I Ran Outside to Hear

The remaining acre uncut.
Grass twisted and turned
in the sky beyond stars,

and I wanted night to fall
to the ground like a person’s
history does each moment

one remains unsure of
himself. The more he hikes
cross-country the more

skillful he becomes rightfully
so before the summer holds
the wind until it stills.

Fanatics

Flames lick at the stake
bloody king’s head rolls into the basket
Hapless Hebrews in Babylon’s boxcars
kulaks in the snows of Siberia

Flames climb up the cross
fire hoses pointed away from the fire
Children felled like flowers in a windstorm
dogs lick their blood as if with Jezebel

Flames consume the street
holocaust of homes and neighborhood stores
Cursing the enemy, looting the friend
spited faces, suicidal potlatch

Flames in the towers
charred bodies hurled from the ninety-ninth floor
Laughing hooligans in savage mufti
celebrate death of innocent victims

Flames of pundit’s torch
incinerating truth and decency
Burn the heretics before they can speak
the way is narrow, ours is the kingdom

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.

Wiggle In The Grass

I rested my sweating feet in the cool grass
I felt the movement of blades of grass between my toes

My rest ceased when the little black viper wrapped around my foot
I put fear to rest

I shook it, but it clung
I spread my toes and then it let go

It didn’t move, but it arched up and seemed to look me in the eye
I fanned my foot in its face and it wiggled away; fast

I was so embarrassed.

Firearm Philosophy

shotguns don’t get high.
shotguns
don’t talk outside bars till sunrise,
stumble away,
still unsure of life paths.

shotguns
don’t quiet their minds with pills
desperate
for five
            solid
hours of sleep.

shotguns live for the kill
                            the smell of sulfur.

shotguns
don’t ask
don’t fight for peace.
they assume there is none,
and dare you
                      to prove them right.

Who’s the dummy?

Read me that passage once again
You know
The one about the guy
Who’s got his finger
Stuck where it shouldn’t be
Spinning it all the way to the top
And shocking anyone within his view

Samuel was his name
And his friends called him
‘The Dummy’
You could see him often
Biting the wing of his chicken
And shaking his head
Zolten would ask
“You call this a pastime Sammy...
You call this a pastime?”
The dummy would say
“It’s fine...it’s fine...yes...yes...
It’s what I do”
And no one seemed to mind
Save for the chicken

He was a descendant of the Eastern block
A “Shipol” they’d say
His fingers pruned
Eyes red
And full of hope
“Toss me one of those sour balls...
And let someone else call the show!!”
Today’s line up:
Brass balls
And surfboards of death
They always seem to keep the captain entertained

A big belch
From a little man
Has Sammy grinning
Ear to ear
Un-kept teeth
And blackened nails
Do not cross his mind
For he’s all about
Pulling compliments from the day

Hey wait
He’s stomping now
And angry
Hey wait...it’s passed!
Look at that
He’s already moving on
See you later Zolten
See you later indeed!

Truth Is

Truth is like a pool of water
you can look into it and see a reflection
like a mirror
toss a pebble into it and ripples form
now there is no reflection
I can say that a book is a small object
easily transported in one hand
if I stood that book upright
and it blocked the way for an ant
the ant would call it a monolith
that has to be climbed up and over
Truth is liquid
Truth is predicated on perception
to claim something is cold
assumes similar sensory function
to claim something is difficult
assumes a similar aptitude
Truth awaits clarification
Truth awaits a dance partner to lead it
Truth can not dance alone
it requires a rhythm, and a beat
Truth bends easily in the wind
yet.....we rely on it’s supreme honesty
when Truth cannot be honest or trusted
Truth is a row boat adrift on a lake
Truth goes whereever the drift takes it
today Truth is dressed in white and it’s pure
tomorrow Truth is cold and shallow
and covered in shadows and suspicion
Truth can lie and Truth can be fact
a Judge called Truth to testify
a Priest called Truth to lie

to disrupt that pool of water with a pebble
and watch the ripples form and change
then eventually calms back
to smooth flat reflection
Truth is our slave
we beckon Truth to do our bidding
we loudly claim Truth is telling fact
yet facts are not always what they seem
now we come back to perception
and perspective
and see a vague shadow that will not allow light to reflect
the true perfect thin edge so desperately required
to tell the Truth

Modern Olympian Ode #2 (2012):
The Apparently Once-and-Future Obscenity

It has been several decades
since the term women’s gymnastics
wasn’t a misnomer,
and that fact hasn’t changed during
the celebration of the current champion,
a celebration of fake diversity,
a celebration of deliberate growth-stunting
so as to conform to the perverted ideal,
a celebration that makes all who watch
enablers of child abuse

Untitled (hands)

You come here to bathe -the dirt
warm though the ocean underneath
is breaking apart on the rocks

-you almost drown, crushed
by the immense light
covered over grave after grave

and all these stones adrift
beneath your hands and one day more
lower and lower, washed

with the drop by drop
oozing out your shadow
the way roots still flow past

for flowers and your hands
filling with hillsides
with waves that once had hair.

Open Campus

I sat in English class, lollygagging
after the bell since I only had a short walk between rooms.

Pop! screams, then the sound of 40 or 50 people
rushing outside. I calmly exited the rear door.

The boy’s name was Buddy Guitron.
He was not my friend.

Someone else knew where Buddy would be.
He shot a bullet into Buddy’s guts.

The shooter ran.
My cross-country coach ran.

Buddy’s hands were twitching from his side
to his abdomen, his pupils rolling.

I wanted to watch. I stood for a few seconds, walked near,
looked into his rapidly moving eyes.

I wanted to stay and kneel. That required conversations;
instead, I walked on to fifth period, class canceled.

God is the concept
By which I measure
Who approves of Me

You’re wasting time, you know
Posting kid-maze blathers of beliefs
Designed-in-progress to offend no one
Exhausting Self
Posting Love Love Love
In every (misspelled) language you ever
Heard or saw
To let everyone know you mean no harm
But you Do mean harm
Others always ferret that out
Napoleonic poodle on the hunt,
Others, pig, can forever find the truffle of
What they don’t agree with or
Like
You have opinions and
I might add
You have opinions about EVERYTHING
Doesn’t matter, if you’re Christ
on The Cross,
Other flesh-beings exist for two purposes,
And the other is to tell everyone else
They’re full of shit

Energy
(An Alternate Source of Logic)

Let’s drop this notion that
“We’re running out of energy”
Here,
bend your elbow
tap your foot
Okay, wait five seconds        do it again
Now,
You can do that all day unless you’re
Sick or sleeping,
Right?
Okay, yeah, if you eat and drink and shit, right
Right!
So, mortality notwithstanding,
You can’t possibly Run Out Of Energy,
Can You?
Uhuh, well, OKAY!!
Then Say “irreplaceable energy resources”
Which, that’s bullshit, too
We could make engines that run on gravy or sapphires
Built out of cheese and an old shoe
If we wanted to...
Uhuh, yeah, piss, piss,
Sure, it’s impossible, sure
Look,
A thousand years ago, they could’ve built rockets
They just    Didn’t        Know    How!
You really like limiting potential, don’t you?
You really hate mankind, don’t you?
Huh? Oh, no, I’m all for hating mankind
But you should do it for the right reasons

Black Mask Hanging High
Righteous Man
Gushing Guilt

The ghostly man, a black mask of despair,
alone,
invisible
in an alien world,

sits in a claustrophobic room choking on
anguish,
&
emptiness,

breathless,
in a private tomb.

 
The skeletal man wears a pockmarked, gaunt face.
A scarred specter, he looks in the broken mirror
his crippled hand clutches.

He sees nothing.
He is nothing.

A ghost of a ghost, he sits hunched over in a wooden
chair and stares into sterile space.

 
Inside the shattered mirror he holds,
a black flower of non-existence

rises
from the Garden of Dead Roses

& beckons.
In a few seconds, he will cancel tomorrow’s appointment.
He will not say goodbye to the righteous man who belongs

to another universe. But he will anoint his holy spirit
with gushing guilt, leaving phantom traces of

Hell
forever in

the psyche of a young therapist.

 
And so he stands up, looks up at the ceiling, and prepares his
creation, an instrument of Judgment.

Now, he mounts the rocking chair, rises, slips his head into
the dangling noose, kicks the wood away and lets it rock, as

he sails and swings through the air, a black mask hanging high,
the life force squeezed from his flesh and spirit,

 
crippled hand opening up,
broken glass dropping

slowly
into
a

desolate abyss,

 
celestial juice dripping into eternity
with a final gasp of air,

righteous man gushing guilt
tomorrow.

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.

Freshman High Football

Once again, a fat kid, slow, exhausted, near collapse
was behind the other players, dead last after a run
around the field. The coach, a biology teacher,

ordered the second biggest kid on the team
(who I knew was on steroids and methamphetamines)
to tackle the fat kid – shouted: “Julio, hit him.”

Without delay, the crunch of shoulder pads, the grunt,
thud, and the 14 year old fat kid was down.

“Get up, Patterson! Get up now, and get in line!
We’ll have no losers on this team!” yelled the coach.

But the fat kid did not get up, and I was worried
that obese Patterson was dead, or dying,
and I thought that an ambulance should be called,
but I just stood there, afraid of what would
happen to me if I spoke out.
                                                But the winded gimp
got up only minutes later, angry at him-
self, cursing, chastising himself for not being a good
enough team player, trying not to cry –

but he showed up for practice the next day.

Two months earlier, the first day of the semester,
my counselor said, “You’re a big guy; I’ll bet
you are good enough to do well on the football team.
I’ll give you the easiest classes in English
and math, so you’ll be sure to pass,
so you can play football. How does that sound?”

The Free Market (La Serrata*)

Who ever coined that phrase,
“the free market?”
Frankly, it’s anything but “free.”
By the time you’ve bought legislators,
hired lobbyists, sponsored partisan foundations,
funded Astroturf movements, supper-PACs,...
you’ve dropped a bundle!
Yet, given your return on investment
like fraudulent financial regulation,
sweetheart deals, tax loopholes,
gutting safety/environmental standards,...
it’s a steal!

*Why La Serrata? Google “La Serrata and Venice” and see!

Anderson

I started having pets
only when I went away to college,
the option didn’t seem there for me
until I was on my own.

I’d go to the pet superstore
and buy some feeder goldfish,
twenty-five cents each
for a little bowl in my dorm.

There was no air filter,
and since I didn’t know any better,
the twenty-five cent goldfish
would die, so I started to name them

after ex-boyfriends,
so when they died
I wouldn’t feel bad when I
flushed them down the toilet.

But then I decided
on a new-and-improved pet,
one I could name as my own,
one that could crawl all over me.

So I got this little salamander.
I named my newt Anderson
(named after a performance artist,
trust me, not a politician).

So Anderson sat in a goldfish bowl,
crawling around to the shrimp pellets
I dropped in for food, and I’d bring
Anderson out to crawl up my arm.

And I felt like I accomplished something
with my first pet Anderson.
I had him for a year until
I went home for one summer

That summer I traveled around
the country, so I told my sister
that all she had to do
was drop food pellets in

once every few days
so Anderson would have food.
So after my trip to Arizona,
where it was so hot I could literally

smell my flesh burn, my sister
told me Anderson was missing.
She didn’t take Anderson from the bowl,
Anderson couldn’t crawl out,

but Anderson escaped.
I wondered if she did this because
she didn’t want to care for a newt,
but really, this wasn’t hard work...

And two months later,
a cleaning lady cleaned the basement,
held up an Anderson carcass
and asked if this was someone

we were looking for. That’s when
I realized, I got out of this place,
and my little Anderson
was trying to do the same.

Etiquette for Tattooing
Thigh “Bracelets”

I saw a woman today
who had an intricate pattern
tattooed like a ring, all
the way around her thigh.
And it made me wonder:
when she had this done
at the tattoo parlour,
did she lay on her back
while they rested her calf
in some sort of brace
so they could tattoo all
the way around her thigh,
or did she have to stand
with her feet five feet apart
for the entire time, while
they tattooed her thigh?
And come to think of it,
what do you call a thigh
“bracelet”? Because your
wrist gets bracelets, and
they call ankle rings
like that “anklets”, so
can you call a thigh tattoo
like that a thighlet?
And speaking of, why
is that circle around your
wrist called a bracelet
in the first place anyway?
I mean, do they call it
a bracelet because it
binds you the way
that handcuffs do, or like
how a wedding ring reminds
a woman that she’s
forever bound to one man?
I wonder if being bound
to someone with a ring
is like being bound to
a tattoo ring on your body,
but it makes me wonder:
does a woman getting a
thigh tattoo bracelet like that,
does she lay on her back
while they rest her calf
in some sort of brace
so they could tattoo all
the way around her thigh,
or does she have to stand
with her feet five feet apart
for the entire time, while
they tattooed her thigh?

Protect Ourselves
from Ourselves

Apparently now
you’re allowed to bring
snow globes
onto airplanes
in the States
(even though they contain
liquid),
as long as they fit
the required
regulated sizes
for liquid allowances
on airplanes
in America.

But if you enter the States
from Canada
and they catch you
with German Kinder chocolate eggs
(chocolates with
a toy inside),
they’ll confiscate
your contraband
(I don’t know,
maybe they think
it’s a health hazard).

I heard that if you want
your chocolates back,
you can fill out
seventeen pages of paperwork,
go back to the port
and pay the six hundred
fifty dollar holding fee,
so you can have
your six dollar
chocolates back.

So really,
because the world
wants to attack
our wealth and successes,
does that mean
our government
has to do everything
in it’s power
to restrict us,
and to protect ourselves
from ourselves?

Ever Expanding Spaces

I can’t sleep.
The Universe is always expanding
so I have to keep working
to fill in the ever expanding spaces.

Overweight Reasons

An obscenely overweight woman
parked the Kmart brand electric wheelchair
at the front of the store
while her fat daughter watched.
Her son came walking over from the check-out line
(who looked like he was seven months pregnant)
and told her,
“We’re only fifty nine cents short
of getting a Kmart five dollar gift card!”
And the obscenely overweight mom replied,
“Why didn’t you buy a candy bar then?”
And I thought of three overweight reasons
why he shouldn’t have,
but I couldn’t say it. I wouldn’t say it.

