Volume 243, May/June 2012
the 20 year anniversary issue

    Internet ISSN 1555-1555, print ISSN 1068-5154    

The Transformations of cc&d

    In the beginning of cc&d (June 1993) there weren’t that many contributors, so a lot of my work appeared in early issues. But even in that first year, we started getting more and more submissions, because volume 19 (April/May 1994, which translates to nearly two issues per month) was the first magazine cover with a wrap cover. We started posting internet issues in 1995 (at eworld, later aol), and we found ourselves releasing two to three issues monthly because we had so many good contributions (in 1994 we even ran the section called “Down in the Dirt” of additional poems in cc&d magazine), and volume 55 (our second anniversary issue of June 1995 as our only gatefold cover) started showing more political angles with cover art and content...

    Because we saw the growing interest for magazine issues, I purchased a slew if ISBN#s from the U.S. Government and started releasing collections of writings from issues of cc&d, along with chosen additional writings from other authors that appeared in the front of each collection book (and at the beginning we decided to give the titles a similar theme as well, like "Sulphur & Sawdust” in 1995, or “Slate & Marrow” in 1996, or “Blister & Burn” in 1997), because we were already looking for ways to expand the base for cc&d’s accepted authors (even at times including translations of poems into other languages).

    So by volume 75 (January 1996) we changed our format from 5.5"x8.5" to 8.5"x11", adding an expanded news section, a political news section, the occasional AIDS Watch section, a letters to the editor section, a lunchtime poll topic, and a philosophy monthly section. We even started including sections of Scars books in issues (since we had the room in the ~100+ monthly issues). But when I was leaving to travel the country for nearly a year starting in the end of 1997, I decided to produce 6 issues of cc&d released in 1998 in advance, so I wouldn’t have to worry about the production of the magazine while out of town. Those issues (12/97 v98 through 11/98 v104) contained random original clip art pages (since I had worked a the time for a trade magazine publishing company, I had access to many pages of clip art from stock companies).

    But after traveling the country until the summer of 1998, I was driving to visit my parents and was almost killed while stopped at a traffic intersection. I was unconscious for 11 days, and had to relearn how to walk and talk and eat.

    And in all of this time (including my travel time), submissions were being emailed to me for cc&d. As I recovered (when I lost my home at the same time I lost my car and almost lost my life), the one thing that could keep m driven and keep my mind focused was working on cc&d - in a strange way, it had become the one thing that kept me going, and gave me a purpose to speed my recovery once out of the hospital, before and after the design job I couldn’t keep during my long recovery from the accident. So because of my condition, I decided to release a book of the 1999 cc&d issues.

    After the book release, I produced Internet audio issues, then web page issues only (although issues were released on the Internet via eworld.com and aol.com since 1995, this hiatus from being able to work on cc&d forced me to only release Internet issues temporarily). For the years 2001 and 2002, issues were only placed in collection books (in this collection I even allowed the design of poetry in one of the collection books, “oh.”, since it was a more innovative poem design layout); I had worked on expanding cc&d and Scars Publications, so a few issues were released as audio issues on line. Then I completed a few quarterly 8.5"x11" issues in 2003 (and it felt really good to see those issues created, versus collection books of issues only), so I then deciding to bring cc&d back to its original 5.5"x8.5" format, highlighting only poetry and short stories again.

    (But in the beginning of the re-emergence of the 5.5"x8.5" format issues, a performance art section started cropping up in occasional issues, but as time has progressed, I have often made these performance art collection supplement issues/chapbooks of cc&d so that other writers could have more space in cc&d.)

    Throughout this time, we even looked at different avenues for getting poetry out there, like running poetry calendars (we designed a date book in 1994 and a wall calendar in 1997, then with the advent of expanded and less-expensive printing options n the market, we started running full color wall calendars with a poem (or two) for every month, along with full bleed full-color art for the months of the year. By the end of 2005, we even released an audio CD of readings of select poems from 2005 magazine issues, set to music from Nashville musicians.

    Since I had allowed the start (and set the design for, and added cover art to) of the once-supplement section of cc&d “Down in the Dirt” as it’s own magazine (and I also later took over as editor), I started running not only annual collection books, but also issue collection books (a few a year, to accommodate that much material in collection books).

    But as we were designing 5.5"x8.5" saddle-stitched issues for over half a decade (the 6 years of 2004-2009), we did a lot of studying, thinking, and planning before deciding to take cc&d to the next level... But by the January 2010 issue (v204), we completely changed the format of cc&d magazine. Although it would remain 5.5"x8.5", it would be 84 pages, perfect-bound with a full bleed full color cover, printed for a separate printer. With this upgrade of the length and printing quality of these magazine issues, we had to increase the price of the issues (and often now the price change over the years has been reflective of the increased price from the printer to output these magazine issues) — but th final product is a magazine that can be left on a book shelf or a coffee table, and more importantly, can last years.

    Since I also run a Chicago poetry open mic, I even look for times (usually at the beginning of months, when issues are released) to read short poems from accepted authors in current issues, and since I video record the open mics and features, I save these cc&d poem readings as youtube video clips in the Internet (web page) issues, because as I said before, I have been looking for more and more ways to let the world know about cc&d - from releasing calendars, to an audio CD, to posting video of poems readings on youtube... We even made additional releases of cc&d issues as 6"x9" ISBN# books from July 2010 through December 2011 (with April-December 2011 issues also released as books through amazon.com for U.K. and continental Europe sales as well).

    Since cc&d has grown over the years, we have done everything we can to give back to the literary community that lets cc&d thrive, because without the contributions of the talented creative people that have graced the pages of cc&d over the past 20 years, we would not be able to continue to share everyone’s talents with the world. We thank you for making cc&d what has always been hard to describe because if it’s unique skeleton that holds all of us together in the world today.

This editorial is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.

