Nailed Flailed and Bailed
(But I’m Not Bitter)

Your beauty kills me
Not all at once
With mercy and peace
But in pieces
Like the bites of red ants
That stop to dance
With mouths
Full of me
Splattering the walls
With my juice
In their frenzied joy
Oh boy
Your gentle grace
Erases my face
And back spaces my words
And thoughts
And hungers
And dreams
And it seems
Like I’m not even here
And never was
For ever more and
The flowers you leave
Are not to bereave
But to help you keep score

The Wise Mommy

Mommy, you were absolutely right.
I’m only “getting better”. I’m not good.
Until I die I can keep getting better,
Open ended, an infinity.
Sartre would not take the Nobel Prize.
He claimed that it would fix his intellect
At this specific thought or understanding.
He wanted to be free to think some more.
Did Sartre have a mother like I had
Who left him capable of getting better?

Vengerov

How do the other violinists
Feel when Vengerov
Gets the loud ovations
For things they couldn’t play?
They tap their bows politely,
Occasionally smile.
But what do the violinists feel
Who back up Vengerov?

Letter to Santa Claus

My letter to Santa, scrawled with mechanical precision
in red on a piece of green construction paper

Dear Santa,
I have been a good little clockwork boy this year,
please bring me a pot of metal polish
and a child’s ratchet set and nuts and bolts and screws
and rivets in a variety of shapes and sizes,
a chamois cloth and a pair of suspenders for my teddy bear,
new eyes that see by heat, some tissue cultures
and a new feeding tube.

Now just another one of those rusted memories
from my childhood. Did my parents read the letter
and smile at each other?
Or were all those spare parts really manufactured by
a merry little band
of mechatronic polar elves.

Jeffrey Park Bio

    Baltimore native Jeffrey Park currently lives in Munich, Germany, where he works at a private secondary school and teaches business English to adults. His latest poems appear or are forthcoming in Subliminal Interiors, Mobius, Punk Soul Poet, Darkling Magazine, The Camel Saloon and elsewhere.

On the Sounds of a Bus Ride

The computerized voice announcing the stops
called out H      T      S, not recognizing it
as the abbreviation for Heights
The windows rattled as the bus rolled over rough road
A dozen human bobblehead dolls were working
to the music piped directly into their heads
“What’s the BIA?” “The Bureau of Indian Affairs”
“I don’t care about Indians; didn’t we kill them all?”
as they were on their way to an upper-level class
at a local college

X Building

It’s a barracks.
But not the military kind, though
It still has rules and regulations.
Pandemonium greets your eyes
When first you enter.
Sizing up soon-to-be bunkmates,
Wondering which one is the petty thief
Who will creep over to steal
Your new toothpaste, or
Last shot of coffee.
Over countless years I’ve been
Cycled through barracks like this,
No longer caring
About the lack of privacy,
Too much noise,
Too little sleep.
One prison after another,
One bleeding into the other,
The way prison bled away my youth.

Spare Parts

My body
is a refurbished car wreck,
rebuilt from memories of ideas
I used to have.
It’s a piecemeal framework—
at best, good for another thousand miles,
at worst, good for a blowout going seventy-seven on the highway.

I spend most of my time parked,
watching the gasoline rainbows puddle around my tires,
but I can hear the passing revolutions of everyone else’s wheels;
now, a ‘79 Shelby Mustang,
now, a ‘98 Kawasaki Ninja,
now, a ‘62 Volkswagen Beetle.
Chrome mufflers.
Power steering.
Anti-lock brakes.
I track their scents from the pavement,
straining for the sound of breaking plastic and collapsing metal.

Let the crash that totals me
find me with none of my original parts.
Let all four tires burst like tired condoms.
Let the walls of my body buckle,
folding in like an accordion
and raining down rust.
Let my second-hand parts scatter
like inmates escaping Alcatraz,
so irretrievable that only
the remnants of memories remain.

Brooklyn: Invisible Man

Like a rat in a maze, an unwilling subject in a sinister experiment,
exposed and disposable,
I wander through
the bleak, barren
streets of
Brooklyn.

What’s my sin? Old and obsolete, someone pressed the delete key
and transmogrified me into an invisible man,
a grotesque, ghostly pariah,
broke, unemployed,
and forgotten.

No one can see me now. How did this happen? Even Kafka was kinder,
his Metamorphosis of Gregor Samsa not as Machiavellian,
not as heinous or brutally evil as invisibility,
darkened by the pitch-black, piteous
streets of Brooklyn, the
labyrinthine wasteland
I travel through.

What will I do? I can’t find the exit. I’m Brooklyn’s invisible man.
But my brothers and sisters meander across the U.S.A.;
every lost day they inhale and exhale the
murderous miasma that’s spreading
to every town and city.

Beware! Invisibility will swallow your faces too, leaving no traces of
human life. Look closely. Yes, the epidemic’s coming your way
with fringe benefits-despair, hopelessness, and desperation.
Look closely at our beautiful nation and its people.

I’m the disheveled old man you can’t see. I’ve got a long gray beard
and wild hair. If you could see me, you’d shout: “Hello, Einstein!”
I wear torn jeans and tattered sneakers and a
George Carlin T-shirt. It says:
Too Much Stuff!
I carry an old Barnes & Noble green bag. It contains all my possessions-
4 books by Dostoevsky, Hesse, Vonnegut, and the divine author
of the Bible.
Enough!

I’ve got enough except for food, water, and shelter. Homeless and invisible,
exposed and disposable, broke, unemployed, and forgotten,
I wander through the bleak,
barren streets of
Brooklyn.

What’s my sin? Does anyone out there know? Goodbye. Why?
An alien presses the delete key
and that’s the
end of
me.

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.

Not Unlike Today

A lady stands to receive her award,
a lady with dark hair arranged
from a time past, not unlike today,
blue skies and virtually cloudless.
Not unlike today as well for me,
a time when a heart fills with song
and remembers a friend and her
husband with a check to assist
funding an alert dog for diabetics.
A lady named Susan whose music
means the world; maybe even
a forest filling with wildflowers,
a time of empathy for us to receive
so unexpectedly a gift rising like
the moon. From a lady whose own
life is a gift and more dear
than walking under that moonlight
with hopes a smile will arise.
A song will endure,
the magic hat of significance.

What Blesses Us and Give us Pleasure

Inspiration, that shooting star burning
through the atmosphere, a struck match
to light a cigarette of thought seen
just for a moment, yet its lingering
fires drag a line across the black sky

Initiation, into the black arts turning
through the labyrinth of mind potions,
combined through alloys of blood flesh
experience flowing together in confluence
where the sea is made of pages of patience

Declarations, seem to frame themselves
while in a trance the body chants freely
of all that it has seen, imagined, feared
and loved. What blesses us lets us go
unabashedly through the fields of life

Consecration, and gives us pleasure by
the seeding of the fields, the tending
of spring-shoots which leap into life
thickening and birthing inextricably
every concept writ upon pure white clouds

Attention Madison Avenue, Time to Shave Another Customer

In the 1920s flocks of flappers
started stepping out sporting shorter skirts,
whereupon Gillette and other sharpers
convinced Western women to shave their legs.

Milky, silky, smooth flesh is beautiful
hairy scary, manly, un-gam-ly, so
scads of little lady razors later
distaff depilation is in the pink.

Contemplating the wide wiry whiskers
nature gives y-chromosomed animals,
marketing opportunities appear
as if revealed by a garden genie.

Viewer, are you embarrassed by the
unfeminine follicular frenzy
of female feline facial vibrissa?
Muliebrous canine muzzle bristles?

Don’t dull the edge of your sewing scissors!
Clip it with the brand new Whisker Whittler!
Clean, keen, even green, furry friend hygiene!
Finish in seconds! Cats and dogs love it!

How much would you pay? Well, don’t answer yet!
If you order now, we’ll also include
the Whisker Whisker miniature vacuum
for sucking up all those messy clippings!

And, folks, it’s only $19.95!
That’s right, it’s only $19.95!
It’s not available in any stores
and, yes, it’s only $19.95!

Plus, make your purchase with a credit card
and get a Whirling Wahoo Wonder Wand
pet fur curling iron absolutely free!
Let the whole world know that she is a girl!

But don’t delay! Limited time offer!
Friendly operators are standing by!
Madison Avenue knavery time!
Who wants to help bankroll a bonanza?

William Robison Bio

    William Robison teaches history at Southeastern Louisiana University and has published considerable nonfiction on early modern England, his most recent work being The Tudors in Film and Television (McFarland, 2012), co-authored with Sue Parrill. For more info, see http://www.tudorsonfilm.com.

    He is also a musician and a maker of short films, both which the curious can check out at http://www.myspace.com/562067730.

    Poetry is a newer form of expression for Robison, but recently hwe has had poems accepted by Amethyst Arsenic, amphibi.us, Anemone Sidecar, Apollo’s Lyre, Asinine Poetry, Carcinogenic Poetry, decomP magazinE, Forge, Mayday Magazine, On Spec, and Paddlefish.

Poem from The Metaphysical
Salvage & Scrap Yard ( Looting)

Looting your neighborhood
is never what you
imagined which is
why after the riots
so many are ready
to fight the next war
before it has even
started which always
seems like a re-run
of how you have always
been living and where
an invisible audience
is always laughing
at your struggles
to keep the used car
running while trying
to white-knuckle hold
the road rage in during
your morning commute
to a city like Hartford
which no one
can ever imagine
in flames

Yet when we do get
to the Dollar Store
where we shop
shoplift    or work

our imagination
only wants
to make us
kill

Love’s Take on Multiculturalism

As I put my lips to yours,
they part to let my flame enter you,
its heat moulding us
into a live love-sculpture portraying
the true meaning of life

As the flame goes to work
on firing a peace offering to all those
who reject our love,
the raw scars of suffering peel away
like layers of an onion

Sadly, we must rise and leave
to make our way in this modern world,
still slaves to the past
for all its fine rhetoric about fair play
in a free society

Find us among arts and streets,
recreating love’s custom made models,
nor a finer take on life
than sex, sexuality, colour, age or creed
reworking its humanity

Apparently, David

There are categories of hell here.
Apparently
David died of
chronic liver disease
February 28, 2012.

Fact, I was a newspaper reporter.
I am a chronic drunk.

David’s drinking became his sin.
Sin is the crack of the Devil’s butt.
It tossed a good man into hell.
Dandelions faded with him when
the burning began.

His widow was a chronic bitch.
Locals called her “Nightmare Boogie.”

His wife of 14 years
celebrated his passing;
she pissed on his pictures.

She was simply a mindless fragment.

Her life was understated, full of fragments.

She got drunk on the night David died.
She thought it was butterscotch wine.
Confused, Cherry Lee, kept it simple;
she recognized the mix up,
it was butterscotch schnapps.

Either way, Cherry Lee helped
evaporate David’s heart.

There were no memorial services.

David’s ashes are still in a fruit box;
mounted on the top of her toilet bowl.

No urn, present or past tense.
No obituary, too late.

Only a label, a tag on the cinerary stating:
“this is David’s discount Funeral Home.”

There are no survivors here.

Literary Silence

Quotations have a way of grating.
All I want is silence.
And you can quote me on that.
But please don7#8217;t.

A Worm’s Eye View of the Battlefield
                (a not so civil war)

Bloated corpses
broiling in the sun;
guts, feet, heads, torsos,...
floating on a sauce of red,
battle’s prodigal smorgasbord
for triumphal maggots.
How benevolent
is our great God Worm
to supply such sustenance
for His indefatigable servants.

Fleecing the Lamb

The bankers are in a bind
Hiding in the shame
Of loan loss provision
And incestuous debt
Swaps and derivatives
And hobby farm bonds
All kindly gifts
(Packaged and bowed)
Emanating with a shining light
From the reclusive
And impenetrable
Sanctum on the hill

The emperor has
Lost all clothes as
Colorful delusions
Of grandeur and glut
Chlorinate deeply
Memo takers
Turn mind on
Penniless merchants
And civilian rags
Navy Jacks
And slated seniors
All left holding the bag
As hang dogs
And white elephants
And toe cutters
Mark the market

Decency in abeyance
And hope gone terribly sour
The friends of Echo Park
Loosen their grip
On hatchet and reel
Bernacke blunders
And Dimon principles
Volker rule
And Oxley
All tabled and torn
Hooked and snagged
On the waxed
And polished floors
Of Angel’s Flight

The finger test
And cross sentiment
Are all the talk
At the turn
Margins tight
And pressing
Have laggards
Scraping bottom
Pogies blunted and gaffed
Sweating like bloated pigs
As narcissists
And cartoon politicians
And super villains
Commandeer the front row

Heads of state
Are sweeping tracks
Like wiley foxes
In the hen house
Deliberate in procession
With a pocket full
Of tricks...
Acey Deucy
And 2 buck chuck
Cup and bean
And the vanishing top
Classic illusions that
Have got everyone
Spinning their heads!