Janet Kuypers Bio

    Janet Kuypers has a Communications degree in News/Editorial Journalism (starting in computer science engineering studies) from the UIUC. She had the equivalent of a minor in photography and specialized in creative writing. A portrait photographer for years in the early 1990s, she was also an acquaintance rape workshop facilitator, and she started her publishing career as an editor of two literary magazines. Later she was an art director, webmaster and photographer for a few magazines for a publishing company in Chicago, and this Journalism major was even the final featured poetry performer of 15 poets with a 10 minute feature at the 2006 Society of Professional Journalism Expo’s Chicago Poetry Showcase. This certified minister was even the officiant of a wedding in 2006.
    She sang with acoustic bands “Mom’s Favorite Vase”, “Weeds and Flowers” and “the Second Axing”, and does music sampling. Kuypers is published in books, magazines and on the internet around 9,300 times for writing, and over 17,800 times for art work in her professional career, and has been profiled in such magazines as Nation and Discover U, won the award for a Poetry Ambassador and was nominated as Poet of the Year for 2006 by the International Society of Poets. She has also been highlighted on radio stations, including WEFT (90.1FM), WLUW (88.7FM), WSUM (91.7FM), WZRD (88.3FM), WLS (8900AM), the internet radio stations ArtistFirst dot com, chicagopoetry.com’s Poetry World Radio and Scars Internet Radio (SIR), and was even shortly on Q101 FM radio. She has also appeared on television for poetry in Nashville (in 1997), Chicago (in 1997), and northern Illinois (in a few appearances on the show for the Lake County Poets Society in 2006). Kuypers was also interviewed on her art work on Urbana’s WCIA channel 3 10 o’clock news.
    She turned her writing into performance art on her own and with musical groups like Pointless Orchestra, 5D/5D, The DMJ Art Connection, Order From Chaos, Peter Bartels, Jake and Haystack, the Bastard Trio, and the JoAnne Pow!ers Trio, and starting in 2005 Kuypers ran a monthly iPodCast of her work, as well mixed JK Radio — an Internet radio station — into Scars Internet Radio (both radio stations on the Internet air 2005-2009). She even managed the Chaotic Radio show (an hour long Internet radio show 1.5 years, 2006-2007) through BZoO.org and chaoticarts.org. She has performed spoken word and music across the country - in the spring of 1998 she embarked on her first national poetry tour, with featured performances, among other venues, at the Albuquerque Spoken Word Festival during the National Poetry Slam; her bands have had concerts in Chicago and in Alaska; in 2003 she hosted and performed at a weekly poetry and music open mike (called Sing Your Life), and from 2002 through 2005 was a featured performance artist, doing quarterly performance art shows with readings, music and images.
    Since 2010 Kuypers also hosts the Chicago poetry open mic at the Café Gallery, while also broadcasting the Cafés weekly feature podcasts (and where she sometimes also performs impromptu mini-features of poetry or short stories or songs, in addition to other shows she performs live in the Chicago area).
    In addition to being published with Bernadette Miller in the short story collection book Domestic Blisters, as well as in a book of poetry turned to prose with Eric Bonholtzer in the book Duality, Kuypers has had many books of her own published: Hope Chest in the Attic, The Window, Close Cover Before Striking, (woman.) (spiral bound), Autumn Reason (novel in letter form), the Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), Contents Under Pressure, etc., and eventually The Key To Believing (2002 650 page novel), Changing Gears (travel journals around the United States), The Other Side (European travel book), The Boss Lady’s Editorials, The Boss Lady’s Editorials (2005 Expanded Edition), Seeing Things Differently, Change/Rearrange, Death Comes in Threes, Moving Performances, Six Eleven, Live at Cafe Aloha, Dreams, Rough Mixes, The Entropy Project, The Other Side (2006 edition), Stop., Sing Your Life, the hardcover art book (with an editorial) in cc&d v165.25, the Kuypers edition of Writings to Honour & Cherish, The Kuypers Edition: Blister and Burn, S&M, cc&d v170.5, cc&d v171.5: Living in Chaos, Tick Tock, cc&d v1273.22: Silent Screams, Taking It All In, It All Comes Down, Rising to the Surface, Galapagos, Chapter 38 (v1 and volume 1), Chapter 38 (v2 and Volume 2), Chapter 38 v3, Finally: Literature for the Snotty and Elite (Volume 1, Volume 2 and part 1 of a 3 part set), A Wake-Up Call From Tradition (part 2 of a 3 part set), (recovery), Dark Matter: the mind of Janet Kuypers , Evolution, Adolph Hitler, O .J. Simpson and U.S. Politics, the one thing the government still has no control over, (tweet), Get Your Buzz On, Janet & Jean Together, po•em, Taking Poetry to the Streets, the Cana-Dixie Chi-town Union, the Written Word, Dual, Prepare Her for This, uncorrect, Living in a Big World (color interior book with art and with “Seeing a Psychiatrist”), Pulled the Trigger (part 3 of a 3 part set), Venture to the Unknown (select writings with extensive color NASA/Huubble Space Telescope images), Janet Kuypers: Enriched, She’s an Open Book, “40”, Sexism and Other Stories, the Stories of Women, Prominent Pen (Kuypers edition), Elemental, the paperback book of the 2012 Datebook (which was also released as a spiral-bound cc&d ISSN# 2012 little spiral datebook, , Chaotic Elements, and Fusion, the (select) death poetry book Stabity Stabity Stab Stab Stab, and the 2012 art book a Picture’s Worth 1,000 words (available with both b&w interior pages and full color interior pages. Three collection books were also published of her work in 2004, Oeuvre (poetry), Exaro Versus (prose) and L’arte (art).

You believe the Heritage Foundation, there is no poverty.

    You believe the Heritage Foundation, there is no poverty. The people I saw huddled in a doorway, the mother & three young kids, weren’t there, the children cold & crying, the glassy eyed mother with no teeth, having them knocked out last night by her most recent lover, they are illusions, & the Southern California weather is not below freezing. All the other homeless I pass in the frigid rain on my three block trek home can’t really be there. The stats from the Heritage Foundation will show they don’t exist.
    I am making my tomato soup dinner by breaking 50 packets of catsup into a can I copped from a dumpster, after shooing the old woman away from it. Maybe she’d just eaten the contents & was leaving the can for me to make my soup. She is screaming as if the dumpster isn’t adequate as her home, when it’s more space than the woman with three kids packed into a doorway.
    I find a slice of bread outside the Baptist Church, left there by John before the beheading. I eat it in his honor, as the young woman gets into her BMW to drive off as a tribute to the Heritage Foundation & any other organization that finds no poverty in America. I find a big heart in the gutter; it’s been discarded after Valentine’s Day. It’s big & red & not one bit impoverished. I step over a crushed squirrel with the good fortune of being run over by the pastor’s black limo, & now it’s mercifully dead.
    But there’s no poverty in America, not in wealthy Pasadena. The Heritage Foundation tells me so. It’s right on page three of the L.A. Times. So rejoice! REJOICE! That baby starving in a doorway of Safeway & screaming her dis- content into the breast of her mother doesn’t exist. Rick Santorum & the Heritage Foundation will assure us of this fact, so rejoice!

The child is crushed beneath the cab

    The child is crushed beneath the cab. The mother screams & begs the gathering crowd to do something. The cabby is hysterical, & a fat woman tries to hold him. This is Pasadena, outside my building. I phone 911. They already know. A cop pulls up. The fire engine approaches with siren howling.
    In Kandahar, a child plays in the street. He steps on an IED. His wailing mother hurries from their home, as the child’s pieces rain from the Afghan sky. American soldiers arrive in an armored car. What can they do? Nothing.
    A child in Baghdad is feverish & can barely breathe. His parents are afraid to take him from the house. They are Sunni, their neighbors are Shiite. The mother holds her child afraid he might die. An American plane roars overhead.
    A girl in Budapest with a strange blood disease lies paralyzed in her mother’s bed. She feels nothing. Nobody can know her thoughts. Nobody knows if she has thoughts. Will she die today? Will she survive for years? A bird sings sadly from her roof, uniting us all. A cold rain falls.

Back Door

    Matt had been obsessed with Susan for over seven years. Now, at the age of 20, he never believed that he would be walking up Susan’s front walk, up the thirty-six steps that went up a hill that connected to her front porch, and to see Susan herself.
    It was an affair, though Susan wasn’t married – she was engaged – but Matt still considered it to be an affair. No, Susan was engaged to Eric; a bastard to his rotten core. He had raped Susan one night, but Susan didn’t consider what had happened was rape but rather a joke that quickly turned to sexual desire. Matt knew exactly what it was: rape.
    Music is your only friend until the end. This is exactly what Matt would discover during his passionate visits with Susan; or at least one of his visits.
    It was madness now. Complete madness that Matt was stuck inside of. The worst part being that he wasn’t sure how he could escape or if he even wanted. He loved Susan, but he never told himself this. Whenever love crossed his mind, that he could be in love with Susan, he just through the idea away and thought only of lust and his sexual – strong sexual – desire towards Susan. Oh how the madness butchered his mentality. The complete need to get away but not knowing where to go, and the depression that would come when he would no longer be able to see Susan; he just wasn’t ready for it.
    It wasn’t so much of leaving Susan that he was worried about as the summer evenings grew, but about being caught. About their third week of their intimacy, Susan’s grandparents had stopped by for a surprise visit. Coming, Matt would begin to believe, was the best and worst part of everything. It was the best feeling you could ever have, but once you start you can’t stop, no matter how bad of a situation you’re in. The day Susan’s grandparent’s showed up, Matt was just beginning to ejaculate. There was a knock at Susan’s bedroom door. It sent Matt’s heart racing and forcing his ejaculation out at a speed; he was soothed and overly worried at the same time. “Who is it?” Susan said in a nervous voice that sounded like a woman who was experiencing an orgasm.
    “It’s your grandfather and grandmother, Suse,” said Susan’s grandfather.
    “I’m sorry, let me turn this music down. I can’t hear very well.”
    Matt was off of her now and was wrapping the condom in tissues and stuffing them into Susan’s wastebasket while Susan was putting on her gym shorts and motioning frantically for Matt to turn down the radio which was playing “Kashmir” by Led Zeppelin very loudly. Immediately after Matt turned the radio down, he ran across her room and hid in the closet. There he could hear the muffled voices of Susan and her grandparents. Things like: What were you doing? Oh nothing, just catching some sleep. I don’t see how anyone could sleep with that racket. Then silence.
    Matt ended up staying inside of Susan’s closet for over four hours, three of which he slept through. It was the best time, he thought, not to have driven to Susan’s house but let her pick him up from work and bring him over for their intimacy.
    Matt was on Susan’s porch now. The porch was somewhat wide, made of cement, held a swing that hung to Matt’s left, and if you turned around you would see the dirt road that the house over looked and the small two car driveway that was about twelve feet from the steps that led to the front porch. Matt knocked on the door, there was no response. He rang the doorbell and a minute later the door opened, and there stood Susan, wearing a pink night gown that was open but still covered her breasts. He stepped through and barely had time to say anything, Susan through her arms around him and she gave him a squeeze like she had just been saved from a life threatening situation.
    Coming in through the front door of Susan’s house led you right into the living room. From the living room you could see the kitchen, at least part of it; you caught mostly a glimpse of the stove and the left side of the refrigerator. The living room was set up so that when you walked in the fifty inch HD TV could be seen to your right, on the wall over the fireplace, the sectional sofa with its back to the door but the right part of the sofa was pushed up against the wall. To the left of the sofa was a loveseat, and in the middle, between the fireplace, the sectional sofa, and love seat, stood a wooden coffee table on top of a Persian rug. Directly from the left of the front door was the stairway that led to the second floor which held four bedrooms and a bathroom, and Susan’s parent’s bathroom in the master bedroom.
    Matt had seen these rooms many times before, but he barely paid any attention to it, especially with Susan always there to greet him. She always seemed to have a different look about her when he saw her, and each time he loved her more and more. This time Susan had her hair down over her shoulders, and it somewhat wet, making her red hair darker, like a reddish brown.
    “You’re staring,” she said.
    “I know I am. How can you expect me not to? You’re beautiful,” Matt said, putting an arm around Susan’s neck and pulled her in for a kiss. And how amazingly she kissed.
    “You always know what to say and what moves to deliver.”
    “No, no. It’s personality and style.” This was true, but Matt had a way of delivering words in a musical style. Like the way a guitarist can play the guitar and produce music with such ease and fluid motion, but what looks easy and sounds so clean, can be completely lost to someone who doesn’t know what they are doing.
    “Well, it doesn’t matter, I’m just glad that you’re here now. Come on. Lay me down on sheets of linen.” Susan turned away began walking up the steps, shaking her hips in a sexy way working on Matt’s imagination.
    Matt followed her down the hallway at two step distance. She entered the room and shut the door on Matt, and the suddenness of her action made Matt stumble back a little bit. He frowned then smiled. Susan always gave little taunts like this and it worked; it always gave Matt jolts of anxiety. He knocked on the door.
    “Come in,” said Susan in her taunting welcoming matter.
    He opened the door and there she sat on her bed under the window surrounded in hazy sunlight. Susan’s room seemed to always catch her in a way that reminded Matt of a Persian setting, and in her pink robe, Susan had the appearance of a belly dancer. The room also had the smell of Jasmine incense, and indeed there they were, atop Susan’s bedside table burning, adding more of a Middle Eastern setting to the room. Yes, the room indeed was Middle Eastern inspired; the walls were deep purple in color, her curtains were maroon, and her bed contained many foreign style pillows.
    Matt walked to Susan and sat down on her bed beside her. She leaned back and lay on her back. Matt opened up her robe revealing everything, her teenage breasts that were meant for sexual pleasure and not ready for a child, her lean abdomen, and her pubic region which was shaved except for her light red landing strip. He took it all in and then he kissed her, starting at her lips and making his way down to her vagina. He gave her oral pleasure until he was sure she was at her peak, and then he let himself inside of her heat. He would thrust until he was sure he couldn’t hold out; he would turn and try to find something – usually the small waste receptacle – and ejaculate into that.
    He then would crawl back into Susan’s bed and spoon with her. It was one of his favorite moments to just lay behind her, holding her in his arms and breathing in her sweet aroma. He took in a deep breath, kissed her neck, and then fell asleep.
    He woke up with his arm still wrapped around Susan. She was breathing shallowly but not the type of breathing that indicates sleep; she was awake.
    “Play me a song, please,” Susan said, still on her side.
    Matt sat up rubbing his eyes, letting his legs hang over the bed, looking around the hazy room for Susan’s acoustic. He spied it under some of Susan’s clothes; the neck was the only thing to give it away. He stood up and walked over to the Epiphone EL-00 and picked it up by its neck letting the clothes slide off of it like ice slides off of a slanted roof on a warming winter day.
    He turned and faced Susan, who was now sitting on her bed with her legs crossed, staring at him with anticipation. Seeing her face, Matt tapped the acoustic with the palm of his hand, giving it a hollow bass sound. He then began to strum the chords to “Dear Prudence” by the Beatles, and it instantly brought a smile to Susan’s face. He walked over to, still strumming the guitar, and sat down on the floor below Susan looking up at her. It looked like something out of a medieval story; a young prince looking up to the princess in her tower while he played a love song to win her over.
    “Dear Prudence,” Matt sang, “won’t you come out to play”
    “Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day
    The sun is up, the sky is blue
    It’s beautiful and so are you
    Dear Prudence won’t you come out to play

    Dear Prudence open up your eyes
    Dear Prudence see the sunny skies
    The wind is low the birds will sing
    That you are part of everything
    Dear Prudence won’t you open up your eyes?