Janet Kuypers Editor In Chief

The Scars of CEE (Public Service Announcement)

    I’ve been the fair-haired boy, the favored son, for a # of publications and houses. I just got lucky that way. Editors get you, or they don’t (Word of Advice: If you don’t break through somewhere after 2 submissions, then Lotsa Luck, if you wanta keep banging your head; you can’t leave anything but a good taste, from the very start, and hope to ever swing the editor). I’ve played it as Johnny Appleseed. I got lucky, that’s all. There’s no way, that it wasn’t luck.
    I’ve been a fair-haired boy, for an underground pub. I’ve been a fair-haired boy for what amounted to a desktop publication. I’ve been the fair of hair for a pub so independently and cheaply produced, I referred to it as “blue toilet paper”. I’ve been fair and favored for at least one editor who bent the rules to breaking. If you’re well liked, Willy Loman, screw the rest. The editor/publisher, has the say. They like you, you’re kept.
    With Scars Publications, I hit the jackpot. Here’s why:
    It ain’t blue toilet paper. I couldn’t have put out a better pub from my iFruity. And, though there’s the gritty and the dark and the hard-hitting, Scars isn’t cheap porn. Fact is, Scars Publications is a top, professional outfit, run with single-minded purpose by a Boss Lady who doesn’t mince words. Scars puts out attractive pubs and books. The ideas within may not be so attractive, but heads up, homes: Human Isn’t Pretty. Scars packages often ugly truth, which is, after all, what a “scar” is. A scar is Reality. A scar is not beautiful. A scar is The Truth. A scar makes you sick.
    Janet Kuypers is multi-talented, but she hails first from the land of photography, and by way of that, is a formatting genius. She is pragmatic. She is best when she does right-brained activities using left-brained methodology. She is prolific, and as a publisher as well. Scars Publications is a multi-pronged affair. The books are legion. They Look Good. They are well-put-together. They are produced so as to be what they are, “writing and art by Professionals”. And in the current economy, no one has the kind of money, to shovel it down endless holes. Scars keeps growing, producing. It is able to do so, because Scars Publications Sell...and they sell, because they are Quality. In look and in feel and because Janet Kuypers knows what fits her pubs and her readership. She’s not an heiress. You don’t notice her grabbing a snack with Anderson Cooper. She WORKS FOR A LIVING. And, she built Scars from (more or less) the ground up. That it has not imploded but keeps expanding along with the universe, means Scars is a concept that works. It’s sound. No matter how many of the assed masses, demand formulaic happy endings. Life isn’t that way. Would to God!...but, it isn’t. And, Janet knows it. And, she allows us to say it, at least those who say it well. The Boss Lady, can hear what voices have the ugliest, most honest scars in them. These are the ones she accepts. Formats. Prints. Produces. And, we all benefit.
    Again, I’ve been very, very lucky, in my brief traipse through the independent press and beyond. I’ve done what King disparaged as “throwing darts in a darkened room”, and it’s worked a treat and I couldn’t care less, if others think it unfair. Life Is Unfair. Janet knows that. It’s what Scars keeps showing us, by the myriad personal wounds within. But, my point is, Scars Publications is HUGE, and it’s professional and it’s known. I’ve been a fair-haired boy for many a literary parent. This particular mom, has kept me well. I have more reason to brag about Janet-ever-loving-Kuypers and her sky full of Scars, than with any other bullseye I’ve hit. The difference, the keynote, is Quality. Pirsig, in Zen..., found inescapably, that Quality is whatever you like. I like Scars Publications. I’m grateful it likes Me.

The Great Chicago Fire,
if it had worked out

‘Can’t write this poem, right now
Goin’ fishin’, this weekend
Up the southern tip a’ Lake Michigan
It’s really beautiful up there
At the southern tip, all the forest
Lotsa trees, can’t tellya how many
Lotta shade, you need that, nowadays
I hear the perch are really jumpin’, this year
There’s no limit, there, you know
Place is a fisherman’s Paradise, more damned fish
Up to God’s Country,
Gets a little lonesome, though, ‘you don’t bring a friend
Awful dark, at night, ‘cept the stars
Hafta head over to Terre Haute, ‘you need people
Bringin’ my 30-Aught-6
‘Case-a bears
Hope I don’t hafta use it
Really pretty country, but black flies, boy!

I’ll write this when I get back
State a’ the Union is on, Monday eve
‘Can’t miss that
It’s exciting
God Bless Our Leaders
I’m so glad we can always trust ‘em

A lager drink (soccer hooligans didn’t invent it)

Beating another man ‘til he can’t stand up
Aside,
The millingaroundfestival of bars
Seems to be about the
“everyone knows your name” thing
Probably why that shit never stuck to my wall:
1) I don’t want people in public to ever speak to me
In a fashion not involving a receipt, and
2) Just One episode of CHEERS, and I wanted to
Beat at least one of them
‘Til they couldn’t stand up
And it wasn’t always the same person, either

Sitting at a Bus Stop at Sunrise

Sun radiates
from its lofty pulpit -
church in shadow.

Corey Cook Biography

    Corey Cook is the author of three chapbooks: Rhododendron in a Time of War (Scars Publications), What to Do with a Dying Parakeet (Pudding House Publications), and Flock (Origami Poems Project). His work has recently appeared in The Aurorean, Brevities, Commonthought, The Legendary, Muddy River Poetry Review, Nerve Cowboy, Smoky Quartz Quarterly, and Three Line Poetry. New work is forthcoming in Daily Love, The Germ, Leaves of Ink, and Milk Sugar. Corey works in New Hampshire and lives in Vermont.

The Things You Feel
Cannot Be the Things I Feel

The things you feel cannot be the things I feel
but I wish they were—
shared like conjoined creatures
with mutual lungs and when we breathed
it could only be together and then you
would feel the things I feel because they would be ours—
vital organs working together to keep us living
but more so to keep us so miserably
from dying
misunderstood.

Vogon Poem Generator

ee, see the kind sky
Marvel at its big fuschia depths.
Tell me, Alexandria, do you
Wonder why the walrus ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel groggy.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your blagarkle facial growth
That looks like
A salad dressing.
What’s more, it knows
Your opisthenar potting shed
Smells of pea.
Everything under the big kind sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm skunk juices.

Klingon Fingers Black
(a rough translation of “Fingers Black” into Klingon)

Romulans, free
a rough translation of be free of you into Romulan

iudaiht khoi taeth
ujudhueiusmm’ukssdh hvaedroalh
taeth ehdhihss
aeek’h’i env iudaiht

iudaiht uaefvalhuneitrde’h’n hvaedroalh

News Flash

Ho una condizione terminale
ed anche se non mi sento male
Sto vivento a morendo
Nello stesso respiro

I have a terminal condition
and though I don’t feel bad
I am living and dying
in the same breath

Beach Scene

Larry works the concession stand
near the pier. He treats his younger
brother like shit. One time Frankie sat
on a bench in the sun for three hours
waiting for his brother to get off work.
I still dream about Frankie’s sunburned shins.

haiku

words in same boat
traveling on rivers of ink
remain strangers

Spyglass

Bare legs pass, but not completely, pass
beneath the half turned down window
shades; pass the man in Levi jeans. The
woman must be saying something he
wants to hear, because he puts the paper
down beside him—leans forward in his
chair.