Intuitive tools
And trusted hedge
All thrown out
With the bathwater
Prudence and discretion
Lost in the frenzy
And backroom scrawl
Green span exuberance
And Cramer contempt
Validated and sworn
In the conned
And pitted arrogance

The goats of show
Are plenty...
Merchants of Chaos
Rewritten in a
Perfect second script!
Who can forget:
“Johnny Buckles”
Or “The One Dom Skilling”
“Gravely” or the
“The Good Dr. Lickatees”
Prodigious ponzies
(And their twisted boards)
All throwing caution to the wind

Looks like the drafts
And rants
And accusations
Will never fade
The stone face regulators
And sleeping mannequins
Will once again masquerade
Fleecing lambs
With pitches and tales
Dancing delicately
Like the horned centaur
With his rock tumbler

The inquisition
Is approaching
And the deadpan
Is growing old...
Time to pull
The tempest
From the temple
And engage the
Front line

Breadcrumbs

So empty
Nothing feels right
I’m losing touch
Reality
Slipping away
Losing myself
Everything is twisted
Dark
Will i ever make it back

Dragonflies

So there still are dragons and I’m glad there’s an airforce chock-
full of them, zooming out of the twilight like a flock
of Zeros dogfighting the hummingbird fleet, or
mosquitoes, gnats, and flickering fireflies far
more clever than other wings in the dark since they flash
Morse Code signal flares when challenged. These slashing
dragonwings won’t surrender to vampires, bats, or to
the barn swallow ballerinas who exit the stage
when it’s too dim to show themselves off to advantage.

But back to my boyhood’s fishing pole line and a dragon-lace
neon-blue translucence I won’t disremember
though it’s written with lemon ink between the lines.
Nor do I forget the firefly I squished, whose
phosphorescence glued on thumb in thought like a guilt trip,
and still flares in memory like a match scratched in the dark
when the lights in the city are doused in houses & park,
nor do I want to rinse off that stigma stuck to my palms.
St Francis can judge me when we meet in the silent tombs.

Missed the Clicks and Scratches

Knowing you couldn’t
get me to go downstairs

(not knowing that downstairs
is where I kept the bodies),

you suggested playing music.
With no iPod docking station,

I had to trudge upstairs and
search the rooms I’ve avoided

to find an old record player
with small speakers, all covered

in dust.

So after a rag for cleaning
and finding a handful of records,

we eventually sat on the floor
with our new-found relics, to just

listen.

And playing the records sounded...
Well, it’s hard to describe.

I hear a fullness I haven’t heard
since before my iPod earbuds

or walkman headphones.
We spend so much time

making everything smaller,
that we forget the details

when we shrink everything down
so we can cram more into our

lives.

And simply put, I missed
the clicks and scratches.

I missed the imperfections.
In our modern-day lives,

we’ve done everything we could
to remove nuances, so everything

is generically the same,
and now nothing is unique.

I’ve missed the scratches
from downstairs, I’ve missed

the hiccups and skips
from a 33, a 45 or a 78.

It’s been a while since I’ve
heard those scratches,

it’s been a while since i’ve
delved into those imperfections.

At least we found this record
player so I could remind myself

of what I was missing
all this time, now as we are

now forced into our
modern world.

Us Creative Types

I’m angry with you.

I know us creative types
are self-absorbed,

but only if you’re so destitute
that even shelters
or food banks can’t help
should you ever think about it.

I mean, I know
we’re really all so selfish,
and selfishness is a virtue,
but I swear to god,
this is the wrong kind
of selfishness.

If you think this will
make you happy,
this lack of existence,
think of how much
pain you’ve caused
by this one selfish act.

Is that how you
want to be remembered?
I know us creative types
are so self-absorbed,
so wouldn’t you rather
be remembered for your talents,
and not have you
cut-short creativity
be so overshadowed
by the pain you’ve caused?

###

Because screw you,
I know pain,
I’ve been where you’ve been,
I think I’ve been closer than you,
I think I’ve had more reason than you...
I don’t know how long
I was no that edge, and
I struggle to this day
with the knowledge that
I should have just done it
and gotten it over with.

Trust me, I know.

But all us creative types
have these demons haunting us,
and it’s supposed to be
our creativity
that gets us through it all.

So yeah, I’m angry with you.

Because you said
you’re a creative type,
so you should have
been strong enough.

Test your brain and your soul
by testing your creativity more.
I mean, Kerouac may have
tested himself
by bathing in bathtubs of liquor,
people have tested themselves
with anything from drug overdosing
to auto-erotic asphyxiation.
And yeah, those creative
types were selfish,
but they aren’t
as selfish as you.

And I’m angry,
because you took
the easy way out.

And I’m angry,
because you caused
so much pain
in this world
with this one selfish act.

And I’m angry,
because now,
what you’ve done,
the pain you’ve caused,
that’s the only way
I am forced
to think of you now.

Inches Above the Ground

My feet are in so much pain
that I want to say
that it feels like my feet
are about to fall off

But if that happened,
would that mean
that with no feet
my legs would just hand there
as I floated
three inches above the ground

Over Their Coffins

I work for
a photo studio,
and
someone suggested
I should sell photo packages
to old people,
and to tell them
to have their photos taken
before they die.
I told him that’s a
terrible marketing campaign,
and they said
but they can then
have their photo
over their coffin.

Yes, photos taken
to be placed
over their coffins,
smashing idea.

Kill the Vermin
(dreams from 5/16/12)

Yesterday, a small bug was crawling along the floor
near the refrigerator, my husband usually sees and kills
these bugs, but with his back out he notices nothing now.
So this bug was crawling by the bottom of the fridge
and my cat Zach, who loves to eat bugs, just watched it
walking, so with no napkin to squash the bug I yelled,
“Zach, get the bug!” And he just sat there
and watched it walk. I looked over to my husband
who just sat there complacently looking at me.
So I turned to get a napkin to kill the vermin.
When I came back to the fridge, I saw that the bug
had just crawled under the fridge, and everyone just sat there
looking at me.

After that I got this vision in my head of being in my house
and seeing a bug on the floor. But the bug looked like a small
pink crab. Which is strange, because insects aren’t crustaceans,
and they’re certainly not pastel pink, so I yelled
for my husband to come kill the pastel pink crab bug,
and I looked down and there were now two of them,
skidding sideways slowly. So I started to panic,
now there are two of these Grateful Dead stoner
Dancing Bear pastel pink crabs on my floor,
and I don’t know how to shoo them or kill them.
After all this time my husband didn’t come to see this,
but waiting for him I eventually looked down again,
and there were now twenty of these pastel pink crabs
all slowly skittering along together in a sort of
Triangle pattern, and, not knowing what to do, I thought,
“Somebody else should really see this...” I mean,
my husband just found out that he’s not allergic to shellfish,
maybe he could tell me if these bugs on my floor in formation
are actually a crustacean delicacy to some cultures on this planet.
Because as I’m waiting there, this is what I’m reduced to
when there are bugs on the floor
and I’m left to my own devices.

A Christmas Story

    No matter the time of day, the boardroom of Specter Toys, a division of Specter Missile and Defense Systems, remained cloaked in shadows. The chief executive officer sat behind a desk on raised steel flooring and stroked his cat’s long white fur. Both had a predator’s pale blue eyes that pierced their victims’ bowels with icicles of fear. A livid purple scar ran from the CEO’s left eye socket to the top of his shaved skull. Perhaps the way he pinched his black cigarettes between thumb and index finger gave his subordinates some clue of his origin, but they referred to him only as Number Two.
    A Japanese man stood before Number Two’s desk. Although short in stature, his erect posture gave him the air of command. Liberal use of gel kept each of his gray hairs in place. Behind him a woman in a tweed suit and tortoiseshell glasses held a clipboard.
    “The Junior Backyard Nuclear Waste Storage kit’s authorization is making its way through Congress. This time there will be no failures.”
    “Excellent, Number Three.” Number Two formed a steeple with his fingers. “Now tell me about the Tina Anorexia doll.”
    “We launched the product last week, complete with miniature scale, exercise cycle, and case of diet cola.”
    “And the scale model Guantanamo prison kit?”
    “Yes, sir, I’m told the interrogation rooms are quite realistic.”
    “How are the sales?”
    Number Three swallowed. Despite years of practice in high stakes corporate negotiations, a tremor appeared on the corner of his mouth. “They’re not buying, sir.”
    “What do you mean, they’re not buying?”
    “Times are tough. They’ve decided to spend their money elsewhere.”
    “I don’t pay you to let them make up their minds.” Number Two pressed a button on his armrest.
    A trapdoor opened. Number Three fell into the pool under the steel platform. The water boiled with hundreds of piranhas, each biting a thimble of flesh from his body. Within seconds the skeleton sank to the bottom.
    “Congratulations on your promotion, Number Four.” Number Two stroked the cat and fingered the gold ring on his right hand. “Make sure merchants start playing recorded Christmas music the day before Thanksgiving, and keep it up until the shoppers’ minds are numb. Have our corporate affiliates double their employees’ unpaid overtime. Guilty parents spend more during the holidays. Aside from that, have our TV stations show Miracle on 34th Street over and over again. Encourages gullibility. What advertiser wouldn’t love it? You may go.”
    The new Number Three scribbled notes on her clipboard and left to set Number Two’s plans in motion.
    “You know, Wotan.” Number Two spooned caviar into the cat’s crystal bowl. “This could be our best Christmas ever.”

About Jon Wesick

    Jon Wesick hosts San Diego’s Gelato Poetry Series and and is an editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. He has published over two hundred poems in journals such as The New Orphic Review, Pearl, Pudding, and Slipstream. He has also published over forty short stories in journals such as CC&D, Space and Time, Zahir, and Tales of the Talisman. Jon Wesick has a Ph.D. in physics and is a longtime student of Buddhism and the martial arts. One of his poems won second place in the 2007 African American Writers and Artists contest. Another had a link on the Car Talk website.

Fred, some of your writing is too disgusting.

    “Fred, some of your writing is too disgusting. Most people don’t want to read about beheadings with blood gushing like Old Faithful from your neck in a world where nobody’s faithful, & love is many a splendoured gore.”
    “Since it’s the truth, maybe they should be subjected to it anyway.”
    “Why? If it’s true that God is dead, why should most people be subjected to that truth?”
    “Then people can make their choice about what’s to do about it.”
    “Okay, Fred. After somebody reads you, what choice can he make about it?”
    “Whether or not to commit suicide.”
    “But the publisher has a say in it to. You write your disgusting crap, like Dostoevsky writes about murdering an old crone, but the publisher doesn’t want to torture his readers with it; so she just doesn’t publish it. What do you do about it?”
    “If the publisher would rather print The Bobsey Twins or Dick & Jane with their dog rather than me & Dostoevsky, she has the right, but I can find another publisher. & if I can’t like Kafka, I don’t get anything accept Amerika published, until 20 years after I’m dead, because Max Brod then gets me published.”
    “What if you don’t have a friend like Max Brod to get you published?”
    “I’m sure most great artists are never discovered.”
    “You mean, like you.”
    “Who knows?”
    “What about this piece you’re writing?”
    “I can assure you, publishers have expressed their feeling that my work is shit. That happens every day. It’s possible that Emily Dickinson never got published in her lifetime. If Mable Loomis Todd, a popular poet in Emily’s time, hadn’t married Emily’s brother, her poems might never have been published. It’s only recently that Todd’s punctuation has been changed back to Emily’s original punctuation. As it is Whitman’s regarded as our greatest poet, & Emily’s #2. Whitman was smart enough to publish himself, to make sure he’d be in control. I’m sure for every great artitst who is found, thousands are lost.”
    “So what about you, Fred? Why don’t you publish yourself?”
    “That still doesn’t mean you’re going to be read. & think of the painters who languish in thrift shops or someone’s garage until soneone finds them. What are the odds of that? A thousand to one?”
    “This isn’t just about art. Who would have guessed that a buffoon like Newt Gingrich would have wiggled his way this far to get the Republican nomination for president? & what about Mitt Romney? Good GOD!”

The Neck Stretches

    The suicide who hanged himself has stretched his neck 20 ft & lies upon the kitchen floor. His wife awakes in the morning to discover him & urps over his flabby belly. She takes the dish towel & wipes him off, then replaces the towel on its rack adding to the aura of disgust. She decides not to eat breakfast at home & goes out to Mary’s diner down the street. Tasting nothing, she washes the vomit out of her mouth with coffee & wipes the front of her t-shirt with her napkin. She smiles at the waitress across the counter. The waitress pretends she’s not there. She pays, tipping gener- ously, & walks home. The sun rises over what’s becoming a beautiful day.
    She sits awhile on the living room couch, but the stench of vomit makes her realize that she has work to do. She breathes deeply & walks back into the kitchen. It hasn’t changed. Milton still lies there with his flabby belly. His neck still stretches to the ceiling pipe 20 ft above. It’s thin like a clothesline of skin. She’s amazed it hasn’t broken, but she hasn’t seen anything like this before. She realizes that the skin is turning darker. Milton has always smelled a bit strange, but she assumes he’ll get stranger. She considers another vomit but doesn’t want to waste her break- fast. Her eggs cost $4.00 which with the tip made $5.00, & she isn’t one to waste money. The ladder Milton used to hang himself is still standing in place like a monument to Milton’s achievement. She tires of standing & sits at the table as if she were about to eat a melon or a bowl of ice cream, as dessert after her eggs at Mary’s.
    “You always were a sicky, Milton, but now what?”
    He doesn’t answer, but his guilty eyes are sinking into his skull.
    She quotes Eliot, “This is how the world ends.” & starts to laugh. Milton always was a joker. She looks at the long, skinny neck & sees the head beginning to stretch down the other side of the noose. How ridiculous! Milton was always an ugly duck but nothing like this. It makes the event even funnier.
    She wonders if she should hang herself beside Milton. Would her neck stretch like his? Would she end up like her hubby, lying dead beside him on the kitchen floor? How roman- tic. Their goofy pictures would make the front page. It would be her first time in the news. TV would also pick it up. Fame for even more than 15 minutes!
    She picks up the phone & punches in a number.
    “Hello, L.A. Times.”
    “Hey, guess what?”