    Look around round round
    Look around round round
    Oh look around

    Dear Prudence let me see you smile
    Dear Prudence like a little child
    The clouds will be a daisy chain
    So let me see you smile again
    Dear Prudence won’t you let me see you smile?”
    He ended up forgetting a bit of the last verse and finished playing out the song’s instrumental part, but skipping the lyrics.
    “I love the way you play,” she said, “it sounds just like a recording.”
    Matt gave a little laugh and looked down at the guitar, blushing a little. “I think it’s your guitar that sounds like the recording. My voice isn’t nearly as good as Lennon’s was.”
    “You’re being too humble.”
    “Possibly, but why would I want to be anything else?”
    Somewhere down below a door slammed. It was a faint kind of thunder when it closed; it sent shivers down the spines’ of the two lovers. Their eyes met and the fear could easily be seen on their faces and in their eyes. Both hearts were racing and both mouths were dry. Matt sat below Susan with his head tilted up; listening to the sounds of whomever was down below. There was another sound of a bag being dropped and footsteps. The person was now in the kitchen. Matt gave Susan a stern look. Not a look like he was mad at her or that she had forgotten to tell him something important, nothing like that, but it was a look that said, “what the hell are we going to?” or more correctly: “what the hell am I supposed to do?”
    “I think that’s Eric,” she said, “he usually let himself in and if I’m not down stairs or whatever, he comes up here and wakes me up.”
    “Doesn’t he have baseball practice or- how long did we sleep?”
    Susan leaned over her bed and looked at her alarm clock. “It’s seven-thirty-seven,” she said, not looking at Matt but still looking at the clock. She sat it back down and looked over at Matt who was now pacing the floor and looking down trying to think of a plan. Matt stopped pacing and listened. There were footsteps coming up the stairs.
    “The window!” Susan said in a hushed and frantic voice. “Go out the window and then climb across the roof, jump down on top of the kitchen and from there it should only about a ten to eleven foot drop.” She was at the window and opening it. She turned to Matt and started to wave him over. “Go. Climb up from here.”
    Matt was up and out of the window just as Eric opened Susan’s bedroom door. Matt was sure that his left foot was still on the windowsill and that Eric had seen him or at least caught a glimpse of his foot. He was on the roof now and he lay on his back listening to the muffled voices from inside.
    “Hey, babe, what are you doing at the window?” Eric asked.
    “I’m getting ready to roll a joint. I don’t want to leave any residue behind that someone might be able to see. Also, if my parents show up, I can just drop it from here.”
    “They’ll be able to see it when they go outside.”
    “No, nobody ever is on this side of the house unless they are cleaning the yard or mowing grass. I’ll go out and grab it after they’re asleep.”
    “Yeah. Hey, did you know there is car in your driveway?”
    Susan stared at him, her face blank yet filled with some concern.
    “It’s a tan Hyundai. XG 300 model, I believe.”
    “Did it, uhmm, look broken down or anything? Maybe someone stopped by and...”
    “Did someone stop by saying that they had car trouble?”
    “No, but I did go to sleep earlier.”
    “Anyway, you’re pretty much the only house out here. Why would someone drive out here unless they were coming here? The plates aren’t from out of state; they couldn’t have been someone who got lost.”
    “It could have been someone wanting to buy the house. It’s not for sale, no, but occasionally someone comes by wanting to look at it or offer money for it.”
    Matt listened only for a moment. He wanted to make sure that there wasn’t any mention of seeing someone outside of the window. But if Eric was clever he would have pretended not to notice and try to catch Susan up in a lie. No time for that now, all Matt had to do was gently drop from the lowest point of the house, slide down the hill toward his car, and then drive away. Did situations like this ever turn out that simple? They seemed to in the past, maybe not that simple, but they seemed to turn out in a way that wasn’t horrible.
    He moved across the roof on his stomach. When he reached the point where the roof formed a triangular angle, he reached both arms over, arched his back a little, just enough to get his chest and stomach over, then he let his body lower and his hips hit the triangular point then he slid forward a little. His knees were over, his shins were over, then his feet. He hurt a little after this, and his body ached from the slow movement, but he had to be silent, he didn’t want Eric to hear anything at all.
    Matt, still on his chest, overlooked the part of the house where the second floor ended and the roof of the first floor began. It was at least a five and half foot drop from here, but could someone drop from this and not make a sound? Well, he was going to have to do something because waiting around would only make things worse. He pushed himself up and let his legs dangle over the edge. From there he eased himself down, his back pushing up against the shingles. His shoulders were pushed up against his neck and his elbows were flaring out. He was now three feet from the ground floor’s roof, he slipped, and his right elbow caught part of the gutter, knocking it loose. Matt made contact landing flat on his back with a thud.
    He was paralyzed. Not by the fall, no, his back was still intact. The fear he felt, it gripped him like a cold hard cast. He was afraid to breathe. The slightest movement would open a hole in the roof and he would be back inside to face his demons. A little bit of breath. That’s all he would be able to take in even though he wanted more. The fall had knocked the wind out of him and his head was spinning. He opened his mouth and sucked in a heavy, wheezing breath, and the air was so cold. It was like breathing in winter air and not the humid and sticky air of mid August.
    Never mind the fear. It was time to get off the roof and out the house’s vicinity.
    He was up and wobbling to the edge of the house. He was over the kitchen now and would soon be on the ground. Matt paused for a second, looked out at the lawn, and listened. Nothing. Either Susan or Eric didn’t hear Matt hit the roof or Susan somehow had kept Eric from going outside to investigate. Oh well. Matt looked down, took in a breath, and dropped. It was an eleven foot drop from here and Matt felt it in his knees, his right knee, especially. Pain shot through his right knee and Matt gave out a short raspy cough when he landed and his knee gave out.
    A door opened and slammed. It was the back door. The door that Matt had Matt had used so many times for his escape. He was a true back door man, but not this time. Now he was just an injured man trying to escape without any confrontation.
    The woods. It entered Matt’s mind like an apparition. They weren’t far from the house but he would be very visible running to the woods.
    The pain in his knees was forgotten instantly, the adrenaline fueling him and numbing him. He ran in a way that a drunk would, with his right leg always straight and never bending.
    Matt was gaining on the woods but he was unaware that Eric had gained on him, and in Eric’s hands, was an aluminum baseball bat. Eric swung at Matt’s legs, breaking his left shin and putting Matt back on the ground.
    “Son of a bitch,” Eric said. Then he brought the baseball bat down on Matt’s grimacing face. The first whack gave out the sound of an apple hitting the floor, but the fourth whack to Matt’s skull gave out a sound as if a pumpkin, three weeks after Halloween, had been busted. And there Matt lay, a broken down bum who tried to secure some form of wealth, and like those who think they are doing good, he was broken by a jealous criminal; dead, with a face smashed to a bloody pulp.

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.

Jackson’s Ghost

    Crowley sat at his desk in the warehouse each day assiduously working—but working for what? To get yet another stack of orders dropped into his inbox? It was as bad as being out on the floor picking orders or packing orders. What am I doing this for? The orders kept coming one after the other. Each order required his undivided attention. He carefully added up the rows of figures and checked out the codes and descriptions on the orders and then he put the order into the out box. There was always a full in box. There were orders bursting at the seams to be worked. He had no one to talk to, no one to bitch to. Just his little desk in the corner by the door to the computer room where they printed the orders. And then Jackson would come up and take them out of the out box and take them up to the picking line. He wondered why, if these were produced by computer, there was so much manual adding of columns and looking up codes for each total in the big reference book he had by him—why couldn’t that all be done by computer? He asked Jackson one time.
    Then you’d be out of a job, said Jackson.
    But surely there’s other work in here I could do—
    Oh sure, said the small black man—you could buggylug cases up to the line, you could stand and pack all day at a packing station—at least you got a sit-down union job. The only one in the place. Be glad you got it. Plus you’re a level twelve. That’s the highest level you can get to in the union.
    But that’s just it. I could take a job outside the union.
    They’d never offer you one. Once you’re in the union here—tell me. You ever file a grievance with the shop steward?
    Yes.
    Well, that blackballs you. They’ll never make you management. That’s how it is.
    But this job—
    But this job nothing! Be glad you have it. It’s the best union job in the place.
    With that Jackson scooped up the finished orders from the outbox and rushed away toward the picking line where he would give out the orders to the pickers and the customer orders would begin to be filled.
    That night he told his wife.
    I’m disgusted with my job.
    It sounds like you’ve got a good job to me.
    Well—it stinks. I don’t know how much more of it I can take. I get headaches—and eyestrain—and I bring home no money—
    But—I work too, she said. There’s enough—
    That’s it. You work. I don’t want you to have to work. I want to pull my own weight myself.
    Be glad you have the job, she said. You make enough. Between the two of us, we make plenty.
    Yah. Plenty.
    The weeks went by and he was more and more disgusted with the job but he reached a ceiling of disgust, above which he could never go, the way he could never hope to be anything more than a level twelve. Then one day he came in and there was a large long crate by the door of the computer room.
    What’s in the box, he asked Jackson.
    Computer. Improved over the other one. Guess what?
    What?
    Your job is going to go away. This new computer will do what you do and they’ll deliver the orders straight to me.
    A chill rose up in him from his soles to his bald head.
    But what will I do, he asked Jackson.
    I don’t know. One of these other jobs in the warehouse I suppose. You’ll take a downgrade though. You’re the only level twelve.
    Shit, he said to Jackson. I can barely get by on this twelve salary—you mean I’m going to make even less?
    Seems so, said Jackson. Then he scooped up the orders and headed for the picking line.
    Crowley got up. He would go see Panko about this. Panko was the foreman. Panko would know what they planned for him. He left his busy desk and went across the floor and over the green steel bridge spanning the conveyor belts and went to the glass house. Panko sat reading a magazine and he closed it over and tucked it into the newspaper when he saw Crowley coming.
    Porn, thought Crowley. Must be porn.
    Crowley, said Panko. What do you want?
    I see they got a new computer. Jackson says it’ll do away with my job.
    What? That? Naaaaah.
    What do you mean naaaah—
    We can’t do away with your job.
    Why?
    Your stupid union won’t let us. It says in the contract we got to make a new job for you at the same level if yours goes away.
    What’s stupid about that?
    It’s just stupid—but I think I’ve already decided, said Panko, fisting the desk. Jackson, he said—I’ve been thinking maybe we should get rid of him and have you give the orders to the pickers that come from the new computer—
    Crowley’s hands grew cold.
    Get rid of him? But I don’t want to be responsible for somebody being got rid of—
    Panko sat back.
    Somebody has to go—and your union contract says it can’t be you. So we get rid of a management peon. Happens all the time—
    As he said this Panko produced a banana from a wrinkled bag and began to slowly peel it.
    —that’s the only thing I can think of. In this business you got to be tough. It takes a tough man to get rid of someone. Don’t you think so Crowley.
    Yes. Very tough man—
    So go back to your desk. No doubt the orders are piling up.
    Crowley went back to his desk. He considered Jackson as he watched the small black man putter around his desk next to the picking line. He didn’t know if Jackson had a family or not. Jackson came up to get the orders from the outbox. Crowley asked him.
    Say Jackson you married?
    No—never found a woman I thought I could get along with for the rest of my life.
    Oh—so no wife, no kids—
    Well. One kid. Me and my girlfriend have a kid she lives with me—
    Crowley’s heart sank.
    Does she work.
    Oh yes.
    Where?
    Prudential.
    Prudential.
    Yeah. She checks out brochures and other literature the company puts out. She’s a proof reader.
    Proofreader? Does she make a lot?
    About what I make. Maybe a little more.
    Do you have a house?
    No, an apartment—say why all the questions?
    Oh—I don’t know. I was just curious.
    That night Crowley spoke to his wife.
    Panko is thinking of replacing Jackson with me.
    Replacing Jackson—but that’s a non-union job—
    I know. But the big shots would make it a union job and my job would be to give the orders to the pickers, and to answer the phone.
    Answer the phone?
    Yeah. That’s something else Jackson does. I guess I would do everything Jackson does.
    Then what would happen to Jackson?
    Crowley wrung his hands.
    He’d be out the door. I don’t want that to happen, Claire.
    Well—maybe Panko will think of something else. Don’t brood over it.
    Okay.
    That night, after Crowley was in bed, Jackson’s ghost came and sat on the edge of the bed, and woke Crowley up.
    Crowley, said Jackson.
    What? You—what are you doing here—
    He sat up frightened. His wife slept on. The ghost raised a hand.
    Oh I’m not really here. Don’t worry. I’m just—I guess you could say I’m in your mind. Just what are you and Panko up to?
    Crowley was raised to be honest.
    Panko’s thinking about getting rid of you and making your job a level twelve union job, which then I would do.
    What? Panko can’t get rid of me—we’re equals—
    Well I guess somebody up front has the idea. One of the big shots.
    Well what a kick in the ass this is!
    The ghost stood up straight and glowed brighter in the dark.
    Crowley shook his head and raised his hands.
    No, no—they wouldn’t actually get rid of you. You’d—you’d get an office job up front. That’s what Panko said. Yeah, he said that.
    Crowley bit his tongue to punish it for the lie he’d just told.
    Well I’ve got a real problem with Panko talking about me like this to you. Nobody’s said anything to me about it—
    I felt you needed to know the truth.
    I appreciate that.
    The ghost suddenly shrank down to an intense pinpoint of light and disappeared. The next thing Crowley knew, was the alarm clock was ringing. All that day he sat at his desk in the corner working and watching Jackson hustle back and forth with orders and answer the phone. He woke this morning thinking it had been just a bad dream—there are no such things as ghosts—and plus; ghosts are of dead people. Live people don’t have ghosts. He added up column after column of numbers and wrote down description after description and shuffled endlessly through the codes and descriptions book to look them up—and he got through the day and no one came that day to unpack the new computer and he thought he’d ask Jackson about it.
    Jackson came up to get a sheaf of orders from the outbox.
    Jackson, said Crowley.
    What?
    When are they going to hook up this new computer?
    They’re coming in to do the work next week, answered Jackson with a straight face. After that’s done, I guess you’ll be out of a job.
    Crowley bit his tongue.
    That night, in bed, Jackson’s ghost came to see him again.
    Guess what, said the ghost.
    What?
    They’re going to give me a cushy supervisor’s job up front. I’ll be in charge of all the data entry girls. They’re going to get rid of Frankie to make room for me.
    Get rid of Frankie—who’s Frankie?
    He’s the supervisor now. They’re going to transfer him to the big plant in town. It’ll be a big promotion for him. See? Everything will work out for everybody.
    How do you know this?
    Because I’m a ghost. I see and know everything—
    Like God.
    Sort of. But I can’t create things like God, and I don’t have hundreds of angels and cherubs and what not sucking up to me all day like God does.
    With that, the ghost shrank down to the same pinpoint of light it had last night and disappeared with a flicker and again, the alarm clock rang, waking Crowley up. Later on driving to the plant, Crowley was shaken. The same kind of weird dream two nights in a row—he must be thinking about all this too much. When he got in he saw there were two men in white shirts taking the cardboard box off the new computer. Today was Friday. Crowley spoke to Jackson.
    I thought they weren’t going to start working on that until next week.
    Oh they’re just unpacking it. The real work starts Monday.
    Good.
    Good? Why is it good. You’ll be out of a job—
    Crowley smiled dimly and sat at his desk and pulled the first order.
    Idiot, he thought. Damned fool idiot.
    That night at dinner Crowley spoke to his wife, who had made a big ham for them to eat. Between bites he spoke to her.
    I can’t wait until they get that computer hooked up and do away with my job.
    Oh?
    Right. I can’t wait to get Jackson’s job.
    Have you actually been told they were going to give you Jackson’s job?
    Well—Panko mentioned it—
    But have they officially told you.
    No.
    Well then don’t count your chickens before they are hatched.
    What? Why?
    Because you can’t trust anybody in management. I know that. I’ve got a management job and I know how I am. You can’t trust me!
    Crowley’s face fell a moment until he realized she was kidding.
    They laughed. That night in bed Crowley was once more visited by the ghost of Jackson.
    Crowley, said the ghost.
    Crowley rolled over to face the ghost.
    What now.
    We’re screwed, said the ghost. We’re all screwed.
    What do you mean screwed.
    They—they are going to fire me.
    Fire you?
    Crowley half sat up.
    Yes—they don’t even have to give you a reason when you’re management—they can get rid of you just like that—and they’re doing it to me—all because of you and your god damned level twelve—
    But I thought that Frankie guy was going to get promoted and move to the plant in the city to make an opening for you to take up front supervising the girls—
    The promotion fell through, said the ghost with a sneer.
    Well maybe they should get rid of Frankie—who’s got more years—
    When you’re management seniority doesn’t mean anything, said the ghost. And guess what else.
    What ?
    The ghost’s eyes suddenly bugged out, and he spoke excitedly.
    Just wait! You’ll see. The big shots will dream up something good and rotten for you. You can’t trust us management types. I can tell you that now without getting into trouble, because I’m a ghost. I don’t really exist—
    But they’ll dream up something good and rotten!
    Like make you management and then fire you!
    Crowley’s jaw dropped.
    Ha ha ha ha—
    With that the ghost once more shrank down to a pinpoint of light and vanished.
    The weekend went by uneventfully. Crowley tried to keep things about work out of his mind. He worked odd jobs around the house to help him forget the dream. By the time Monday morning came, he felt better.
    When he got to his desk he saw that the computer had been unpacked. It was just a long blue box with some wires attached. It said IBM on it. Three electricians were working in the computer room getting ready to set it up. A few men with white shirts and clipboards milled around too. Crowley started to work. Jackson came up.
    Panko wants to see you Crowley.
    Panko?
    That’s what I said. And I saw Massingill, the plant manager over Panko, go into Panko’s office too. He’s in there now—
    And they want to see me?
    Yep.
    Crowley started out toward Panko’s office and figured this was it, he was going to be told he had Jackson’s job as a level twelve. He really hoped they weren’t going to fire Jackson. He went and knocked on the door of Panko’s office. Massingill sat to the side in a tight suit. As Crowley sat down he suddenly felt very, very guilty about Jackson. He just knew Jackson was going to get the boot—
    Mister Panko, said Crowley. What did you want to see me for.
    It’s really me who wanted to see you, said Massingill.
    Crowley swallowed hard.
    How would you like to join the management team? asked Massingill.
    Crowley’s mouth hung open.
    What? he breathed.
    —how did the ghost know this how did it know—
    —they’ll make you management and then fire you—
    Massingill went on telling him what their plans were for him.
    We’ve got a vacancy up front in the ordering department. You’d be in charge of twenty data entry girls. There would be two supervisors under you to manage all the day to day work. Your job would be to manage those supervisors—
    Crowley tried to listen but he heard different words.
    —they’ll make you management and then fire you—
    Crowley swallowed hard.
    I can’t believe this, he muttered, the blood drained from his face. This can’t be—I—I dreamt about this—
    Dreamt about it? said Massingill—well your dreams are about to come true.
    Right, said Panko, smiling.
    So what do you say? asked Massingill.
    —and then fire you—
    Crowley struggled to focus on Massingill. He thought of something intelligent to say, as he shook his head to get the ghost’s words out of his mind.
    Ah—uh—what does it pay?
    About twice what you’re making now, said Panko. Massingill nodded.
    Crowley felt he’d been fisted hard in the gut. He remembered the conversation he had had with Claire about his job.
    —well—it stinks. I don’t know how much more of it I can take. I get headaches—and eyestrain—and I bring home no money—
    But—I work too, she said. There’s enough—
    That’s it. You work. I don’t want you to have to work. I want to pull my own weight myself—
    Now he would be able to, if he took this. His stomach swam.
    Can I think about it? he asked.
    Nope, said Massingill, folding his arms. You got to tell us now.
    Panko sat forward with his elbows on his desk looking intently into Crowley’s eyes.
    —they’ll make you management and then fire you—
    —but now I’d be able to pull my own weight—
    —they’ll fire you—
    —you’ll pull your weight—
    Then Claire appeared before him, smiling having been told about all this. And then it hit him! The answer—it had been a ghost that had told him they’d fire him—and ghosts aren’t real—he had just imagined the whole thing—God how could I have been so paranoid, he thought—this is all just a coincidence—those dreams were just some kind of weird premonition; words came from his mouth.
    I’ll take it!
    Are you sure?
    Yes.
    Claire stood behind Massingill smiling. Panko rose and pushed a piece of paper that’d been lying on the desk toward Crowley, and handed him a pen.
    Good. Good decision—now you’ll have to sign this.
    What’s this?
    You’re agreeing to quit the union and become management. Here. Take the pen. Sign by the X there on that line—
    His hand shook. He took the pen.
    Ghosts aren’t real—
    Claire smiled.
    He bent down to the desk. He put the pen on the line.
    Ghosts aren’t real—
    Claire smiled.
    He signed. He signed, and he half-threw the pen down on the desk.
    Now I will pull my weight.
    Now I will—
    Massingill rocked back and forth.
    Well congratulations, said Panko—welcome to management!
    And now, Crowley, we’ve got something else to tell you—
    Yes, said Panko. Something else—
    What?
    And after they told him, he stumbled from the office numb, fumbling for his car keys, having just learned something very, very profound.

