use (he had to travel downstairs to the employee facility.) She would sit curled in his t-shirt in the last stall. By the time she returned the mood would have passed. Ty would be popping in a video in his underwear, a pouch of Butter Lovers swelling in the microwave. But lately it hadn’t worked.
“Are you serious, girl?” he said the last time she let it get that far, rising up from her bed, pastel sheets wrinkling around him. “You date me for five months and you won’t let me put it in you? Is there a problem here?”
“Maybe,” she mumbled.

When they reached the restaurant Carrie jerked off the highway. The building was small and set in from the road, with a bib of cement that accommodated far more parking spots than the restaurant had tables. Inside, rank velvet hung down in place of the glowing starch that Carrie imagined. The kingdom was empty.
“This place is a dump,” Ty said, peering down the long room. It was nothing like the bright lights and white napkin peaks at Lemon Flower.
From out of the gloom the hostess approached, kicking her miniscule shoes across the golden shag, her black bob a gumdrop floating through the air. Carrie took in a breath. She realized she’d hoped it would be closed.
As they walked down the golden path to the back of the restaurant, Carrie rubbed at the stretch marks that embossed her stomach and tried not to look at her boyfriend. They sat across each other at a circular table. There weren’t dragons behind Ty, but there were lions, their faces clumps of bubbles. Some were laughing, others sneezing. One of them kept its sharp mouth in a permanent O. Carrie didn’t know what was behind her.
“Motherfucker,” Ty said, picking up the menu. “No beef with black bean sauce.”
“Big whoop,” Carrie said, keeping the mood light. “Get something else.”
She tucked her hands between her legs. She felt the bulk of a heavy pad pushing at the fabric. It looked bulbous under her tiny shorts. She wondered if people thought she was a hermaphrodite. The problem was that she was afraid to use tampons. She couldn’t have explained why until now, but there was a tiny private warmth in the tube of her vagina that she never wanted opened up before.
Ty ordered chicken wings and crab Rangoon and also deep fried shrimp and beef teriyaki. It pissed Carrie off that they had come all the way to Noodle Kingdom and he hadn’t ordered noodles. He snapped the menu shut without even flipping to the section. When the food eventually came it sat in meaty piles in front of him, all shellacked in the same shade of shiny brown, and she didn’t lift her fork. She noticed only, against her will, the way his broad hands could raise so airily the tiny teacup.
“A toast to the girl who drove me forty minutes for this garbage.”
They clicked their cups over the steaming grease. Thumbnail versions of the neon lantern flickered in double in Ty’s eyes. They bobbed, as if in water, and disappeared. Then Ty lifted his chopsticks. He balanced one on the shelf of his index finger, and as he was about to cross it with the second Carrie remembered the promise she made herself. She needed to tell Ty before he ate any food.
“Hold on, baby,” she said. “I’m going to the bathroom. You’ll wait for me?”
“With pleasure,” he said, opening his arms in an exaggerated gesture and placing his chopsticks back on the napkin.
As she passed him he pinched her thigh. The flesh stayed between the pads of his fingers for just long enough to stop her. His marble eyes glinted and she wanted to kiss him on the forehead like she would have kissed her father if she ever wanted to. But then she broke away and hurried down the same path she took the night she was sick with her friends: to the back of the restaurant, around past the steaming stainless steel of the kitchen, through the beaded curtain, and down the back stairs. She remembered being wasted and doing this, scrambling to find any sign of a bathroom - a stick figure, an arrow – and letting loose a few mouthfuls of throw up that led her back out later.
As always, Carrie chose the stall farthest from the entrance. When she was little she had a fantasy about a last stall that had a door to an even more secluded stall, and then a door to another and another, until she found the actual toilet beyond all these doors, concealed and dim somewhere far away. More recently she had a dream where the stall doors disappeared and women teetered precariously, exposed to each other on their porcelain seats. She awoke from it wet and agitated.
Carrie pulled the door closed and yanked down her shorts. The pad in her underwear, an extra-strength model, was blank except for a short brown smear. She wore them even when her period was long over, fearing it would return suddenly. The smear reminded Carrie of her accident, and the tiny point on her scalp throbbed.
Two weeks ago, standing with her pants down in the same stall, Carrie didn’t know she would be back so soon. She returned upstairs, to her table of friends. There were three of them: herself, Petra and Petra’s roommate Beth. Petra had officially become the only girl at Regis Carrie liked, the one she drank with in the woods outside the dorm. When they were together Petra amped her up – letting Carrie’s anxious energy become, for once, a social grace. Petra taught her to mix Coke with red wine, which Carrie would never have believed would have tasted so sweet, so summery and perfect. Carrie would talk about Ty, though she never told Petra about her chastity, skirting the issue of sex with clumsy winks.
Petra had many boys in her life, mostly ones in Ty’s position who worked crappy jobs somewhere on campus. All of the boys were poor city boys; some were the very ones that had been bused to Carrie’s public school in Concord. They were ones who, if they had lived in Texas near Petra’s ranch, would not have been bused anywhere, not even to the mediocre parochial school Petra attended. Carrie and Petra did not have the lean end of the bargain. But still, they never bought wine bottles that cost more than five dollars.
When their boys weren’t free they would run down the hill and trip over other couples, sneak up to the windows of the nuns’ quarters and spy. Once a sour nun had peered out at them, so close to Petra’s face against the glass that they were almost kissing. The nun screwed up her eyes and steamed a cloud on the pane with her breath, but couldn’t see Petra.
“I want to teach her how to fuck,” Petra said. “She doesn’t know what she’s missing. I’d give it to her for charity”
“That’d be sweet,” Carrie said.
The night of Noodle Kingdom Beth drove them to Saugus when, already drunk from their burgundy concoctions, they found it in the phone book and demanded a ride.
“Isn’t this name awesome?” Petra said. “Is that even real? I bet it’s super nasty.”
“Yeah,” Carrie said. “It sounds amazing. We have to go.”
Although Beth didn’t get along with Petra, she owed her a favor (Petra had supplied Beth’s last party with alcohol) and agreed to the drive. She regretted it instantly, though, and sat with folded arms while Carrie and Petra dug through plate after plate of brain-shaped mounds of noodles. When Carrie returned from the bathroom Beth had already ordered the check, and she rushed them to the car so fast that Carrie slipped in the parking lot, falling so hard she needed stitches on her scalp. Carrie and Petra laughed all the way to the hospital and back. They sat in the foam green doctor’s office and jammed the ear instrument into each other’s navels, and by the time they returned to Regis just before dawn, Beth was so angry that she demanded Petra sleep somewhere else.
“So I can finally get some fucking sleep,” she said. “The one night I’m not sex-iled.”
“You snobby twat,” Petra said. She made to spit on Beth’s flip-flops, but didn’t.
Since Petra didn’t have any boys at the time, Carrie took her home. Her own roommate, a girl almost as big as Ty, was away like she was every weekend, back at her parents’ house in Springfield. Carrie expected Petra to climb into the other girl’s bed, which was bowed in the center like a ship, but Petra wedged her way in with Carrie instead.
The light blinked off and Carrie felt for the first time that her scalp stung.
“My head hurts,” she said, feeling stupid. Because of how Carrie’s body filled the bed Petra was almost on top of her, their bare legs suctioned together. Whenever either one moved there was an elastic pull and a snap as their skin stretched apart and separated.
“I’m sorry, pretty girl,” Petra said.
Then she leaned her face up and kissed the spot where the next day Carrie would see the black threads crossed like insect legs.
“Does that feel better?”
Petra’s breath cooled the sting, and her open lips slid down Carrie’s face.
That was the night that Carrie spread out her insides, still drunk but not gone enough not to think of Ty watching her. Petra kissed her stretch marks and below, down her legs and nipped her hipbones. Carrie lolled her head and let it happen, let Petra stay down there, her body swerving beneath the sheets, for much longer than she should have.
Carrie didn’t sleep. Her chin pointed to the ceiling all night, propped skyward by Petra’s sleeping head. She didn’t move because she didn’t want Petra to spring awake and realize where she was. All night Carrie stared at the ceiling and listened to the girls walking to the bathroom and the boys slipping by the student on duty. When the dorm hallway reached its morning volume Petra raised her head, knocking Carrie’s stiff chin to the side.
“Where’s your roommate what’s-her-face?” Petra was frowning. “She didn’t come home last night?”
“She’s at her parents’,” Carrie said.
Petra shrugged.
“Nice frog crap.”
Carrie’s roommate had a poster of poison dart frogs and a poster of a toad leaping across a chasm that said “Jump Towards Your Dreams!”
“Yeah,” said Carrie.
Petra flipped onto her stomach and stared at Carrie for a long time. Carrie felt the grains of mucus itching in her eyes but couldn’t do anything about them.
“You’re so funny,” Petra finally said.
She left the room without even changing out of her pajamas, and then Carrie began to worry. It would be hard to lose Ty, who was better than a father but worse than a boyfriend. She understood now why he had never really been her boyfriend, and why she had fought so viciously with the girl with the baby. She remembered the last time she saw that girl, her red hair whipping around the bald head in her arms, screaming at Carrie.
She didn’t let the last fatigue of joy dissolve, didn’t even replay the night once, before she began to plan her last meal with Ty.

Carrie pulled up her shorts and palmed the pad through the fabric to center it. She flushed the empty toilet and left the bathroom.
Ty had waited for her, as promised, his hands folded in his lap and his eyes aimed at the cooling food. She had the feeling anyone could come up and kick him now, really hurt him, and he wouldn’t budge.
“I have to tell you something,” Carrie said. “That’s why we came out here.”
Ty scratched his head, loosening a tiny snowflake of dandruff.
“Well I’m glad there was some reason, however mysterious,” he said. “You sleeping with the waiter or something?”
For a minute Carrie thought he meant the candy-headed lady that brought them to their seat. But then she looked over his shoulder and saw the boy who took their order, nervously swaying at the kitchen entrance. He sensed the tension.
“Maybe I am sleeping with that guy. What’s the difference?”
“There’s a world of difference. If you’re sleeping with someone I want it to be me. And you won’t. Even though I love you, and you love me, you won’t do it.”
Ty brought his fist down on the table. The shrimp jumped a little, but nothing spilled. The waiter tipped up on his toes but didn’t come over. It should have been a scene, she wished it could be a scene, but it just wasn’t. It was too small.
“I didn’t sleep with that kid. I slept with Petra,” Carrie said.
Ty looked at her, his eyelids wrinkling. He chuckled.
“I’m surprised she could squeeze you in, with that schedule,” he said.
The memory dissolved. Petra’s ghostly limbs, pretzeled and swaying at Carrie’s disposal, faded into the post-midnight of her cramped dorm room.
“Sit down, tell me another. I get a kick out of you.”
Carrie didn’t sit down. Her muscles vibrated against her bones. She looked at Ty’s grin and knew that Petra would never sleep with her again. The idea of them together had sounded ridiculous when she said it aloud and it stayed ridiculous when she looked at Ty now. Petra had returned to her ranch in Texas a week ago, lifting her hair out of her eyes to say goodbye. Carrie thought there was a chance for them in September, tried to imply it with her hug. But when Ty laughed at her she knew there wasn’t. She would tell Ty the truth later, break it off gently, try to stay close to him. For now she picked up a piece of beef, shook the gelling sauce back onto the plate and kissed it to his laughing mouth.