Casablanca. Take 2.

Ilsa, having boarded the plane
with Viktor, realizes that she cannot
live without Rick. She pulls out her pistol
and demands that the pilot turn back.
Captain Renault finds another friend
and I live happily ever after.

In this version, however, the film
is a flop because its ineffable voodoo,
the essence of its longevity,
apart from those deathless lines,
lies in leaving us—you, me, Rick—
with a broken heart.

Poet as Sociopath

I enter the train thirsty
Observe, assess, hunt, capture
There is a man sitting across from me wearing a panda suit
It is a classic onesy. He has a white furry hood with two black ears
He is sitting and staring out the window as Milwaukee Ave. zips by at 25 miles per hour
He is a relaxed panda

He is wearing sunglasses even though it’s night…
He is the coolest panda on the train,
though he is not mine yet.
But wait...
He is black and white. The colors occupy different spaces. It is Halloween so he both stands out and assimilates.

I own him now. I have kidnapped him. He belongs to me.
He is my metaphor.

The train is rife with metaphors
How lucky am I to be surrounded these figurative things every morning and every evening?

Why just look at this metaphor sitting across from me and her three metaphor children.
She has hands.
Her children are young happy tired small.
Her hands are weathered but dexterous like … struggle.
I know so much about her from her hands.
She is nothing but hands, and those hands now belong to me.
Her children are . . . the future.
One sits calmly, moving forward with a slight grin like the quiet optimism of destiny.

The others jitter with a jubilant anxiety like they want nothing more than to make social change by becoming my metaphor.
How lucky they are to be my symbols.
Now, they can never age.

And then there’s that metaphor standing next to me with a briefcase and perfect posture.
What a douchebag,
Attuned only to his phone like he has nothing to be aware of.
He touches buttons —
Trading insider stocks and
Launching missiles.
I do not like this metaphor.
He lives in the well of my page, puts the lotion on the skin.
He is ugly and capitalism and nothingness.

I am alone on this train.
I am surrounded by metaphors and things.
I know them.
I know them because I watch them.
I watch these people.
I am a people watcher.
I know these things around me because I kidnap their selves with my page.
They are capitalism and empowerment and altruism and hope.
I am a subject.
They are like and as the things I tie them to.
They stay in my well,
Rub lotion on the skin
Until I bring them to the light
And decide what they mean.

2011

after tsunami
red-haired girl sits, clutching knees
game of Pick-up sticks

Scars 1997

I wear my scars like badges.
These deep marks show through from under my skin
like war paint on an Apache chief.
Decorated with feathers, the skins of his prey.

I have a scar over my left knee.
It’s left over from a bout with poison ivy
I had after climbing a mountainside.
The four-inch long slice curves around my leg,
almost perfectly defining the muscles in my thigh.

I have a scar on my right shin.
I slipped on a patch of rocks and cut up the lower
half of my leg and filled it with gravel and dirt.
Joe poured hydrogen peroxide on my leg
and wrapped my wounds with paper towels
because the cuts were so wide spread.
An hour later I was on a plane home,
so I could tend to my wounds in greater detail.
Tend to my wounds in depth.
Now all that is left is a two-inch line down
the side of my leg. Although it wasn’t a very
deep cut, it looks like it went straight to the bone.

I have a circular scar on my left calf,
from getting off a motorcycle and sliding
my leg over the scalding hot exhaust pipe.
It has been seven years since I gained that scar,
and with each year I see it fade away just a little.
I can still see it, but the memory is slowly slipping away.

My cat scratched me on my wrist once
when we had to give her medication.
Cats don’t like taking pills, or having ointment
dabbed on and liquid poured over their wounds.
When giving her pills, we’d grab all her paws,
pull her head back by the nape of her neck,
pry her jaws wide open so the pill will fall back
and she is forced to swallow it.
But sometimes she’d move too much
and a paw would slip out of our grasp.
And now, over the bone on my left wrist,
a long thin scar stares at me defiantly.

I tell people that if they wake up
with bruises and cuts they don’t remember,
then they must have had fun the night before.
But each marking, each scar is a story,
is a memory. It is a way to remember how you lived.
And it is with these marks that I gauge my living.
It is with these marks that I feel decorated.

Scars 2000
“Find What’s Wrong”

I

An Admiral, A General
      A high-ranking military official
when you get somewhere in the military
when you grease the right wheels
when you climb the corporate ladder
when you get as high as you can

when you make your graceful exit
when you’ve been adorned with pins
                                                             and medals
                                                             and badges of honor
and you’ve got all your stripes on your sleeve

when you accomplish it all
and when you retire

well, then what?

II

the effects of age are getting to me

my vision is shot to hell
                my contacts kill me and
                my glasses are so old
                they’re only half the strength of my prescription
so when i look at things
                i notice the blur more than
                i notice the detail

my senses of taste and smell are shot to hell
                i throw so much garlic on food for flavor
                that i offend my friends and family
                and i can’t even smell
                when i smell
i mean, cologne is lost to me

my one ear is closed most of the time
                and it feels like i’ve got water in my ear
                and it hurts for me
                to hear myself even breathe
damnit, i can’t even sing any more
                and do one of the things
                i actually like to do
i try to hear beautiful sounds
                but people are usually talking over it instead
                and all i can hear
                is their incessant bickering and whining

and god damnit, i try to enjoy something
every once in a while
and something more irritating
is usually in the way

                you know, i’d rely on writing
                but for a while, i couldn’t even do that
and what do you have then?

i can feel it in my left ankle
like i can’t carry weight like i could any longer
and my left knee keeps cracking and popping
and my sister says,
you know,
you’ve got the ‘kuypers’ knees
and i guess the kuypers have bad knees
and i was always unaware of that

the knuckle in my right thumb
has been swollen for over a decade
and even the doctors can’t find anything wrong

and whenever i write
i grip the pen so tight
that my fingers hurt
and all i can feel
is the ache in my joints

III

and whenever i look down
and see the scars on my body
and i should be proud of some
and some would say that i should be proud
of surviving some traumas
and having the scars to prove it
but all i see are the scars
and all i feel are the aches and pains

is this what scars do to you?
or is it the memory
of surviving the trials
and getting the scars
and is THIS what you have to show
for everything you’ve done
are these your pins and military stripes
you get after you accomplished your goal?

because what do you do
when you’re retired
do people care about your medals of honor
or do you earn so many
that they just weigh you down?