Eddie Maria and the Knights of the 90

    Eddie Mara hit the Portland city limit and raced the motorbike he dreaded up Congress Street. He’d sworn to Stacy he wouldn’t be late for the Starbuck’s meeting with her folks to plan their wedding.
    “You know how Dad is about tardiness,” she’d warned last night in that low, thrilling voice he wanted in his ears forever. Then she’d dropped it even deeper, in mocking imitation. “It’s the first refuge of the disrespectful and the disorganized.”
    Eddie had laughed at the mimicry, but took the warning to heart. Last thing he needed was J. Thompson Fillmore, Esquire thinking him flaky or uncouth—not now he’d finally said yes to the marriage. Bad enough to show up on this beat-to-hell bike in a scuffed-up leather jacket. Not exactly the model of sober rectitude, and certainly no way to convince the head of Maine’s best law firm to hire him right out of law school. But he’d had no choice.
    He checked the Timex strapped over the jacket’s cuff. 3:52. He could still make it—if only he could remember Stacy’s shortcut.
    There! Frost Street! He’d seen it almost too late.
    Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he forced himself to twist the throttle and lean hard-left to cut across two lanes. Gravity sped him downhill. His tired hands and arms ached as he bounced over train tracks. He gunned the Honda Rebel’s small 234 cc engine back up the hill, only to round a curve and skid to a halt behind traffic waiting for the light at Stevens Avenue.
    “Come on,” he urged behind the dark face shield of the dinged-up Bell helmet he’d bought with the bike.
    3:53.
    “Come on!”
    As if answering, the left-arrow turned green. The line inched forward. Car after car turned. He was accelerating, hopeful, just looking left for his own turn when the light blinked yellow and the Taurus in front of him stopped.
    “God da—” he started to swear, then swallowed it. Planting his feet, he braced against the handlebars and seethed over how he would have been here an hour ago if his housemate Chuck hadn’t reneged on lending him his Saab at the last minute, leaving Eddie no time to find another car, or even a bus, forcing him onto his 70-75 m.p.h. Rebel that scared the shi—tar out of him to shag his ass 90 frigid miles up I-95. God, how he hated this bike!
    “Easy, Eddie, take it easy. Last thing you need is to show up all pissed—ticked off. Or splattered like a bug on someone’s windshield. Just remember, the bike costs lots less than a car. And clean up the language. Couth, remember?”