Four: The Joke

Montipartov shot straight from the black easy chair at the right of the room and went across and sat again in the overstuffed grey love seat at the left of the room, all the while keeping his .45 caliber squarely leveled at Solna.
We aren’t leaving this room until this thing is settled, said Montipartov, waving the thick barrel. And if I have to settle it with a bullet, I will.
Solna shifted in his straight backed wooden chair. He ran a shaking hand through his thin grey hair and once more appealed to Montipartov’s reason.
This isn’t worth it—think before you do something stupid—
I’ve already done plenty of stupid things, snapped Montipartov. The most stupid was counting you as my friend. Why stop now?
In the center of the wall across the room, a plastic television droned too low to understand. A group of dancers cavorted across the screen before a rotund singer on a squat pedestal. Solna squirmed once more in the chair.
Listen. I didn’t know she was your wife. I swear to God, it was a mistake and it’ll never happen again but what more can I do? I can’t turn back time—
Montipartov thrust the gun toward Solna’s face and harshly interrupted.
Listen. I don’t buy you didn’t know. I don’t want to hear that again—if the next thing out of your mouth isn’t the truth, then the last thing you’ll hear will be this gun going off.
Solna opened his mouth as if to speak, but thought better of it. He lowered his head into his thin-boned hands. His knees shook slightly. Montipartov glanced to the television. Golden words spread across the screen; WELCOME BACK to COMEDY TIME with PERN DIXON; then the words faded to a man in a loose suit standing tall before a heavy red curtain. He spoke quickly, holding one hand out. Muted sound drifted softly about the turned down television. The fake silver controls of the set glinted cheaply; the rounded off edges of the plastic case caught the glow of the tall floorlamp across in the corner. Solna’s fingers drummed nervously against his temples as Montipartov rose and went to the television, the gun still trained steadily at Solna. He spun up the volume knob, then sat back down. Solna took no notice.
You know, I’m mad at the post office, said the comedian, flicking a hand. I went to all the trouble of sending in a suggestion to improve things and they just ignored it.
Montipartov stared impassively at the set. Pern Dixon went on animatedly, pacing, his heels clicking on the stage.
The idea would have revolutionized the whole postal industry, said Pern. It would have made me rich—I bet that’s why they didn’t write back. They’re going to steal my idea—what do you think? Think they’ll steal my idea?
The unseen studio audience murmured and here and there a titter fluttered up.
Want to know what the idea was? said Pern Dixon, raising an eyebrow. I mean, I’ve already told them. It’s not like it’s a secret or something.
Several more voices urged Pern on. Montipartov chewed strongly at his lip. Solna raised his head and stared at the ceiling, his hands clenched bonily together in his lap.
I told them to think about this; you know how wasteful and slow it is the way they deliver the mail? They’ve got to send mailmen out to walk from house to house putting all the letters in the mailboxes by hand—it takes a million mailmen all day long to get the letters in all the mailboxes. Too wasteful. Too slow. No wonder stamps cost so much—don’t you think?
Pern held his hands out palms up and pulled a response from the audience; an affirming riffle of laughter played over the studio. Montipartov stretched his legs out, ankles crossed, and leaned back in the dark love seat. Solna blankly settled his gaze on the television. His knees shook harder. The heavy .45 lay cradled on Montipartov’s left forearm, its barrel pointed squarely at Solna’s face.
Just think of all the gasoline they waste, said the comedian—you know how all the mailmen go out in the morning in those little white trucks to the neighborhoods where they go to walk around with all the letters? They drive the trucks, park them, get out, walk around to all the mailboxes, put in the mail, go back to the trucks, drive them a couple blocks, park them, get out, walk around, like that—lord god what a waste of gas and money. This is where the price of a stamp really goes, you know. Down the drain, just like that.
The comedian smoothed his right suit sleeve. The audience fell silent; their overlapping murmer and scattered titters drained into the spaces beyond the walls. Montipartov coughed hoarsely into his hand and moved the gun from his right hand to his left. The comedian slapped his hands together and continued.
Well, I pointed out all of this waste in my letter to the post office, and I gave them my idea how to cut it all out. Now what do you think my idea was? Can you guess? Go on, guess.
Just mail the letters, said Solna softly.
Come on—guess—let’s have some guesses—
What? Montipartov snapped at Solna, straightening.
Can’t guess? Okay, well here it is. I—
Just mail the letters, Solna muttered. Then nobody has to walk around to all the houses and drive all the trucks and all that. They should just mail the letters.
Solna looked away from the television and shifted in his chair as heavy laughter welled from the set. The comedian stepped back to the curtain, rubbed his hands together, and spoke loudly.
So what do you think? Is that some idea or what?
Wait—hey, said Montipartov, looking from Solna to the television and then back again. You made me miss the joke— the joke’s over—what’d he say?
Just mail the letters, repeated Solna. That’s the only answer that makes sense.
Damn you, snapped Montipartov, rising from the love seat. The gun waved.
Wait, no—what’d I do, cried Solna, leaning back and cringing, hands raised.
I told you to stay shut up unless you were going to come clean about my wife. But you opened your big mouth, made me miss the joke—god damn you Solna! God damn you!
I didn’t mean it.
You never mean it. That’s the problem. You sleep with my wife, and you don’t mean it. You make me miss the joke, and you don’t mean it. Is there anything you DO mean, Solna?
Wait. Here—
Montipartov rushed up and dug the steel barrel into the smaller man’s temple, pushing his head back and twisting his neck over the hard wooden seat back.
Tell me Solna. Is there anything you DO mean?
I—I don’t know what you want me to say, gasped Solna, his eyes closed. Montipartov pulled the gun back from Solna’s head and stomped back to his chair in disgust. Solna hunched forward, shoulders shaking. His shape cut through the glow barely showing around the dark drawn windowshade.
I want to know the truth, damn you, said Montipartov. About my wife, about the joke—about every damned thing—you miserable lying fool.
The television screen faded black; the comedian stepped off the soundstage into the softer light to the side of the studio and got up a fresh towel from a polished white stool and smoothly wiped his gleaming forehead. A young man in gold glasses and a narrow green tie came out from the shadows around the curtain.
Washington wants to see you, Mr. Dixon, he said.
Oh? About what?
I don’t know. But he wants to see you now.
Where?
In his office.
Fine.
Pern Dixon turned and went around a corner, where he narrowly missed being run down by a quick tall man with a scarlet folder under his arm and a harsh scowl on his face. He watched the tall man disappear down the hall before passing under the large glossy light globes lining the ceiling and finally stepping through a thin black door into a slick-paneled office with a wooden desk set to one side. A broad swarthy man sat behind the desk in a high-backed chair, leaning forward on his elbows with his hands clenched tight together.
You want to see me? said Pern Dixon, casually pushing his hand into his pocket and standing before a large painting of a sailing ship set in a shiny gold frame on the wall.
Yes I do, said Washington, his eye trained on Dixon. I’ve been meaning to tell you something for a while, and it really isn’t going to be very pleasant, but it needs to be said, so I’m going to say it.
Dixon pushed a hand in his pocket.
So—what is it?
Washington rose tall behind the heavy desk. He tapped his thick fingers on the glossy fake marble desktop.
Its about your style, he said. You’re not funny anymore. God, those jokes you told tonight—what was in your mind?
Dixon pulled his hand from his pocket and the skin around his collar flushed; Washington flexed his powerful neck and smoothly ran a finger down his suit lapel.
I—I don’t know, said Dixon. What’s always in my mind, I guess—but how long have you felt this way?
I told you, said Washington, cocking his head. For a while now. I know what’s funny, and I know what’s not. What I need to know from you is, what will you do about it?
I don’t know—I thought I was doing good—
This might just be a local public access channel, said Washington—but our standards are really higher than that.
Dixon stood with his mouth open, staring at a large chrome ashtray at the edge of the desktop.
So what will you do? said Washington more strongly.
I guess I’ll change.
But how? When?
Now I suppose—but can you give me more to go on? Exactly what is it you don’t think is funny?
Washington leaned forward pointing at Dixon.
Listen, he said. You’re the comedian—not me. You figure it out. Or we’ll have to cut you. I’m being honest. You ought to thank me for being as honest as I am.
Okay—sure, said Dixon, half turning away. Thanks for telling me. I’ll do better.
Washington leaned back, nodding thoughtfully.
I know you’ll work it out, he said. Just work harder. Find better jokes. You know what I’m talking about—you’re not stupid. Hey listen. Thanks for coming in.
Sure no problem.
Pern Dixon went back into the hall. The smooth black tile floor moved past under him. The young man in the narrow green tie came at him again, from the side.
Mr. Dixon? I’m sorry, but I’ve got another message. There’s a phone call for you. From a fan. You can take it in my office.
Wordlessly Dixon went down the hall past the soundstage and into the young man’s cubicle. The curved plastic phone pressed hot in his hand.
Pern Dixon here, he said abruptly. What is it?
I need to know the punch line of the post office joke, interjected the caller. His voice was muted as through a thick wet haze.
What joke? said Dixon, pressing a fingertip into the soft cloth cubicle wall.
The post office joke—was the punch line just mail the letters?
What?
Was the punch line just mail the letters? We missed the punch line—I need to know the punch line—
Oh go to hell, said Dixon, before ripping the phone away from his ear and slamming it down onto the receiver with a sharp crack that bounced the phone a foot across the desktop.
Jokes, muttered Dixon, rising quickly. To hell with jokes. I give up.
The young man in the green tie came into the cubicle, waving his folded glasses in his hand.
What was that crash? Are you all right?
Never mind, hissed Dixon. I’m having a bad day is all. And the call was a damned wrong number. That’s all.
Oh.
Dixon pushed his hair back from his eyes and went back into the hall and passed by Washington’s office door without a glance. He continued to the street and to his bus and toward wherever he’d end up next; while all the while Washington sat behind his desk idly ruffling through papers, his mind calm with satisfaction. The tall window beside the desk glowed warmly, the screen softening the view of the brick building across the street. He realized the agitation he’d felt an hour before had left him; the agitation caused by the tall man with the scarlet folder who’d come in earlier to try out. The man gazed glassily at Washington and swayed slightly, slowly telling a joke.
You know how there’s electric guitars and electric pianos? muttered the man. I’m surprised nobody’s come up with something like—electric golf—
Washington stared through and past his desktop as the tall man went on, waving the folder in time with his words.
Like with the electric guitar—I can just hit the strings a LITTLE BIT and the sound can carry out across a whole stadium—a little sound where if it wasn’t electric you’d be lucky to hear it FIVE FEET away—
Washington turned his wrist discreetly to see the time. The tall thin man’s words ran together annoyingly.
So why can’t the same thing be done with golf? I mean, all golf right now is ACOUSTIC golf—like plain guitar is ACOUSTIC guitar—get it?
The tall man tittered sharply; behind him, the painting of the sailing ship hung cutting through rough waters; Washington set his eye squarely on the prow. After clearing his throat with a gurgling sound, the tall thin man went on.
Now what if somebody comes up with ELECTRIC golf. Imagine; a single hole of golf would take up the space of a township; a single golf green would span the length of two football fields; a MINIATURE golf course would take up about the same space as a standard golf course does today; PICTURE it—ELECTRIC golf. Hey? How ‘bout it?
The grey shadows of the rolling waves before the prow of the clipper ship intersected sharply with the spot where the tall man’s neck met his shoulders.
I say PICTURE it—so what do you think? Funny, eh?
The ship and the joke swung to the side as Washington got to his feet, squared up a small stack of papers atop his desk, drew a blank look across his face, and answered.
Sure. Your jokes are very funny. I’ll tell you what. Let me think this over a few days. How about I call you?
The tall man’s face suddenly reddened.
No, he said, gripping the folder. I want to know now.
I can’t tell you now. I have to think about it.
No you don’t. You’re just like all the rest. You know right now you’ll never call me don’t you?
No. I don’t know that. I just always like to sleep on these things—
The tall thin man cut the air with his hand and his dull eyes suddenly flashed.
Why do you have to lie to me? Why can’t you just be honest and admit you think I stink?
Washington leaned forward and waved a forefinger.
No, no, he said. You don’t stink. Its just that I’ve already got a comedian on one show and—
The tall man’s face twisted to the side and his bottom lip bulged as he strongly interrupted.
See! You’ve already got a comedian! Then why did you waste my God-damned time having me down here? You’ve just got a shitty little fifth-rate public access channel anyway. What the hell do you think you’re running here—the NBC network?
The tall thin man closed his eyes and coughed wetly into his hand. Washington’s broad hand raised palm out.
I think you better leave, he said.
No problem, gasped the tall man, thrusting the folder under his arm. I’ll leave. And don’t bother to call me—as if you ever would anyway. Listen—you’re stuck at the bottom, just like me—you little two bit creep. You don’t know what’s funny. You don’t know what’s good. I hope you rot here forever. So long creep, enjoy your two-bit channel.
The man stormed out the door, coughing heavily. It swung back part closed as Washington stood red-faced, one hand formed into a meaty fist. The sailing ship on the wall hung solidly; this was no two-bit channel. Washington was somebody; he leaned, picked up the phone, and punched in an extension number.
Send Pern Dixon in here, he told the young man in the narrow green tie who picked up the phone at the other end. As soon as he’s done on the air.
The phone softly set down and he sat back down behind his desk, waiting, his eyes on the foam billowing motionlessly out beyond the thrusting prow of the tall masted clipper ship trapped within the narrow fake-gilt frame. Two blocks away past the narrow window the tall thin man with the scarlet folder caught his breath at last and mounted the steps of a dirty grey bus that would hustle him back toward his own side of town. He moved quickly up the aisle lined with downward-looking passengers and sat near the back. He laid his red folder on the torn seat beside him and gripped the cold chrome grab bar across the seatback in front. So he had been right after all—he knew it before he went. There’s never any use in going to see them; there’s never any chance to get out of the rat race and do what you want. No, no, no is the only word that applies; no, no, no, no, no ,no, no— he’d placed his hand on this same red folder that’d lain on the kitchen table this morning as his wife stood in the slanting light of the kitchen sink window, giving him her advice. The light fell muted through the sheer lace curtain and laid soft shadows in the hollows of her face.
I see no reason why you shouldn’t go down to that cable station and see if you can get a show there, she said, wiping the rim of a small white cup. You could put on a better show than any of the other people they’ve got.
Oh sure, said the tall thin man weakly. Better than any of the other people on the rinky dink little channel.
No, she said, laying her dishtowel across her left forearm. It’s not rinky dink—its public access, you’re one of the public, that’s what stations like that are for—and at least somebody’ll hear your jokes.
Sure, he said, pushing the red folder several inches across the formica tabletop. Two of us’ll hear the jokes—me and the one person who’ll maybe tune in.
Peter, she said calmly, lowering her gaze into his and stepping from the sink through the soft bars of sunlight. Don’t be so down on yourself. You’re better than that.
Okay—so, he said, standing straighter and forcing himself to brighten. You still really think something might come of this comedy stuff? Even after everything I’ve tried so far hasn’t panned out?
The curtain lace broke the light into grains that settled halolike about her.
It’s up to you how it comes out. But you’ll never know what’ll come of it for sure, if you quit.
That’s true.
And after all, she said, stepping slowly toward him. I love your jokes. You just need somebody to give you a break.
Reaching him, she put her hand softly on his back; the light played around them as they kissed for just an instant; he pulled away slightly, but her hand stayed on his back between the shoulder blades.
You know, he said more strongly—if I had a local show I could make it into something a whole lot different—you know like Crazy Gene’s hour—remember Crazy Gene’s variety hour? That was a good show—it’d be like that.
No, she said smoothly, pressing his back harder. It’d be a whole lot better than that.
Well—at least a TV camera can’t boo the shit out of me.
Oh come on. Nobody at those amateur nights booed the shit out of you.
Yes they did.
No, they didn’t.
You weren’t there.
That’s true. But I don’t have to be there to know what you can do. Problem is—they’ve just got no taste.
The yellow kitchen walls moved about them. She took her hand from him and went back to the sink and continued to dry the few dishes propped in the drainboard; their hard curved rims cast shadows over the countertop edge.
That’s right, he said. They’ve got no taste.
She closed the high cabinet over the last dish with a soft but certain crack and turned back to him.
Just know whatever you decide to do, I love you, Peter.
The tall thin man smiled and refocused his eyes through the grime-caked window of the grey bus. It rolled slightly pulling to the corner across the street from Solly’s bar and grille. OPEN said the white sign out front and the golden light beyond the door screen glowed invitingly. It was still afternoon; no reason not to have one or two before dinner; no reason not to. The tall thin man tucked the red folder back under his arm, rose and went to the front of the bus and got off at the corner under a red stop light. The bus began pulling away in a roar; the light stayed red. She’s right, they got no taste. No damned taste at all. He walked defiantly across against the light through a great mass of black fumes thrown up by the bus; maybe it’s time to give up this dream. Or maybe it’s not; she says its not; but no need to decide today, this afternoon, right now, again. The bus passed him by and left him behind and made its way slowly past a series of stops to the one he’d have taken had he gone straight home that afternoon; and once past that stop, the bus turned and made its way back down the route and back up and down again and over and over until it was dark and the OUT OF SERVICE sign scrolled up in the glass above the wide front window, and the next stop was the great brick and stone bus garage at the farthest spot of town from the tall thin man’s home, where his wife sat much later, preparing for bed. She was alone in the house with the front door tightly locked; he had his key. She sat erect, in her blue robe, before a vanity mirror, brushing out her brown hair. A small cream-colored television sat on the dresser at the side of the room, the sound turned too low to hear. Again, he’s not home, she thought. What’s the point, I ask myself. Twenty years, maybe twenty two—oh what difference does it make? Isn’t twenty long enough? Him and his crazy ideas. Comedy; he’s got a great job in a big company downtown, but still, he wants to write comedy. All the time and effort spent writing jokes and bits and sending things around and going to those awful amateur nights and all the boos and him coming home all sullen. Could have been put into something that’d pay. Could have been time and effort better spent, but he never gives up. Never. And I know where he is now. He’s having a few. So it didn’t go well, because if it’d gone well he’d have come home right away and told me all about it. But I’ve got to encourage him. I’m the only one he has who cares enough to go out of my way to encourage him. She got up from the chair and slipped off her robe and turned up the volume of the television set after placing her brush down beside a small pearl-white phone. Now to get in bed and watch the news and whatever. Her finger touched the timer. The set’ll switch off in an hour. And no matter what time he comes home tonight, he’ll be here beside me in the morning. Like always.
The thin covers pulled to her neck. She flicked the remote. A tanned newsman read from a sheaf of copy.
—A sad end this afternoon to a hostage situation on Heathclift street. We’ve been covering this all afternoon and into the evening and are sorry to inform you that—
I am a saint, she thought, her mouth a tight line. No matter what, he will always get encouragement from me—
—A Nicholas Montipartov, age 46, shot dead his long time friend Adnan Solna, after a tense afternoon of demands and threats and a standoff with police—
Who else does he have; and see, see—there are much worse things happening in the world.
—Apparently Mr. Solna was shot dead after failing to inform Montipartov of the punch line of a joke they had seen on TV earlier in the day. According to police Montipartov became enraged after he missed the punchline of the joke and demanded that Solna find it out for him—
There are much worse things, see? Count your blessings. And I’ll have to tell Peter about it; it had to do with a joke. He’ll wonder what joke—
—Also it appears there was ill will between the two because of an alleged affair Mr. Solna had had with Mr. Montipartov’s wife—
There’s the real reason. See, that’s always the reason. First there are reasons and then there are real reasons and—
—Mr. Montipartov is in custody. There appears to be no history of mental illness—
The news story dissolved in a wash of sound and the sudden meaninglessness of it all jerked her head back up awake. She was too tired for any more TV. She placed the remote on the night table, and rolled over, eyes closed in the quiet dark room. Too much bad news, for one day at least. But see, that’s the use of bad news; to let you know things could be worse. Thank God she’d never be involved in such a thing. Thank God she was such a saint.