Scars

    Like when the Grossman’s German shepherd bit the inside of my knee. I was baby sitting two girls and a dog named “Rosco.” I remember being pushed to the floor by the dog, I was on my back, kicking, as this dog was gnawing on my leg, and I remember thinking, “I can’t believe a dog named Rosco is attacking me.” And I was thinking that I had to be strong for those two little girls, who were watching it all. I couldn’t cry.

    Or when I stepped off Scott’s motorcycle at 2:00 a.m. and burned my calf on the exhaust pipe. I was drunk when he was driving and I was careless when I swung my leg over the back. It didn’t even hurt when I did it, but the next day it blistered and peeled; it looked inhuman. I had to bandage it for weeks. It hurt like hell.

    When I was little, roller skating in my driveway, and I fell. My parents yelled at me, “Did you crack the sidewalk?”

    When I was kissing someone, and I scraped my right knee against the wall. Or maybe it was the carpet. When someone asks me what that scar is from, I tell them I fell.

    Or when I was riding my bicycle and I fell when my front wheel skidded in the gravel. I had to walk home. Blood was dripping from my elbow to my wrist; I remember thinking that the blood looked thick, but that nothing hurt. I sat on the toilet seat cover while my sister cleaned me up. It was a small bathroom. I felt like the walls could have fallen in on me at any time. Years later, and I can still see the dirt under my skin on my elbows.

    Or when I was five years old and my dad called me an ass-hole because I made a mess in the living room. I didn’t.

    Like when I scratched my chin when I had the chicken pox.

Children, Churches, and Daddies

And the little girl said to me,
“I thought only daddies drank
beer.” And I found myself

trying to make excuses for the can
in my hand. I remember being
in the church, a guest at a

wedding of two people
I didn’t know. My date pointed
out two little boys

walking to their seats in
front of us. In little suits and
cowboy boots, this is what

is central Illinois. And my date
said he was sure those boys
would grow up to be gay. And

the worst part was their father
was the coach of the high school
football team. I think I

laughed, but I hesitated.
I remember being in the
church, it was Christmas

Eve, my date’s family went up
for communion, and all I could think
was that singing the hymns was

hard enough, I don’t know the
words, what am I doing here,
what am I supposed to do? And I

stayed seated, and everyone else
slowly walked to the front of the
church. Little soldiers in a

little line, the little children
in their little dresses walking
behind their mommies and

daddies. And the little girl
said, “I thought only daddies
drank beer.” And I found myself

trying to make excuses.

A Miracle of Angels

    This story has been in my gut for months, since Father Kean passed. I know you won’t believe it – it’s hard for me to believe – but the evidence was there.
    Father Kean was in the hospital, dying, and he’d asked for me. I do not like hospitals; they have foreign odors and deadly bugs lurking around, so I stay away. But Father Kean wanted to speak to me, and he was special in my life, having taken care of me when I was in high school after my dad had died and my mother was going crazy and trying to kill herself. Over the years, I was indebted to the old man, and his kindness traveled with me, but the truth be told: I really liked him. I had served as his chief acolyte for several years when he was traveling the circuit, performing mass in a number of churches in rural Oregon. During those trips we would talk about all sorts of things, and once he said he looked on me as the son he never had.
    He was wizened when I knew him and even more so in recent years, with shoulder-length white hair growing from the sides of his otherwise bald head. He was not the most kempt person, clearly letting you know he didn’t care. “Looks are for the vain,” he once told me.
    But Father Kean was the kindest man I ever knew, a man who truly cared about others, especially those facing seemingly insurmountable odds. He had served the church for decades, as rector of several parishes, but his favorite posting was as the number-two priest of a congregation in Tijuana, Mexico, just over the border from California.
    He told me he had requested the job because the church needed another priest and he’d been learning Spanish, so he was posted there. To him, it was to be the highlight of his career, a long career that was coming to an end.
    The Portland hospital was spread out over the landscape like fingers splayed on a hand, so I walked the corridors for twenty minutes looking for Father Kean’s room, trying not to breathe. The pungent smells made me very nervous. The old man was in a private room, which surprised me as the church seemed to not spend money on such luxuries. But there he was, lying propped up on a pillow, looking older and more frail than I had ever seen him. No one else was in the room, so I pulled up a stiff-backed chair next to the bed and sat down.
    He appeared to be sleeping, but as soon as I sat down he opened his eyes and smiled when he recognized me. “My son,” he said. “I’m so pleased you could come. Thank you.”
    “Of course,” was my response. “And what’s happening with you?” I hadn’t seen him for a year.
    He smiled, and in a weak voice responded: “The Lord is knocking.” He suddenly lifted himself up a short way and leaned toward me with a serious expression on his face. “My boy, I didn’t ask you here to chit-chat. I have very little time left. I have something for you to do.” He reached with some difficulty under his pillow and pulled out a cross with a chain and a folder, mumbling something before he kissed the cross, which I’d seen him do many times. He handed the folder to me. “Read that,” he directed. He fell back onto the pillow and sighed.
    I opened the folder and saw a yellowed news clipping dating back some twenty years from the Los Angeles Times with the headline: Drug Dealer Claims Priest Saved by Ghosts.
    What the heck?