Invincible

    Stomach acid like old orange juice. This is the part I hate: when there’s nothing left inside your stomach to spew, so puddle after putrid puddle of enzymes and bile come heaving out of your stomach instead of food. Six days sick and I’m praying to God and the devil – promising my soul to the first one who can cure this sick, nauseous feeling inside my gut or bring on the sweet, welcome relief of unconsciousness or death.
    Which is worse? Death or dying? At least when you’re dead it’s over. Dying, you feel like you just swallowed a gut full of hypodermic needles filled to the brim with expired Sunny Delight, poking millions of tiny little holes in your abdomen before injecting that vile liquid into your body so fast that all at once the fluids come rushing out of your mouth at speeds that could make Superman go back in time.
    Dying isn’t fun. I should know, I’ve done it before.
    You’re feverish. You’re so hot but you’re shaking. You’re burning up but you still feel cold. This is the body’s natural way of fighting off infection. Beads of sweat from your forehead drip down your eyebrows, roll down your eyelids and obscure your vision — like a hot summer day or a night of passionate love-making, but instead you’re in your bedroom alone in the middle of January, wondering if sweat can permanently affect your vision. You’re cold, clammy, and wet. Your eyes start to forget the difference between the burn of sweat and tears. Your body, fighting to stay alive, crying from every pore of your skin as you tremble and shake in the night.
    Your mind goes fuzzy and you dream while you’re awake. Remembering not-so-distant memories of a time when you weren’t crouched in the fetal position on the floor of your studio apartment with a pool of stomach enzymes between you and your bed.
    You remember seeing him for the first time, behind the register, from two customers back in the checkout line at Old Navy. Those smoldering eyes, that broad chest, the way he popped his hip to the side and tapped his fingers on the counter while he waited for the cash register to respond. You remember praying that the other check-out girl didn’t finish her next sale before this beautiful specimen finished his, ensuring your chance to meet the man of your dreams.
    You remember hoping he wouldn’t think you were cheap for buying every item from the clearance rack, and even consider stepping out of line to buy a more expensive pair of jeans. But you don’t because you’re too afraid to lose your place in line.
    You remember hoping he’d like your taste in clothes; hoping he could picture what those discount jeans would look like around your waist or on the floor beside his bed. And as the specimen finished his sale, you silently thanked God for the possibility of finding out.
    One person back in the line at Old Navy, with your chance encounter ensured, you snap back to reality as another wave of nothing spews from inside your stomach onto the floor. Cold, tired, and on the brink of passing out, you wonder if you’ll wake up this time. Hugging your abdomen with both arms, you imagine what it felt like when the man of your dreams first wrapped his arms tight around your waist, holding you close as you slowly drifted off to sleep. You remember that first night, that freeing feeling of doing exactly what you wanted to do, of being exactly who you wanted to be for the first time in your entire life. In the arms of this loving stranger, you remember what it felt like to be alive. To be invincible.
    Violent rage rips open your insides and you remember what it felt like the night your wife returned from the doctor’s office with tears in her eyes and beat a confession out of you. Clenching the test results in her fist she demands to know how you could do this to her. You remember the pain she inflicted by throwing around accusations that hurt more than her fists. Crying, she punches you in the face as hard as she can. Screaming, she calls you names like: Bastard, Asshole, and Faggot; each name inflicting as much damage to your soul as every jab she lands inflicts on your body. A one-two combination of insults and injuries flying at you and you let her whale away on your body and mind because you know you deserve it.
    You remember the heartache of going to the doctor to confirm what you already know. The painful realization that the rest of your life won’t be anything like you planned. You remember calling the man of your dreams crying, asking how he could do this to you, calling him a liar when he says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about, and hanging up before saying goodbye.
    You slip into sadness and spend the next four years alone; each day becoming increasingly more like this one, lying on your floor waiting for a death that never comes. At your lowest, when you feel like both God and Death have abandoned you, a phone call rips through the silence of your studio apartment, and you half-expect it to be God or Satan on the other end beckoning you home.
    You answer the phone and the woman on the other end, barely recognizable with her meek and weary voice, from some distant life you can scarcely recall, says she’s sorry for everything. Close to the end, with regret in her heart, she says she’s made a lot of bad choices in her life, the least of all was you. She tells you about a man, not unlike the man of your dreams, who she met at a 24-hour coffee bar one night after law school. She says how she and the man would meet for coffee every Tuesday night from then on and talk about all the things that never seemed to interest you. She confesses how after a few weeks “coffee next to school” became “drinks downtown” and how she thought they might even be falling in love. She tells how after one night of drinks, while walking to the corner to meet a cab, she decided she wanted to spend the night with him; the man she loved too much to think he could ever do anything to hurt her. The man too perfect and charming to be sick. The man who turned out to be her killer. Yours too.
    With tears in her voice, and a final goodbye, the line goes dead as you begin to cry. Your legs go weak and that familiar feeling of having to spew on an empty stomach begins to form in the back of your throat. Nauseated, you curl up in the fetal position beside you bed and wait for the sickness you hope will be your last. Your thoughts return to a beautiful man, who you’ll never see again. A man who, as it turns out, never did anything to you but make you feel invincible for one perfect night: the last night you ever felt alive.

Remember?

    What’s with the attitude? The car stopped at six this morning; it coasted down the ramp or it wouldn’t be in the middle of the driveway. I rented it in Chicago; the name is Gaines, Bernard Gaines.”
    “I know that!”
    “What’s the problem, lady?”
    “I’m the manager and don’t holler at me,” she snarled and pointed at her name tag. A long blonde pony tail draped over the front of her blouse and dropped between her breasts. Large sunglasses blocked the sunshine from highlighting the blemishes under the rims.
    “You disrespected me when I walked in. Why? You treat all the customers like that? I haven’t done a thing to you.” A looker with an attitude, just like his ex. A year ago he wanted to kill her and as soon as he feels better; he meets one like her.
    She slammed on her pen on the counter, walked from behind the store length desk and stood nose to nose with Bernie. “Remember me, Bernie?” Her lips tightened with anger. “Clare Lipton, from St. Mary’s grammar school? Remember, and, we were freshies at Union High?”
    “Uh...No.”
    She lifted her glasses and revealed wide set green eyes, arched eyebrows and a droopy right eyelid. She was quite attractive despite the eyelid. “Now do you?” Her emerald eyes scanned his face and waited for an answer. “Why you squinting, can’t you see?”
    “Yeah, but, uh...I don’t—” Bernie sighed. “I’m sorry, but I need to be on my way. I have to attend a funeral.”
    “When I saw you cross the road from the Hampton, I couldn’t believe it. Tall, dark and gorgeous curly haired Bernie Gaines and because of you, I’m down south in this hellhole!”
    “Me? What did I do?” He moved to sit; she blocked him.
    “My family sent me away, thinkin’ I’d get pregnant. Somethin’ told me not to let you come over, but I took a chance any way. You had me all hot and bothered. You loosened my clothes, but I went to the washroom to finish undressin’.” Her voice trembled.
    “Now I remember,” Bernie interrupted. “I heard your father coming upstairs calling you. I ran out the room and down the back stairs out the kitchen door. Jesus, the world couldn’t be that small.”
    “Well, it is!” She shouted.
    “Jesus, Clare, I’m sorry. Your father being a cop, I figured he shoot me or frame me for something. I was scared, but I never heard from you. You could’ve called.”
    “Shut up!” Her nose flared and expanded and contracted with every breath. “He kicked my ass all over the house. I still got the scars. The next day I was headed down south. If I hadn’t listened to you.” She leaned her back wondering. “Where would I be?”
    “You’re trapped and couldn’t get out...for thirty years? Yeah, right.” Clare blinked. The kind of blink that said you’re right. The quick frown didn’t change that. “Again, I’ve got a funeral to attend. I need to swap cars.”
    She sighed and snatched the contract. “I have to void this one. Gimme your credit card.” Bernie fingered through his wallet and produced the card. She looked and shook her head. “This card’s expired.”
    “What?”
    “See,” she pointed at the bottom of the card. “Valid until the end of 9/10. Today is October 1^st. Sorry, no swap.” She laughed. “Now you get to enjoy this town...like I did Bernie Gaines. You can call for authorization, but that’s a waste of time. I want the plastic. And, you know we don’t take cash.”
    Bernie flopped down in a plastic chair; it slid and hit the window.
    Now what do I do?
    “We close at 6:00pm, Bernie.” Clare giggled and waved when he walked out the door.
    He stepped into the gentle breeze and looked down the road. A typical in the movies three block business district. Why did they waste money putting an entrance/exit ramp to this place? A mini-mall marquee flashed currency exchange and Western Union office. He hit his speed dial. “Hello.”
    “Aunt Shirley, this is Bernie.” Beep, beep. Low battery, Bernie hurry.
    “Bernie, hi honey, you on the way?” Her voice had aged, but she spoke with authority.
    “Yes, Ma’am. Willie still work for the State’s Attorney?”
    “Yes. He ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
    “I need you to call him for me I don’t have his number in my phone.” Bernie asked.
    “OK, honey.”
    Beep, beep. “Tell him I’m stuck at American Car Rental in Cavern City, Ky. There’s a Western Union office on Highway 6 and I need him to do what he did before when my license expired, he’ll know what to do.”
    Beep. “OK, hon—”
    “Hello.” Bernie slammed his dead phone shut and went back in the rental office. He tapped the service bell. Clare came through a door that leads to the back. “Clare, I need to get my phone charger out of that car, it’s important.” What if she says no?
    She hesitated, arched her eyebrows and sighed. “Follow me.” There’s hope for you yet, Bernie. She opened a door to the service area and pointed to the back.
    The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls of the empty service area and the smell of gas lingered. Bernie stepped over puddles of water on the oil stained floor. A tall lady in coveralls wiped her hands on a rag and lifted the hood. She didn’t notice him until he stood next to her. She jumped and sighed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I left something.”
    She smiled. “You had this car?”
    She had a smooth sensuous southern drawl. The kind of voice you could listen to all day. “Yeah, I forgot my phone charger.” He saw it on the seat and picked it up. He patted the car’s roof. “This piece of crap kept stalling. I’m lucky I got here.” Clare looked good for her age, but this lady looked incredible even in coveralls. She tanned just enough not to burn with a perfect mouth and nose on her narrow face. Her complexion was like a twenty year old model. Bernie extended his hand. “I’m Bernie.”
    She laughed and snatched off her glove. I’m Peggie, the technician.” Her hands were pillow soft for a mechanic. She struggled to suppress her laughter. “I’m sorry, Bernie, but I couldn’t help but over hear Clare. Boy, she let you have it.” She walked up to Bernie. “Such a nice face, I’m glad she didn’t smack it.” She really laughed after that. “What did—?”
    “Long story.” He hoped the quick answer would kill her curiosity.
    “Don’t be embarrassed,” she said and pointed at the engine. “See that little thing with the wires coming out?” Bernie nodded. “That’s the problem.”
    “You seem to like this kind of work.”
    “I love it. My brothers designed, built and raced cars. It’s in the blood.” She beamed with pride. “I wanted to be an engineer, went to school, did good, then life changed.”
    “We have something in common, kind of; I’m an engineer, actually a professor at U of I, Chicago.
    “Um...You look it.” Peggie looked pass him. “Here comes, Clare. It’s been nice meeting you, Bernie.”
    “My pleasure.” He caressed her hand; she got the message.
    “Did you find what you were lookin’ for, Mr. Gaines?”
    He looked at Peggie and smiled. “I certainly did.” She gave Peggie a dirty look and walked Bernie back to the office.
    “Enjoy your stay in Cavern City, Bernie.” Clare laughed and watched him walk out.
    Cavern City sat between a series of medium sized hills that put on a beautiful display of fall colors. A gentle breeze made the red, yellow and speckled colored leaves swayed back and forth on their branches. He looked up the road at the curved exit ramp that descended a quarter mile into the valley. Thank god, that hill enabled his vehicle to coast into town.
    He had to get out of this town!
    Bernie tried to call his aunt on the hotel phone while his charged, but it went to voice mail over and over. He’d feel better if he could speak to Willie himself. Dammit.