Capable of Cruelty

In the last row of flexible, composed ninth graders, Susan danced self consciously. Her breathing came quickly as if she was being chased, but the only thing following her were the eyes of the audience. As she moved, she couldn’t remember what in the world had made her think she liked dancing. Her body was pink and her movement clumsy, but not wholly unattractive. The same friends who had convinced Susan to take the dance class with them, who had listened to the same Janet Jackson song ad infinitum in her basement and applied their own make up onto her lips and eyes, since she didn’t have any of her own, became her harshest critics on the day of the recital. ‘You forgot to smile,’ Erin said. ‘You kept looking down at your feet,’ Christine scolded. They were right, Susan did not want anyone to see her dancing. Against Christine’s advice, Susan positioned herself directly behind Holly Petros. Holly was the kind of girl that boys couldn’t take their eyes off of. It didn’t matter if they were just staring, making cat calls, or shooting balls of wet paper at her. At least they knew who she was. Susan didn’t think any guys at her school even knew her name. However, to everyone’s surprise and against all odds, a truly momentous thing happened after the assembly that day. A guy, and not just any guy, but Robby Sullivan, who she had liked since the 6th grade, asked Susan out on her first date.

The week before, when Lana Atkins broke up with Robby, Erin asked Susan what she would do if Robby asked her out. The other girls giggled and fell back onto Erin’s bunk beds in mock ecstasy.
‘For real, do you think you’re ready to date a guy like Robby?’ Erin asked. Being asked a personal question directly, and in front of their entire group of friends, startled Susan. She looked down at the shredded laces of her shoes, and then up at Erin’s completely manicured and composed face, her pursed lips and round eyes. She thought that Erin was beginning to lose all the qualities that she loved. Last year they would have discussed important matters such as this behind the bushes, behind the apartment building that Erin’s mother rented out from her grandmother, or up in the oak tree in their front yard, throwing pebbles into the street and laughing at the possibility of growing up into one of the trendy, polished sluts they watched saunter down the streets, wearing jeweled flip flops and eating fro yo. Erin’s hair would have been down, with bangs hanging over her eyes, wearing shorts that came down almost to her knees because her mom always said, ‘Don’t ask for trouble, enough trouble will catch you without a formal invitation.’ The other thing her mom used to say, brushing hair out of her clear grey eyes, was, ‘Don’t ever date a man you can’t take in a fight, girls, because if it comes down to it, you want to be able to clean the floor with the twerp’. Now Erin was dying her hair from natural blond to platinum, shaving the hair off of every visible and non-visible surface of her body, and criticizing Susan for her naivete. It just wasn’t right for Erin to so purposefully become so ordinary and accepting of conventions like choosing the perfect concealer and growing apart from her best friend.
Even though Susan could never understand what Erin was thinking, Erin always seemed to read Susan’s thoughts. She knew, for instance, that Susan wanted badly to go out with Robby, but didn’t want to become the kind of girl Robby would go out with. When it was just the two of them, Susan would tell her the funniest secrets, fantasies she had about guys she liked, but, in reality, she knew that Susan wouldn’t act on her impulses. She wouldn’t go all the way with a guy just to make him like her: second base, third maybe, but only if he promised not to tell anyone. She didn’t want to be labeled a skank like Holly Petros. Deep down Susan was different. Her parents didn’t use profanity, and they didn’t tolerate dating, immaturity or lying. Her parents tried to protect her like a favorite bracelet, to be worn only on the safe streets, the same streets on which she had lived for her entire life.
Two weeks ago, Susan had told her parents she was going to sleep over Christine’s house, and she packed a change of clothes and a fake ID. They were going to take the ferry to the city, to go dancing at a club that the other girls frequented. On the drive to Christine’s house, her mother played Z100, her favorite radio station, and looked at her in the rearview mirror. Her eyes squinted at her daughter, not out of suspicion, but wonder. It was almost as if she could not recognize her. Susan got sick as soon as she arrived, and did not go to the club with the others. Instead, she watched Friends on TV and ate an entire bag of marshmallows, before falling asleep on the floor. When the girls got back, their frantic laughter woke Susan, but she pretended to be sleeping. They stepped over her pink and white pajamas and she wondered if they were pointing to her while they laughed, or if they didn’t notice her at all.
‘Of course you’d say yes if a guy like Robby, or any of his friends, for that matter, asked you out,’ Christine said. In grammar school Christine had been an A+ student and a teacher’s pet, but high school changed her priorities. You could tell by the way she combed her hair she wished she could be popular.
‘And what if Andy asked you out, Chris? What would you give to go out with him?’ Erin asked.
‘There isn’t a single freshman who would say no to Andy Breaks,’ Christine said with conviction, and the other girls agreed simultaneously.
‘It’s not like we don’t have a choice,’ Susan said.
Usually, Susan kept her mouth shut when Christine put her down. Lately, Susan had to brace herself when she approached her peers: girls, boys, friends or enemies, it didn’t matter. She felt like she was always auditioning to be a character in a play that she hated. Still, she convinced herself that her friends just wanted to help her.
The girls choreographed dances together in Susan’s basement, where adults wouldn’t venture to listen to their music or their words. Sometimes when she was dancing, Susan remembered why she liked the girls so much. Erin wasn’t afraid to make a fool of herself by twirling and leaping across the cold cement floor, singing, ‘I feel pretty, oh so pretty!’ When it was just the two of them, Susan actually displayed some rhythm and skill at dancing, even if she couldn’t be taught routines or stage presence. She couldn’t help thinking that if she could only look and dance the way Erin and Christine instructed her, that maybe she could win Robby’s interest.
In the past few months, Robby went from being a class clown to ‘the man’. He had hazel eyes and big ears that stuck out a little too far, and his laughter was affectionate, never mean, like other boys’. Even a girl like Susan could picture Robby liking her.
When he asked for her number, his eyes didn’t meet hers. Then, when he called her, his voice sounded different, older and much more confident. He said, ‘My friends keep telling me they think you’re hot.’
Susan was so nervous talking to him on the phone that she didn’t suspect a thing.