---

Drip Heaven, art by David Michael Jackson

---

    The article wasn’t long and gave credit for the story to a newspaper in Tijuana. The gist was that Father Kean, the subject of the article, had been helping parishioners lead a protest against a Tijuana drug lord and that the priest had been targeted for a serious roughing up with potentially fatal consequences. The drug lord, apparently not one of the big guys but a minor lord, subsequently was arrested on a drug charge and told the police a tale hard to believe. He said that a few days earlier he and several of his men were hiding in an alleyway waiting to attack Father Kean as he came from a night meeting of his group of parishioners. As the father approached the area, they made ready to attack. Father Kean was alone and a ripe target, and just when they were ready to pounce, three other men, all seeming of college age, suddenly appeared beside the priest, walking with him and chatting among themselves. Father Kean seemed unaware of this sudden protection, the drug lord said. He added that the strangeness continued in that the three seemed to cast a shimmering light from their bodies, as if they weren’t real. But there they were, real enough. So the assault didn’t happen. Who would dare go after someone walking with ghosts?
    The drug lord had wanted this attack to be an end-all to his local troubles and had planned ahead, bringing along a camera to get a photo of the beaten priest to send anonymously to the upstart group of parishioners to scare them into submission, but instead he had a photo taken of the priest accompanied by three men.
    “Ghosts,” he reiterated to the police. “The priest was protected by ghosts.”
    He added that as the priest passed them and continued walking down the street unaware of any danger, his trio of protectors disappeared.
    Police reported the drug lord to be greatly unnerved when he volunteered this information.
    A faded photo was part of the article, presumably the photo taken by the drug lord, but after all these years it was impossible to recognize anything.
    I looked at Father Kean. “You never told me about this. Did this really happen?”
    Father Kean closed his eyes and spoke in a low voice, forcing me to scoot closer to the bed. “I could say I don’t know if it happened or not. I did not feel anything or hear anything. But I saw the photo the drug lord took, and there were three men with me, very clearly identified. He began to cry. “Son, they were my closest friends from college. I think the Lord blessed me at that moment, and I will be happy to see my very dear friends very soon.”
    I leaned even closer to the bed. Hospital sounds and odors were forgotten. “Tell me about it,” I asked.
    Father Kean pushed himself up a bit higher on the pillow and began a story about love among human beings, the kind of profound love that is life-changing.
    He and his friends went by nicknames. His was Father Cross because he was devout and often made the sign of the cross. Another was called Squeaky, because he squeaked when he laughed. The biggest of them all was Bull, because he was so brawny and the only one to grow up on a rural Oregon farm. The last was Brains, for the obvious reason that he was smarter than the others. They came to know each other as freshmen when they shared two dorm rooms at the University of Portland and later moved to a duplex nearby.
    Their first day of college was memorable, something they chuckled about later when reminiscing. Bull, aptly named, was the most aggressive of the foursome and, after they noticed several coeds eyeing them as they stood in line to eat at the dining commons, he tacked straight toward the girls to make a connection. The girls were city girls and not what he was used to in his small town.
    “There’s four of us, and we want you to get two friends and go out with us for a little fun and making out. What do you say?” It was abrupt and to the point. Bull never minced his words.
    The girls looked at each other, raised their eyebrows and laughed. One turned away, but the other asked: “Where are you from? The sticks?”
    Bull hadn’t expected this but thought it was a connection and smiled. “John Day,” he responded.
    “Well, honey, let me tell you something about making out. You take your sweet ass back to John Day where you belong, because you’ll get nothing here in Portland. What a hick!” She turned away.
    Bull was hurt by both the unexpected rejection and the retort and got mad. The others could tell he was starting to steam because his face turned beet red, and he clenched his muscles and fists looking around to see what he could hit.
    Brains put a hand on his arm. “Calm down, my man. She isn’t worth it. We’ll get her later. You’ll see.”
    The four entered the dining hall and spent the next forty minutes getting to know each other better. At the end, when they were walking their trays of dirty dishes to the kitchen counter, Brains purposefully veered to where the two girls were and stumbled into their table, depositing all of his dishes and some food residue onto the lap of the girl who had chastised Bull.
    “Oh, my gosh!” he exclaimed, feigning seriousness. “Please forgive me.” He reached down to the girl’s lap to retrieve his dishes and turned one over to make sure the food he had left in it spilled onto her skirt. She angrily grabbed his arm and pushed him away.
    “Get the hell away from me. Look what you did!” she screeched.
    Brains stood up straight, bowed, said he was deeply sorry and walked to the kitchen counter and then outside with Father Cross, Squeaky and Bull. En route to their dorm rooms, the four laughed until it hurt.
    And that was their lives for the next four years: fun, helping each other, always together. They grew to be like the family Father Cross and Squeaky never had and that Bull and Brains wanted, true brothers who always supported each other and were there when it was important.
    In the summers when Bull returned to the farm and the others went to their jobs, they actually would write to each other, saying how much they missed the company. And when school started again, they would return to the duplex excited to be together again.
    During the four years of school, whenever they traveled to Seattle or the Oregon coast, they would travel together, always together. The four horsemen..., they would joke.
    In their last year of college, about a week before graduation, it had been raining a lot in Portland, and Father Cross came down with pneumonia, so severe he had to be hospitalized. Father Cross complained bitterly about not wanting to miss the ceremony, so on the big day, the other three went to the hospital, put Father Cross in a wheelchair and took him to graduation, covering him with their umbrellas. He was wheeled up to the stage, and the university president came down the steps and presented him with a diploma. Everyone watching went nuts.
    Afterward, back in the hospital room, the three bid good-by to Father Cross as they were going to spend the next week at Bull’s farm in John Day. “We’ll send a postcard,” joked Brains. “We’ll miss you. You know we wouldn’t be going if you weren’t getting better. So we know you’ll be out of here in no time.”
    Bull extended the invitation to Father Cross to come the farm. “When you’re out of here, come on to the farm, and I’ll put you to work. How’s that?”
    “It sounds fantastic,” Father Cross responded, smiling and giving each a big hug.
    It was the last time he ever saw them. En route to the farm, their car was hit by a semi-truck and demolished. It was over quickly.
    “I was beside myself for weeks after that,” Father Kean told me. “It was like losing my entire family. I didn’t know what to do. Then one day I went back to church and found my answer. I could serve others. That’s why I became a priest.”
    Tears were flowing from his eyes, and the old man coughed and asked for a napkin. He wiped his mouth, and a red spot appeared on the cloth where he’d spit up some blood. I asked if I should get a nurse, but he waved me off.