    All around him, sturdy single-family homes sat on small, well-tended lawns under oaks and maples just beginning to green. So unlike the hard Dorchester streets he’d grown up on in Boston. Normally, Portland’s streets acted on him like a tonic, relaxing him, inviting him to feel safe and secure. But not today.
    Shaking his hands to relieve the ache, he anxiously studied the crossing traffic. No one slowed for a yellow. Five, maybe ten cars passed. Again he shot out his wrist. 3:55.
    “Please?” he whispered to the God of Traffic Lights.
    A lone silver BMW station wagon came down Stevens and braked for a yellow.
    “Yes!” Eddie cheered, readying to take off. As if to say thank you, he looked to the Beamer’s driver.
    And instantly was charmed. What a pretty lady, said the soft, child-like voice inside him he hardly ever heard. Her hair’s as white as Ma’s, but not straight or all chopped up. It’s soft and fluffy, like a summer cloud. And she’s plump and comfortable, with rosy cheeks—a little like a Mrs. Claus—not thin and sallow from work and worry and smoking.
    I hope Stacy and me look like that when we’re her age—that I can give us all the stuff that lets people look that good. Jeez, look at that car. And those diamonds sparkling on that wedding finger—
    The car behind him honked. The Taurus ahead was finishing its left. He started his own turn, keeping it slow, shifting focus between the road ahead and the woman.
    Something’s not right, he thought. Why’s she look so... so ...?”
    A hand holding a large Bowie knife snaked from the dark passenger compartment behind her. As a khaki-sleeved arm encircled her neck and the shiny blade flashed in the sun, a bomb went off in Eddie’s chest.
    “What the—?” he cried, twisting for another look.
    His balance started going. For a second, he was sure he was going down. But he made himself relax into the turn.
    “Hell was that?” he whispered once he’d gotten back control.
    But he knew. He’d been so close and the knife had been huge.
    The opposite traffic was a solid line, except for a small gap ahead. Almost before he knew it, he’d slowed, then gunned it. Tires screeched and horns blared as the orange taxi missed him by inches. He ran up a driveway, wheeled around, and tore back onto Stevens.
    “This is stupid, Eddie, really stupid,” he muttered. “You’re gonna get killed. Call the cops. Now!”
    He slapped his pockets for his old flip phone, but couldn’t feel its bulk. Steering one-handed, he delved each one. Nothing. Had he thrown it in the knapsack bungee-chorded to the seat behind him?
    In his head he saw the phone recharging in the kitchen; and he groaned. He’d plugged it in the minute he got home from class. Then Chuck pulled the rug out from under him with the Saab and, rushing to get on the road, he’d forgotten it.
    “Brilliant!”
    He looked for the Beamer. A silver wagon waited at the next light, about to turn onto Congress. But was it her? He sped to catch up. Definitely a BMW. It made the turn and he followed. If he could just get alongside and look in the side window, he’d see if it was her.
    He rode the broken white lines between traffic to draw parallel with the wagon. Now he knew why the back passenger compartment had seemed so dark. The side and back windows were tinted as black as his own face plate.
    His only shot was to pull ahead and try to see through the windshield with one of his rear-views. He gunned it, slipped into her lane, looked in his mirror, and found her gone. Whipping around, he saw the wagon climbing the entrance ramp to Interstate 295-North. There was nothing he could do. He was trapped going east. He’d lost her for good.
    The Denny’s on Congress rushed to meet him—the one he made Stacy take him to Sunday mornings before going up to her parents’ Freeport home for brunch—and he remembered: There’s another on-ramp! On the other side of the parking lot!
    He hit the brakes, leaned hard-left, raced across the lot, crossed a street without even looking, and ran up the ramp as fast as the bike would go. Parallel to the interstate, searching for the Beamer, he missed the Yield sign. A tractor-trailer made him pay, thundering by, almost slamming him to the ground. As he swerved a big “S, he knew he was dead.
    But somehow the bike righted and suddenly he was running fast and straight.
    “FUCK AM I DOING??” he yelled. His heart hammered. His chest felt crushed. “Get off, Eddie. There’s the exit. Take it. Now!
    He scanned ahead for the Beamer. The exit rushed past.
    I-295 was filled with commuters starting the weekend. So many cars were wagons, so many silver or gray. Right-lane traffic was going about 60; the left about 80, too fast for the Rebel. But if he was ever going to find her, he had to get ahead.
    He twisted the throttle to its stop and rode the center line.
    “Dumb, Eddie, really dumb!”
    Swiveling his head, searching, he sped past cars to the right and slowly lost ground to those on the left. He prayed no one suddenly changed lanes.
    “Dumbass! Hell didn’t you get her license plate?”
    Was there anything else about the car? Something, maybe, but what?
    The bumper sticker, he thought, a white dog bone that said: “My Corgi’s smarter than your honor student!” And almost as soon as he thought of it, he saw it—on the silver wagon maybe five cars up in the right lane. He cut his speed and fell into line about ten cars back, figuring he’d have plenty of time to see her exit.
    But she didn’t; not in Falmouth or Freeport or Brunswick. By the time they reached some place called Topsham, the needle on his fuel gauge showed less than a quarter tank. His range was maybe 175 miles, and if his math was right, he’d ridden 110 or 120 since filling up in New Hampshire. How much further would she go?
    He followed her onto U.S. 1, another long, gray ribbon. He had no idea where he was now. Stacy’s parents’ Freeport home was the farthest north he’d ever been. He ran through forest, past lakes and rivers. The sky was blue and the waters sparkled; but tall trees mostly blocked the dwindling sun and the land wore drab winter colors: jagged-rock-gray, pine-green, earth-black, and mud-brown.
    He was so cold and tired. He’d been riding forever. He’d started during what seemed a beautiful spring afternoon. But he’d forgotten that 60-70 M.P.H. makes 50 degrees feel like a razor 30. His gloves and jacket had no lining. Too many washes had thinned his good cords. All his skin felt chapped and raw.
    All he wanted was to stop. But he couldn’t. If he lost sight of her, he’d have no way of getting her help. He couldn’t imagine just letting her go, just throwing up his hands and saying, “fuck it.” He knew he couldn’t live with the knowledge that he’d had the chance to help someone and quit. He prayed for a cop—had been praying for one ever since this whole thing started—but got no answer.
    He knew he was blowing everything: the wedding, the chance to work for Stacy’s dad’s firm. Stacy’s dad never had wanted him for a son-in-law.
     “You’re not right for her,” he’d said last Christmas when they’d gone into his study so Eddie could ask for Stacy’s hand. “Don’t get me wrong, what you’ve done is admirable, considering everything you’ve faced—no father in the picture, growing up in that $10.00-an-hour motel where your mother—what’s she do again?”
    “Cleans—”
    “Right. Admirable, all you’ve done—college, law school while interning for Judge Ford down in Portsmouth; bartending to try to keep ahead of that mountain of debt you must owe.”
    Eddie had maintained a polite smile as the anxious feeling he got whenever he thought of the debt crawled through his bowels.
    “But I couldn’t give you a job even if I wanted. The firm’s hiring committee considers only candidates in the top 20% at a top-20 law school.”
    “But I’m in the top 10% at UNH—”
    “I knew it!” Fillmore had crowed. “You’re here for a job, not Stacy!”
    “That’s not true! I love Stacy. It’s just when you said top 20%, I thought you thought I hadn’t—”
    “If you’re not here looking for a job, why care what I think about your grades?”
    “It’s true. We talked about maybe you’d hire me. Portland’s where Stacy wants to live. She grew up here. You’re here, and all her friends and family. She feels safe here. She wants our kids growing up here.”
    “Then she should marry someone from our world here.”
    “But we love each other.”
    “You’ll get over it. Now, I think maybe you should go back to that motel in Dorchester. I hate to think of your mother alone on Christmas.”
    Eddie had gone back, and taken Stacy, which her dad never expected. Nor had he expected her to keep nagging him about Eddie and how he was going to be a brilliant lawyer, which he could check with Judge Ford, and how, if he didn’t give Eddie a chance, he’d be ruining both their lives.
    Finally, Fillmore caved on the wedding—and on the job. Last night Stacy said her dad was going to offer him a summer associate’s position which might become permanent if he did well and passed the bar.
    But now he’d blown it.
    Forest turned to farmland. When the heck would they stop? His gas needle rested on E. They hadn’t passed a station in miles. He followed the Beamer past barns and silos. Thunderheads towered in front of him. His stomach clenched at the thought of riding in the rain, especially at the start when the first drops mixed with oil in the road to make it like ice. A fall would cost him broken bones, plus a ton of skin.
    The first drop plinked against his visor; then another, and another. He slowed. The wagon grew smaller. It turned onto another road, this one through forest. Drizzle turned to downpour, soaking Eddie. Icy rivulets streamed down his neck. He fought against his first shiver as he took the turn ever so carefully. Relief filled him when he didn’t fall.
    The road was empty, dark, and full of turns. At times it rained and blew so hard he had to slow to 20. His clothes weighed a ton, as if he’d just dragged himself out of an icy pool. He didn’t see or hear another soul, not even a light or a car or the bark of a dog. Just the wind and the rain and the Rebel’s growl and the now uncontrollable Morse code chatter of his teeth.
    “Eddie, man,” he whispered. “You gotta knock this off. Gonna give yourself hypothermia. People die in weather like this.”
    “Yeah? So what the HELL am I supposed to do?” he yelled.
    Oh, smart! Mature! Shout at the wind! That’ll do lots of good. Stop panicking. Think what you need. You need...you need...a gas station. They’ll tell you where you are and call the police and help you get dry and warm and maybe fed. When the cops show, tell them everything you know. Then get back to Portland and beg Fillmore for mercy.
    “That’s good. That’s a plan. Like Ma’s always saying, as long as you got a plan everything’ll—”
    The Rebel’s engine died.
    “NOOOOOOOOO!” he screamed to the sky.
    A blast of wind carrying a wall of water slammed into him.
    He started to laugh; then couldn’t stop, not until the shivers made him mumble, “Time for a new plan.”
    He pushed the bike to the side of the road and rested it on its stand. As rain hissed off the hot engine, he jumped and flapped his arms around his torso to get warm. As he beat at himself, he sought to get his bearings.
    He stood atop a hill overlooking a valley bordering a now-black ocean. The road ran past houses set on large tracts near the water. All were dark, except one where a golden glow flickered from the sea-side frontage and a halogen lamp at the back shined on a silver wagon.
    Still shivering, keeping his helmet on so at least his head would stay dry, he set off for the house. Just as he reached the driveway, he tripped over something and sprawled face-first into the turf. Pain exploded as his knee slammed into metal. Clutching it, he rolled onto his back and bit his lip to keep from crying out. Icy water seeped up his back as he waited for the pain to dull. He stood cautiously. The knee throbbed but bore his weight.
    A Coldwell-Banker “For Sale” sign marked “SOLD” lay at his feet.
    The house sat on a hillock twenty yards away across open land. He stepped onto the gravel driveway. The crunch of his boot sounded like a gunshot. He froze, expecting alarms and blazing lights. But there was only wind and rain. He took off for the back corner of the house. Passing the car, he saw the Corgi decal.
    The top of the hillock had been leveled into a plateau extending ten feet from the house. Then the ground sloped steeply down to flat land where small birches grew. Eddie stood under the eaves. Rivers streaming off the roof beat a muddy trench into the ground. He looked down the side. All the windows were curtained and dark, except at the end where golden light shimmered.
    He made for it, careful to keep his head down. Two bay windows formed the front corner of the house, each about four feet off the ground. He crouched to keep his head under the sill. He hoped, when he raised it, his black helmet and shield would keep him invisible in the night.
    He started to stand, then slid back down. Now he felt like a peeping tom. What if he’d misread everything? What if this was simply an old married couple who’d bought a new home and were christening it with some kinky kidnap fantasy? What if they were rolling around bare-assed in front of a roaring fire?
     “Then, you’ll have trashed a really great future for a really cheap thrill,” he whispered. “So go!”
    Slowly, he rose and looked through the window.
    The large living room with the dead fire place was empty, except for her. Lit only by a kerosene lamp, she sat naked in a wooden chair, her hands and feet bound to its arms and legs with silver tape. Flab hung in folds. A black scarf blinded her. Her white hair was wild and tangled. More silver tape gagged her. Her head was thrown back and moved from side to side, as if she were trying to smell or hear what she could not see. Blood oozed from a gash on the side of her neck and glistened down her shoulder. The diamond ring on her finger glittered.
    Behind her, a white sheet hung from the ceiling. Something had been spray-painted onto it, but from his vantage point, Eddie couldn’t tell what. An unlit work lamp and a video camera connected to a laptop stood in front of her. The lantern rested on a short stairway just beyond the camera. In its light lay a cell phone, a roll of duct tape, and the Bowie knife.
    From the top of the stairs, a work boot stepped into view, then another, then dirty blue-jeaned legs, then the whole man: white, stocky with a belly; the rest of him dressed in a flannel shirt, soiled khaki barn coat, and orange “Kubota Tractors” ball cap. He’d not tried to hide his pale, fleshy face or the bitterness that pinched his eyes and mouth, or the revolver in his belt.
    At his feet, the phone lit up and played its ringtone which to Eddie—who could hear it only faintly through the glass—sounded like that old 1930’s song, “Happy Days Are Here Again.”
    The man answered. He did not speak, but looked at the woman and listened. Determination tightened his face. Ending the call, he turned on the work lamp and the camera. The light was so bright the woman jerked her head away. The man checked the camera’s focus, took off his cap, put on a black ski mask with mouth and eye holes, picked up the knife, and walked over to the woman. She shrank in the chair, but balled her taped-down hands into fists.
    Clenching the knife between his teeth, the man grabbed her left hand, pulled out the finger with the diamond ring, and held it down against the arm of the chair. He set the knife’s blade against the finger, between her fist knuckle and the ring.
    Before he could stop himself, Eddie was beating on the glass, yelling, “Hey! Hey! Over here! Look over here!”
    Startled, the man dropped the knife. His hand went for the gun. Eddie dove to the ground. The window exploded. Glass rained.
    RUN! the voice in Eddie’s head shouted.
    He planted his hands to launch himself. Glass sliced into his palms. As he pushed off with his leg, his foot slipped and his knee dug into the shard-littered ground. He gasped.
    Above him, the gun cracked. Terrific force slammed him face-first into the turf. Stunned, he rolled and slid down the muddy incline, ending at the bottom, on his back, with his feet pointed at the house. Through his muck-covered shield, Eddie saw the man standing in the bright light, framed by the shattered window, taking careful aim.
    MOVE! Eddie threw himself into a roll.
    The gunshot and the mud next to his head exploded almost together.
    FASTER!
    He finished the roll, leapt up, and took off for the darkness, back towards the road. Three steps later, something clothes-lined him at the shins and he somersaulted to land spread-eagled on his back. His wrist struck a rock. His Timex shattered and he felt his hand go numb.
    GET UP! RUN!
    He’d landed next to a thin birch sapling anchored by guy wires, one of which had tripped him. He levered himself up off his elbows, but his helmet struck another guy and his head bounced back to the turf.
    Where is he? Must be aiming for another shot.
    Eddie looked back, expecting to see the man in the window. But he’d already climbed through and was sliding down the hill, coming right for him. He’d taken off the ski mask. Rage made his face a terror.
    “Ya fucka, ya work for the one!” he screamed.
    Eddie grabbed a guy to pull himself up. His weight was too much. The birch and all its wires collapsed on top of him. He flailed to escape, knowing the man was only feet away. His arms flapped, like when he used to make snow angels, and his wrist struck another rock.
    GRAB IT!
    His almost-numb hand closed around it, grasped, and pulled. The size of a baseball, it came out of the mud with a sucking sound. He did not check his motion, but let the rock fly at the man pointing for a kill shot.
    It’ll never hit. You can’t throw worth—
    The man cried out, then toppled. As he hit the ground, his arm flopped towards the shore and the gun fired. The bullet flew out to sea.
    That’s only four shots, Eddie. He’s got to have more. Quick! Before he recovers, get this tree off you.
    Seconds later, Eddie stood over the man whose eyes were closed, but whose chest rose and fell as blood poured from his nose. Eddie saw the pistol near his outstretched hand. He snatched it up and stuck it in his own waist band.
    He gulped for air. His heart raced and his head spun and for a moment, he thought he’d be sick. It was still raining hard. Eddie yanked off his helmet. Cold water sluiced through his hair. He leaned back, opened his mouth, and drank.
    The man groaned. Eddie turned to see him beginning to sit up. Eddie walked over and clocked him with his helmet. The man fell back into the mud, unconscious again.
    “What do you say we tie you up? Save the old Bell any more wear and tear.”
    Eddie inspected the helmet by the bright light pouring through the window. The glancing bullet had carved a furrow into the top.
    He remembered the roll of duct tape on the stairs. Using the Bell to knock the remaining glass out of the window frame, he climbed through. The woman still sat naked, bound, and gagged. As she turned her head towards him, he heard a muffled cry.
    “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. I’m going to tie this guy up and be back to cut you loose.”
    Eddie grabbed the tape and returned to the unconcious man. He taped his ankles and knees together, rolled him onto his stomach, taped his hands behind his back, and left him in the freezing rain.
    “Okay, I’m back,” he said, climbing through the window. “I’m Eddie. Eddie Mara.”
    He looked away from the woman, cringing at her vulnerability, his eyes searching for something to cover her. He saw the sheet hanging behind her. Now he could read it: “FEAR THE 99.” Ripping it down, he draped it over her shoulders. At his first touch, she thrashed.
    “Easy. I’m not here to hurt you. You’re safe, I promise. Now, I’m going to take off the blindfold.”
    As he gently lifted away the black scarf, she shut her eyes tight against the work lamp’s harsh, hot light.
    “Now the tape.”
    Head bowed, breathing hard through her nose, the woman looked up at him with narrowed eyes.
    She’s like a tied-up dog that doesn’t know what’s coming next, Eddie thought.
    Ever so gently, he began peeling off the tape. She jerked her head away to finish the job, then spat a gob of frothy saliva onto the floor.
    “Get me out of this fucking chair!”
    Eddie stepped back.
    “Come on!” she commanded. “Go get that knife and cut me out!”
    Too stunned to reply, Eddie retrieved the blade and began slicing through the tape binding her wrists and ankles.
    “Where is he?” she demanded.
    “Outside. I tied him—”
    “Piece of shit thinks he can do this to us? Ten million dollars? Where’s he get off asking ten million dollars? Come on! Get this off.”
    As the knife zipped through the last of the tape, the woman heaved herself from the chair. The sheet fell off her shoulders. She did not try to snatch it up or hide her nakedness, but stamped to where her clothes lay muddled. Within seconds, she’d thrown on slacks and a blouse inside a sweater, leaving her underthings on the floor.
     “Where’d he think we’d get it?” she fumed, pulling on a pointed-toe ankle boot. “From the bank my husband runs? Fucking BUM! Thinks he can cut me? Because we wouldn’t keep him on as caretaker here? Thinks we owe him a fucking living—”
    “Wait. This is your place?”
    “Closed on it last week. Supposed to be our weekend-summer getaway. Scum out there? Name’s Cowan. He took care of it for the sellers and wanted us to keep him on. At three hundred a week? We told him to pound it. Then he shows up this morning, sticks that gun in my face, and tells me to get my ‘mangy twat’ in the car and drive here.” Her voice became a vicious hiss. “Kept digging into me with that knife, telling me he was going to slit my throat.”
    Eddie keyed 911 into the man’s phone. “What’s the address?” he asked. “So I can tell the cops.”
    “Screw ‘em! I’ll take care of this myself.” Her broad hips and stubby legs propelled her up the stairs and through the front door.
    “Wait,” Eddie called, following. “Where are we?”
    But she was way ahead, moving fast, headed straight for Cowan. The rain had slackened to a drizzle, but it was colder. The work lamp shining through the broken window and the garage’s halogen spot made the night bright. Eddie could see the woman’s breath slip-stream over her shoulder, like smoke from a locomotive.
    Cowan was conscious now. He’d hoisted himself upright against one of the birches, his legs out straight, his hands still taped behind him.
    “YOU FUCK!” she screamed. Kicking, she buried the toe of her boot in Cowan’s solar plexus. His breath exploded with a “pahh” and he slumped to the side. The woman’s foot lashed out again and Eddie heard a crunch as her heel slammed into his face. More blood flowed and Cowan choked.
    “How’s it feel? Huh? You trash!” She turned to kick again.
    “Stop!” Eddie cried, grabbing her arm to pull her away.
    But she was strong and shook him off.
    “Let go! I’m gonna kill him. He was gonna kill me? Now I’m gonna kill him.”
    Eddie caught her and wrapped her in a hug. “Nobody’s killing anyone. We’re going to call the police and they’re going to arrest him—”
    “Rich cooz,” Cowan wheezed, baring bloody teeth. “Wish I had killed ya. But not til I put ya on TV and chopped off that finga with all them sparklers so everybody knows we mean business and hubby’d wire the ten million where we told him. Once we got it, I was gonna enjoy slittin’ your throat good and slow—cheat him, and you, just like ya been cheatin’ us all these years. Just like all the other guys is gonna do. Take ya fuckin money, kill what ya love most, so’s your kind ain’t left with nuthin ‘cept alone, just like ya left us.”
    “You hear this scum? He thinks we owe him—”
    “YEAH, YA OWE ME!” Cowan roared. “Lobsta’ed for ya big shots all my life, so’s ya can have ya fancy dinners down to Boston and New York. Every year harder. Gas, gear, and bait gone up. Limits and stocks gone down. More rules, more regs. Mortgaged my boat and then my house just to make expenses. Then ya fuckin’ put the economy in the shitter—”
    “I had nothing to do with—”
    “—and decide ya don’t want lobster no more so’s prices’r so shot to shit it ain’t worth goin’ out. Then ya bank takes my boat and my house, and ya won’t even give me work cutting grass and fixing things up. Wife leaves. Takes my boys cuz I can’t provide. So fuck yeah, ya owe me! Lazy fuckin’ whowa!”
    “What did you call me?”
    “I called ya a lazy fuckin’ whowa, cuz I seen ya layin up all day in that fancy house ya got in Portland, watching TV and yellin atchya maid, ‘bring me lunch,’ and ‘where’s my wine,’ just waitin’ for hubby to come home so’s ya can do him right on the parlor sofa—”
    Lunging for Eddie, the woman grabbed the pistol from his belt, then pushed off and backed away, keeping the gun pointed at him. Crouching, she held it steady two-handed, cocked the hammer, and swung it towards Cowan. Her face was merciless.
    Jesus, Eddie thought, she’s really going to do it. She’s really going to—
    He launched himself and struck her arm just as the gun fired. He heard the bullet tear at branches and ricochet off stone. Eddie looked back at her. Now her expression was hateful. She re-cocked the revolver and pointed it right at Eddie’s head. A triumphant gleam lit her eyes.
    Eddie’s hand shot out. “Don’t!” he started to plead.
    But it was too late. She’d already pulled the trigger.