A Jeep pulls up in front of her house at 6:00.  When she sees Andy, and not an actual adult, in the drivers seat, she begins to have second thoughts. (What is she expecting anyway, for Robby’s dad to take them out?) She suppresses the urge to look back at her parents’ house, and hops right in. She hasn’t told her parents, who think 14 is too young to date. The only people who know are the kids from school. Just the idea of her secret makes her feel more grown up, sexier even. She concentrates on the look of surprise on Christine’s face when she told her where she is going tonight. ‘Well, I guess our little girl is all grown up,’ Christine said.
‘Hi Chicken,’ Vein calls.
Susan doesn’t see Robby right away. Instead there is Andy, Brian and Vein. Vein calls all girls chickens, so Susan tries to calm the pacing in her chest, and she hopes the boys can’t sense her fear. She thinks she can smell something like a skunk, maybe pot. Christine said that pot smelled like a wet dog sometimes.
Robby appears from the back seat, holding a bottle of dark colored liquid.
‘Robby, what’s going on?’ she manages to say with a smile, though she looks like she is about to cry.
‘Here, have some of this,’ he says, eyes darting from her to the other guys.
He looks apologetic, but only for a second.
Obligingly, Susan takes two sips of ‘Puerto Rican Rum 40% alcohol by volume,’ as Robby takes the seat next to her. Andy doesn’t wait for her to fasten her seatbelt before stepping on the gas. As she sits with her knees pressed tightly together she can feel her inner thighs sweating. She wishes she hadn’t chosen such a short skirt. Susan looks out the window, but she can barely see her parents’ blue and white house disappear.
Susan is too nervous to look at Robby, whose leg is twitching next to hers, kind of like her dad’s leg would twitch at the dinner table, like he wasn’t sure if he was coming or going.
‘Take off your jacket and stay awhile,’ Andy says.
Andy’s a junior, but he seems even older than 17. He has two visible tattoos, one of a cross with some kind of swords going through it, the other a tribal band that rides the muscles of his right biceps.
Suddenly, the Jeep skids to a halt. Susan gasps and lunges forward, and Robby puts his arm out to catch her.
‘Look at this fat bitch, she almost made me hit her,’ Andy exclaims.
‘Hey, fat ass, watch where you’re going!’ Andy calls out the open window, and the guys in the back seat whistle mockingly.
Susan peers out her window to see the girl that Andy is talking to. Susan’s face turns red and the heat permeates from her forehead all the way into her chest. Sometimes, Susan thinks that she might hate girls. Why else would she let the boys say those things? Why else would she laugh? What if Susan were the girl out in the street - what would Andy say to her? Then, she realizes that she is not like the girl in the street. She is the girl sitting in a car full of guys, after all. Susie starts to feel good. Her knees relax and she puts a brave hand on Robby’s leg.
‘Where are we going, anyway?’ She flips her perfectly straight hair a little when she speaks. Her lips feel moist, and she wonders if the other guys are watching her.
‘To the fair out by South Beach,’ Robby answers, passing her the bottle again.

By the time they arrive, Susie finally knows what it feels like to be tipsy. The fair, which to most people would seem drab and unimpressive, strikes Susie as the most magical place she has ever seen in Staten Island. It’s all lit up, orange, blue and yellow. The popping and whooshing of arcade games, the crank and screech of Ferris wheels turning, and above all the laughter, which nearly drowns the mechanical noises out, give Susie the sense that anything is possible.  This is what she has been waiting for, preparing for, for her entire life. Robby seems to really like her. Wait until she tells the girls about this.  Each of the guys brings her something. Brian gets her a beer. Vein gets her a choker with a rhinestone in the middle. Robby even wins a little purple stuffed bear for her at the ball toss. She clutches it like the prize that it is, and lets him put his arm around her waist. The colors of the tents and the flashing game stations remind Susie of the ‘twinkle’ setting of Christmas tree lights. When Susie takes a deep breath to calm her nerves, she is overwhelmed by the odor of French fries and, more subtly, salt. These smells, and the awkward touch of Robby’s fingers on her bare hip, make her giddy and she can’t control her laughter. When she looks around, it seems to Susie that boys are everywhere.

Just as Susie is beginning to wonder what time it is and if she should be getting home, Andy says, with what sounds like finality, ‘Let’s take a walk.’
That’s when she realizes that Andy is not laughing anymore. He holds her arm tightly, and Robby lets her go.
‘Listen, is it getting kind of late? Maybe we should be heading home? Robby?’ she stutters.
‘You wanted to have fun tonight, right?’ Andy says. His voice gets increasingly lower and more serious, until suddenly he’s become an angry man.
‘‘I see you staring at me sometimes. You’re not so different from the other girls.’ Susie is beginning to wonder what she did wrong.
He starts pulling at her clothes, and the other guys start in too. Everyone except Robby. Where is Robby anyway? She searches for him, but he’s gone along with the carnival - out of sight. The Ferris wheel is the size of a quarter and only the faint music of laughter reaches her ears.
‘Susie, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but Robby doesn’t like slutty girls.’ Vein adds, following her gaze.
Everything is in a blur. Andy spits and curses, and the other guys laugh loudly, as if this is some kind of a game. ‘That’s just the way boys are,’ Susie hears in her mind. Then, Susie feels a cold finger between her legs: Andy’s fat cold finger, with a ring that presses against her flesh like a dull knife.
‘Robby!!!’ She cries, before Andy pushes her hard and she can feel everything slipping out from beneath her.
She hits the sand and it is colder than she would have expected. She can hear the whirring of the sea. She feels like she cannot make a sound, so she is startled to realize that she is screaming.

Then, there are flashlights and a booming dark voice. It must be cops. Susie can hear the words ‘assault’ and ‘under-aged’ as she gets up and starts running. The police don’t come after her.

The next thing she sees is Robby stepping out from behind the bathhouses, which means they are on the public beach. Susie realizes they are at least two miles from the carnival. Robby stops her.
‘Where’s the fire?’ he asks.
Susie glares.
‘Listen, I didn’t want that to happen. I didn’t know they were going to get like that. I called the police, ok?’ He’s talking so fast that he practically spits the words.
There are two other guys with him now. They are looking at her in such a way that Susie realizes how drunk and insignificant she must seem. She starts to feel grateful that Robby is even talking to her.
‘Jack has his dad’s car; he can drive us home okay? You could come by, hang out for a while...’
Her eyes lift hopefully, but her body tells her to turn her back on the boys and keep running. As she runs red tears stream down her face, and she can’t get the sound of the boys’ laughter out of her mind.
She keeps thinking,‘That’s just the way boys are.’ Where did she hear this phrase before? Then she remembers, without really wanting to.
Two years ago, Susan was hiking with her parents in the Catskill Mountains. It was the beginning of winter, and there was a thin layer of snow on the ground. The view at the fire tower was breathtaking. Everything was so quiet; she sensed a peace, a calmness that was abnormal in her family. There was a cabin, where campers could stay in the summer. Susan was curious and tried to open the door, but it was bolted shut. The wood was cold against her chapped hands. Under the handle there was something scratched into the wood. It read ‘Please stop I’m begging you Please don’t hurt me anymore Mama.’

It wasn’t until they were back at home in the kitchen, trimming a chicken and chopping onions, when she finally had the courage to tell her mother about the etching on the wooden door. Her mother laughed and said, ‘It was probably some mean teenage boys who wrote that, just to scare you.’ How do you know?’ Susan asked. ‘That’s just the way boys are,’ her mother answered.

Susan finds herself alone on the beach. There are still a few people on the horizon laughing, innocent people who don’t know her.
She takes a path that separates a patch of trees from the water. There are a couple of men alone, smoking. There is a desperation in the distance they place between themselves and civilization. Standing in the shadows, they look like ghosts or murderers. She tries not to make eye contact. She pushes down fallen reeds with her feet, and they sink into the mud. Mud cakes on her Mary Janes. It’s not as beautiful here as it used to be, she thinks. Then again, she’s never been here. She hardly goes to the beach at all, but remembers it fondly. It’s beautiful, with skin colored sand and the romantic sounds of the ocean crashing into your thoughts and washing them away. It’s lovely at the beach. She thinks she will feel better, cool off, once she disappears into the bank of the anonymous shore.
She is wrong. She feels the dirt inching up her ankles, and spots all kinds of unwanted things around her: a few Bud bottles, candy wrappers, a popped balloon. She drops the purple bear she has been holding.
She keeps going, hoping to find a sign, something that she can relate to good memories, a piece of whatever is making those other beach goers happy. She’ll be okay, she thinks, turning it over in her mind. Nothing really happened. It was just a bad joke. She wonders for a moment how she will get home, and if Robby might still answer his phone.

Pink and dark blue bruises encircle the moon. She bends over to test the water. It shouldn’t be so cold. Just then, she slips and begins to fall, but catches herself on the rocks. As she recovers her balance, her hand grazes something hard and striated. It’s bone. Taking in the scene slowly, Susan sees another skull next to the first, and then another at her feet, and another a few inches away. What could they belong to? Dogs, deer, rabbits? The elevated skulls are facing each other, as if in the vows of matrimony. She feels the sweat on her body turn icy, the way it does before fainting. Involuntarily, she runs her hands over the one with horns. She feels it before she can see what used to be: a goats face, the place where its eyes, nose, and mouth had been. Who would do this?
She drops the dead thing, and looks around her for something or someone. There is no one to tell.

Susan straightens herself up and begins to walk away from the beach towards the main road. Completely sober now, she finds her way from the boulevard to roads that she can identify.  As she gets closer to home she does not recognize her neighborhood. The once orderly, pleasant gardens, guarded by newly built fences, now seem oppressive. The tall, similarly shaped and colored houses now look like boarded up shacks with signs that read ‘Do not Enter.’ Streets where white middle class families build fences and hang flags, signifying not unity but exclusion. Streets where the height of green grass and the site of red white and blue is as predictable as divorce, or violence during hard times. Everything, from the neighbor walking her dog to the blue and white molding on her parents’ two story house, seems capable of cruelty.

She looks down at her hands and her feet; they are covered with sand and spots of dried mud. She feels her knees shaking and runs a hand over the goosebumps, covering her bones. Susan thinks of Erin and Christine, but imagines the way they looked in grade school. It’s as if her mind has taken a picture of what the girls looked like when they were still best friends. She shudders to think what Christine would say to her now. ‘So you thought they really liked you? You thought you were one of them...’
‘When really you’re left standing outside, completely alone.’ Susan says, breaking the silence.

My Weakness

Dad took me hunting with him on my tenth birthday. Mom never would’ve allowed it, but she died six months before.
“See those elk over there ‘cross the meadow, Mark, grazing by the treeline? You can just make out their antlers through the bush.” He pointed for me as we glassed the expanse around us.
My binoculars were smaller than his.
“No, I don’t see ‘em.”
“Come on, boy!” He grabbed the top of my head by the cap and turned it. “Right there, by the treeline!”
Sure enough, two massive pairs of antlers were grazing on berries behind a bush between the forest and the creek.
“Okay, I see ‘em.”
“Alright,” he spoke through squinted eyes, “now what we’re gonna do is circle around back, tuck into the trees a bit, come up from down wind, and take ‘em from that outcropping. Lucky they’re on our side of the creek.”
He picked up his rifle and started off crouching.
I followed and did the same.
“This is stalking. Once you identify your prey, the only tool to your advantage is this,” he held up his rifle, “and the element of surprise. A good stalker can take down any prey, son, anything at all.”
“Like those lions that killed the elephant.”
“Exactly.” He was whispering now.
A branch snapped beneath my feet.
“Shhh!”
We didn’t say a thing until we reached the outcropping. There were casings littered everywhere, and a rain-soaked box half-buried in the earth.
“Filthy sons-a-bitches.” Dad looked at our feet with disgust and started picking up the shells one at a time, collecting them until each of his hands were full. Then he pulled up the box from the mud and put both handfulls quietly in it.
The whole time he cleaned our perch, I think he forgot what we were doing. “Now listen here,” looking up, he remembered, and brushed pine needles off the rock before us. “Hunting’s natural. It’s life. Predators prey upon the weak, ‘cause they’re the surest kill. Man, on the other hand, preys upon his surest challenge. We kill not only for food, but to prove ourselves able – that we’re more than just animals. Man is an ambitious killer by nature, Mark. You understand?”
“That’s why you don’t hunt birds, right?”
“Exactly. Now scope up.”
I lifted my rifle and rested my arm on the rock.
“I want you to shoot first. If you miss, I’ll have ‘em in my sights, alright? Otherwise, I’ll take the big guy.”
I tried to find the elk in my scope, but everything was blurry and green, so I twisted the dial and adjusted it to my sight.
“C’mon, boy. Forest’s a funny place. Anything can spook ‘em.”
Panning the creek to the right, I found the elderberry bush and centered my crosshairs on the chest of the smaller elk feeding there.
Its ears twitched.
Dad set his arm on the rock and aimed his rifle.
“Remember, aim for the shoulder or chest. It’s a cleaner kill. Once you’re set, chamber your round.” Dad slid his bolt back slowly.
I did the same.
CRACK! CRACK!
My elk stumbled two steps to the side before falling to its knee and tipping over. Dad’s fell immediately.
“Nice shot, Mark,” he patted me on the back. “Nice shot.”
There was so much blood it was amazing. It did something to me. For a second I felt sick, standing over my kill still twitching with its tongue out.
“You wanna bleed ‘em?” Dad asked as he handed me his knife.
It felt like I was dreaming.
I knelt beside him in the mud and he pointed at the wheezing neck. All the sounds around me hummed as one. I put the point of the blade next to his finger, pressed hard, and pulled.

That night by the fire, Dad wiped the blood from his hands and put his arm around me. “You see boy, now that is a beautiful sight.” He pointed to the flickering orange dancing across our pair of elk hanging. It took us just shy of three hours to clean them and work the winch on the truck to get them up there. “I’m proud of you, son.”
I was cooking beanie weenies over the fire. “Thanks, Dad.”
“You know why we were so lucky today, Mark?” He sat back and opened a beer.
“Because we know what we’re doing.”
“How do you figure?” He was testing me.
“Well,” I stirred the steel spoon in the pan, “we’ve been scouting this ridge for a month now, camping, glassing, and tracking the herd. Last week we found scat by the creek, and those two,” I whipped the spoon out with a few beans and pointed at our catch, “wandered into our trap.”
“We set no trap, son. They fell into their own. That’s the beauty of it. Routine. Routine’s what gets you killed. Remember that. We’re hunters – don’t ever make the same mistake as your prey. Tomorrow, we leave at sunrise.” He drank his beer until it was gone. “How long for dinner?”
“It’s ready.” I pulled out two paper bowls and filled each with half the pan.