---

Birth, photography by Peter LaBerge

---

    He then reached out, took my arm and pulled me closer. “You’ve got to help me!” he demanded, in a desperate way. I started to say something, but he held up his hand and continued speaking. His voice was raspy now.
    “On my desk is another folder, and in it are photographs, including the one from the drug lord. Please do what you have to. Research this so you can tell the world how God came to me that day, how he sent my friends, my angels. It was a miracle, and I want the world to know. I owe it to Squeaky, Bull and Brains. It was the most important thing in my life. The world must know!” His grip on my arm was fierce, and he squeezed even harder, so I nodded my head yes and told him I would take a look. He loosened his grip and fell back on the bed, exhausted.
    I had been a journalist and guessed that was why Father Kean had called on me. Besides, he knew me. I took the folder with the Los Angeles Times article in it, said good-by to the old man and left the hospital with its acrid odors and muted loudspeakers, again trying not to breathe.
    His small apartment wasn’t far from the university in North Portland, and I knew that he kept his key above the doorjamb. I had told him repeatedly not to be so lax about security, but he never listened. “If someone needs my meager things that badly, they can have them,” he would reply.
    Inside, the two rooms and small kitchen were as I remembered, redolent of stale smoke from his cigarette-smoking days. The furniture was sparse, a love seat, a chair, a kitchen table and three chairs around it. In a corner by the one window was his old desk, a scroll-top he’d purchased from a junk dealer years ago. I figured the desk was older then I was.
    I went to it and unrolled the accordion top, and sitting right in the middle of the desk was the folder. I opened it and saw several photos and news clips. The photo sitting on top was of Father Kean and who I guessed were his friends, Squeaky, Bull and Brains, back in their college days. I recognized Father Kean immediately. He actually looked the same now, but much older.
    To his left must have been Bull, a gawky, muscular and very big man with very dark hair. The next one, I thought, would be squeaky, a skinny guy with a big Adam’s apple and a beak-like nose. The last had to be Brains, an Ivy-league-looking, attractive young man with a lewd smile on his face. All were enjoying themselves, from their expressions, eyebrows arched and devilish looks on their faces. Across the bottom of the photo, someone had written: The Four Horsemen.
    I turned the photo over, but there was nothing on the back. On the pile in the folder was the next photo, and this one caught my eye. It was the one taken by the drug lord, and it showed Father Kean as a much older man, skinny and balding with a serious look on his face. The setting was not in the U.S. but in a foreign land as the street was cobblestone and the weathered buildings behind looked like they were constructed of plaster or adobe a long time ago. Walking with Father Kean were his three friends, Bull on the left, Squeaky in the middle and Brains on the right, looking much as they had looked in the other picture. The photo, a black and white, looked as if a light was radiating from the three friends, but their images seemed to fade a bit instead of glow.
    Wow, what a shot. Was I really seeing angels, or were they ghosts, or were they even real? The journalist in me made me question what was before my eyes. I surely had a nagging sense that the photo must be doctored. But why would the drug lord even bring it up if he hadn’t seen something that frightened the daylights out of him? Do drug lords get scared?
    I turned the photo over, and stamped on it was the name of a photo shop in Tijuana and the year 1993. Under the photo in the folder were a few news articles, mostly a rehash of the one from the Los Angeles Times, but one was from the Oregonian, the main newspaper in the state, dated 1963. It was about the car wreck that killed Bull, Squeaky and Brains and corroborated what Father Kean had told me. A photo of the wreck showed a semi-truck with a tire torn off and sitting on top of a car that was demolished. One look would tell you that no one in that car would have survived. How sad. The article also had mug shots of the three dead men, so I was able to identify who was Squeaky and who was Brains. I had guessed correctly.
    I stood in Father Kean’s apartment for some time, feeling very skeptical about the angel story — not about Father Kean’s belief in the story but how could it possibly have happened. I also was very anxious about what I could say to the old man, especially when he seemed to count on me to believe and to tell the world about the angels. I had a sense that he couldn’t die peacefully if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear. Could I lie to him, this man who was more my father than any other man? I didn’t know what to do.
    I took the folder and locked his apartment, putting the key back on the top of the doorjamb. I knew a professor of fine arts at the University of Portland who was an expert in photography and made an appointment to see him tomorrow.
    I hadn’t seen him for some time, and when I entered his office he still looked middle-aged, was graying slightly and was every bit the professor I remembered. He welcomed me.
    En route, I had thought about what I would tell him about the photo and decided not to alter Father Kean’s tale. Truth was the best approach, I always believed, so I told him the whole story.
    His name was Jim, and he read the article and looked at me. “This is very strange,” he said. “But being Christian, I would want to believe it was true, that angels came to protect the priest.”
    I handed him the photo, and he looked at it for quite some time, turning it over and feeling the quality of the paper. “Let me keep this for a few hours, if you can. I want to run some tests. And can I keep the news clip?”
    I left both with him and returned to the hospital. Father Kean was sleeping, so I just sat by his bed for three hours, reading magazines people had brought to him. He did not waken the entire time.
    At two o’clock, I returned to Jim’s office at the university. Another man was with him, a friend of his whom he said was a forensic specialist at the Portland Bureau of the F.B.I.
    After saying hello, we cut to the chase. Jim said: “The photo is real and probably from the early 1990s, the time stamped on the back. And I don’t think it has been altered. I think this is a true depiction of what was taken that day.”
    The F.B.I. man nodded his head in agreement. “I ran a few tests, and if this was doctored, an expert would have to have done it. I don’t think that drug lord was that sophisticated or would have thought about faking a photo. For what purpose? Why would he tell the authorities in Tijuana about a crime he didn’t commit? Just to gain a newspaper headline? No, I think this is a true photo.”
    I stood there for a moment looking at them both. Then, I spoke: “This means there are angels. It sounds weird, as I’ve heard about angels for years. But this is evidence that they’re real, truly real.”
    Jim chuckled nervously. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. And it is weird.”
    The forensic expert said: “I’m not religious, but I’d have to say that looking at the articles of the dead men who died in the 1960s and then of this photo in Tijuana thirty years later, with them in the picture alive as can be, something was there, whether it be angels or ghosts or who knows what. I think the drug lord was right. If I’d been him, I’d have been scared, too. It’s quite a freaky story.”
    Jim looked at me: “So, what are you going to do?”
    I laughed. “Hell, I don’t know. I have to think about this. It’s my neck on the line if I try to make this public.” Both men wished me luck, and I thanked them and left the office.
    Angels were nothing new to me. I’d heard about them all my life, stories from priests and missionaries, and I had read biblical writings that talked about them. Didn’t angels come to the shepherds tending their flocks about the birth of Jesus? Didn’t angels tell the Magi, the wise men, in a dream not to tell King Herod where the Christ child was, as he had asked when they visited him?
    Suddenly, I remembered a time in my high school years when I was living with Father Kean and we were performing Mass at a small church in a small Oregon town. Perhaps fifty people showed up, and we were going through the rituals. At one point, we both were kneeling down and bowing our heads deeply before the cross when Father Kean turned slightly toward me and whispered earnestly: “He’s here.”
    Immediately, my skin crawled in a nervous reaction and, fearful of the answer, I asked him: “Who’s here?”
    “The Lord! He’s here, up there on the alter. Can’t you feel his presence?”
    He was serious. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be anywhere Jesus actually would appear, even though it probably would be wonderful. But it was a scary moment for me. I started to look at the alter, but Father Kean warned me not to look directly into the eyes of God’s son. I looked anyway in the general direction, didn’t see anything and felt much calmer.
    Had something been there? I don’t know, but I know Father Kean certainly thought something was there.
    So now I was faced with going to the father and telling him what he wanted to hear, or not. If not, I knew it would kill him.
    En route to the hospital, I made a decision to lie. But it wouldn’t be a big lie as I truly wanted to believe in angels, and the evidence certainly pointed in the direction that the story was true.
    I walked into Father Kean’s room, and he appeared to be sleeping, so I sat down in the chair by his bed again to wait. I nodded off. Then, sometime later, I felt a wonderful, warm feeling come over me and opened my eyes.
    The room was so bright I could barely see, and standing next to Father Kean were three of the four horseman: Bull, Squeaky and Brains. They were smiling and excitedly putting their hands on Father Kean, and then they seemed to be reaching out to shake hands with him. I can’t say how long this all went on, but as quickly as they had come, they were gone.
    The light returned to normal, and I jumped up and felt for Father Kean’s pulse, but it wasn’t there. I ran into the hallway and called for the nurse. She checked his pulse and listened to his chest with a stethoscope and sadly turned to me and shook her head no. Father Kean was gone.
    I couldn’t help but cry. Even in dying the old man had saved me from having to lie. But now that I saw his three cronies for myself, I knew it was true, that angels are real.
    Since that time, I have made speeches around the country and written articles about the existence of angels, but I feel my efforts fail for the large, skeptical part of our society. Many of my speeches are to religious groups, and those in the audience already believe, but I want to reach those who question the existence of angels.
    What I can say is that I, too, was leery of angels being real, but now I know they are out there. And I know that when you’re down on your luck, afraid and having seemingly insurmountable problems, you can ask for an angel — or three. They’ll come. I promise.