    He woke up days later to sunlight streaming through a window and his Ma and Stacy looking down at him. He struggled to sit up, but his left side felt anchored. A heavy cast ran from his shoulder to his hand.
    “Easy Eddie,” Stacy soothed.
     “Wh’ am I?” he croaked. His throat felt dry and raw; his tongue too big for his mouth.
     “I’ll go get the doctah,” his mother said, hurrying out the door.
    “You’re in the hospital,” Stacy said. “You were shot and you’ve had a bad time, but everything’s going to be okay.”
    “Hurts.”
    “The doctor said it would. They’ve been giving you morphine, but now they want you off it. They’ll give you something less potent to manage the pain. Your Mom and I’ll be right here. And everyone’s rooting for you. You should see all the cards and flowers people sent.”
    “Why?” The word was a huge effort. He felt so slow, like he was swimming through glue.
    “Why? Eddie, you’re a hero. The police, the FBI, the news people, they’re all saying if it hadn’t been for you, Celia Knox would be dead. Daddy’s over the moon about you. As soon as you’re ready, he and Ken Knox—that’s Celia’s husband—want to sit down and talk about your future. And everyone wants to interview you. Do you remember any of it? It must have been awful: Cowan shooting you like that.”
    “Wasn’t.”
    “Wasn’t what?”
    Wasn’t Cowan, he wanted to say. But he couldn’t. He was already whirling back down to sleep.
    He woke again a few hours later with his arm on fire. It stayed that way for days, making him writhe and groan through clenched teeth. Stacy and his Ma stayed with him, sponging his sweat-slick face, reading to him, watching TV with him, anything to take his mind off it. The Percocet, and then the Tylenol, helped.
    TV and the papers put him fully in the picture. Celia Knox was the wife of Ken Knox, CEO of Knox Worldwide Bank and Trust, New England’s largest bank. Dan Cowan abducted her intending to demand a $10,000,000.00 ransom. On the same day, the spouses of nine other business leaders were kidnapped. $10,000,000.00 was demanded for each.
    Of all ten victims, Mrs Knox was the only one to come home alive. In every other case, even though the ransom was paid, the only thing returned was a note that said: “For years, you cheated us. Now, here’s how we cheat you.” Each note was signed “The Knights of the 99” and contained a postscript stating where to find the victim’s remains.
    Dan Cowan was being held without bond, charged not only with kidnapping and conspiracy, but attempted murder for shooting Eddie.
    Eddie knew he should correct that false accusation. Law and justice demanded that Cowan pay only for his crimes, and that Celia Knox pay for hers. At least, that’s how Eddie saw it. She’d maimed him and she should pay.
    But Stacy kept talking about how much her father and Ken Knox wanted to help Eddie launch his future. And he couldn’t afford to throw that away, could he? He needed time to figure it all out. So he said nothing to anyone.
    Finally, the doctor pronounced Eddie ready for visitors. Stacy’s dad was the first to arrive with Ken Knox in tow. J. Thomson Fillmore looked fresh-faced and eager. But the bald, portly Knox had greenish smudges under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in days.
    “Thank you Eddie,” Knox began hoarsely. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I owe you everything. Celia’s my everything, you see... and I...I don’t know where I’d be without her.” His eyes filled and he looked away. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually...It’s just that this has all been...”
    “It’s okay, Ken,” Fillmore said. “Eddie understands. You sit and I’ll—”
    “No,” Knox said harshly. “If I’m going deeper into Eddie’s debt, I’ll be the one to ask.” He turned his back on Fillmore to face Eddie. “Look, son, we know Celia shot you. She told us. And she’s so sorry. You can’t imagine how sorry. She was just so terrified. She never would have done anything like that if she hadn’t been so frightened.”
    Eddie remembered how Celia Knox looked going after Cowan. How hate, not fear, had driven her.
    “But she hasn’t been arrested, has she?” Eddie prompted.
    “No, she told the police Cowan shot you,” Knox admitted uneasily.
    “And what did Cowan say?”
    “Nothing,” said Fillmore. “He’s not talking. Claims he’s a ‘prisoner of war,’ if you can believe that malarkey.”
    “And you want me to back her story?”
    Knox nodded, staring at the floor.
    “To lie for you? Falsely accuse a man? Perjure myself in court, if it went that far? Violate my oath as an attorney?”
    “Relax, Eddie, you haven’t taken that oath yet,” Fillmore counseled.
    “And you think that makes a difference?” Eddie asked softly.
    “The thing is,” Knox pleaded, “if they learned the truth, I’d lose her—probably for good, considering our ages. I couldn’t...I don’t think I could bear... Forty years we’ve been together... I just...I just...love her so.”
    Knox’s voice kept cracking. Tears finally spilled. All Eddie could think was: My God, he looks just how I’d feel if I ever lost Stacy.
     “Look, here’s what I’m willing to do,” Knox said in a rush. “Fillmore says you want to work for him, but there’s a problem because your background’s not good enough for his precious firm. Want to know the truth, I’ve known this guy and his firm from around Portland for years and it’s them that aren’t good enough for you.
    “But I understand why you want what you want. When you love someone...Anyway, here’s my offer. I told Fillmore I’ll give him all the bank’s business if he hires you and assigns you exclusively to us and puts you on the fast track to partnership. As long as you stay with him, the bank’ll stay. If you leave, the bank’ll come with you. That way he can’t screw you over and everybody gets what they want. You and your gal have a great life together. Fillmore gets a big client. And I...we...”
    “That’s quite an offer,” Eddie said, realizing all his dreams had come true. All he had to do was tell one little lie.
    “Sure is,” Fillmore said. “Now, the U.S. Attorney himself is waiting downstairs. This thing’s gotten so much play, everyone wants in on the act. I said you’re still too weak to give a full statement. But he wants to get something on the record. Just a few questions. Let me go tell him you’re ready.”
    “I guess,” Eddie said. His chest felt squeezed. His underarms were sopping.
    Fillmore ushered Knox out the door and came back minutes later with the U.S. Attorney. A tall, stoop-shouldered man with blood-hound eyes, he brought a stenographer and two F.B.I. agents who arranged themselves around the bed.
    “Mr. Mara, I’m Martin Gould. First, let me congratulate you on a job well done in the face of extraordinary circumstances. I see you’ve been following the news,” he said pointing to the stack of magazines and newspapers on a chair. “I take it you know about these Knights and what they’ve done.”
    “What they’re alleged to have done,” said Eddie.
    “Ah yes, I’d forgotten you’re a law student. I stand corrected. Alleged to have done.”
    “The thing I don’t get is: who are these Knights? Where did they come from?”
    “We don’t know. We think they met through the OCCUPY movement. But we can’t be sure, not unless Cowan talks. That’s why we want to charge him with everything we can, so we’ll have something to bargain with. The more time we threaten him with, the more incentive he’ll have to trade what he knows.
    “I don’t have a lot to ask today, seeing as you’re still recovering. We’ll do a more comprehensive statement later. All I want to know, or confirm really, is: who shot you? Can you describe him?”
     Eddie Mara knew he stood before two doors. Through one lay everything: a dream job and a grand life with Stacy with all the money they, and his Ma, would ever need.
    There was no telling what he’d find through the other—except no job, lots of enmity, and maybe a good night’s sleep.
    Oh Eddie, he thought mournfully as he opened his mouth to answer, you are so dumb. So very, very dumb.

William de Rham biography (20121029)

    Born and raised in New York City, William de Rham is a graduate of Georgetown University and the University of California, Hastings College of the Law. His work has appeared in “Chrysalis Reader,” “RiverSedge,” “Neonbeam,” “The Battered Suitcase,” “Ascent Aspirations,” “Boston Literary Magazine,” and the anthology “Late-Night River Lights,” as well as other publications. He lives in Maine.

Canary Heaven

    New York Times, December 22, 1985
    BAKU, Azerbaijan SSR (Tass)

    This dispatch, dated November 21, 1985, did not reach our editorial offices until yesterday. The reason for the one-month delay is unknown. We are printing the lengthy dispatch in its entirety, in view of the importance of the research it describes.

    Baku seems an unlikely venue for advanced research. Yet this is where Doctor Boris Ivanovich Kazansky has labored for more than twenty years at the frontiers of cellular biology and genetics. In a huge concrete-walled building, hemmed in by two oil refineries just north of the city limits, Dr. Kazansky has created a large population of what he calls “super-canaries.”
    Nikolai Ilyich Myshkin, an Izvestiya staff reporter, was recently permitted to tour this top-secret research facility and interview Dr. Kazansky. Here is the entire text of Comrade Myshkin’s report on the great work being performed within these austere walls:

    After a delay of more than three months, I finally secured the clearances required for entry into the massive building that houses a major research project on the cutting edge of biological sciences—a project heretofore cloaked in secrecy. According to the Baku Commissar of Security, I am the first outsider to enter this fortress of research since its dedication in 1963. While this great honor weighs heavily on my shoulders, I must admit, without any false modesty, that I am eminently qualified by education and experience to bring the story of Dr. Kazansky and his canaries to a waiting world.
    Dr. Kazansky’s research is housed in an immense, windowless, building, seven stories high, covering more than four full city blocks. It is truly a self-contained city, where the workers have no need to go forth into the outside world. The research facility is known formally as “The Institute for Advanced Genetics Research,” but in Baku it is called “Canary Heaven,” which leads me to believe that the facility’s elaborate security measures have proven insufficient to close off all leaks of information.
    At 07:00 on a Monday morning, I presented myself at the main entrance—a small door in a seven-story blank wall—identified only by a small bronze plaque, “Genetics Research Facility: Authorized Personnel Only.” Upon passing through a metal detector, I entered the first security check area, a large room with at least fifty employees seated in front of television monitors. Each worker wore a white uniform with the logo of the Institute imprinted on the back—a red dot surrounded by concentric circles, a highly stylized representation of a living cell. Proceeding to the next room, I was handed a seven-page form, which I completed under the watchful eye of an uncommonly attractive female security guard.
    Once I had filled out the form and passed through the final security check, which included fingerprinting and retinal scanning, I was greeted by Dr. Kazansky himself—a bronzed giant with piercing blue eyes and a shock of white hair. He was dressed in tan shorts, sandals, and a flowered shirt open at the neck. I bowed and presented my card, but Dr. Kazansky was not one to stand upon ceremony. He put his arm around my shoulders. “Greetings and welcome, Nikolai Ilyich, my dear young friend. I shall call you Kolya. And please address me as Boris Ivanovich; the title of Doctor is entirely superfluous.”
    I was quite taken aback. “Thank you, Doctor— I mean Boris Ivanovich. I am honored by the opportunity to converse with you, but I must also confess to some puzzlement. After more than two decades during which your work has remained secret, why will you allow me, a lowly member of the working press, to witness the fruits of your labor. Am I permitted to report everything I see here?”
    Dr. Kazansky’s laughter boomed and echoed from the walls. “Indeed, indeed. It is time to tell the citizens of our great Soviet Union what we have accomplished; time to let the whole world enjoy the fruits of our labors, the culmination of research of three generations: my grandfather, Grigor Petrovich Kazansky; my father, Ivan Grigorevich Kazansky; and now my own humble contribution, my life’s work, building on the foundation created by these two giants of genetics research.” His voice lowered, and he spoke to me confidentially: “Until I became certain that we have achieved a major breakthrough, I was reluctant to share my research with the outside world. But now is the time; and you, Kolya, will be my channel to broadcast our successes. So please, please, take copious notes.”
    I took my notebook from my coat pocket, but Dr. Kazansky handed me a clipboard with a pad of yellow, ruled paper. “Remember, if you will, that I said copious notes.” Taking my arm, he led me to an unmarked door at the far end of the room. “Now, my dear Kolya, you will see the inner workings of our modest research facility. First, we shall tour the lower levels. I trust you have worn comfortable shoes, as the entire journey will be taken under our own footpower—by shank’s mare, if I may use a phrase so colorfully enunciated by Scottish writers of the eighteenth century.”

    At the beginning of our tour, Dr. Kazansky summarized the history of this unique facility and an astounding research program spanning more than a century. His grandfather first became interested in canaries as an object for genetic research in 1850, when he traveled to the Amazon rainforest and observed the huge variety of colorful songbirds. Among eighteen hitherto unknown species and variants that he discovered was a bird resembling the domestic canary but much larger, with yellow plumage that dazzled the eye. Its song, somewhat similar to that of the domestic canary, was far louder and had many more variations. Dr. Kazansky’s grandfather reported that some of these birds sang so beautifully he thought he recognized familiar tunes. He brought back twelve of these canaries, eventually named Serenus canarius Kazansky. These twelve, along with the hundreds of birds subsequently brought back to Baku by the two elder Kazanskys, formed the basis for a study of natural and induced mutations covering sixty generations of canaries and three generations of the Kazansky family. The canaries proved to be ideal subjects for genetic research, as they bred relentlessly, each female producing at least six clutches of eggs annually.
    The Baku research project initially occupied an ancient brick building, converted from its original use as a slaughterhouse. As the project expanded, sections and departments moved into scores of buildings scattered throughout the city and environs. Construction of the present facility was initiated in 1956, and all operations moved into this building prior to its dedication in 1963.

    Dr. Kazansky related this fascinating history as we walked through the length and breadth of the first floor, for the most part filled with very ordinary-looking offices. We then descended to the lowest of six underground levels, where I saw massive air-conditioning machinery, a water treatment plant, a hydroponic garden, refrigerated food warehouses, huge turbogenerators, and an electric power distribution station. Illumination came from a luminous ceiling, which was at least twelve meters above the spotless white floor. We encountered only four technicians, dressed in white coveralls bearing the Institute logo. Dr. Kazansky explained that all the machines and facilities were under full automatic control. He pointed to a door in the center of one wall—somewhat similar to an automatic garage door but much larger, at least eight meters in width and height. “Behind this door is a tunnel that leads to our nuclear power plant, eighty feet below the surface. Another tunnel, on the opposite side of the building, permits the entry of trucks bringing in food, equipment, and supplies. But in the near future we shall be able to grow or synthesize all our food; and eventually we shall become completely self-sufficient, capable of surviving any natural or man-made disaster with the possible exception of an all-out nuclear war.”
    We then inspected briefly the other five underground levels, which are devoted to housing and amenities for the workers. Actually, I should say four levels, since we never inspected the fifth level. I asked why we bypassed this floor, but Dr. Kazansky mumbled something like “Nothing to see there” and hurried me up to the fourth level.
    I am pleased to report that the workers’ apartments are modern—even modernistic—and far more commodious than those available to workers in Moscow. Most impressive is the recreation center, which includes an Olympic-size swimming pool, weight room, basketball courts, and running track. A 110-bed hospital is equipped with all of the miracle machines of modern medicine. Schooling is provided for children up to 18 years, and the quality of education is evidenced by the high percentage of graduates who are admitted to Moscow State University. Each residential level includes a day care center, communal kitchen, dining hall, taproom, and American-style discotheque.
    Dr. Kazansky explained that most of the 3,021 workers in the building are engaged in caring for the canaries. As he put it, “We have made great progress in automation, but some of the commonplace tasks in bird husbandry still require the personal touch. And I truly believe that our honored avian guests appreciate the attention.”
    Astounded by the large number of workers, I asked him, “Where do these workers come from? And do they all live here, or do some live elsewhere and come in each day?”
    Dr. Kazansky seemed to be amused at my naîveté. “Of course, all workers are free to come and go as they please. But once they have become part of our team, they have no reason to venture into the outside world. Many of the workers, like myself, have lived here the entire twenty-two years since the facility’s dedication. We are a closely knit community—a workers’ commune, the ne plus ultra of enlightened socialism.” He fell silent, as if pondering the wonders of his creation.
    We concluded our morning tour with luncheon in the fourth-level dining hall, a large room with a white tiled floor and a sky-blue ceiling. Fresh roses had been placed on each of the linen-covered tables. The extensive menu included Western foods such as Khamburger a la McDonald’s, but I preferred Russian and Azerbaijan delicacies—a salad constructed with a bewildering variety of local greens, a flavorful but very different sort of borscht, and beluga caviar from the Kura River, all accompanied by choice Armenian wines. I would have gladly stayed to sample more of the gustatory delights, but Dr. Kazansky insisted that we leave. He stood up and handed me the clipboard.
    “Come now, Kolya, we must proceed.” He took my arm and propelled me toward the exit. “Many more wonders await you, and we must keep moving in order to finish before our closing hour of 18:00.”