He was right. Hunting is life, and I fell in love. Animals became too simple. They always follow routine. They lack free will. And I just don’t like the taste.
When I became a vegetarian, I needed something else.
I started hunting in my truck. It was Dad’s old ’61 Apache, and after a week, I decided it was a little too obvious.
Now I park far enough away to scout on foot. I still stalk in the truck, but I execute in a rental. At home, I have my way, make the kill, and contain the cleaning.
Like I say, I had to find something else, something better tasting. Every predator hunts the weak, even Dad. Birds, elk, bear – all animals are weak, even man – but not me.
The weak wear short skirts they’re always tugging at to cover more.
It’s the same thing everytime. I roll down the window, lean across the seat, and ask if they want a ride. If I’ve done my homework, they climb inside.
At home, I prey while they’re still alive and tied. They’re noisier, that’s all, but much more fun. When I’m done, I bleed them in the bath and hang them up to dry.
Everything downstairs is covered in plastic. When I started, I tore out the concrete in the basement to hide my collection.
“Never leave a trace,” Dad would always say, and I don’t. Whenever I clean up, I see him with the moist, muddy ammo box, and his hands full of shells.
“Filthy sons-a-bitches.”
I follow no routine until I get home. Outside, I never hit the same school twice. Once I find the weakest, I wait. When I follow them home, I go slow, let them round corners, even park and walk a ways behind them. I inspect their houses, follow their families to work, learn their routines – dance recitals, cheer practice, boyfriends – everything.
But it’s getting too easy, like hunting quail. I feel like an animal. Dad would be very disappointed. So, to prove myself a man, I have to hunt one.

It’s been six years since his surgery.
“What do the doctors think? Did they catch it in time?”
“For Christ’s sake, Mark, I don’t know. Goddamn,” he shifted his weight off the catheter, “this fucking thing...”
“Why don’t you just lie down?” I asked as I reached for the buttons on his bed.
“No,” he shoved my arm and pushed himself up. “Quit being such a pussy. I’m fine. Why don’t you go grade some papers or something? Maybe we’ll catch-up next month.”
It got a lot worse before chemo, but I hear he’s in remission. When he got sick, he stopped calling. Now I get postcards and pictures of his kills.

He’s always out the first day of season, always hunting the same ridge.
After a seventy-five mile drive, I pull into the clearing and see his truck.
Routine.
I find him from the top of the ridge. Glassing the same meadow we worked when I was a boy, I spot him cleaning a carcass by the creek. He looks older, thinner, and it makes me sick.
Leaning against a rock, I steady my hand, find his chest in my scope, slide back the bolt, and pull the trigger.
CRACK!
He looks up the ridge, tries to stand, then falls to the creekbank.
It’s been years since I last fired a gun, and my accuracy astounds me.
I run through the trees to the meadow like a ghost. I can’t feel my feet or fight my smile. As my legs tear through the tinder, I start sobbing and laughing madly until I lose control of my speed, trip and tumble down the hill into a tree. There, I wipe the brush from my hair and run on, leaving my rifle somewhere behind.
At the creek, he’s still breathing, wheezing like an elk. The carcass he was cleaning looks more alive than he does.
He watches me with wide eyes, clutching his belly and whispering through the blood he spits-up, “Mark... I miss you, Mark.”
I take off his cap and grab the back of his head. “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been busy.” Then I roll him over. It must hurt like hell, because somehow he finds the strength to scream before I push his face under water. I hold it there until the bubbles stop – just like with my girls.
When I’m done, I sit him up against a rock and finish cleaning his kill before sundown.

IWIHKY Disorder

To my ex-friend M who fights against world smugness.

People keep saying I’m crazy because of how I’ve changed after what happened to me last year in a public bathroom. I would never tell anyone about it for the world but if I tell others about it, it might set me free. Its seems like freedom is a big issue these days.

Last December I was invited to a party somewhere out of Tehran. Though I’m not a big fan of loud parties with boos and boobs, in fact I avoid them like the plague, I decided to go cuz I simply didn’t have anything else to do. Drinking alcohol in my country is forbidden but pretty much everyone can find a great deal of good bubbly if they try, but I’m a teetotaler and don’t find a good reason to start drinking. Anyway, I was eventually driving the way to Irabad and I was kind of enjoying the road with the wind blowing inside my body, cooling off and letting go of the tension I was feeling. I have a hard time dealing with strangers and new places, I take pills for that and even get hospitalized once in a while just to become a little bit “normal” but nothing really works for me, I’m a weirdo! Anyway, I was enjoying everything - even the broken tape of the old car - when I felt this urgent need to pee. Fortunately - or unfortunately - I saw a diner at the corner of the road covered with the latest snow of the month. It just popped up from the snow at the moment I felt the need to pee. I pulled over and it was just then that I saw the white limo parked in the yard, it had camouflaged there in the snow. I passed the yard and rushed in, getting into the small toilet at the back of the diner.
I looked around the bathroom and found the only toilet out of order so I figured I had to use the urinal. I hate peeing into a urinal, It’s not that I’m not comfortable with showing some skin, it’s just that I don’t like touching myself while peeing, that’s all. But at that moment, there was no other choice. I zipped down my jeans and was about to pee when the door opened and a vaguely familiar middle-aged man come in. He didn’t go for the toilet; he walked straight to the urinals and unzipped his pants on the way. I was still unable to pee, it was not coming because I had just figured out who the guy was; He was the president.

Every guy has this perception of what he’d do in dangerous situations, my strategy is run! But at that moment, I had my thing in my hand and my pants were right under my knees. The funny thing is that I didn’t freak out, I thought of my sister instead. She is the most political person I have around as I’m not a political person myself. She is the only one in my family who truly has the guts. I wondered what she’d do if she was standing there next to the president, semi-naked. I’m not sure what she wouldn’t do but I bet she would just turn around and piss on his face though she doesn’t have the right instrument; I’m totally positive. She would somehow manage to piss on the guy, just because in her religion the poor bastard is the dumbest and the dumb shouldn’t be world leaders. My sister flares easily as she has many open cases of our smug president in her mind.
I also wondered if the political leaders were supposed to have balls! I know it’s just an expression and all but I couldn’t stop my mind from getting into that direction. I have a brain like a 5 year old, it never does what I want when I need it to and at that exact moment, when it decided to make me look over the next urinal, I had no control over it.
I felt like gagging at the moment I looked over and saw his tiny little penis, I don’t even know why I did such a thing. It was the last thing I wanted to see, the horrifying crotch of the president. He finished soon and left without washing his god damn hands and it was not surprising for me, not at all. It was exactly what I expected him to do, leaving the bathroom with pissy hands. I bet all the fucking presidents leave the toilets without washing their hands, they just live their lives with dirty hands; especially the one I met that day.
This summer, we had a presidential election and this guy was elected again, unjustifiably. People marched on the streets, held protests and even got killed by the government but nothing changed except for the people’s attitude. My people are the sweetest people on the planet Earth and they never ever thought there would come a day no one would count their vote. We all were chocked and devastated; we never saw the walls around us before but on 12 June 2009 the walls became visible.
Now I suffer from IWIHKYS - I Wish I Had Killed You Syndrome - I bet everyone has had this syndrome at a period of time in their life but to me, it’s not just a temporary knock out. The thing I regret the most in my life is that, that day I had the chance to knock the guy out and free my people from suffering this much but I just stood there trying to get over my pacifism and suppression of the urine.
I went to the party that night and drank myself to death, I even ate potty brownies. Smugness and self-destructiveness are contagious and I couldn’t avoid them that night. I was infected by standing next to a scum for just a minute or so.
Every night at 9:13 I would turn on the TV and watch scrubs just to fill my day with some shallow comedy full of slapstick. But it’s three months that I’ve changed the schedule; I go to the balcony and for half an hour shout “Down with Dictatorship!”
I live in Iran.