They found her leg up a tree

    They found her leg up a tree.
    “Where’s the rest of her?” says Sgt Sweenie.
    “I’m stumped,” says young, skinny Officer Wood.
    “Put away your gun,” orders Sweenie. “It won’t do us any good.”
    “If the murderer comes out of the bushes, it might.”
    “Just cause a leg’s up a tree doesn’t mean there’s been a murder.”
    “You think it’s a suicide? She jumped off a tall building, & thedead girl tore off her dead leg which ran to the tree & climbed up to exhibit itself?”
    “That’s an option.”
    A squirrel dislodges the leg, which falls 30 ft, almost braining Sgt Sweenie & making Officer Wood vomit down his uniform.
    “You’ll have to clean that,” says Sweenie.
    “ I have another one.”
    “This one’s going to stink!”
    “I’ll hang it out my window.”
    “Pity the poor bastards walking past your window.”
    “They could walk on the other side of the street.”
    “I wonder where the rest of her is.”
    “It ran off on her other leg.”
    “If a mountain lion finds her, we may never get her back.”

    “Where’s a mountain lion?”
    “Up a mountain.”
    “There’s no mountain within 500 miles.”
    “Mountain lions have a big range.”
    “Is the mountain lion home on the range?”
    “I hope so. I don’t want to tangle with a disgruntled cat.”
    “Maybe it’s only a pussy.”
    “I don’t want to tangle with a disgruntled pussy. I’ve tried that.”
    A crowd gathers around the crime scene. Everybody seems a bit disgruntled - disgusted, terrified. Some spit on the leg, others whip it out & piss on the leg. When others drop their pants to defecate on the leg, Sweenie & Wood arrest them for going too far. They’re put into the squad car, that becomes a squat car for they crap all over everything, spreading the stench of the people.
    The mountain lion appears & eats the two policmen, then adds them to the rest of the pile.
    The mountain lions rule until the elephant leaves the circus & steps on them. The elephant has a crush on the mountain lions who spread their gore all over the bronze horses in the park, which every- body knows about when the pretty birds tweet . . .

The Old Lady Eats Brother Anguish

    After dark, the old cannibalistic lady craved blood and crushed bones. When she saw Brother Anguish, her twisted and gnarled psyche commanded her to obliterate the poor fellow, who stood about a foot smaller than she.

    Why?
    He was differenta    She liked him.
    She loathed him.
    He married her daughter who shared her mother’s pathological and artistic traits.
    He married her drop-dead gorgeous daughter who looked like her mother before the old lady was transformed in a Kafkaesque metamorphosis. Transmogrified into a creature of madness and rage, she needed someone to hate.

    The tall, skeletal beast, with sharp powerful teeth and jaws, like those belonging to the small, black, muscular Tasmanian devil, chased Brother Anguish into the guest room upstairs. The young man cried out in vain in his mother-in-law’s West Tisbury house.

    From afar, I heard her ferocious screams. It’s the Hellhound of Martha’s Vineyard, I thought. Did any other human hear her cutting, Satanic shrieks?

    Covered in a white shroud with white hair cascading down her narrow hips, she cornered Brother Anguish, grabbed his fragile head, opened her mammoth jaws, and bit into bone, flesh, and brain-matter.

    I rushed away and flew across phantasmagoria. Yet I witnessed the heinous crimes. I watched the old lady crush his skull, blood gushing fiercely and freely from the battered, broken brain-container. And soon, my frenzied, feverish eyes saw the old lady devour Brother Anguish, drinking blood, chomping skull shards, and biting hard into his shattered soul.

    Even now, the old lady eats Brother Anguish,
    my alter ego, my severed spirit,
    my dark twin; from afar,
    I watch her
    eat me
    alive.

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.