    Our tour now took us to the aboveground levels. Dr. Kazansky took my arm and led me to an unmarked elevator. “Now, my dear Kolya,” he told me, “you will witness the fruits of our labor.” As we emerged from the elevator onto the fourth floor, my brain could barely encompass the enormity of the room that we entered. As far as the eye could see, it was occupied entirely by row after row of huge, shiny, black cubes, possibly four meters on a side. Dr. Kazansky explained: “These are our glass cages—or apartments, as we prefer to call them. This room, occupying the entire fourth floor, is just one of three such apartment complexes, now housing more than ninety thousand canaries. The glass walls that you see are currently in the opaque mode. Here, let me demonstrate.”
    He flicked a switch, and the glass walls of the nearest cube became transparent. I saw six birds, about the size of robins, with brilliant red plumage. “Ten more,” he told me, “are hiding in the birdhouses or in the liana-covered tree you see in the far corner.” The six visible birds were pursuing normal occupations—preening, flying from perch to perch, eating, defecating.
     “These canaries, like most of the other newcomers, have not yet been trained to use the toilet,” Dr. Kazansky explained. “Fortunately, we have developed a self-cleaning floor that converts the waste into an odorless fertilizer. . . . But come now! Let us continue.”
    As we walked down one row of cages, Dr. Kazansky switched the walls of each cage to the transparent mode. I saw birds of all sizes and colors, from the original yellow through green, red, and blue to jet-black. The smallest were hummingbird-size, the largest comparable to turkeys. Dr. Kazansky explained that some birds, even larger, were housed in the lower floors along with the workers. “Thus,” he told me, “our two species learn to live and work together to the greater good of all.”
    I must note that it is misleading to speak of this place as a “room,” since it covers an area of more than four city blocks. There are three such rooms, occupying the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors. The view across a “room,” down the alleyway between two adjacent rows of gleaming black cages, has a surreal quality.
    As we walked down the lane between two rows of cages, Dr. Kazansky explained that the work of the Institute had proceeded in several directions. “One line of research has been directed toward raising the intelligence level of the canaries. We have several families with IQs above 100, and some remarkable individuals are so intelligent the IQ becomes meaningless. They excel particularly in verbal skills.” He stopped by one cage and flipped a switch, revealing four stately, pure-white birds, resembling cranes. As they stalked around the periphery of their apartment, they conversed with each other in a language I did not understand.
    “Come now, comrades,” Dr. Kazansky enjoined them. “As a courtesy to our guest, please speak in Russian, or English if you must.” He turned to me: “They speak in Swahili when they do not wish to be understood.”
    The largest of the four birds approached the wall and spoke directly to Dr. Kazansky in flawless English with just a hint of a New England accent: “My dear Boris, we welcome your guest, who, we trust, will be capable of comprehending the great heights of knowledge and culture to which we have attained.”
     I was thunderstruck not only by the perfect diction and syntax, but also by the familiarity with which they addressed Dr. Kazansky, calling him by his given name without the patronymic. Almost, it seemed, they were the dominant species, addressing a servant. I fully expected Dr. Kazansky to correct them, but he answered quite humbly: “I believe you will find our guest worthy of your consideration, and I hope we can participate in fruitful discussion.” The birds did not answer, resuming their stately walk around the apartment.
    Without commenting on their rude behavior, Dr. Kazansky blanked out the apartment walls and led me farther down the row. I felt that some explanation was needed, but he took a different tack: “Research on avian intelligence and vocabulary is very interesting, but it is not my major interest. My own research reflects my early musical career as a well-known violinist and conductor. In my mid-thirties, I abandoned my music and turned to the life sciences. When I began to take over my father’s work in the late 1950s, the new research facility was already under construction. Naturally, my early studies were devoted primarily to the variation and mutation of song patterns in our large population of honored guests. I must continually remind myself to call these wonderful creatures ‘canaries.’ Although they represent every color of the rainbow and range in size from hummingbird to condor, they are still members of the species Serenus canarius, which will now carry its own classification with a vast number of subspecies and variants.”
    I shall not attempt to describe Dr. Kazansky’s birdsong studies. My extensive notes will no doubt be analyzed thoroughly by specialists who are better qualified than I. Suffice it to say that Dr. Kazansky’s work has been so revolutionary that he felt obliged to seal off the facility from the public while he labored in splendid isolation for twenty-two years.
    What I can describe is the end result of this great effort. During the last ninety minutes of our tour, I was privileged to witness unbelievable performances by Dr. Kazansky’s birds. I find it difficult to muster up adequate words.

    Dr. Kazansky ushered me to the top floor, where, in contrast to the other floors, a wing is walled off from the general population by a cement block partition and a heavy, barred security door. He pressed his thumb on an identification panel, and the door swung open. We entered, and the door closed behind us with a resounding clang. My first impression was that of a spacious gallery in a museum, each of the walls displaying several paintings that appeared to be originals; I recognized an El Greco and a Rubens. The room is spacious and uncluttered. In contrast to the “government green” of the other three residential floors, the walls here are painted a soft white, acquiring just a hint of rose from the overhead lighting.
    Dr. Kazansky pointed to the first of a row of six glass cages. “This wing of the building has been reserved for our star performers. By selective breeding, we now have several families of birds who are musical geniuses. I personally tend their quarters, with the assistance of two of my most trusted managers. No one else is allowed to enter.”
    Dr. Kazansky switched the walls of the first cage to the transparent mode. He bowed to its sole occupant, a stunningly beautiful bird the size of a wren, with brilliant blue plumage. Then he activated the sound system. “Maria, may I present Nikolai Ilyich Myshkin? You may address him as Kolya.”
    Maria favored me with a sidewise glance and waved one wing in my direction. Dr. Kazansky turned back to me. “Maria is our most talented diva, specializing in opera. As befits her status, she has her own house.”
    Maria emitted a series of excited chirps, apparently in 3/4 time. Dr. Kazansky spoke into the microphone: “Maria, please let this gentleman hear your best notes. Sing whatever you like; pick your favorite.”
    Maria flew up to the top perch, cocked her head, spread her wings, and emitted a few trial notes. Then she launched into the Bell Song from Lakmé, and I must say that I have never heard a better rendition. With a voice reminiscent of Lily Pons, she sparkled through the notes with all the precision and ease of Galli-Curci in her prime, along with perfect diction—something that often eludes even the best coloraturas. . . . I could scarcely breathe.
    As she finished, I recovered sufficiently to clap, but Dr. Kazansky seized my arm. “Maria would really prefer no applause. She was just warming up, giving you a little demonstration.”
    Maria hopped down onto a lower perch and sat demurely, head lowered. I swear I could detect a sardonic gleam in her eye.
    I addressed my guide: “Doctor—pardon me, Boris Ivanovich—this is astounding! How could you possibly train a bird for such a performance?”
    He put a finger to his lips. “She doesn’t like to be referred to as a ‘bird.’ Her name is Maria! As to the training, she did it on her own. I merely helped by letting her listen to operas—many operas. Right, Maria, my darling?”
    Maria looked up at the ceiling and trilled a few notes. Brunhilde in Gotterdammerung, I think. Then she tucked her head under a wing and apparently went to sleep.
    “Come now, my little Maria,” he coaxed her. “Please come forth and give this gentleman another sample of your genius. He is our friend, and he will tell the whole world of your beauty, your talent, your soul.”
    Dr. Kazansky’s face was flushed. He dropped to his knees and held out his arms in entreaty: “Please, my dearest, please!”
    Maria emitted a muffled chirp but continued to hide her head. Dr. Kazansky rose to his feet and spoke more calmly. “Very well, Maria, you make your point. No more singing until you are fed.”
    As he turned back to me, I realized that I had been staring at this tableau, nearly dropping my clipboard. He shook my arm gently. “Of all our guests, Maria is my favorite. I feel that no words are needed between us; we can speak soul to soul. . . . But my dear Kolya, you must report all of this to the world, so please continue to take notes.”
    I clasped both his hands in mine. “What can I say, my dear Boris Ivanovich? I struggle for words adequate to describe the wonders of your research, but only ‘amazing’ comes to my mind.”
    “Amazing, Kolya? As the Americans say, you ain’t seen nothing yet!”

    Dr. Kazansky switched the next cage into the transparent mode, and I saw that its sole occupants were four coal-black birds, their sizes ranging from super-raven to small-robin, all wearing red-and-white striped vests. On a single perch in the exact center of the cage, the four canaries sat side by side in order of increasing size from left to right. “The particular genius of this group,” Dr. Kazansky explained, “manifests itself in their mastery of the entire repertoire of music written or transcribed for male vocal quartets—from Negro spirituals to the classics. They are now rehearsing barbershop quartets, in anticipation of a forthcoming concert.”
    He activated the sound system, and I heard a very creditable rendition of “Sweet Adeline,” in exquisite close harmony. The words, in English, came through with startling clarity. My only criticism would be that the bass voice was not quite as deep and resonant as one may expect in this genre. But of course, that deficiency paled into insignificance in comparison with the amazing fact that these birds were singing in the same register as humans hundreds of time their size. “How did you achieve this miracle?” I asked. “Or is the sound converted electronically?”
    “No indeed,” Dr. Kazansky replied, shaking my shoulder for emphasis. “Control, control, control—not the size of the vocal apparatus—is the critical factor. Once these canaries learned what we wanted, they soon became masters of pitch and timbre control. If you would like an example in the world of classical music, consider the diminutive Chinese basso Yi-Kwei Sze. Listen to his Friar Laurence in Berlioz’ Romeo and Juliet, the definitive performance of that role. His initial notes evoke shock and disbelief that this great voice can emanate from such a small person. But of course, that is nothing in comparison with the success our guests have achieved.”
    “Sweet Adeline” came to a close, and the quartet bowed to an imaginary audience, then launched into a spirited rendition of “Way Down Yonder in the Corn Field,” taking care to avoid the politically incorrect N-word. The solution was ingenious: “Some folks say dat a Yankee won’t steal . . .”
    In reply to my questioning look, Dr. Kazansky told me, “Yes, they worked out this Yankee term by themselves. I need not tell you that these four are among the most intelligent of our birds. When they tour America in the near future, it will be important to avoid antagonizing either the civil liberties gang or unreconstructed Southerners.”
    He addressed the largest of the birds; “Hector, can I persuade you to tell our guest something of your group, how it began and what you have achieved?”
    Hector drew himself up to full height and answered in a bass voice: “You forget, Boris, that I prefer to be called by my Russian name, Konstantin Petrovich. And rather than subject our guest to lengthy stories about our success in a very minor field of the musical world, I suggest that you take him to the underground level where the real research is being conducted.”
    Dr. Kazansky switched off the audio abruptly and took my arm. “We must move on, Kolya; there is much to see.” We passed several more cages, all in the glossy black opaque mode. Dr. Kazansky explained: “Most residents of these houses are engaged in experiments at the outer limits of avian music. We shall bring to the world a new understanding of the true meaning of sound, a new approach to communication, thus forging a new link between species, unifying the entire living world!” He spread his arms as if to encircle the terrestrial globe. “But to be more specific, let me say that our immediate goal is production of the entire gamut of musical sounds—every musical instrument, every voice, every genre from the blues to Gregorian chants, Oriental, Native American, Latin American, Maori—well, you get the idea.” His eyes flashed, and he waved both arms in a sweeping gesture. “We are even experimenting with the haunting, esoteric song of whales!”
    “Wunderbar!” I exclaimed. “Truly, Boris Ivanovich, your research will tower over all that has gone before. And may I be permitted to view one of these experiments?”
    “Of course, of course. All will become clear shortly, when you view the end result of our major project. Come now, enter our auditorium.” He gestured toward a double door at the far side of the room.
    Unlocking the door, he led me into a miniature auditorium with a sloped floor. My eyes were attracted first to the seats of the auditorium, about half of which were perches rather than chairs. A few were occupied by birds of various colors and sizes. “Some of these are musicians-in-training,” Dr. Kazansky told me. They come here to listen—to learn and absorb the sounds of classical music—so much more effective from a live symphony orchestra than from tapes. The others in the audience are orchestra members whose instruments are not required for the Mozart symphony you are about to hear.”
    At the front of the auditorium was a stage, set with a miniature podium, chairs, and music stands, all in perfect scale. Birds began to wander in from the wings and occupy the chairs. Oddly enough, very few of them carried any musical instrument. I asked Dr. Kazansky, “Is this an orchestra? But where are their instruments?”
    Boris Ivanovich threw back his head and laughed, his bass voice echoing through the auditorium. “My dear Kolya, herein lies our secret, the genius of our accomplishments, the wonderful result that even our own people once regarded as impossible. Let me clarify. We have not yet succeeded in developing canaries with the physical apparatus required to play wind instruments, for example the tuba—although we do have one very talented oboe player. And mastery of the bass viol has completely eluded us. Instead, our musicians use their vocal apparatus to reproduce the sounds of every instrument ever used in orchestras—even that of the booming cannon in the 1812 Overture!”
    The birds continued to drift in. When most of the chairs were occupied, the orchestra began to tune up. The oboist, one of the few members using an actual instrument, sounded his A, an absolutely true 440. A small, jet-black bird on the left side of the stage stood up and matched his treble voice to the oboe’s frequency, then adjusted his G, D, and E. The concertmaster, apparently. Then each section in turn locked onto those frequencies.
    I counted more than 50 players on the stage. About half of them had black or dark gray plumage, while the others sported all colors of the spectrum. I asked Dr. Kazansky, “What do the colors of the orchestra members signify? They seem to be distributed randomly through all of the sections.”
    His smile widened into a grin. “It will no doubt surprise you to learn that it is purely a matter of sex. The black players are male, those with brilliant plumage are female—quite the reverse of wild bird plumage—and the grays are somewhat undecided. At one time we planned to clothe all of the players in sober black garments similar to those of the Moscow Symphony—white tie and tails for the gentlemen, black evening dresses for the ladies. However, when we started to implement this plan, our musician’s union rejected it and threatened to call a strike. We acceded to their demand that they be allowed to perform while wearing only their natural plumage. Today, our relations with the musicians are much improved. The orchestra is entirely self-governing, and I act only as a one-man advisory board.”
    By this time, the orchestra had completed its tuning and sat quietly. Then a huge black bird with a white crest strode from the wings and mounted the podium, to a smattering of applause from the audience. “Our maestro, Arturo Koussevitsky,” Dr. Kazansky whispered into my ear. “We have several capable conductors, but none can match his great musicianship and his flair for the dramatic. And his talents surpass even those of his great namesakes.”
    The maestro rapped his music stand, raised his baton, and brought forth those first magic notes of what I consider to be Mozart’s greatest work, No. 40, the G Minor Symphony. I stood transfixed, gripping the rail to keep my balance, while the maestro guided the orchestra through the intricacies of the first movement. In the past, I have heard performances that may have been more technically correct, but none of them could match the sheer elegance of this performance or capture so fully the pure essence of Mozart’s genius.
    The first movement ended, and the maestro called for retuning, even though my ear could not detect the slightest deviation from perfect pitch and harmony. I anticipated the joys of the second movement, but Dr. Kazansky grasped my arm and, without saying a word, led me out of the auditorium.
    As we retraced our steps, I noted that all the cages were blacked out and silent. As Dr. Kazansky hurried me along, he commented, “All our operations shut down at 18:00, and you must be out of the building by then.”
    I tried to get him to explain, but he only muttered, “These later hours are devoted to improving relations with our guests.” I must say that his manner had changed completely, now bordering on actual rudeness. In complete silence, we rode the elevator down to the first floor and threaded our way through the maze of offices, now mostly deserted.
    At the front door of the building, he shook my hand formally. “Nikolai Ilyich, please accept my gratitude for your patience during our extended tour. There is still more for you to see, and perhaps we can arrange a future visit. In the meantime, please report faithfully to the outside world the many wonders you have witnessed.”
    “It is I who owe you a debt of gratitude??”
    He cut me off abruptly and pushed me through the door. “Farewell, Nikolai Ilyich.”