Continuum

Black screen. Then video raster. ‘DAY FOUR’ streaks across the monitor.
“So this is from the crash?” a commanding voiceover asks.
“Just retrieved it, sir. Processed it, cueing it up now.”
“The President see it? CIA? NSA?”
The video fades in. ‘DAY FIVE’ appears in the corner.
“No one.”
“So these are images from the spaceship, like a flight data recorder. Did the people inside know they were being recorded?”
“No idea, sir. This is all that remains.”
The screen settles on a middle-class house with 1970s decor that includes a piano, bean bags, a lava lamp and Keep On Truckin’ over the fireplace.
A well-groomed middle-aged man with dark hair and eyes sits stiff at the kitchen table and does the crossword puzzle in pen. The newspaper headline reads, ‘Watergate!’ He sips his coffee with an upturned little finger. He finishes his eggs Benedict and English muffin and dabs his chin with a cloth napkin.
“Even thirty years later Watergate gives me a bad taste.”
A young frumpy Hispanic girl stumbles out of the downstairs bedroom and yawns with bed-head. She wears a green housecoat, lime flannel pajamas, and plastic-soled sea-foam house slippers.
“Getting in touch with your inner leprechaun?” he asks.
She gives him a look and turns on the TV. He sighs, looks at his Rolex and rolls his eyes.
“This as good as it gets?” the commanding voiceover asks. “You’d think an advanced alien—”
“Here it is, sir. We only have one chance to see this.”
“Sleep well?” the girl asks.
“No. I hate this place. Can you turn that off?”
She scuffles to the pantry. One side, labeled ‘Marvin’, is well stocked. The other, nearly empty, displays ‘Lusita’. She grabs a half-full bag of chips.
“Potato chips?” Marvin scoffs. “That’s what you get—”
“‘I get by with a little help from my friends.’”
“I hate that song.”
“It would be cool to pool our food and beverage resources.”
“When I came downstairs, I heard—”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” She looks around, as if seeing it for the first time.
“No.”
Lusita touches the wall and feels the kitchen Formica.
“It looks so real. It’s like, like—”
“This is, like, no exit,” he says.
Lusita yawns. “I’m so groggy when I don’t sleep with my woman.”
“Are you gay?”
“Bisexual. It doubles my chances. So it’s hard getting out of bed.” Lusita strokes a pet rock.
“Now, I know the blood flow has not reached above your neck yet, but the upstairs corner bedroom—”
“I would like to see the sun.”
“No, please do not.”
Lusita clears her throat and looks up. “Hello? I’d like to look outside, really look outside.”
Lusita goes to the window. Day changes to night. A dull roar, like a powerful engine, echoes throughout the house.
Lusita opens the blinds and looks out. She sees stars. She looks below and sees only an ocean of stars. The outside changes from night to day and Lusita sighs. The sound of the rocket engine fades away.
“No sun. Another lame idea.” Lusita plops down.
“We are light years from the sun,” Marvin says, “inside a spaceship. Even the oak tree out back is illusion.”
Marvin gets up to shut the blinds. He looks outside. Blue lights and squirming tentacles absorb the spaceship. He shudders and checks his watch.
“Not much time,” he says. “Turn the TV off. We have seen the same five episodes over and over.”
Lusita gets up and turns it off. “Can I ask you to help me rearrange my bedroom, professor? I’d like—”
“Am I a furniture mover now?”
Lusita glares at him.
“Why do you think the lights were different last night?” he asks. “Any opinion?”
“I have no opinion.”
“Right, there is no group here telling you what to think. No matter. I will figure it out.”
Lusita pours herself a cup of coffee. She stops by the fridge, gets a pat of butter and slumps at the table. She stuffs potato chips in her mouth. She tries to butter a chip, but the butter won’t spread. She puts the pat near the coffee’s heat and the butter slides off into her cup.
“That is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen,” he says.
Lusita eyes the coffee cup, shrugs and takes a sip.
“I stand corrected,” Marvin says and rolls his eyes.
Lusita makes a face. “Terrible,” she says. “I have no good ideas.”
Marvin straightens his sweater vest and heads to the great room. A strange tone sounds and she hurries to follow him. They sit on the couch and look up.
“Good morning campers,” a cold, metallic voice thunders throughout the house. “Welcome to day five of our week-long all-expense-paid trip to you-don’t-know-where! You girls and guys out there are waiting for either Shangra La or the Eternal Beyond.”
“Why does it have to do this?”
“Today is a special day,” the spaceship continues, “so let’s see who our lucky winner is. Drum roll, please. It’s Marvin, fellow travel-naughts. Marvin are, you with us?”
“Yes, I am with you.”
“Of course you are. Where else would you be? Marvin, you’ve already seen how the Native Americans were targeted for elimination, and how that failed. You have also seen how the Jews were nearly eliminated, but that failed. Care to wager who will be the next group of humanity scheduled for extinction?”
“No, I do not care to wager.”
“Come on Marvin, play along. Marvin, Marvin, Marvin!”
“It won’t stop until you do,” Lusita says.
“Marvin, Marvin, he’s our man. If he won’t wager, no one can!”
“Very well. Unwanted babies?”
“Bzzt! Marvin, sorry, but you do not seem to have your thinking cap on today. Unwanted babies are not a genetically isolated faction of humanity’s gene pool. Try again!”
“I do not know. This is ridiculous!”
“Yes it is, Marvin, since I have been waiting for you for an honor of unspeakable merit. But wait, there’s more. Not only are the kitchen knives available but, for a limited time only, you and a person of my choice will have a hand in the next phase of Earth’s evolution, namely the elimination of all humanity.”
Marvin jumps up. “If you think I am going to help participate in the destruction of humanity you have a screw lose.”
“Ha ha ha. Marvin, you are a joy to work with. I cannot have a screw lose since I have no screws. Now, behind door number one is the object of elimination, the factor of humanity targeted for eradication. Are you ready? Blondes, Marvin, blondes.”
Lusita perks up. “Blondes?”
“That’s right, space fans, blondes. They will no longer have more fun, Lusita. Blondes will be targeted for obliteration, eliminated from humanity’s symbiotic structure.”
An odd hum begins from above them. “Oops,” the spaceship says. “Gotta go, kids. We’ll chat later. Don’t take any wooden lasers!”
They hear a ding. Lusita stares at the ceiling.
“What do you make of that?” she asks. “Think it can really eliminate blondes? I mean, would the world really be such a bad place without blondes?”
Marvin sits, pensive. “I have no idea, yet. Maybe that explains the upstairs corner bedroom rumbling.”
“Did you go and check it out?”
“I do not ‘go and check out.’”
“I just wish it would get on with whatever it is so we could go back home. Even though we have a TV, we can’t get any new signals.”
Marvin gets up and looks out the window. “I have to do something about this.”
“Right, you have to save the world.”
“Who else is going to do it? You?”
“I’m a college student, what do I know? We can’t even call anyone for help.”
“I have to do this myself. I will find a way to stop it.”
“We should join together on this.”
“I am not much of a joiner.”
“It must be cool being high and mighty, not even using contractions, perfect posture and so superior.”
“God, no. It is very lonely.”
The screen flickers. ‘DAY SIX’ fades into the corner.
Marvin goes to the kitchen, gets a bottle of wine from his side, pours himself a glass and walks toward the library. He passes the downstairs bedroom. He hears voices from behind the door. It sounds like the spaceship.
In the library, Marvin scrawls on a legal pad and sketches the house. He hears a scream and a crash from the downstairs bedroom. He jumps up, runs there and opens the door.
Lusita slouches against the wall and holds her arm. Splintered glass shines on the bathroom tile.
Marvin goes to her. “It is a bad cut.” Marvin dashes to the bathroom linen closet and snatches a plastic box with first aid supplies. He cleans the cut and bandages her arm.
“The linen closet? I wouldn’t have thought to look there.”
“I have never slipped on the floor like that. There is no clinic here, no drive-thru pharmacy.”
“I can’t stand the sight of blood. Blood, worms and barf make me barf. How did you know where it was?”
“Where what was?”
“The first aid. You’ve never been in this bedroom before, right?”
“Was the spaceship, if it really is a spaceship, just talking to you?”
“When?”
“A minute ago, right here.”
Lusita admires Marvin’s bandaging. “Were you a nurse’s aid or something?”
“I, a nurse’s aid?”
“Oh, right. Silly of me.”
Marvin returns to the library. He sits erect at the desk and writes on a pad. Lusita shuffles in.
“I wonder where it got this house,” she says. “This was not in your 1970s past?”
“I am doing something here.”
“Don’t you think it needed something to base it on? It’s no place I’ve ever been. I grew up in a—”
“Even though I am always a-tingle with anecdotes from your deprived childhood, I—”
“How does that compare to your childhood?”
“I would like to be left alone. I am figuring out a way to destroy this thing, get us—”
“Destroy what? The ship we’re flying in? You teach music! What do you know—”
Marvin jumps up. “I tower above the rest! There is nothing beyond me!”
“Escape is beyond you. How did you end up here?”
“The spaceship saw I was superior.”
“Do you think I’m superior?”
Marvin rolls his eyes and sits back down. “I am in no mood to talk right now.”
“So what else is new. You know, I was really uptight about taking your music composition class.”
“I am making a plan to save us.”
“Good luck with that. You should try to get along with the voice. Everything we have, it gave us.”
“Imprisonment and a chance to destroy the world.”
“I’m sure that’s just an exaggeration. Joining is positive.”
“I wonder what Native Americans, Jews and blondes have to do with destroying humanity. Any idea?”
“It’s probably not a good one.”
“Undoubtedly not.”
“You do not appreciate the two-heads-are-better-than-one thing. I know about you. You hate committees, you hate groups. But ‘One is the loneliest number...’”
“I hate that song, too.”
“No man is an island.”
“Actually, each of us IS an island in the most isolated manner possible. We are all alone.”
“What a crock!”
“Then you tell me what Native Americans, Jews and blondes have in common.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know. But I believe we all need each other.”
“How very hippie/flower-power of you.”
“It takes a planet, it takes us all. That’s why they tried to eliminate Native Americans, to eliminate Jews. I bet they tried to off other groups.”
Marvin adjusts his collar, thinks and then stares at her. “I do not know if you are right, but it does almost make sense.”
Lusita jumps up. “Get out! Think my idea is cool? Imagine, no blonde bimbo stealing my boyfriend. Lusita taps his knee. “You need me. Get it? Knee? Need?”
Marvin sighs and heads to the kitchen. He pours a cup of coffee and sits at the table.
The screen flickers, damaged images fly by and then stabilize.
Lusita shuffles to the kitchen table.
Marvin looks at her. “When these aliens tried to destroy humanity earlier, they failed, so they are not omnipotent. I wonder what caused their failure?”
“It’s a drag wasting time thinking about things like that.”
“They will invade the earth, and I am all that stands—”
“Maybe the voice is right. Joining—”
Marvin leans into her with clenched jaw, intense and whispers “Are you on its side?” Marvin puts his hand to her throat. “Are you fighting me, plotting against ME?!”
Her lip tightens. Marvin holds her neck a long moment. He blinks, then lets her go and picks up his coffee cup.
The screen jumps. Weird angles spin across the monitor.
Marvin and Lusita sit in the library.
“The TV listings show the blonde cover girls: jiggly Chrissy, pouty Margaret, over-permed Gloria, with re-runs of midriff-showing Jeanie,” Lusita says.
That horrible tone clangs. They jump, thunderstruck.
“It is not briefing time,” Marvin says.
Lusita sprawls on the couch. Marvin freezes in the chair.
“Hello again boys and girls,” the spaceship echoes. “We have a little job to do. Marvin, I’m afraid you have done some thinking about escaping, disabling me or some kind of nonsense and that’s just not something I’ll cotton to. So, if you’ll just stand up we can get this over with post haste.”
Marvin looks around and gulps.
“Come on Marvin, chop-chop. Make quick like a bunny.”
Marvin swallows hard and stands tall.
Suddenly a high keen sounds and lightning bolts strike him. He sizzles and convulses with electricity. Then, he crumples to the ground, unconscious, his pants wet.
“I just love the smell of human flesh in the morning,” the spaceship says.
“I tried to talk him out of it—” Lusita says.
“You lie like a rug, little girl.”
“I know. What can I do to help you?”
“Tell her what she’s won, Bob! I knew you’d join the home team!”
“Can you really eliminate blondes?”
“Nothing to it but to do it.”
“So we’re going to a place and time before blondes and will prevent the beginning of blondes?”
“You rock and roll, baby cakes! That’s why you’re in charge!”
Marvin stirs and groans. The loud ding reverberates.
“Maybe we should try to cooperate,” Marvin moans.
“Cool,” Lusita says. “It’ll be thousands of years before humanity actually dies out and we’ll be long gone.”
Marvin holds his head and sees that he’s wet himself. He looks at Lusita in a panic. “Oh...oh my God!”
“What? You wet yourself? I do it at every frat party.”
Marvin snatches a Kleenex from the desk and tries to wipe his pants. He shakes his head, tries to straighten up and pounds the floor.
“Great! Just great!”
“Check out what the voice wants to do.”
“You better make sure the house has a full supply of Depends, right?” Marvin asks.
“Will you get a grip? Listen, the ship is taking us to a place and time before blondes. Before—”
“So you are really not going to make my life hell given that you know I have...urinated all over myself like common trailer-park trash?”
“If you want to wallow in self pity—”
“The owner’s wife bought him a pair of gray pinstripes, in your closet—”
“How do you know that? What owner?”
“He never wore them, they were not bell bottoms. They are clean.”
Marvin gets up and points Lusita to the bedroom. He trudges to the dining room and puts his head in his hands. He sits very still for several minutes.
Lusita brings the gray pinstripes to him. Marvin nods his thanks.
“You were right,” Marvin says, very quiet. “This place is from my past.”
She eases down in the chair and looks at him.
“My mother was the maid here, cleaned the house for this couple. I had to come here after school. My father was an alcoholic, never had a job, we were on welfare. We moved constantly, running from bill collectors. So my mother cleaned houses for a living. She was not part of some team of maids, she did it by herself.”
“She sounds like a good mother.”
“Yes, real good. She drank. Taking care of me was too much for her.”
Marvin swallows hard.
“She would often tell me, when I was bad, that she would just leave me, leave me alone on some curb, might not pick me up from school, leave me here in this house, something. And I would be left all alone.”
“She threatened to leave you?”
“Then one day...in this house. I was playing, probably doing something I should not do, and I broke a glass picture frame. She screamed that it would have to come out of her salary, which already was not enough...”
“...and then?”
“She took me upstairs to the corner bedroom and spanked me, a lot. I deserved that. She screamed that I did not deserve her, I did not deserve a home and that she had had it with me and that she would whip me and then leave, once and for all, just walk out and leave. And...that is just what she did. She left. I was upstairs alone, crying, and I heard my mother... slam the door, walk out, start her car...and leave! I was alone. I was there from ten in the morning until the owner came back eight hours later. I did not dare move. My mother left me...”
Lusita takes his hand.
“I have never told anyone that before. They tried to call my father but he was in jail for drunk and disorderly. The owner let me stay there that night. I cried and told them how sorry I was I broke their picture frame. They said I could pay it back out of my allowance. I did not actually have an allowance. About a week later my mother came back and got me... but I never trusted her again.”
“You never trusted anyone again.”
Marvin looks out the window. “I can see that oak tree, a hundred feet high. I remember it was tall and strong. But lightning hit it one day. When I ran out to look, it was hollow, rotted from the inside.”
Lusita gets him a Kleenex.
“It towered over the rest,” she says.
“That is—I mean that’s—nice of you to say.”
The screen cuts. The video rolls and ‘DAY SEVEN’ fades into the corner.
In the upstairs game room, Marvin wears the different pants and Lusita sits and ponders.
“It’s afternoon briefing time.”
“The voice is late.”
They hear the irritating clang and look up.
“Good morning,” the spaceship says. “I mean good afternoon, sports fans. Welcome to day five of our—”
“It’s day seven,” Marvin says.
“Wow, it’s been so fun I forgot how time flies, I mean goes slower, some damn thing. So I’ve already explained how World War II failed to eliminate the Jews, white men failed to eliminate Native Americans, Roanoke failed to—”
“You never mentioned Roanoke before,” Marvin says.
“I’ve never mentioned the Bermuda Triangle either and now I have. It’s time to give you your assignment, a chance to be part of the cornerstone of New Earth. Here’s how we’ll rid the world of blondes and prepare the way for a new force of intelligence to inhabit your lovely little planet. Hurry on down, down, down, because tomorrow we will land and—”
“That’s a day early.”
“We will not de-spaceship tomorrow, just land. There is a cave man and a cave woman down there, who are about to produce the first blonde, creating a creature designed to withstand the frozen tundra. You two will copulate with that blonde-producing couple and snip the blonde gene right out of the pool.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lusita will mate with the cave man—no worries, it’s not the Geico cave man—and you will mate with the cave woman. The blonde gene is recessive, thus wiping them out, oh happy day!”
“Why would we cooperate?”
“On land, my mental manipulation powers are nearly irresistible. That was how I got you here in the first place.”
“Why don’t you just kill the cave man and cave woman?”
“I can only suggest, and suggesting they kill themselves will not work. Once humanity has vamoosed we, the new inhabitants, will live here.”
“What will the new inhabitants be like?” Lusita asks.
“Oh, wonderful big blue lights the size of a house wearing a bucket of worms,” the spaceship says.
Lusita gags.
“So, when we land, I do not need your consent, your mind or your approval—only your body.”
A loud hiss goes off, again from upstairs.
“A spaceship’s work is never done!” the voice thunders. They hear a ding and all is quiet.
“You still want to help this thing invade our planet with lights and worms and change our history?” Marvin asks.
Lusita looks at him and then looks up. She shakes her head. “Cool it. It sees and hears all.”
“Whatever we do, we will have to do quickly and quietly. And it has to be planned by you.”
“Me? No way. I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. The voice suspects me. It thinks you are on its side.”
Lusita gestures for him to follow her. They go to the downstairs bedroom. They turn on the shower in the bathroom and the TV very loud. “I’m not sure what to do.”
“My last idea got me electrocuted. You have unique gifts.”
Lusita shakes her head.
“Your teachers have talked about you. You have a singular voice. But you only join the choir. You are unique, maybe even a soloist.”
“You think?” Marvin nods. “Thanks, Marvin. Really... thanks.”
“So what do we do about Mr. Windbag?”
“As we get closer to our destination, the voice freaks out.”
“Navigation in space-time, at light speed, millions of—”
“So, now’s the time.”
“After it lands, it’s too late.”
“There must be some kind of controls, some kind of technology.”
“Right. Where could it be?”
“One room we’ve never been in. I’ve never needed to, and you never wanted to: the upstairs corner bedroom.”
“I can’t go into that room. I’ll die, crumple right to the ground—”
“Congrats on using contractions, that’s a step forward. The spaceship knew about your past. I can try to distract it, you have to get into that room and disable it.”
“What if it crashes?”
“Maybe nothing. Or maybe we die with me giving orders and you starring on Team Lusita saving the world.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Are you a ‘the glass is half empty’ or a ‘the glass is half full’ kind of guy?”
“I’m a ‘get a smaller glass’ kind of guy. I can’t do—”
“I need you to join.”
Marvin swallows hard. “You have any wine left?” Lusita shakes her head. Marvin smiles and they walk to the pantry. Marvin grabs a bottle from his side. “My last one. I’ll share.”
Lusita blinks in surprise. Marvin pours her a glass and drains his in one long gulp.
Lusita smiles. “Any comments about the fruity bouquet?”
“So you will distract it?”
“Trust me.”
“Okay. Time to kick some ass!”
Lusita nods and Marvin spins toward the stairs. Lusita turns on all the lights, clears her throat and looks up.
“Hey, voice!” Lusita yells. “Excuse me, voice?”
“What is it sweetie?” the nasal spaceship asks. “Daddy’s a little busy right now.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Listen, I’m going stir crazy here. Can you GET ME OUT OF THIS DAMN THING!” Lusita goes to the wall and pounds on it. She runs to the dining room, screams and kicks. “How much longer do I have to go and not see the sun? The only company I have is a dried-up old fart who loves the sound of his own voice! If you had to trap me here with a guy, what’s wrong with a young non-pot-bellied buff hard body, huh? And there’s no diet food here, have you heard of a salad, have you seen my ass?! There’s no cable, no DVDs! Get me out of—”
“We’re on a landing cycle now. We’re almost through, finished—”
“Don’t you have any advanced alien cocaine or something?”
“I’m trying to do thousands of things a second—Marvin! What are you up to? I know what you—”
The screen cuts. Marvin runs up the stairs and turns to the corner bedroom.
“—are planning,” the spaceship thunders.
Marvin looks up as a bolt of lightning just misses him. A terrible sound fills the house. It shakes. Another bolt of lightening and Marvin jumps. “I’m going to pull the plug, you loud mouthed worm-bucketed alien!”
Marvin runs into the upstairs corner bedroom door but bounces off. He backs up, charges full speed and bursts into the bedroom.
Black screen.
“What happened?” the commanding voiceover asks. “That’s it?”
“That’s all we have, I guess. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Nothing. It’s irrelevant.”
“What was all that talk about ‘blondes’?”
“I have no idea.”
“What is a ‘blonde’, sir? Is that like a race or something?”
“Don’t know. I never heard of it. Let’s dump this and get a cup of coffee.”