    He heard the security lock release when he pulled the door open. He ran into a cloud of cigar smoke from a previous customer. He coughed and fanned the pungent cloud when he approached the window. A senior citizen who looked like he was out of a Norman Rockwell painting sat behind bullet-proof glass. He adjusted his cap and gave him a half smile.
    “May I help?”
    “Yes, my name is Gaines.” Bernie slipped his ID in the window slot. “Has something arrived for me?”
    The old timer reached for a stack of papers and started to finger them. “No, not yet, young man.” And he pushed the ID back in the slot. “Try later.”
    “Is there a TransAmerican Bank branch in town?”
    “No son, but there’s one in Glasgow, twenty miles west of here?”
    “Any cab or buses available?”
    “No buses or cabs, only a senior transport and that operates on Sunday taking them to and from various churches in the area.”
    Great! Now he had to wait longer in this place. Hurry up Willie this place is killing me.
    Bernie got sick of sitting looking at the walls and boring TV. He looked in the full length mirror and adjusted his blue short sleeve shirt and navy blue slacks. He ran a comb through his graying hair and smiled. You still got a big build, Bernie. You’re clean cut, shoes shining, and, of course, with money in your pocket. Time to go next door to the recreation center. You might talk up a quickie, you handsome devil.

    Bernie walked through the double glass doors, down a hallway that passed through a lounge area with cocktail bars on each side. The smell of smoke and whiskey lingered in the air. A barmaid with a round freckled face smiled and filled his glass from the tap. He savored that first sip. At least it was right. He looked around at the rows of pool tables, pinball machines and video games. He counted sixteen bowling lanes. Each packed with league bowlers in colorful shirts with beer bellies that rolled with each hearty chuckle. Cheers and boos were typical reactions to the sounds of crashing pins.
    The technician from the rental agency walked in. She wore a jean outfit that accented her statuesque frame, wide hips and a narrow waist.
    What’s her name?...Peggie.
    He waved her over and moved the stool so that gorgeous body could sit comfortably.
    “Hey, Bernie, I’m surprised to see you.” She smiled and signaled for the barmaid. “How are you?”
    “I’m OK, for the time being. You meeting someone?”
    “No.”
    “You look great, Peggie.”
    “Thank you. Clare told me about that mess, years ago. She’s got issues that don’t have anything to do with you. The economy over the past decade has produced a lot of divorces, including mine, but that’s another story. So, what’s your plan?”
    “I got an alternate, but there’s no guarantee. You know I went through a divorce. I was mad at the world. Who cares? So, I shook that bitterness and you know what?”
    “What, handsome?”
     “I’ll find happiness one day. It might happen sooner than I think.” Bernie smiled and looked at her lips. A perfect fit. And, for the time being I’m going to enjoy every moment I can with a lovely lady.”
    “That’s sweet of you.”
    The bright eyed barmaid brought Peggie a beer and a shot of gin. They rose their glasses, “Cheers.” They conversed for what seemed like hours. She gave Bernie her undivided attention and resisted distraction from friends. The touch of hands and under the table brushing of knees told Bernie intimacy was imminent. He peeled open his wallet to pay for food and exposed a compartment that had a card in it. He looked; the new credit card. He’d gotten absent-minded, but thank God he thought ahead. “Look, my new card, I had it all along.” He kissed Peggie on the cheek. “I’ll be right back,” and headed for the door.
    He hoped Clare had left for the day, but saw her behind the desk. Damn. She looked up when the door chime rang. She frowned. “What is it, Bernie Gaines?”
    “Get my car ready,” he handed her his cards.
    “I’m not rentin’ you nothin’, you’re drunk.”
    “Bull! I’m not drunk...That’s discrimination, you have to rent me a car.” He wanted to ring her neck.
    “That’s for our protection, not yours.” She snapped. “Go back to your room, sober up I’ll think about it in the morning.”
    “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” His finger pointed at her nose.
    “You! You want to meet the sheriff, Bernie Gaines? He’ll love you.”
    She’s right, leave now, Bernie.
    He stormed out the door.

    Bernie stirred his drink and watched the slice of lime bump into the ice cubes, than he downed it. “You know Peggie, I stopped using the B-word years ago, but she deserves the name. I’m not...I wasn’t drunk. She’s being a bitch for the hell of it. Talkin’ down to me like I’m a kid. So, I might as well get drunk.” She grabbed his hand and rubbed it not knowing what to say. She feels right; I don’t want to blow it by looking too helpless. “Well, at least I got you.”
    Peggie looked pass her complimenting friend and saw Clare walk in and cut her toward them. She walked over to group of rowdy rednecks at the bar across the aisle. “Let’s go, I smell trouble.” Peggie downed her drink. “Go out the back door by the bathroom. I’ll be out in a minute. Now, Bernie. I know her. She’ll get those fools to start some mess.”
    “What? To hell with them.”
     “You can’t win. The sheriff will be on their side. We’ll finish at my place...go.”
    Tipsy and confused, he had no choice but to do what she said.
    The sooner he got of this town the better. He already had to go to a funeral now this crap.
    He felt Clare’s eyes follow him through those over-sized sunglasses. A minute later Peggie came out. They slipped on leaves and broken twigs on a narrow path through the woods to a street behind the recreation center. She pointed at beautifully landscaped frame house on the corner. “This way.”
    Her porch had a swing, a few chairs, tables and the siding and picture window were new. On the opposite side a car sat on blocks covered by a tarp. They walked through the gate of the knee high fence surrounding the property. “See my baby?” She patted the hood and pulled back the cover. “A 69 Charger R/T; wait until she’s finished, she’ll be the envy of the county. There ain’t many of these around.”
    “It’s a beauty alright.”
    She grabbed on hard and they sat on the swing. “Sorry to rush you, but you’re a good guy and I don’t want anything to happen to you. You’ve been hassled enough. Some of these fools get mad at affluent looking people like you, and don’t add alcohol. Stupid, but that’s the way some people are.” The sincerity in her eyes put him at ease. He leaned back and looked out at the peaceful scenery. She went inside and got a couple of beers and draped her legs across his lap. “Has your visit, if you can call it that hardened your heart?”
    “No, not really. I’ve had some rough patches, but I’m not bitter.” Bernie rubbed her long legs. “I’m relaxed, more relaxed then I’ve been in a while. How about you?” He asked.
    “Me too, Bernie Gaines.” He caressed her hand and pulled her to the screen door. She pulled back. “Whoa. Are you going to take advantage of me?”
    “No, not on the first date. What type of guy do you think I am?” They laughed, went in and tried to look at a movie and passed out.
    The smell of bacon woke Bernie. His neck paid the price for sleeping in an odd position. His phone vibrated, turned on the cocktail table and came to rest against an empty beer can. “Hello.” He pulled the phone away when his breath bounced off of it.
    “Bernie, this is Willie. I’ve been calling, you still in Cavern City?”
    “Yeah...tell me you did what I asked.” Bernie said.
    “Yeah, it’s done.”
    “Thank God, man you wouldn’t believe what happened. I can’t wait to get out of here. It’s good I left a day early.”
    “Go to that place and pick up the documents. I had to think a minute when I talked to Aunt Shirley. That idea to have the State’s Attorney’s office reserve a vehicle for a consultant worked. That was brilliant, cousin. Show the rental place the documents for verification. They pushed back the funeral an hour, so you should make it.” Willie said.
    “Thanks, Willie.
    Bernie gobbled down the breakfast and Peggie sat holding her head. “You’re not hungry?”
    “No, not now, I got a bad hangover.”
    “Thanks for breakfast, you didn’t have too.”
    “No problem.”
    “Peggie, didn’t you say you’re on vacation?” Bernie downed his orange juice. She nodded. “Come to Nashville with me and show me around, if you don’t mind going to a funeral first. I know that’s weird, but it’s been a weird few days.”
    Her gloomy look turned to joy. I’d like that, my daughter lives there. It’s been a while since I’ve her. A surprise would be nice to show-off my new friend.” She kissed him and went in her room.

    Bernie stepped in the currency exchange and an elderly lady with a pleasant southern mannerism offered him an oatmeal cookie and slid it through the slot with his documents. He walked down the drive to the rental agency and smiled at the clean vehicle in front. Clare stood at the desk with a blank expression.
    “Good morning, Clare, here’s my papers.” She looked over the documents and did an on screen comparison. “You’re in a good mood,” Bernie chuckled.
    Clare rolled her eyes. “OK...Bernie Gaines, you’re all set.” She explained the contract as required and handed him the keys, hatred written on her face.
    “I enjoyed my stay. It turned out better then you thought. All that bitterness you clung too. Get over it, the world don’t care. Have a lousy day.” Bernie laughed and walked out.
    He pulled up in front of Peggie’s and loaded her bags. “You ready?” She nodded and smiled. That smile told him not to lose touch with her.

The Lot

    The Lot was a nice piece of level land surrounded by twenty or so feet of woods. The thickness of the trees isolated it from the street, which served as a great wind barrier. It was about half the size of a football field with thick green grass. It was a great place for kids to play and hangout in.
    When Johnny was ten years old, his family moved into the newly developing subdivision and at first he was the only kid on the block. People were moving to the neighborhood every day and he always wished that another kid would move in so that he would have someone to play with, but so far that had not been the case. As a result he found that he spent a lot of time alone.
    A short walk down the street was a vacant lot that he had discovered one afternoon while exploring. He enjoyed going to the lot in the warm afternoons and lying on his back in the grass looking up at the clouds. The bright white puffy clouds reminded him of huge cotton balls floating effortlessly across the blue sky. He watched them for hours as they drifted into each other melting into various shapes. He would see many familiar objects in the clouds as they formed into one big cloud. He noticed images of his dog and buildings, even his house. He always seemed to find shapes in the forming clouds that matched his young forming imagination. Sometimes he would see clouds shaped like Snoopy or Kermit the frog. He would close his eyes and day dream that he could touch and mold them into any shape he wanted. It felt good to have the warm sun bathe his face and to drift off into a nap on many an evening. Just as he would fall into a good sleep he would hear his mother hollering out of the back door of their house calling him home for supper.

    He would clumsily stand on his feet and look down to see the outline of his body disappear in the grass as it popped back up towards the setting sun. These were very special times for Johnny that even thinking of them now as an adult gives him a feeling of peace.

    A couple of years passed and Johnny was now twelve. Other kids eventually moved into the neighborhood and at last he had several friends to play with. The lot had gone from his cloud shaping, napping refuge to a place where he and his friends would gather to play football games during football season and baseball games during baseball season. It was a good meeting place and was big enough for any sport they wanted to play. They were even known to play an intense game of kick the can on occasion. Every year on New Year’s Day all of his friends would gather at 1:00 o’clock and play a huge football game that they referred to as the toilet bowl. They looked forward to this every year and it continued all the way through High School. The teams consisted of different players every year but the names of the teams were always the same. It was The Wipples against the Tidy’s. The Wipples were named after the commercial where Mr. Wipple squeezed the Charmin, and the Tidy’s were named after the Tidy Bowl man.
    Halloween was another time of year they really looked forward to. This was a big turn out because Johnny’s neighborhood was where kids from not only his neighborhood but other neighborhoods would come to hang out. He and his friends would save their money all year long to buy water balloons and toilet paper for rolling houses and water ballooning. They would hide behind the bushes and throw water balloons at passing cars. This was a big event in their young lives. Johnny and his friends knew the lot very well and could run through it in pitch blackness and get away from anyone that would stop and chase them for nailing their car, although someone getting out of their car and chasing them was a rare occurrence. One year however, one of the older kids who also knew the lot very well chased them through it in pitch blackness. Johnny tripped on an old broken down barbed wire fence cutting his leg. The older boy caught him and held him down by the shoulders and just told him, “It better never happen again Johnny.” It scared Johnny and his friends but they continued throwing water balloons at passing cars anyway.
    On many evenings Johnny found that he would now lie on his back with friends looking up at stars instead of being alone looking at the clouds. His imagination went from shaping clouds into anything of his choice to fantasizing about flying through the stars in a rocket ship, or walking on the yellow moonbeams. They would see shooting stars and many times things they couldn’t explain, such as strange bright blinking lights, or perhaps they wanted to see something strange so they just created it in their minds. Anyway, they assumed it may be a flying saucer, which gave them a story to share at school. Johnny and his friends had many interesting conversations in the lot on these evenings as they went through puberty together.

    The lot had taken on many identities during Johnny’s tenure in the neighborhood. By the time he was sixteen it was the place to sneak beer into and drink and hang out with his buddies. They were good kids, they just went through what most kids do, which was experimenting with trouble. They would drink baby Budweiser’s and listen to music and talk about girls and what they wanted to do in life. They talked about how tough they were when they all knew they weren’t that tough at all. They bragged about the girls that they hadn’t been with convincing each other that they actually had been. It was mostly a good time with innocent fun. There were the negative aspects of the lot as well. When kids at school had differences, the lot at dark was the place to go settle it. Many fist fights settled various disagreements in the lot. Johnny knew this first hand having had his nose busted several times.
    It didn’t take him long to learn that he was not quite as tough as his mouth made him sound. He even fought his best friend in that lot over a girl that ended up liking someone different than either of them. His friend busted his nose and knocked one of his teeth loose with a solid left hook knocking him hard to the ground. Within a couple of days however they were best friends again. There was a steadfast rule that Johnny and his best friend adopted in regards to fighting at the lot. The rule stated that after a fight, the two parties involved had to shake hands and agree that the beef was over before stepping out of the lot. Even though fighting is not necessarily a positive behavior, it seemed necessary when growing up, and Johnny learned how to defend himself and be a man in that lot.