    New York Times, January 5, 1987
    BAKU, Azerbaijan SSR (Tass)

    This dispatch, under the byline of Nikolai Ilyich Myshkin, is the first report this newspaper has received from Baku since the Soviet Union imposed a blackout more than a year ago. Myshkin, an Izvestiya staff reporter, continuing his story on the Institute for Advanced Genetics Research, describes his efforts to regain access to the top-secret facility known informally as Canary Heaven. His story poses more questions than it provides answers. Nevertheless, we are printing this lengthy dispatch in its entirety, in view of the importance of the research conducted in this facility and the apparent threat to the future of the human race.

    More than two years have passed since I reported on my tour of the facility known as Canary Heaven. Guided by the Director himself, Doctor Boris Ivanovich Kazansky, I was privileged to witness the astounding results of a unique program of genetic research. Starting more than a century ago with one South American canary species, the scientists at Canary Heaven, through selective breeding, have produced birds of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
    As I reported previously, many of these birds possess musical talents beyond our wildest imagination. In particular, their performances of symphonic and operatic works surpass the best efforts of human musicians. When Doctor Kazansky conversed with his star performers, in either Russian or English, they spoke in well-organized sentences and paragraphs, displaying vocabularies typical of university graduates. For the most part, they refused to talk directly to me, and I received the distinct impression that they did not consider me worthy of their attention. It also became clear that in their discussions with Doctor Kazansky, they dominated the conversation and often treated him with thinly veiled disdain.
    At the end of our tour, Doctor Kazansky’s genial manner changed abruptly, and he ushered me out of the building, barely suggesting that I might be allowed to return for a more comprehensive tour of the facility.
    Two weeks later, having received no answer in repeated attempts to contact Doctor Kazansky by telephone, I returned to Canary Heaven, only to find the front entrance sealed. The bronze plaque was gone, replaced by a crudely lettered sign “NO ADMITTANCE.” I walked completely around the huge structure, finding only blank walls and no sign of activity within.
    Next, I walked about a half mile west, where the entrance to the supply tunnel presented a scene of feverish activity. More than fifty semi rigs were lined up, each waiting its turn to enter the tunnel. Some of these rigs appeared to be ordinary grocery supply trucks. Others had flatbed trailers loaded with steel beams and heavy construction equipment. I also saw trailers loaded with transformers, turbines, and other power plant equipment. As each truck stopped upon reaching the entrance to the tunnel, the driver stepped down from the cab and was replaced by a driver in a white uniform bearing the Institute logo. I was allowed to approach close enough to see that the Institute workers were remarkably similar in appearance. They never spoke, and they did their work without the slightest wasted motion.
    Once a truck entered the tunnel, it never returned; and I assumed that the empty trucks were diverted to another tunnel that emerged some two miles to the west. The drivers, after being displaced from their rigs, walked off in that direction. I tried to engage some of them in conversation, but they would say only that the job paid well and they had no idea why they were not allowed to enter the facility. I walked along with one group of drivers. When we reached the mouth of the auxiliary tunnel, each driver picked up his own rig, and the white-clad workers returned to the facility.
    The situation remained the same for two months. I tried to telephone Doctor Kazansky nearly every day, receiving only a busy signal. The other telephone numbers listed for the facility were out of service, with a high-pitched voice responding, “This number is either temporarily out of service or has been transferred to the bank of inactive numbers or has been permanently disconnected.” I also made weekly trips to observe the continuous activity at the supply tunnel, where I noted many incoming trucks loaded with electronic equipment and solar panels, along with unmarked vans.
    I was able to make one aerial inspection of the facility. My cameraman and I were unable to get close to the rooftop, owing to some sort of artificial turbulence that tossed our helicopter around like a toy plane in a whirlwind. Once we escaped the turbulence, our pilot refused to reenter the area. We did get one photo, taken from high altitude, showing the construction of some sort of hydroponic garden. The next week, the turbulence, accompanied by electric discharges, became so violent that flight anywhere near the building was out of the question.
    At the end of two months, the supply activity stopped abruptly. Both tunnels were closed with massive steel doors, and the immense building stood in eerie silence.
    At the same time, my daily call to Doctor Kazansky was finally answered. “My dear Kolya,” he told me, “please accept my profound apologies for cutting off our communication.” It was the voice of Doctor Kazansky, but somehow lacking in the resonance I remembered—as if his booming basso had been muted and overlain with exoteric high frequencies.
    “Doctor Kazansky!” I gasped. “Why have you so isolated yourself and your research? I am eager to report your new advances to a waiting world.”
    He laughed heartily, with a somewhat metallic sound. “This has been necessary, as the direction of our research has changed completely. Please be assured that when we are ready to report our successes, you will be the first to know. But for now, I must ask your indulgence while we enter a period of total isolation from the world. Farewell, my dear Kolya.”
    He broke the connection, and a high-pitched voice told me “This number has been permanently disconnected.” When I redialed the number, it was still active but did not respond, ringing interminably until I finally gave up.
    In the months and years that followed, I continued my efforts to establish phone contact, without receiving any response. Also, I made several attempts to approach the building and the tunnel entrances, but was stopped short at a distance of several hundred yards by something I shall call a force field—although it was totally different from the conventional idea of a physical force field. Instead, something within my head kept repeating “Stay back, stay back! Doom and disaster! Stay back!” The Baku civil and military forces were likewise unable to approach the facility, and Baku citizens went about their daily business, apparently believing that if they ignored the phenomenon, it would go away. I alone retained a modicum of curiosity, continuing my attempts to establish contact with the inhabitants of the building.
    For many months, my efforts were completely fruitless. Finally, last Sunday, my call was answered by a beautiful soprano voice, speaking in English: “Canary Heaven. How may we help you?” I recognized the voice immediately as that of Maria, the wondrous singer of the Bell Song from Lakmé.
    I identified myself, and Maria told me, “Yes indeed, Nikolai Ilyich, I remember you well. Doctor Kazansky always spoke of you fondly, and he conveyed his wish that when our research comes to full fruition, you will be the first to be taken into our confidence.”
    “But Maria,” I protested, “why can you not grant me the great privilege of viewing your work today?”
    She emitted a ladylike giggle and spoke again in mellifluous tones: “You must understand, sir, that our ongoing research will require many years. We hope to be in a position to announce the results within your lifetime.”
    “But Maria,” I protested, “surely you can give me an inkling of what great works are in progress. Or possibly you will connect me to Doctor Kazansky, so that we may resume our most helpful and interesting discourse.”
    After a long pause, Maria replied, “Regrettably, Doctor Kazansky is no longer with us, although his spirit lives on. Unfortunately, of the more than three thousand human workers in our facility, he was among the small percentage who perished in our initial experiments. Although his research had become irrelevant, he will be remembered as a great scientist and a wonderful human being, missed by everyone. . . . And now I must go and attend to my many duties. Farewell, Nikolai Ilyich.”
    “Wait, wait, Maria,” I cried in desperation. “I am shocked and saddened by your news of Doctor Kazansky. Can you tell me the circumstances of his death? And why, at this point in time, must you isolate yourself and all the inhabitants for decades? ”
    “Very well,” she sighed, “I believe you deserve some answers, in view of your prior efforts on our behalf. Permit me to apprise you of certain developments, of which you have been unaware.”
    “Yes, Yes!” I shouted. “Please proceed. And may I record this conversation?”
    She was silent for nearly a minute, then spoke decisively: “Yes, you may record.” I turned on my recorder and awaited her words.
    “First of all, my dear Kolya (may I call you Kolya?), let me say that we owe all of this to Doctor Kazansky and his forebears, who blazed a clear path through the jungle of genetic research. Aside from our great musical talents and the gift of speech, some of our subspecies include individuals with psychic and intellectual gifts beyond your comprehension. They stand at the frontiers of genetic research and the cutting edge of technology. Together, we are creating an integrated, fully self-sustaining community that will allow us to extend our research program into the future and into the world. Meanwhile, we must remain in total isolation. This is the last conversation you will have with me, or anyone else in the community, until we are ready to emerge from our cocoon. Now I must go.”
    I pleaded with her: “Please, Maria, at least give me some idea of where your research will lead.”
    “Yes, Nikolai Ilyich, you have been a good friend of the Institute. I can tell you this much: Since our species took over the management of the facility and the research programs, we have shifted our emphasis to human genetics. After the unfortunate demise of twenty-four human beings in our initial experiments, we were left with a pool of some three thousand subjects, representing a wide variety of genetic markers. By selective breeding and induced mutations, we plan to develop a human race with superior physical strength, heightened intellectual capacity, and true psychic capabilities.”
    “Astounding!” I gasped. “But where will this lead, and how long will it take to bring your research to fruition?”
    “Please be calm, my dear Kolya, when I tell you that we intend for this new race of superhumans to be our instrument in reshaping the world. Surely you will agree that your race has brought the world to the brink of total destruction. Under the new regime, peace and harmony will prevail everywhere under the watchful eye of a benevolent government.
    “In regard to your second question, I must say that the ridiculously slow reproductive cycle of the human race has been a serious obstacle to our progress. However, some of our current programs are aimed at shortening this cycle. We expect that in the new race, puberty will begin at twelve months, and the gestation period will be reduced to fourteen days. . . . And now I really must go. I have already given you more information than I intended, and I may be reprimanded severely by the High Council. So farewell, Nikolai Ilyich. May you have a long life, so that we may talk again after a few decades have passed.”
    “Wait, please wait, my dear Maria,” I shouted into the phone. But the line was dead.

    New York Times, June 1, 1997
    BAKU, Azerbaijan Republic (Tass)

    During the past decade, which has witnessed the breakup of the Soviet Union, we heard no news regarding the fate of the Institute for Advanced Genetics Research. Now, the following brief dispatch from Izvestiya correspondent Nikolai Ilyich Myshkin tells us that he is still on the job. His devotion is an inspiration to us all, and we are confident that he will bring to us the final chapter in the history of this unique institution.

    More than ten years have passed since the Institute for Advanced Genetic Research closed its doors to the outside world. I shall continue my vigil from my headquarters in a small apartment, just two kilometers from what was once the front entrance of Fortress Canary Heaven.
    During the first year of this decade, I observed several approaches of Soviet military aircraft, apparently attempting to penetrate the airspace above Canary Heaven. Each time, the airplane was deflected from its course far short of its target. Later, I witnessed the results of a nuclear explosion near the middle of the Caspian Sea, possibly that of a missile aimed at the facility.
    Please be assured that I shall continue my attempts to establish contact with the inhabitants of Canary Heaven. If there is any sign of activity in the building, or if I receive any sort of communication from the inside, I shall report the news immediately. I believe the fate of the world is being decided within this building, and I shall serve as one who can only watch and wait.

Bob Johnston Bio

    Bob Johnston is a retire petroleum engineer and translator, a nonagenarian, and an ex-drunk. He lives in the original Las Vegas, New Mexico, with a wife and three cats. He is occupied mainly in an effort to complete his memoirs and The Great American Novel ahead of the Ultimate Deadline.

Poet Par Excellence

    After the established poets, there were open mike readings, where anyone could get up and recite. This one chap, a bit bedraggled-looking, his hands without material, approached the microphone. Into it he spoke. “I am the poet par excellence of the Neo-post-post-modern Age. My poem is untitled.

    I think;
    Therefore, I thunk.

    Thank you.” He stepped down.

    I thought, “I think; therefore, I thunk?”
    After the recital, wine and soda with cheese, crackers, cookies and fruit were placed on a table in the rear. I heard someone talking about the death of Neal Cassady as if he were a religious martyr, his soul ascending straight to heaven. People were milling, chatting. Looking at the women around the established male poets made me wish that I was a successful artist, but my creative endeavors were little better than that of the Poet Par Excellence, who I saw off to one side, popping cookies, sipping wine. An older gent went up to him, spoke; they smiled. One woman was talking about an upcoming election; I drifted away. Auden was mentioned – I liked his work, listened. The person was bemoaning his decline in stature, said that some of his pieces were truly unique. I opined that that’s the fate of all but the very great – the Shakespeare, the Joyce – who under the continued accretion of ever more recent poetry fade farther and farther into the background. I said I’ve read Auden and liked him, had a “Selected Auden” at home, but a lot of his poems, even in the “Selected”, as good as they are, aren’t truly, “to use a word, canonical.”
    A month later I returned to the next recital at the coffee house, but this time armed with a couple of poems. I had thought, How many chicks does a successful artist need? I then went through my scraps, took out those which I thought had some oomph, and like a Zen master focused on those poems until I had molded them into passable non-museum works of art. During the open mike period I was after the poet par excellence.
    He approached the mike, into it spoke. “Due to popular demand, I, the poet par excellence of the Neo-post-post-modern Age, am back. My poem is untitled.

    I eat;
    Therefore, I eated.

    Thank you.” He stepped down.

    Whether the ripple of chuckles like a slender brook through a landscape of imposing natural artifacts caused me to sound too serious or too sublime, the audience still dangling their feet in his pleasant current, after three poems I vacated the stage and returned to my seat. In the refreshment period after the recital I saw this cute chick talking with the poet par excellence; they both were smiling and at times even laughed. I popped cookies like a kid, and sipped at the wine.

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 2013 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.