Just a Statistic

“The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of millions is a statistic. Joseph Stalin

I learned early on that the farther I was from my parents, the less likely they would find out about my adventures or misadventures to hear them tell it. It worked most of the time. This was the last time it didn’t.
I don’t remember all the things that got me punished as a child. Some of those I do recall were clearly wrong; even then, others completely baffled me. In any case, my punishment was never more than an occasional grounding or the loss of my toys for a short period.
I grew up in a average middle class family. My parents, myself, and my little sister. Two kids was the average statistic for families back then. Statistics mattered more to my parents than they would ever admit. They call it “appearances”. Appearances meant my mom sat on local charitable committees and my father rubbed shoulders with the local and state political figures who were grooming him for a career in Washington, DC.
Appearances mattered.
We lived in your garden variety middle class neighborhood. White picket fences, boxed in sycamore trees that brought the same clean linen smell each spring they blossomed. Neatly trimmed lawns were divided by small walkways that gave way to front porches with cheerful messages awaiting the next visitor, was a suburban paradise. A picture perfect stepping stone in the next class of living.
I never questioned any of it. Why should I? It’s what I had been taught was right all my life.

The summer I turned 12 years old was going great. I was hanging out with my best friend Joey having a great time. Joey and I were two nuts from the same tree. On top of that, his family was identical to mine. We often joked we could switch places and our families wouldn’t notice.
My mom was holding a luncheon for one of her many committees and we were sent off to ride our bikes and to stay out of trouble. It was pretty warm so we made our way to the community swimming pool, at our local high school. We could have gone to Joey’s, we both had pools, but it annoyed our parents to hear of us associating with “less fortunate” kids. We paid our admission and went into the main pool area. It was packed with younger kids, not many kids 12 and older go to public pools. I still remember the smell of the over-chlorinated water and the stinging eyes I always went home with. We swam, splashed and raced around the pool. We were the kings of the pool. After an hour we began to tire ourselves out and I began to grow bored. Unfortunately, mom didn’t want me home before 3:00 PM and it was only 1:30 PM.
We put our heads together, Joey and I, and we came up with a game. We decided to get some of the younger kids together and playa game of tag. We found some willing and bullied a couple of the not so willing ones into the game. Of course the game was rigged for us to win. In order to “tag” someone you had to dunk or pull someone completely under the water. There aren’t many 8 or 9 year olds that can dunk a 12 year old, but after a short time I was tagged it by Joey, and he thought it was hoot.
I didn’t.
I looked around and found one of the unwilling players, clinging to the side of the pool. He must have been 8 or 9, and only half my weight.
He was an easy tag to make. I turned towards him and slipped under the water. Swimming at my full speed, I came up behind him. Pushing my feet off the floor of the pool I rocketed out of the water, and pushed him down with the weight of my descent.
They say the boy never had a chance. His head slammed into the pool on his way down. Out cold, his body tried to breathe in, and filled his lungs with water.
He drowned. They tried saving him, but it was to late.
My parents were called down and the boys family was notified including his favorite uncle, the state senator. I was in deep trouble. There would be no trivial grounding this time. After the police declared it an accident, I was a little less scared. How foolish was I?
Remember what I said about my parents and “appearances”? Well, in the days following, a twelve-year-old murderer was a real negative one and that state senator was making real waves in my parent’s social circle.
Who cares? I’m their son, right? Blood is thicker than water and all that? I guess not.
You see, that senator was suffering, and where suffering happens, punishment soon follows. “Punishment” is what revenge calls itself, creating a clear conscience for others.
The State Senator and my parents came to an understanding. My parents would turn me over to the state as an uncontrollable child, and all would be as it was before. They would enjoy their influence and prestige, and my sister would never want for anything. The senator called it Justice.
My parents called it a good deal.
I don’t have to tell you what the next six years were like, bouncing from foster home to foster home, labeled a child murderer.
You’ve seen the news stories; statistics really do matter.
That’s who I am.
Foster statistic #6451

Incision, Inc.

Tobe Howard’s neck was raw and red. He had been sitting on the edge of the plank the doctors claimed to be a bed, running a hand over his jugular. He assured himself it was still there and in one piece, but he also wanted to protect it. A watchful eye stayed glued to the door, afraid that the doctors would come in and see him in such a state.
After four months of pills and straightjackets, he looked worse than ever. With his unkempt hair and sunken eyes, some would even say he did in fact look crazy. Regardless of the situation, he simply feared for his life.
One month before, another inmate in the Cherrywood Center for the Criminally Insane had been found with his neck sliced open, and his body completely drained of blood. The incision was perfect; not a trace of blood or foreign DNA was found. Not a single drop of blood.
It had happened four times since then.
There seemed to be no pattern to the killings. The first victim was a man who killed his wife and three young children. The next was an animal abuser driven by the “Voice of God”. All the victims stayed in different areas of the asylum, with no similarities in age, race, religion, or anything else, other than that they were all male. One happened on meatloaf day, another on chocolate pudding day. To add to Tobe’s paranoia, all the deaths occurred when the inmates slept, which caused an upswing in sleeping medications being handed out. Anyone could have been next, at any time.
With no suspects and no clues, nobody knew what was going on.
Naturally, the authorities, doctors, and orderlies kept quiet on the M.O. of the unknown assailant, but word leaked out, and some of the inmates picked up on a few things during their two hours of free time. Tobe knew that if he could see Jake, they could put together information a lot quicker than everyone else. Jake was smart like that. The only problem was that they had no one who would listen to or believe them.
He could picture the bodies—lifeless, eyes wide open, at their most innocent. Some of the inmates in this place were big, tough men who would never go down without a major fight. Whoever could cause these images to flash through Tobe’s mind must have been a professional. A professional who deserved to be locked up more than most of the other inmates, and Tobe knew it.
If Jake was still around, he would know what to do. Jake always knew what to do...but the doctors had told him that Jake had to go away, and that Tobe would stop acting so crazy without him around.
He knew he wasn’t crazy, no matter what they told him. The ignorant judge, the asshole cops that arrested and beat him, or even Drs. Glover and Reilly had to remind him numerous times of his insanity. But he knew that being stuck in a padded cell was better than being raped and beaten in a normal prison, so he went with it.
All he did was blow up a few churches...with people inside them. Sure, that made him deranged. Definitely criminal. Sociopathic, even. But insane? Never. If he truly were crazy, he wouldn’t even be cognizant enough to know it, but that defense couldn’t convince the judge and jury. Jake told him to commit the crimes and how, but Tobe was the one who did it. At least Jake was in there with him, although Tobe hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.
So he sat there, guarding his neck, hoping no one would question him why. Up until a month ago, he would have said Jake told him to do it, but Jake hadn’t been around lately. Besides, that ultimately resulted in more pills or straightjacket periods. The straightjackets usually came after violent outbursts, but those were because no one would listen to him about Jake. Using the “I’m crazy” excuse turned out to be a better way to stop the questions, but wasn’t exactly a solid defense...or the truth, according to him. Tobe had experienced his fair share of different “treatments”, so if anyone asked about his neck, he figured telling the truth would be the best course of action.
Doctor Glover walked into the cell. A big, Nordic-looking orderly named Bruce guarded the door. Tobe always thought they looked stupid with their white dress shirts and black bow ties, kind of like Steak & Shake employees. His comments about them needing paper hats were lost on most of the orderlies, as he assumed that their brains were nothing but steroid-saturated muscle. Still, it didn’t stop Bruce from giving him periodic beatings, just enough so that the doctors never said anything to him. Tobe hated him more than anything, and wasn’t too happy with the doctors for turning a blind eye to it.
“Worried about getting killed, Howard?” Dr. Glover asked.
“Just a little.” He tried to laugh it off. It didn’t work.
“Well, we’ve got extra security working now, so you can just relax.” He handed Tobe a small paper cup. “Take your pills, then it’s lights out.”
Tobe obeyed, thankful that there was no little blue pill mixed in with everything else. He always fell asleep too quickly with those blue ones. That night, he had a plan.

Each cell door had a small, Plexiglas-covered window at the top, so doctors and orderlies could check up on the inmates. Very little sound came through, but Tobe could still look out onto the concourse to see what was going on. He planned on staying up all night, hoping to see if he would be the unknown assailant’s next victim. Periodically, he would check the window. He actually wanted the murderer to come into his cell. Using a pillowcase and hiding out of sight, he could surprise the assailant, strangle him, and be the big damn hero he hoped blowing up those churches would have made him. Never mind the screams or cries for help, Tobe himself yelled and pounded on the walls regularly, but no one cared. It was an asylum, after all.
Dr. Glover mentioned extra security, but Tobe had only seen one extra guard. Each wing typically had only one night watchman, and he wondered if two would do the trick. Every time an attack had occurred, the guard was found unconscious and strapped to a chair, with no recollection of his entire shift.
The idea of guards trying to keep prisoners alive always confused Tobe. If society locked them away for horrible, “insane” crimes, why would they care if the people were left alive or not? Before his bombing spree, Tobe never liked the idea of paying good tax money to keep psychos alive, while they did nothing in return. He was glad Jake put him on the right path, even if he ended up in a padded cell because of it.
But now the tables were turned, and as the hours dragged on, Tobe felt grateful for the security, no matter how understaffed, undertrained, or underpaid they were.
The small shaft of light streaming into his room seemed to be the only place the guards could see the inmates, so Tobe hid out of sight. He peeked out the hole every hour or so, doing pushups and crunches in between glances to stay awake and in shape. Nothing ever happened. He paced around for a while, and eventually started pounding on the wall. In a fit of frustration, he screamed for Jake to come to him; Jake always helped him out of situations like this. Finally, he sat on his bed to wonder if all his worrying was worth it.