    On Johnny’s seventeenth birthday he took a girl to the lot to have sex for the first time. He thought he was a real man. It was with his girlfriend of three months. He had no clue what he was doing and neither did she. He was so nervous when he took off his clothes that he couldn’t stop shivering and she was so nervous she couldn’t stop talking. They thought they were so grown up, but they were young kids moving much too fast. It was a horrible experience for them both. It was in the front seat of his truck on a warm summer evening with a girl named Wendy. His parents had never taught him anything about sex. He had never even recalled hearing them say the word. He learned everything he knew, which wasn’t much, from his friends at school, of course in all actuality he knew far from enough. At least he was smart enough to go to the Road Runner and buy a condom from the restroom vending machine and had enough responsibility to actually use it. Of course being a boy, the first thing Johnny did that Monday at school was to brag about how good she was and how good she said he was. He learned a hard lesson during this point in his life. He learned never to brag; because once it gets around school, the girl is looked down upon while the boy is a hero. For a few weeks he was the hero, which he despised. It made him feel so bad because his hero status meant slut status for Wendy. She was a good friend until they had sex, now she hated him and he was too embarrassed to face her so they stopped talking to each other. Eventually his friends followed suit and took girls to the lot and of course they bragged about it even though Johnny urged them not to.
    By his senior year the lot became so popular and would get so crowded that the neighbors would call the police because of the noise and loud music and as a result the cops would run them off. The hangout moved to a place out in the country off of farm road 10 where nobody could be disturbed. Johnny however, found solace in the lot after the hangout moved to another spot. He would go there in the afternoons and look at the clouds and imagine he could mold them into anything he wanted. The shapes were more complicated now that he was older. He now saw shapes of himself and figures such as Beethoven. He saw flowing rivers and erupting volcanoes instead of dogs, houses and his parents as he did when he was ten. One afternoon it dawned on him how he was now almost a senior. He had never really taken a moment to think about the time that had passed since finding the lot as a boy. He would find himself often drifting off into a mid-afternoon nap until one of his friends would pull up to take him somewhere. Nevertheless, he still found peace in being alone in the lot just as he did when he discovered it as a ten year old boy. Johnny is now grown with his own family and hasn’t been to the old neighborhood in twenty five years or more, but the memories of the lot are ones that he cherishes.

The Ouija Board

    Bugsy and Popeye entered a house where they would stay until the police stopped looking for them. Bugsy held a bag full of cash. Popeye had a gun in his hand. They both had nylon stockings over their heads; they removed them. Then they plopped down on a sofa.
    “This is the perfect hideout for us,” Bugsy said. “The cops will never look for us in here, and when the roadblock is lifted, we can skip town with the dough we stole.”
    “Right you are, Bugsy,” Popeye said. “They’ll never think of looking in here for us.”
    Back at the bank, Bugsy had shot a security guard who worked there, and they had fled in a stolen getaway car. They now were rich enough to live the good life.
    “This place is kind of creepy,” Popeye said.
    Bugsy snorted. “You mean a tough fellow like you is spooked by some place like this? You got to be kidding me.”
    “Well, what I mean is, it’s dark, you know, and there’s no telling what might jump out at us.”
    “Don’t worry. If any rats try to attack us, I can shoot them dead.”
    “I’m sure glad we brought this gun along. I can use it against anyone who gets in our way.”
    “Yes, it’ll come in handy if someone finds us here.”
    “It’s terrible that you had to shoot that security guard.”
    “It was necessary, though.”
    “That’s right; you had to do it. We would have been caught if you hadn’t.”
    “I didn’t want to do it,” Bugsy said. “I had no choice.”
    “It was better than us doing time for robbery.”
    “I wouldn’t have liked that,” Popeye said.
    “Instead of going to jail, we have our freedom. That’s fortunate for us.”
    “We can do whatever we want.”
    “What do you say we count the money and split it up between us?”
    “That’s a good idea,” Popeye said. He dropped the satchel on a table and tore it open. “Look at that. It’s wonderful.”
    “Spill it out on the table.”
    Popeye picked up the satchel and shook the money out. Bugsy counted it slowly.
    “Wow, there’s nearly 20 grand here,” he said.
    “That’s swell. We can divide it to ten grand between us.”
    “Just imagine the things we can buy with this cash,” Bugsy said. “We can purchase cars, diamond rings, swimming pools, you name it.”
    Popeye laughed. “I can get all the dames I want with this much loot.”
    “Once we invest it, we’ll never have to work again.”
    “Yeah, we’ll have it made.”
    “Put the loot inside this desk drawer for safekeeping,” Bugsy said.
    Popeye nodded. “Sure thing.” He opened the drawer and did a double take. “Hey, look what I found here.”
    “What is it?”
    Popeye took a board and a scaffold out the drawer. “It’s a Ouija board and the scaffold that goes with it.”
    “I’ve never heard of those things before,” Bugsy said. “What are they for?”
    “The Ouija board is supposed to have magical powers. It can foretell the future, for example. When two people place their fingertips on this scaffold, it moves around to certain numbers and letters on the board that spell the answer to a question. For instance, you might ask Ouija, ‘Will I ever get rich?’ The scaffold would move to the letters Y, E, and S to spell the answer ‘Yes.’ Are you getting me?”
    “Yeah, I get you, but I don’t believe it. I think it’s a load of bull.”
    “You’re probably right. We shouldn’t fool with it. I’ll just put it away.”
    “Okay.”
    Popeye put the board and the scaffold back in the drawer.
    “We need some grub,” Bugsy said. “Is there a grocery store around here?”
    “Yeah, there’s one right down the road,” Popeye said.
    “Good. Drive over there and buy some food for us.”
    “All right. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
    Popeye left to go to the store. While he was gone, Bugsy thought about the Ouija board. It was impossible that it would ever work.
    Or was it?
    Bugsy had never believed in the supernatural before. It seemed like nonsense. It could never be real.
    But he wondered about the board. Could it really say what was to be?
    Bugsy took the board and the scaffold out the drawer. What did the future hold for him? Happiness? Sadness? Or death, perhaps?
    When Popeye got back with the groceries, he said, “I see you’ve taken the Ouija board out again. You’re fascinated by it, aren’t you?”
    “I just have to find out when I’m going to die. I have a heart condition, so it’s possible it might be soon. Let’s ask the Ouija board.”
    “Very well. We’ll do that.”
    They placed the board on the table and put the scaffold in the middle of the board. Then they put their fingertips on the scaffold. Bugsy asked, “Oh, great Ouija, when I will I die?”
    A few seconds passed. Then the scaffold moved to the letters T, O, D, A, and Y, spelling “today.”
    “Oh my God!” Bugsy exclaimed. “I’m going to die today!”
    Then he thought for a while and said, “Wait a minute. You knew that I had a heart condition. You realized I would probably have a fatal heart attack if I learned I would die today. So you pushed that scaffold with your fingertips so that it would spell the word ‘today.’ With me dead, you wouldn’t have to split the money with me. Isn’t that how it is?”
    “No, it’s not like that at all, Bugsy! I swear it isn’t!”
    “You’re lying,” Bugsy said, pulling out his gun. “You wanted to kill me. Well, now I’ll kill you.”
    He aimed the gun at Popeye, who leaped upon him and struggled for control of the weapon. Popeye grabbed the gun out of Bugsy’s hand.
    “So you’ll kill me, huh?” Popeye said. “We’ll see who kills who.”
    Popeye then shot his partner in the head. Bugsy died on the very day that the Ouija board had predicted.

Desperation Wind

    “Get up you bastard,” said a deep and gruff voice.
    The man on the ground didn’t move. He was kicked in the side by a heavy and pointy boot, giving out an uhff sound. He was awake now but still in a daze. The ground was rough and cold on his face and on the palms of his hands. He curled his hands into fists, drawing in the dirt, gravel, and sand as he did so, bringing his surroundings back to mind. It was cold in the early AM and he didn’t want to wake. He preferred to stay covered by his warm wool blanket.
    The sun was rising over the mountains, letting in the light for the new day. The man on the ground sat up and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders; he seemed to have rolled away from the campfire in the night. The fire now was being fed by Cotton, for that was the name of the capturer. Cotton was feeding the fire and fixing breakfast; his back was turned to the captured man and he wasn’t sure if he was awake, and if he wasn’t he was going to kick him in the face hard enough to break his jaw. Of course he would love to break that kid’s jaw; all he did was talk and try to piss one off.
    The kid on the ground whistled and said, “That sure smells good.” Holding out the good like: gooood.
    Cotton turned around and looked at the kid who was sitting on the ground with the blanket up to his shoulders and a smile on his face. Yep the young bastard was going to start to burn Cotton’s nerves as quick as ever.
    “I’m glad you think so,” said Cotton. “I’m looking forward to getting into this, but I think you’ll be satisfied for a slice of bread. You see, I don’t have meat as of now for the both of us. Now until we get into the Rockies, and out of this barren desert, you’ll be getting pretty light; light enough that you won’t be able to walk. I expect to see you lose about twenty pounds before we’re in Colorado. And when we reach a place with nice game, I might let you get a bit of deer – should we be so lucky.”
    The kid still sat there with his burning grin. “My, my,” he said at last.
    After the two breakfasted, if you could call what the young man had to eat as breakfast, cotton packed up camp, then they sat out on their horses for Colorado.
    They were in a fairly wooded area now and the captured kid bounced around on his horse, dozing in and out of sleep. His hands were bound and around his horses neck. Cotton rode a few yards in front of the kid and was busy packing his pipe.
    “You mind to stop for a bit and let me take a piss?” asked the young man.
    Striking a match and lighting his pipe, John said through clenched teeth: “No. I do believe that you can piss your pants. That won’t bother me a bit, nor the horse, and that’s who I’m more worried about.” He blew smoke from his mouth and turned to look at the kid to get his expression.
    “Look, I know I upset you, but why are you dragging me all across this Godforsaken country to Colorado?”
    “I’m not sure if I’m heading just to Colorado. Yeah, I reckon we’ll head through it all right. As for what I’m doing to you, well, I’m not sure, I figure I’m just trying to cool off my temper that you had heat up. You know you shouldn’t bet in a poker game, go all in, if you haven’t the money to pay. Then you try to steal from me, put a knife up to my throat while I’m sleeping, and try to take back what I won from you.”
    “Couldn’t have just turned me into the law?”
    “Don’t trust the law when I can’t stick around to see how they straighten out the criminal. I’m laying my justice on you since you thought you could steal from me.”
    With that, no more was said, and the two rode without speaking for some time.
    It was getting late again and the sun was beginning to set behind the mountains in the west. They weren’t in the woods anymore but in a flat land and grassy land that had about three inches on the ground.
    “Kansas?” asked the kid.
    “Most likely,” replied Cotton who didn’t bother to look at him, and was content to let the kid keep on suffering on his horse.
    Cotton dismounted and began to unpack his things for camp. He managed to get a small fire going and began to brew coffee and fry a piece beef. Meanwhile the kid sat upon his horse looking at Cotton with painful and sad eyes.
    “I know you want to deliver some justice unto me, but this is a little much,” said the young man. “Can’t you just – I don’t know, do something besides this torment? I’ve learned my lesson; I’m sure of that.”
    “No, I don’t think you quite have,” replied Cotton. “I was wanting to play a gentleman’s game of poker for fun, and yes, to win a bit of money, but you sought to win a whole lot and were ruining the game, and then you were beaten. Even then you couldn’t stand that and tried to steal from me and possibly kill me. I was placing low and honest bets, you were gambling high, and in both ends you have lost.”
    The young man looked on, not quite sure how to respond. It was true that Cotton did catch him with a knife against Cotton’s throat, and the young man was asking him where the money was. The only response from Cotton that night was him kicking the kid off of him, getting out of bed and immediately charging the young man, pinning him against the wall, and then disarming him. The small brawl ended when Cotton ran the kid’s head into the wall, knocking him unconscious. He was mad enough to kill the damned, dumb kid, but decided instead to tie him up on his pack horse and take him with him until he cooled off.
    That night they both slept. Cotton on the ground, covered in blankets next to the fire and the kid atop his horse, exposed to the frigid cold.
    The kid slipped off of the horse and slammed his elbow into the frozen ground, knocking the air out of his lungs. With a big inhale he sucked in the cold, freezing his lungs and causing his eyes to water. He could barely move he was so cold; all he could do was wiggle and produce odd hooting noises. He looked down at his hands and noticed they weren’t bound anymore. He looked at this with dumbfound amazement and then pushed himself off of the ground.
    He stumbled towards the campfire and found Cotton asleep. He could choke Cotton if he wanted to, but his strength in his arms had faded from lack of nutrition. He put the thought of murder aside and went through Cotton’s saddlebags until he found a few blankets. He slept on the opposite side of the fire from Cotton.
    The next day the young man woke up sometime in the early noon; he was surprised to awake like this and not violently. He looked at his blanket and noticed it was covered in snow and that the openness around him was mostly white.
    The fire was out, the camp packed, except for Cotton’s coffee pot that sat on top of the ashes of the burned out fire.
    “Why’d you cut me loose?” the kid asked from under his blankets. It came out as mumble.
    “Speak up,” said Cotton, not looking at him.
    The kid arched himself up on his elbows and said: “I said: why did you cut me loose?”
    “Because you asked me to.”
    The kid looked at him blankly.
    “Don’t you remember?” Cotton said, walking towards the kid. “You asked me to let you down that you wanted to sleep. You just never got off of your horse.”
    The kid still looked at him blankly.
    “I might be a mean buck, but I ain’t no monster.” Cotton picked up the coffee pot and picked up a small tin cup, then walked back to where the kid sat. “Drink this,” he said, “we’re heading out.”
    Cotton rode a few paces ahead of the kid as he always did. The kid’s hands were untied and it wouldn’t matter anyway, he couldn’t muster the strength to do much. Most of the time the kid just sat there watching Cotton, studying Cotton. Who was this man? How does everything change so drastically, yet not at all? Still a hostage, a prisoner, yet the hardship had let up. Or had it?
    “We’ll be in those mountains by nightfall,” called Cotton. “Goodbye Kansas.”
    That night they camped in a rocky, wooded terrain. Cotton lay on the ground beside the fire, and on occasion, would gather wood for it. The kid could barely stay seated on his horse and fell off of it a number of times.
    Cotton appeared to be in a negative mood, because he refused to let the kid sleep on the ground, but said he could stay wrapped up in the heavy blanket on top of the horse. When the kid slipped off the horse, Cotton would growl at him and tell him that he was starting to get mad.
    Cotton was sleeping when the kid became alert and snapped out of his sleep. He was thirsty and his face felt numb. He drifted to the side of the horse, but didn’t fall off, however, his blanket did. He looked at it as it lay upon the ground, and reached his arm out believing that he would be able to reach it. He fell off of the horse. At first he thought he must have broken something; the ground was completely frozen and he believed he heard something snap. It pained him to do it, but he forced himself to squeeze and flex his hands. Having got some of his blood flowing that way, he crawled on his belly towards the blanket, grabbed it and rolled over on his back, letting the blanket wrap around him.
    Delirious as he was, and maybe due to that, the kid saw flashes of Cotton approaching him or standing over him. Then he was gone. That’s when he realized that he had to get away as fast as he could, but it wouldn’t be able to happen; he was in no condition to leave.
    With all the strength he could muster, the kid crawled over to where Cotton lay by the dying fire. As he got closer the kid could see a buck knife sticking out of its sheath on Cotton’s ribs. The kid’s heart beat rapidly as he put both hands on the knife and removed it. The kid thrust the knife into Cotton, just below his ribs. Warm blood spilled onto the kid’s hands and a scream filled the air. Again the kid stabbed Cotton. And again and again. His hands weren’t so cold anymore and they were covered in drying blood. Cotton gurgled and coughed, then became silent.
    The kid got on the other side of Cotton, close enough that his feet were nearly in the fire. He rolled Cotton over on his belly and removed the duster that he had been wearing, and the kid put it on himself. Feeling his energy leaving him, the kid grabbed the blankets that had covered Cotton and covered himself with them and collapsed.
    The next morning he woke to frigid winds and snowfall. His whole body was numb and his feet he couldn’t feel at all. He walked over to Cotton’s horse and rummaged through his saddlebags. Delight came over his face as ran his hand across cornbread and Jerky. He ate two handfuls of cornbread and jerky, then walked over to the other saddlebag and grabbed a bag of coffee and the coffee pot; the snow would be used in brewing.
    Using flint, Cotton’s scraper, and the wood and kindling Cotton laid out before, the kid managed to get a fire going. He then set the coffee pot on top. While it brewed he ate another handful of jerky and cornbread.
    The coffee warmed him and the food on top of that made him feel more alive than he had been at birth. He drank the last bit of coffee, boiled more water to rinse it out, and placed it back from where he got it.
    Standing over Cotton the kid looked down upon the man he killed during the night, eyeing what he had on him that he would need. There were a pair of leather gloves stuck between Cotton’s belt and kid grabbed them and put them on his hands that were a flaky, dark gray color from the dried blood. The next thing he took was Cotton’s gun belt.
    He walked about the small camp trying to get his temperature up and his blood flowing. Everything seemed to have been gathered. He had folded and packed the blankets shortly before and went over Cotton’s corpse to see if there was anything else of value; all he took was the buck knife, flint, and scraper. He mounted Cotton’s horse after he tied a rope around the reins of the horse he previously rode. He tied the other end of the rope to saddle of Cotton’s horse.
    The kid wasn’t very good at the terrain and he hadn’t paid much attention to his surroundings and paths that were taken, but he managed to stay on the right track back to Kansas. At night he would set up camp, afraid that he would easily get lost if continued on at night. The feeling of his feet never returned and he feared that it must be frost bite.
    Three days after his escape he came upon what he believed to be Kansas. The kid had become sick the night before and he shivered constantly. His horse walked at a slow trot and the kid had his head hung low and was almost on top of the stranger before he heard or saw him.
    “Huhlo there,” the stranger called out.
    The kid’s head shot up and he stopped the horse. “Hello,” said the kid.
    “Awful strange to be someone such as yourself to be out here all alone. I ain’t never seen someone out here like that. Except maybe a rogue or near to death vagabond.”
    “I could say the same about the likes of you.”
    There was a pause for the moment. The two riders looking at each other and then the older rider spoke up. “Why you lookin’ me over like that? Someone oughta be keen and take offense to wandering eyes like that.”
    “Just trying to determine who you are. You can learn a lot by looking over someone. Can’t be too careful.”
    The stranger gave a light laugh. “That a fact?” he said. “What can you tell by looking at me?”
    “It’s cold out.”
    The kid hunched over and threw up. His back was hunched and he almost felt like he was choking.
    “Oh hell,” the stranger said, and he withdrew a Navy Colt revolver that had been concealed by his heavy duster and buffalo skin. He aimed at the kid and fired. The shot echoed for miles and the kid flew off the horse. The stranger dismounted and walked over to him and turned him on his back with his boot and kneeled down beside him.
    “I’m sorry to that,” said the stranger, “but I was a surgeon during the war and I miss the times where I had to save a man from a bullet wound. I seen that you were sick, in fact, I could see it when I was approaching you. The fact you spilled your meals all over you proves that you’re close to dying anyway.”
    The bullet entered just below the kid’s neck and was lodged somewhere beneath his broken color bone.
    “You’re some hundred miles or more from the nearest town,” said the stranger. “If I can save you I’ll bring you there. Think I’ll tell ‘em I saved you from a gang.” He withdrew a knife and some pliers from a medical satchel that he wore and began to dig into the kid. “If you die,” the surgeon continued, “I’ll just leave you out here. Of course it won’t be good to do that: anyone discovers you they’ll blame the injuns for the murder of a beautiful white boy. They get a lot, you know? And I can’t have any harm come to any innocent injuns.”
    The kid started grinding his teeth from the pain, then his mouth was forcibly opened and a ball of cloth was shoved into his mouth.
    “Keep you from eatin’ your tongue,” said the surgeon.
    The surgeon ripped the pliers out of the kid and there was a fragment from the ball between the clamps.
    “Part of it,” the surgeon said smiling. And he went back to removing the other pieces.
    The surgeon finished what he had done and wiped his tools off and put them back into his satchel.
    “Frost bite,” said the kid in a daze.
    “Frost bite you say?”
    “The kid slowly nodded. His eyes were closed and he was close to slipping away.
    The surgeon looked at the places that he had seen frost bite before, and when he didn’t find it, he removed the kid’s boots and socks, revealing solid black feet.
    “Shame,” the surgeon said, shaking his head.
    The kid tried to say something but couldn’t. He closed his eyes and then opened them. He was lying on his back in a snowy empty land with clear skies. The sky was light blue and the sun hurt his eyes, still, he kept them open. With them open he looked in wonder at the vast sky... and then there was nothing.

Chris Allen bio (2012)

    Chris Allen is 21 years old and started writing short stories at the age of eighteen. None of his short stories have been published yet, but has had some interesting work in printed journalism and even his own radio show where he guest starred, “friend of aliens,” Riley Martin from the Howard Stern Show.

The Ultimate Wannabe Cowboy

    Dusty Traylor, loaded down with two Peacemakers and a Spencer rifle, plus two pockets of his buffalo hide chaps filled with ammunition, ran as fast as his stubby legs could support his corpulent body at the speed he strived for to escape the wrath of the five men that chased him down the road next to the International border between El Paso and Juarez. Blood gushed from his nose and mouth from the over exertion. He reached up and wiped at the blood with the sleeve of his buckskin shirt and continued his run for the safety of Texas. He looked ahead and was overjoyed at seeing the entry to El Paso a hundred yards away. That hundred yards seemed to Dusty like a hundred miles, but he kept running. At least he thought he was running, but his legs had rebelled and he was walking and didn’t realize it. With one glance back he saw that his pursuers had closed the distance between them to fifty yards. Quickly, he turned back his head to the goal and with all the strength he could muster, walked as fast as he could.
    By this time the blood from his mouth and nose had made a gory pattern on the front of his buckskin shirt, and the crotch of his trousers gave proof that he was traveling scared. He glanced back at his pursuers and saw that they, too, were slowing down. Dusty wanted to scream in order to attract the attention of the border guards so that they might come to his rescue, but when he tried to issue a scream he found he was so out of breath that no sound came forth.
    The panicking had another thought that he hoped would help him run faster. He decided to toss the Spencer rifle away to lighten his load. He hated to part with the antique rifle that he had purchased on line from a collector for a thousand dollars. As he stumbled forth he tossed the rifle onto a pile of rocks. No sooner had the rifle hit the rock pile, than it exploded, sending a bullet toward the men pursuing the faltering Dusty. They hit the ground immediately, thinking that their prey had begun shooting at them. The Spencer firing surprised Dusty. He had forgotten that he had loaded the magazine and he couldn’t remember if he had cocked the rifle or not. When he saw the men chasing him fall to the ground he was overjoyed and that thrill gave him a second wind.
    Arriving at the custom desk where people entering the United States placed their luggage if they had any, the puffing Dusty grabbed the railing and stood there looking at the agent eyeball to eyeball.
    “Passport?” The agent said.
    Dusty fished into his hip pocket, withdrew a bent and wrinkled passport and handed it to the agent who opened it and looked at the entries. Dusty had still not recovered his breathing enough to say anything.
    “What are those weapons you have there?” The agent asked.
    “They are my Peacemakers. They are both antique weapons.”
    “You cannot bring those into the country unless you can show me the receipts you have when you purchased the guns.”
    “Hell’s fire,” Dusty said, barley getting the words out. “I don’t have any receipts. I paid cash for these at an auction in Missouri.”
    “You will have to surrender the weapons. Put them on the table.”
    Reluctantly, Dusty unholstered the two Peacemakers and placed them on the metal top of the table.
    “You can keep the holsters and you will have thirty days to retrieve the Peacemakers, or earlier if you can find the receipts,” the agent said. “You are free to go.”
    Dusty didn’t care about the Peacmakers as long as he could escape the men who had chased him all the way from the Bar where he had been enjoying some shots of Sauza Hornitos before heading back after his unsuccessful venture with a prostitute next door to the bar.
    Just as Dusty was about to leave and enter his native country, a a fat woman with large breasts that swung like pendulums across her chest, broke through the line that had formed behind Dusty and began yelling epithets in Spanish at him as she beat on his chest with her fists.
    “What’s going on here?” The surprised agent asked.
    The woman stopped beating on Dusty’s chest momentarily to blurt out in broken English. “This son of a beech no pay me. He take off and no say nothing. We go to my room. He take off pants; cannot find his pony. Then he takes off. He no unerstan he mus pay Maria no matter he find pony or not. He have too big a pansa, belly. No can see pony under pansa. He son of beech, no pay Maria. He owe me twenty dolla.”
    Dusty reached into his pocket and took out a roll of bills, peeling off a twenty that he handed to the mad Maria. Then, he took off through the gate to reach the safety of his country. He looked back and saw the pursuers standing in line waiting to cross as well. He relaxed because he didn’t see how those hoodlums would ever be granted permission to cross the border into the United States of America.
    Almost a block away from the border entry Dusty could not resist stepping into a Bar that had a sign out front that proclaimed it was “The best bar north of the border”. He had walked all the way, but didn’t see the five men that had been pursuing him pass through the gate after showing the agent their passports. Dusty sat on a barstool relaxing as much as he could after the terrible fright he had experienced leaving Juarez. He didn’t see the five men pass by on their way to the Hotel Fronteriza, the hotel where Dusty was staying while attending the Horeshit and Gunsmoke Writers of the West annual convention. However, he did remember that he had been elected president of the organization. After two shots of Sauza Hornitos, Dusty struggled off the barstool, went out to the street and walked to the hotel. He thought that as president he should see what was going on.
    The doorman opened the tinted glass door when Dusty waddled toward the entrance. Dusty put his hand to his straw WalMart “Stetson” saluting the man and passed through. To his complete surprise the five men that had been chasing him in Juarez blocked his path. He stopped waddling and stood still. He felt his entire body shivering, not from cold since the June temperature in El Paso hovered around one hundred degrees. Dusty Traylor felt the crotch of his trousers dampen once again.
    He pushed the brim of the WalMart Stetson up revealing his sweating forehead. “What is it that you fellers want from me, anyway?” He asked, as he looked swinging his head for a panoramic view.
    “We are here for several reason,” the tallest of the five said. “We are the partners in the Cathouse where you were and did not pay Maria. We are wondering why not.”
    “I didn’t pay her because I didn’t have any pleasure from her.”
    “Maria told us that you couldn’t find your pony. Did you try saying Giddup to your pony?”
    “That is true, and that is why I didn’t pay for something I didn’t get,” Dusty said, hoping his answer would satisfy the five mean looking ruffians.
    “Well mister Gringo, You don’t go to a Lady’s room without paying her no matter what happens and you can’t find your pony. Is this your first time in a cathouse?”
    “First time in a Mexican cathouse,” Dusty said.
    “Well,” the tall one said. “You need to know that we outsourced the Dreamhard Social Club from Las Cruces to Juarez to make more money from our investment, and you not paying is strictly against the rules. Therefore I would advise you to pull out that roll of bills you peeled Maria’s twenty from and hand it over as your fine that we are imposing.”
    “I don’t think you fellows are legally able to impose a fine on anyone,” Dusty Traylor said. “You need to know that I am President of The Horseshit and Gunsmoke Writers of the West and we are holding our annual convention in this hotel.”
    “Mister President, we don’t give a rat’s ass who you are, we only want that roll of bills we saw you with, so let’s get it out of your pocket, or we are going to take you back to Juarez where you will rot in jail for shooting that damned Spencer rifle at us.”
    “How are you going to force me to go to Juarez?” Dusty asked.
    “There are five of us and we are all strong. You may be a fat lard assed stupidido but we will get you there with no trouble at all.”
    Just as Dusty pulled out his roll of bills and handed it to the tallest bandido several conventioneers came out of the bar and approached their president. The shortest man with the brim of his straw hat curled up like he had seen hats on country western singers held out his hand to Dusty.
    The five Cathouse entrepreneurs left quickly as soon as they knew that they had gotten Dusty’s roll of bills.
    “Hey, President Traylor, come on in to the bar. There’s a dozen of us there waiting for you. We are all Jacobo Loganski writers,” the short man said.
    “I have just been robbed of all the money I brought with me from Missouri.”
    “Who the hell robbed you Mister President?” The short man asked, as the others stood waiting.
    It was five bastards that own The Dreamhard Social Club in Juarez.”
    Oh my god,” One of the members said. “Do you mean to say that you went there after our secretary warned everyone in the Corral News? She used to work there when it was in Las Cruces before they outsourced it to Juarez.”
    I reckon I didn’t read that,” Dusty said.
    “Jayzus, it’s our official magazine, Mister President. By the way, Mister President, was your girl’s name Maria?”
    “It sure was,” he said.
    “Well, Mister President, that Maria is our new secretary.”
    “What the hell is she doing working at that place?”
    “When I found her there I asked the same question, and she said the Horseshit and Gunsmoke Writers of the West were not paying her enough to support her lifestyle, so she kept working for those bastards as you refer to them.”
    “Is Maria planning to attend the convention? I need to talk to her,” Dusty said.
    “I don’t think that would be advisable. She was here a few minutes ago at the bar telling how you had paid her a visit and couldn’t find your pony.”