He woke up the next morning to Dr. Reilly handing him his cup of pills. Realizing what had happened, he jolted up and felt his neck.
“Is everyone okay?” he asked in between pills.
“Everything’s fine,” Dr. Reilly said in his dry voice.
“No one died last night?”
“No.” He patted Tobe on the shoulder and left the room. “But that’s nothing you need to worry about.” The orderly glared at him before slamming the door shut.
He spent the day mostly dozing, with a bit of worrying mixed in. By the time night fell, the two guards, Mick and the new guy Perry, paced around the hall, looking just as worried as he was. He tried to exercise so he could stay alert, but he was just too distracted.
At one point during their rounds, Mick walked by the cell doors, but lingered a tad longer than normal at Tobe’s door. He pretended to be sleeping until Mick walked on by. It left him more than a little paranoid.
His paranoia was grounded, however. Within the next hour, Mick slowly opened the door, while Tobe sat up. Of all the people here to pick, and its gotta be me, he thought. He wanted to hide against the wall and kick Mick in the head, or he could pull the guard’s ankles out from under him and then smother him with a pillow. He imagined a few other things he could do to this man before Mick slammed him in the chest with a taser. It knocked him on his ass, and even though he stayed awake through it, he had no energy to move or do anything other than try to breathe.
“You picked the wrong guys to mess with, psycho,” the guard said. “My parents and brother were in that church.” He started fitting a straightjacket over Tobe’s torso. He worked quickly, securing and fastening the straps, and giving Tobe a good kick in the head when he finished. Stars flashed in the darkness before him.
When Mick left the room, he kept the door open a crack. Bile rose up in the back of Tobe’s throat; his heart pounded. Laying there in that straightjacket, he wished he’d never bombed those churches, no matter how money-grubbing they were, never mind the fact that his parents lost everything thanks to them, no matter how convincing Jake was; he just wanted somebody else to get their neck cut. Most importantly, he wanted to know what was going to happen to him, and how.
Before he could stress himself out too much, he drifted off to sleep.

The whooshing of Tobe’s cell door opening woke him. A man in a white lab coat, not too different from those worn by the doctors, entered his cell. He was barely tall enough to touch the top of the door frame, with spiky blond hair. Even in the darkness of the room, Tobe could see the man’s eyes were deep and dark, the kind that no one could tell what their focus was.
With silent precision and a mission to fulfill, the man pulled a straight razor from his sleeve, the kind from an old time barber shop. As he came closer to Tobe, the razor inches from his neck, Perry burst into the room, puffing and panting.
“No, not him,” he said. He breathed deep, trying to catch his breath. “Not him.” He stood upright, and jutted his chest out, holding his ground.
“Yes, him,” the Razor Man said. “His is good, we need him.”
“We have plans for him. Get out of here.”
“Tell me,” Razor Man started, “did you manage to find your car keys so soon? Or did you just give up looking, like with the rest of your life?”
“I knew something was up when I got down the hall. And I know Bruce has his own plans for this one, so don’t think I’m stupid.” He placed his hand on his gun.
“We claimed this one, I don’t care what that orderly says,” Razor Man growled. “Leave, or you’re next.”
“No.” Perry drew his pistol and pointed it at the Razor Man. “I’ve turned my head long enough for you to do whatever it is you do, but you aren’t paying me enough to sell this one out.” He nodded his head toward Tobe, crouched on his bed and shivering. “You’ve gotta make the right decision. Let Bruce have him.”
Whatever Bruce had planned for him, Tobe didn’t want to find out. And now he has the guards on his side...what a sadistic bastard, Tobe thought.
“We need his blood,” the Razor Man growled. “We’ll make so much money from it, just wait and see. You’ll get your cut.” He dangled the razor as he spoke.
Perry aimed at the Razor Man, the hammer of his gun drawing back. Before he could fire, Mick crept up behind and slammed his own pistol down hard on Perry’s head.
“You’ve gotta think before you move,” he said to Perry, now in a heap on the floor. He looked at the Razor Man. “Now we can get both of them,” Mick said with glee in his voice. “He can be our little treat.” He pointed at Tobe.
“What are you going to do to me?” Tobe barely managed to whisper. The guard put his now unconscious partner’s head in a basin, one that looked like someone would use while changing the oil in their car.
Maybe the two men didn’t hear him, or maybe they were just ignoring him, but they looked fairly busy. Razor Man slit Perry’s jugular with his razor, and Mick put a small device over the wound. A small plastic jug sat attached to it, and when it was turned on, blood from the meticulous incision started to fill it. Tobe watched the door frantically for Jake. He knew his friend would walk in the room at any moment, but nothing yet.
“Gonna take a few sucks for yourself?” Mick asked. As he spoke, Tobe noticed that the man had two teeth longer and sharper than the others. Things were so weird already; he figured he could believe anything at that point.
“I don’t touch the unclean,” Razor Man said. Tobe figured that guy’s teeth were the same. “Why do you think I use this thing? Besides, we get it all this way.”
“Touching someone’s never been a problem for me,” Mick said. “Besides, I thought you did this just to sell it.”
“I do, but I still won’t touch them, no matter how beautiful or pure. They’re not like us.”
“Their blood’s better, right? That’s why you’re in here, cleaning them out.”
“There’s a blood disease that humans can get. They have delusions or think someone’s talking to them...kind of like this guy.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Tobe, still huddled in the corner. “There’s something about their blood...I don’t know what it is, but it’s good.”
“Wouldn’t that make it dirty? Why would you want that instead of something pure? Like our blood...”
The Razor Man glared at the oblivious guard. He grinned, slowly.
A few minutes later, the jug could take no more blood. After a bit of jimmying the device and sealing the jug, they finished. Tobe knew he was next.
All he could do was cower in fear. He wanted to put his hands over his throat, but the straightjacket prevented it. As little as it would do, he curled his legs into his chest. Jake wasn’t going to save him. No one would save him. He shut his eyes. Hopefully, it would be quick and painless...
...and yet nothing happened.
Tobe opened his eyes and watched as the men dragged Perry’s bloodless corpse out of the room. Eventually, the Razor Man came back in the room and glared at him, but made no move to slice his neck.
“This is your lucky day,” he seethed. “That orderly has plans for you, and I’ve got plans for someone else.” He smiled bitterly.
Just then, Mick entered. The Razor Man turned and sliced a fine cut right into the guard’s neck. His head and splattering blood landed perfectly in the basin. With the precision and ease that the Razor Man worked, Tobe knew he had performed this several times before. Balled up at the head of his bed, Tobe watched in horror as yet another man, even if he was a vampire, slowly died and became a food source.

“You’ve been taking those yellow pills again.”
Tobe woke, awkwardly splayed on his bed, still in the straightjacket. He had no idea what time it was. He couldn’t tell if the door was still open or not, but someone else had just entered his room.
“Just...get out of here.” He just wanted sleep, and talking exhausted him.
“Tobe, you need to look at me.”
He recognized that voice. After blinking a few times, his eyes focused, and he saw the man standing at the foot of his bed. Six foot tall and wiry, his greasy red hair had grown, and now hung to his shoulders. But how could he have gotten in here? The Razor Man could have just left the door wide open, but that would just be sloppy.
“Jake? What are you doing here?”
“Tobe, listen to me. Don’t tell. Don’t tell anybody anything.”
“But why? I know why that guy keeps coming in here and killing people.” He looked at the floor and took a deep breath. “According to him, you’re not real.”
Jake laughed. “Who are you going to believe, Tobe? Some whacko that kills people and sells their blood, or your own best friend?” Jake just kept laughing while he talked. “What do you think they call themselves, Incision, Inc?”
A lump formed in Tobe’s throat. “How do you know all that, Jake?” Tobe sighed again. “I killed those people...those churches. That was me, not you telling me to. Me. I deserve to be here, and you need to go.”
“You can’t tell anyone anything.”
“Like they’d even believe me.” Their eyes met. “Good-bye, Jake.”
Tobe Howard closed his eyes, and once again, he was alone.

Dawn came, and Tobe still sat huddled in the corner, straightjacket and all, with eyes glazed over, shivering slightly. Dr. Glover demanded he receive the best care from the orderlies. They all rushed to obey.
Police swarmed all over the building, and every time they attempted to talk to Tobe, he just sat silent. He wanted to tell them everything he saw, everything he now knew about the mysterious deaths, but he couldn’t. He wanted nothing more than to tell them everything, but it would make no difference. Somehow, he knew that everyone would still think he was crazy, as much as he knew he was not.
Days and nights went by with nothing new to report, not even any deaths. Tobe received some shock therapy, which didn’t sit well with him. The doctors hoped it would cure his depression, and reset his brain. After about a week of it, he quit fighting, and just let them carry him away.
One night, Tobe was just about to drift off to sleep. After being locked up for so long, he finally felt relaxed and somewhat at peace with himself. Well after the doctors had left for the evening, his cell door opened. Bruce, his most hated foe, entered the room.
The big man flicked on the lights, causing Tobe to cover his eyes for a moment.
“What do you want?” he mumbled.
Bruce just smiled, revealing a set of yellowed teeth, two of them ending in sharp points.
“It’s time,” he said.
The lights turned off, and Tobe just lay on the bed, continuing to hate the world for a few final seconds.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I’ll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers’. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren’t they?

what is veganism?

A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don’t consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?

This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?

We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. I really like (“Writing Your Name”). It’s one of those kind of things where your eye isn’t exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked “knowledge” for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor’s copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@scars.tv... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They’ve got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on “Hope Chest in the Attic”) Some excellent writing in “Hope Chest in the Attic.” I thought “Children, Churches and Daddies” and “The Room of the Rape” were particularly powerful pieces.

Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new cc&d looks absolutely amazing. It’s a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can’t wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We’re only an e-mail away. Write to us.

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST’s three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST’s SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does “on the road” presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, WrBrian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Brian B. Braddock, WrI passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies’) obvious dedication along this line admirable.

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
“Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
“Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I’ll have to kill you.
Okay, it’s this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you’ll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we’re gonna print it. It’s that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It’s a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the 1999 book “Rinse and Repeat”, the 2001 book “Survive and Thrive”, the 2001 books “Torture and Triumph” and “(no so) Warm and Fuzzy”,which all have issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us and tell us you saw this ad space. It’s an offer you can’t refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.

Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. “Scars” is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It’s your call...

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: “Hope Chest in the Attic” captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. “Chain Smoking” depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. “The room of the rape” is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, “Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment.” Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers’ very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer’s styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there’s a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there’s a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Children, Churches and Daddies the unreligious, non-family oriented literary and art magazine Scars Publications and Design ccandd96@scars.tv http://scars.tv Publishers/Designers Of Children, Churches and Daddies magazine cc+d Ezines The Burning mini poem books God Eyes mini poem books The Poetry Wall Calendar The Poetry Box The Poetry Sampler Mom’s Favorite Vase Newsletters Reverberate Music Magazine Down In The Dirt magazine Freedom and Strength Press forum plus assorted chapbooks and books music, poery compact discs live performances of songs and readings Sponsors Of past editions: Poetry Chapbook Contest, Poetry Book Contest Prose Chapbook Contest, Prose Book Contest Poetry Calendar Contest current editions: Editor’s Choice Award (writing and web sites) Collection Volumes Children, Churches and Daddies (founded 1993) has been written and researched by political groups and writers from the United States, Canada, England, India, Italy, Malta, Norway and Turkey. Regular features provide coverage of environmental, political and social issues (via news and philosophy) as well as fiction and poetry, and act as an information and education source. Children, Churches and Daddies is the leading magazine for this combination of information, education and entertainment. Children, Churches and Daddies (ISSN 1068-5154) is published quarterly by Scars Publications and Design, 829 Brian Court, Gurnee, IL 60031-3155 USA; attn: Janet Kuypers. Contact us via snail-mail or e-mail (ccandd96@scars.tv) for subscription rates or prices for annual collection books. To contributors: No racist, sexist or blatantly homophobic material. No originals; if mailed, include SASE & bio. Work sent on disks or through e-mail preferred. Previously published work accepted. Authors always retain rights to their own work. All magazine rights reserved. Reproduction of Children, Churches and Daddies without publisher permission is forbidden. Children, Churches and Daddies copyright Copyright © 1993 through 2010 Scars Publications and Design, Children, Churches and Daddies, Janet Kuypers. All rights remain with the authors of the individual pieces. No material may be reprinted without express permission.