Full Moon

    Hamilton County Police Sergeant Deke Spires slouched comfortably in the back row of metal chairs, looking out over a couple of dozen seated patrol officers working the department’s second shift. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and just over a week to his long-awaited retirement.
    A month before, he had successfully requested a transfer from administrative back to patrol duties. He’d been on a desk the last five years, and contrary to some, who’d never risk going back on the streets so close to retirement, he was truly enjoying himself. He’d been assigned to work as training officer to Jayden Garrett, one of the department’s African-American recruits, fresh from the police academy. Garrett was big, at least six-five, and extremely fit. Thus far, the young man had proven to be enthusiastic, intelligent, and eager to learn.
    Spires’ gaze drifted two rows up and a few seats to his left where an auburn-haired woman sat studying a small notebook. Sergeant Grace Lister, another training officer, had transferred in from Juvenile Crimes about the time Spires made his own move. He’d spoken to her in passing and received polite replies, but she hadn’t seemed open to small talk. It was just as well, he thought. There would be plenty to do after next week, renovating the small cabin he owned on Lake Chickamauga. When it was done, he would sell his place in the city and spend his time fishing and starting on an overflowing box of books he’d promised himself to one day read.
    He was still staring at her when she turned slowly, as if she’d felt his eyes on her. He tried a quick smile and got a barely perceptible nod in return before she tuned back to her notebook. She’s too young anyway, he thought, probably no more than mid-forties. He was sixty-two, twice divorced, with grown kids. But damn, she was attractive.
    The door behind Spires opened and closed and he caught a whiff of expensive cologne.
    “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” The roll call sergeant strode purposefully to the front of the room and tossed a sheaf of papers onto the wooden podium centered in front of a remote controlled viewing screen. Sergeant Crisp was a thirty year veteran of the force, nearing retirement himself. He had a wide, florid face and a graying flattop, and had become something of a character in recent years.
    Crisp snatched up the remote and began his monologue by posting mug shots of current fugitive felons on the screen, complete with wry comments about each, and the usually serious, but sometimes hilarious nature of their crimes. He then made a series of assignments for specific patrol units, and answered a spate of questions from the attending officers.
    “Before we adjourn, let me mention one thing,” Crisp said. “There’s a full moon tonight—which means there’ll be even wackier than usual things going on out there.” He paused, his eyes full of mischief. “In the interest of livening up your evening and mine, I’m prepared to provide a large pizza of your choosing for the unit with the most outrageous end-of-shift story.” He was interrupted at that point with scattered applause and a couple of hoots. “You can call your story in from the street, or, if you’ve brought in one of the city’s many unsavory characters, you can tell me face to face. Either way, no decision will be made until all units have reported in.”
    He stepped from behind the podium, took a wide stance, and fisted his hands on his hips. “Good hunting, troops. Watch your backs.”
    The officers filed out and headed to the parking lot to check out their units and equipment. Spires collected Garrett and the two men did the same. Spires drove, liking the way the big car felt under his hands—heavy and powerful. He rolled down his window. The afternoon was warm enough, even this late in November, and Spires enjoyed the smells of the city. Earlier in his career, he remembered, it had been the tannery and the steel mills. They were still around, but pollution controls had all but obliterated their distinctive odors.
    Spires glanced briefly at Garrett. “Your academy buddy, what’s his name, he’s riding with Sergeant Lister, isn’t he?”
    “It’s Jacobs, and yeah, he’s training with her.”
    “I guess you guys talk, being from the same class and all. What does he have to say about her?”
    Garrett shrugged. “Not much. She does most of the talking—not the usual bullshit, you know—like she’s teaching a class, he says. But he doesn’t mind. She doesn’t talk down to him or anything and ... he thinks she’s pretty hot looking to be as old as she is.”
    Spires’ gaze shifted back to the young cop. “Uh-huh,” he said.

    The afternoon was uneventful—a few routine traffic stops, a half-hearted domestic dispute that fizzled quickly, and one truck reported stolen from a used car lot. Spires and Garrett got tacos and Pepsis around six o’clock, and ate at a concrete table on the restaurant patio. It was already dark and the air was becoming colder. When they were finished they disposed of their trash, got back into their patrol unit, and checked in with dispatch.
    “Anything much going on?” Spires asked.
    “Unit Twelve-B-Ten called in about a half hour ago,” the dispatcher said. “They responded to a reported shooting incident at the landfill.”
    Spires signed off and aimed his cruiser toward the county landfill. Ten minutes later, he spoke with one of the responding officers, Patrolman Blake Barnes.
    “It wasn’t as bad as it sounded,” Barnes said. “The night watchman called it in, then switched off the light in his shack and got under a desk. Turns out it was just a couple of boozed-up rednecks in an old Ford pickup, off-roading through the landfill and taking pot shots at feral cats.”
    “They give you any trouble?”
    “Nah,” Barnes said. He gestured to the patrol unit idling just inside the landfill’s chain-link gate. “By the time we responded, they’d run out of gas and shotgun shells. They’re sitting quietly now in the back of our unit rethinking the wisdom of their actions.” Barnes chuckled and asked, “Should I notify Animal Control about these dead animals, or you think we can just leave them out here?”
    Spires narrowed his eyes, scanning the area, but didn’t readily see anything. “How many are there?”
    “About a dozen, but some might be gophers. They’re almost as big as a starved cat and it’s hard to tell ’em apart after they’ve caught a load of birdshot.”

    After Spires and his partner drove away, Garrett asked, “You think Twelve-B-Ten has a shot at that pizza?”
    “I believe Barnes thinks so. But don’t give up. The night is young.”
    Around seven, Spires pulled over a blue Toyota going fifty-five in a thirty-five zone. There were no street lights nearby and Spires flipped on the overhead light. “You want to take this one?” he asked.
    Garrett nodded. “Yes, sir,” and got out of the vehicle. As Spires watched, Garrett approached the driver’s side of the Toyota, shined his flashlight inside, and asked for the driver’s license and registration. Seconds later, headlights loomed large in Spires’ rearview mirror. Then a large SUV rocketed by missing the patrol unit by scant inches. Garrett was not so lucky. The vehicle’s side mirror caught him shoulder-high and sent the young man tumbling to the asphalt.
    Spires leapt from the car and found Garrett clutching his right shoulder, writhing in pain, and voicing a steady stream of obscenities as the SUV careened off into the darkness.
    “Just take it easy, Garrett. You’re going to be all right. I’ll have an ambulance here in two minutes.” Spires helped Garrett to his feet and off to the side of the road. Then he radioed for the ambulance and called dispatch to report an officer injured. He also described the SUV, frustrated he hadn’t gotten the plate number.
    The ambulance arrived just as Spires completed his call, with a News 4 truck riding its rear bumper. He glanced at Garrett, who was now lying supine on a grassy berm. Garrett was still and quiet, and Spires hoped he hadn’t lost consciousness.
    As the paramedics approached, flanked by a local reporter and cameraman, Garrett began writhing again, slapping wildly at his neck and arms, and unleashing another stream of scathing profanities.
    “Jesus!” one of the paramedics yelled as the News 4 camera illuminated the scene. “He’s on a fire ant mound!”
    In less than ten minutes, Garrett had been stripped to his underwear and loaded into the ambulance for transport.
    “Don’t worry,” the reporter said. “We won’t use the footage. I’ll just do an on-scene talking head report.”
    Spires felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see an old man, stooped and bespectacled, clearly in his eighties, standing beside the road.
    “Who’re you?” Spires asked.
    “I own the blue Toyota,” the old man said. “It’s been quite a show. Can I go now?”

    Spires followed the ambulance to the hospital, got a report from the attending physician, and then headed back to the police station. On the way, he called the News 4 offices, and then stopped off there briefly. At the station he found Sergeant Crisp in his office, and slumped down into one of the visitor’s chairs.
    “How’s Garrett?” Crisp asked.
    “He has a dislocated shoulder and about a million fire ant bites, but he’ll be okay. He’s a good kid.” Spires placed a film cartridge on Crisp’s desk. “Culver over at News 4 got this on tape. It’s been edited for family viewing.”
    Crisp’s flat screen TV came to life showing a mostly shadowed roadside with what appeared to be a large dark lump lying on the ground. Suddenly the lump began to flop like a fish on a riverbank, and Garrett’s wails of anguish flooded Crisp’s office: “Oh, mother-bleep, oh, you god-bleep sons of-bleep, oh-bleep me! On the screen, Garret struggled to his feet, twitching like a palsied dancer. “What the bleep-bleep is happening to me?”
    Crisp and Spires chuckled softly at the rookie’s outburst, then watched silently as the paramedics stripped off Garrett’s dark blue uniform and loaded him into the waiting ambulance.
    Crisp darkened the screen. “I feel sorry for the kid. If it’d been a civilian, preferably a felon, that footage might’ve got you two a pizza.”
    “He’ll be out for at least a week,” Spires said. “I guess he and I have taken our last patrol together.”
    “It’s too bad what happened,” Crisp said, “but it could have been worse, could have been you.” Spires got up to leave and was almost to the door when Crisp added, “Oh, by the way, a woman called in a while ago, said she thinks she hit a bear over on Baily Avenue. Said, ‘you know they’re coming down from the mountain now that we’ve encroached on their environment’.”
    “We were on Baily when Garrett was sideswiped.”
    Crisp nodded and tapped a pencil on his desktop. “The timing’s about right, too. I got a unit checking out her car right now. I’ll let you know.”
    Spires continued down the hall, thinking that Garrett had looked a little bit like a bear doing that awkward dance—a bear being electrocuted.
    On the way to his office, Spires passed the booking area where a beefy young man sat solemnly on a bench, head down, with a high school letter sweater draped over one knee. Looked like an offensive lineman, Spires thought. Probably from Central High, judging from the school colors, although the sweater was so badly stained, it was hard to tell. Grace Lister stood nearby at the booking counter talking to one of the department’s civilian employees.
    It was already almost end of shift, so Spires spent an hour or so writing field reports and packing up a few personal things, getting ready for his last week on duty. When he eventually left, he was surprised to find Lister also on her way to the parking lot. In the month he’d been on patrol, he had hoped for just this opportunity, but without success. She looked even better in street clothes.
    “I thought you’d already gone,” he said as they walked together toward the rows of parked automobiles.
    She glanced at him with a thoughtful expression on her face, like she was really seeing him for the first time. “I worked out in the weight room for a while. I usually do.”
    He told her about Garrett, then asked, “The high school kid I saw in booking, was he one of yours?”
    She smiled then, the first one he’d seen from her.
    “That was my ticket to a large pepperoni pizza, mine and Jacobs. But I let Jacobs take it home to his wife. I’m watching my calorie intake.”
    “Why?” Spires asked.
    Lister didn’t answer, but the remark won Spires another smile. Instead she said, “Northgate Mall had a Thanksgiving promotion going on, getting ready for Black Friday. They called it the Northgate Thanksgiving Turkey Trot. The idea was that the Central High football team would start at one end of the mall and race to the far end, each team member carrying a live turkey.”
    Lister stopped at a late model Chevy truck and threw her gym bag onto the front seat. “The kid’s name is Elroy Franks; he’s a second-string offensive tackle. Anyway, his turkey got over-excited during the run and shit all over Elroy’s brand new letter sweater. In retaliation, Elroy stomped the turkey to death in front of a couple of hundred onlookers, a bunch of them kids. We brought him in mostly for his own protection. There were a few ASPCA hard cases in the crowd.”
    Spires laughed and shook his head. “I’d buy you a pizza myself just for telling me the story—or a salad, if you’d rather.” The words were out before he realized it. He steeled himself for rejection.
    Lister looked at him for a long moment. “I hear you’re retiring at the end of the month.”
    “Yeah, got a cabin on the lake, thought I’d do some fishing.”
    “I do a little fishing, myself,” she said, opening a lock box behind the truck cab to reveal an array of spinning rods and reels, tackle boxes, and other assorted gear.
    He leaned in to look at the equipment, his shoulder just touching hers. A fine mist had crept in during the night, silvering the pale disc overhead and coating the truck’s windows with moisture.
    “Maybe,” she said, “you could invite me up sometime. I do make a pretty mean salad.”
    He nodded, thinking it was indeed a night for strange occurrences. His grateful grin matched her now mischievous one. “Yeah,” he said, maybe.”

Clouds

    “I was in the neighborhood,” Rachel said to herself, again, rehearsing. The building’s elevator was broken, and the stairs were long enough that she was beginning to sound believable.
    Her sister’s apartment was in a rundown part of the city, where you drove with the windows up and no one was proud of their address. It had been a while, and the visit felt right — or, rather, it felt wrong not to. Still, Rachel insisted she wasn’t guilty, really she wasn’t, even as she climbed to Samantha’s shoebox apartment, inventing excuses for her visit. She carried a shameless box of chocolates, in the crook of one arm like a Bible. Sam liked chocolate, or had at one time.
    Outside the door, Rachel took a deep breath and squared her shoulders: it was just Sam, her little sister, the giggly brunette who had once shared her wardrobe. She knocked diffidently, and it went unanswered — odd, considering Sam didn’t leave her place anymore.
    Rachel had time to be alarmed, then a late “Come in” struggled through the door.
    Rachel opened it to Sam herself, small in the sill of her apartment’s foggy window. It was open halfway, as far as it went, a draft teasing Sam’s oily hair. Rachel had never seen her there before, nor had she seen the window open. Sam stared into space.
    “Sam?” Rachel said, and took mincing steps inside, as if her sister were sleeping. Rachel at once felt like an intruder, as she always did in Sam’s presence. Since getting sick, the girl did that to you.
    “Hey, Rache,” Sam sighed, feeble as ever, perhaps a little more. She looked to be having one of her “days,” all slumps and wiry limbs, resembling an insect splattered over a windshield. She projected a serenity, but one somehow grotesque, like Alzheimer’s patients Rachel had seen.
    Rachel snuck into the combination living room/foyer, pulling the door to. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by,” she lied. She’d been across town, lunching and laughing with her friends, when she’d remembered Sam, sick and alone in her stuffy welfare apartment, whiling away her days like an old widow. It was a guilt-visit, no way around it — thought it wasn’t just guilt, not this time. Rachel had been ... compelled, that was the word, pushed, by an invisible hand. The guilt could be rationalized away, but that push was ruthless.
    Sam regarded Rachel, finally tearing herself from the city. It stopped Rachel in her tracks: Sam looked horrid. Her face long and vacant, shoe-polish smudges smothering her eyes, her hair in a mussed pageboy. She was lost in her jeans and tee-shirt, and pale wasn’t the word. There was a misplaced age to her, Rachel thought, like a new tool left out in the rain.
    “Come, sit,” Sam said, her voice cracking. She indicated the sill with a cadaverous little hand. Rachel sauntered over and filed beside her sister. Though the sill was very small, there was plenty of room.
    “I brought chocolates,” Rachel chimed, forcing a smile. She offered the shopping bag a tad too eagerly.
    Sam took it, her arm buckling as though handed a dumbbell. “Thanks,” she said, making no move to open it.
    An awkward silence threatened, so Rachel said, “How ya’ feeling?” It always came to this. They’d never been too close, on account of their age gap, but there had at least been the old staples: bad dates, male inadequacy, their parents. But not now, when Sam’s love life was about as active as a nun’s, and Mom and Dad kept their distance like Rachel (no one would say shunned). After Sam had taken ill five years ago, when she was twenty and Rachel was twenty-nine, the two had drifted, as the sick and the healthy do. You could drive a boat between them.
    Sam said she was fine, meaning I feel horrible but don’t want to burden you. This was a game of hers, playing coy about her condition. Rachel could hate her for it if she let herself.
     Rachel almost nodded and let it go, playing along, but instead said, “You don’t look fine.” It surprised her as much as Sam. Their conversations typically involved rhetorical questions and monosyllabic responses, as dutiful as the visits themselves.
    Sam’s face registered this, knotting a little. Rachel was supposed to say “Good” and change the subject, not acknowledge the elephant sitting betwixt them. “You know how it is,” Sam said guardedly, her eyes returning out the window.
    Rachel started to say more, but this time did let it go, if only to avoid those eyes. There was an agony written there, a secret apocalypse, something outside Rachel’s experience. No, she didn’t know how it is.
    “I’m sorry ...” Rachel said, sincerely. She felt suddenly criminal; her health was peachy-keen, excepting PMS, and cystitis after sex. Sam’s eyes were indicting, so much pointed fingers.
    “No, I’m sorry,” Sam said. Then, after a pause that felt too long: “I’m not unaware, you know. I know how I make people feel. And ...” Another lazy pause. “And I’m sorry.”
    An exasperation opened in Rachel, and she sighed into a slouch. This was another of Sam’s games, the “it’s not you, it’s me” game, and it helped none that it was true. However, Rachel caught herself before she could say something regrettable: it wasn’t Sam’s fault, after all. She was only being considerate, a leper with a bell. Rachel supposed it was better than before the sickness, when Sam hadn’t given a shit. It had changed her, broken her of liquor and drugs and men, and Rachel supposed that was what she hated in Sam, her chastened air, something Rachel couldn’t find within herself.
    Sam took to the chocolates then, discarding the bag and fussing with the plastic wrapper. She was having a time of it, Rachel noticed, Sam’s fingers sliding drunkenly. Another effect of the illness, presumably, though this one was new.
    “Why’d you come today?” Sam asked without looking up.
    Rachel began to get defensive — what guilt? — but Sam’s voice held genuine curiosity. It reminded her of Sam’s ninth birthday, when Rachel had by chance picked out the precise Barbie Sam had been wanting. “How’d you know?” Sam had asked then, in that same guileless tone. Rachel, who’d felt a push when selecting the toy — the same that had seen her to Sam’s, today — had proclaimed herself psychic, and they’d joked about it over the years. Sister’s intuition.
    “Oh, just seemed right,” Rachel answered. She saw herself driving across town, that hidden hand bullying her along, threatening fire and brimstone in the face of denial. Yep, just felt right. The miracle of guilt.
    Sam gave her a look — there was some suspicion now, though it didn’t seem aimed at Rachel — and returned to the wrapper. With some effort, Sam unclothed the box and lifted the lid, sending up the chocolates’ burnished odor. She picked one out, again with that droll sloppiness, then passed the box and took a dainty bite. Even her jaw seemed funny, like it needed oil.
    Rachel selected one, a truffle, and swore she wouldn’t take another (she had to watch her waistline, unlike the skeletal Sam). The two sat chewing, and Sam surprised her by speaking: “It clears sometimes, you know.”
    Rachel nibbled. “What does?”
    “The sick,” Sam said pensively, again withdrawn beyond the window. “Sometimes, out of nowhere, it’ll just ...” Another of her new pauses. “... just clear away, like clouds blowing from the sun, and I’ll be normal again. Me again.”
    Sam turned to Rachel wearing a sunny expression unseen in years, almost a smile. Then a shadow fell over her, striking her another person entirely. “But it always comes back. Clouds always do. Always ...” She trailed off, again lost in the city’s panorama.
    Rachel stopped chewing: Sam was rambling. Why was she rambling? Rachel had thought to say something — what, she didn’t know — when Sam’s half-eaten chocolate tumbled from her hand and puttied over the floor. Sam seemed not to notice. Rachel picked it up and held it out, but Sam only stared, the ambience bouncing off her pale face.
    Rachel straightened, Sam’s chocolate flagging in her hand. “Sam,” she said sternly, not liking her sister’s demeanor. This was off, even for her. “Sam, you okay?”
    Sam turned slowly, vacantly from the window, and said “Yes” in a way Rachel liked even less. She gazed at Rachel long after speaking, her eyes glassy and faraway.
    Rachel had once had a bad flu, in college, and there had been a loud party the next apartment over, people a million miles from her condition. This was like that, she and Sam right now, except Rachel was the party.
    Rachel forced herself calm, setting down Sam’s abandoned chocolate. “You’re scaring me, Sammy,” she stuttered, and closed up the box, fitting it on wrong and not caring.
    Sam said nothing, once more absorbed in the view.
    Rachel heard herself say, “Would you like a glass of water?” Sam looked like she needed a lot more than water, but it was all Rachel could think of.
    Sam blinked and nodded, dreamily. Her breath was silent, coming in shallow puffs that didn’t raise her chest.
    Rachel made for the kitchen faster than was polite. She tossed the chocolates on a table and went for the cupboards, on the verge of tears. Sam had never been this bad, not even when she first got infected and there was talk of ending it. The pain just radiated from her, like heat from a furnace. Rachel wanted to scream.
    Then, as she filled a glass at the tap, she almost did: pill bottles littered the counter, nearly a dozen, like felled bowling pins. All empty.
    It brought a morbid shock. Then Rachel was back at the windowsill, kicking herself in the ass for not putting it together sooner. Sam followed her with those consumed eyes, too much like a corpse. Her mouth moved but nothing came of it.
    Rachel froze before her overdosing sister, perhaps seeing her for the first time. Then she was skating across the apartment, saying “Oh shit oh shit oh shit” and blurring for the phone, her curves jumping salaciously. However, Sam managed to catch her arm, devilishly fast, and Rachel stilled. Though feeble as crepe paper, the hand arrested her like a vise.
    “No,” Sam wheezed, her eyes pleading. “Don’t, Rache. So tired, the clouds. Don’t. Please ...” She mouthed more — clouds clouds clouds — then went limp, her eyes distancing. The hand fell like sloughing skin.
    There was such bald exhaustion in the voice, such an appeal for mercy, Rachel almost complied. But then she was dialing an ambulance, though she knew it was too late, in the same way she knew her sis’s favorite Barbie, or that she should come here today, or that she had a lot to be grateful for. She stayed with Sam after hanging up, holding a hand which didn’t hold back. Sam wore that broken happiness Rachel had glimpsed earlier, even as her breath stopped, her fingers uncurling.
    The clouds leaving her sun.
    The expression remained, still, when the ambulance took her away, its lights off.

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!

    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 2012 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.