A Change of Voice

    Preston Pyre knew that the only way he’d be able to pay a gambling debt would be to rob a store. He simply did not have the money to pay what he owed to his gambling friends.
    He was going through college, but he didn’t have the money to pay for the tuition. He’d been forced to gamble to get the cash he needed, but he’d lost the card games he’d played most recently, and now he was in debt to his friends.
    He’d learned that old man Strieber owned and ran a small grocery store that did a lot of business. If Preston could rob him, he’d get the dough he needed.
    One day, for entertainment, he listened to an audio book he checked out at the library. It was a horror novel, read aloud by its author. It lasted two hours.
    When it was finished, Preston answered his telephone when it rang. It was a wrong number, but when he answered it, he noticed that his voice sounded just like the author of the audio book! He didn’t know how it happened, but he guessed that he must have a supernatural talent: When he listened to a person’s voice for a long time, his own voice sounded like that person’s voice. It was utterly fantastic!
    Then an idea popped into his head. He would rob Mr. Strieber’s store, and then listen to a recording of his teacher Mr. Milland’s voice (Preston would record his lecture during class). He’d phone police headquarters and, using Milland’s voice, he would confess to robbing Mr. Strieber’s store. The desk sergeant would recognize Milland’s voice and believe that he was the man who stole from Strieber. Milland would get the blame for the robbery, and Preston would go free.
    The next day, Preston brought a tape recorder to Milland’s class and recorded his lecture. Then he went home and listened to Mr. Milland’s voice. After an hour, his voice sounded just like the teacher’s voice.
    That weekend, he purchased a gun, put a stocking over his head, and went into Mr. Strieber’s store just as he was closing up shop. He walked over to the old man.
    “Give me the money from one of the cash registers, or I’ll shoot you,” Preston said.
    “None of that money belongs to you,” Strieber said defiantly.
    “Come on, don’t give me any trouble; just hand me the dough,” Preston said.
    Strieber tried to take the gun from Preston’s hand. They struggled for a while and the gun went off in the old man’s chest. His face became a grimace of agony as he fell to the floor, bleeding profusely. He wasn’t dead yet, but he would be soon.
    Preston hadn’t wanted this to happen. But it did, and it was too late to do anything about it now.
    He went to one of the cash registers and cleaned out its drawers. He fired one last shot into Strieber to make sure he was dead. Then he left the store and drove home in his car.
    When he got home, he phoned police headquarters. The desk sergeant answered his ring. “Police station, Precinct 12. Officer Tindrow speaking.”
    “Hello, my name is Duke Milland. I just robbed and killed Mr. Strieber at his grocery store. I am turning myself in because my conscience is bothering me. Come to my house at 2371 Goldfield Street and arrest me.”
    Now the police would think that Milland was the thief and killer, not Preston.
    A half –hour later, Preston was stunned to see a squad car roll into his driveway. What was going on? Had he made a fatal mistake?
    “Good afternoon, Mr. Preston,” Lt. Bolt said to him.
    “What’s your concern, Lieutenant?” Preston asked.
    “You’re under arrest for robbing and killing Mr. Strieber,’ Lt. Bolt told Preston.
    The latter was bewildered. “Why are you arresting me for those crimes?”
    “We went to question Duke Milland and discovered that he has laryngitis, which means that he couldn’t have called us on the telephone to confess. We figured someone else imitated his voice on the phone so we’d think he was Mr. Milland calling – and confessing.”
    Preston glared at him. “And you think I did that?”
    “Yes. It had to be you. We have Caller Identification on our telephone at headquarters. It showed that the call we received came from you; it gave us your address and telephone number, too.”
    Preston was struck dumb.
    “What’s the matter?” Bolt asked. “Cat got your tongue?”

The Underwear Fetish

    Jack Shaughnessy, self-styled Defender of the Downtrodden, found himself in court on a Monday morning, badly hung over, defending one Annabelle Livingston. An ex-debutante with aggressively blond hair and the smile of an angel, Annabelle was hardly one of the downtrodden. She was charged with breaking and entering, armed robbery, and sexual assault. According to the police report, Annabelle had allegedly broken into the apartment of a single man while he was sleeping, rifled through his underwear drawer, left an erotic message in lipstick on the bathroom mirror, lay down beside the victim and fondled him until he awoke, then held him at gunpoint while she stuffed his underwear into a duffle bag and made her escape.
    The presiding judge, the Hon. Matthew Jackson, was not known for his sense of humor or tolerance of legal shenanigans. Early in the trial, he had threatened several times to jail Jack for contempt of court.
     Jack was cross-examining the alleged victim, a middle-aged accountant named Oscar Biddle. “Tell us, Mr. Biddle, how and when did you first become aware that someone had entered your bedroom?”
    “It was just about midnight. Something woke me up, and I took off my sleep mask and saw this young lady at my dresser.” He pointed at the defendant. “She appeared to be examining the contents of my underwear drawer.”
    “Your underwear, you say!” Jack paused dramatically and glanced back and forth from Mr. Biddle to Annabelle. “And did you take any action at that time, or did you call out?”
    “No, I thought I was dreaming.” Mr. Biddle wiped his glasses.
    “Sure, and these dreams can seem real. Mr. Biddle, please tell us about your dreams and fantasies. Do they often involve young ladies examining your underwear? And, just to clarify matters, do you wear jockey shorts or union suits?”
    Mr. Biddle hesitated and wiped his glasses again. “I guess I have had a few dreams about ladies’ underwear. And no, I don’t wear union suits. I wear boxer shorts.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Biddle. We have established that you have an underwear fetish.”
    Before the prosecutor could get to his feet, the judge intervened. “That’s enough, Mr. Shaughnessy! Mr. Biddle is not on trial here. His dreams and his type of underwear are not at issue.”
    “Certainly, your honor. I was merely trying to establish whether we have here a case of consensual underwear.”
    Judge Jackson banged his gavel. “Mr. Shaughnessy, if you persist in this line of questioning, I shall hold you in contempt. Proceed!”
    “Yes, your honor. I apologize.” Jack noticed that the judge seemed to be stifling a smile.
    The trial dragged on all morning. Jack produced several character witnesses who testified that Annabelle had never before engaged in this sort of bizarre behavior and that she had always exhibited normal attitudes toward underwear.
    Fortified by two martinis before lunch with his client, Jack outlined the alternatives. “Annabelle, we can fight this thing all the way, demand a jury trial, and probably get you off. But I’m also sure that I can plead you down to simple sexual harassment, one year probation. Whaddya say?”
    Annabelle leaned over and patted his arm. “Anything you say, Jack honey, let’s get this mess cleaned up in a hurry. I don’t think I can afford to pay you if it drags on much longer.”
    “No problem, Annabelle my gal. Just don’t jump bail before we’re done in court. And about my fee, why don’t you come over to my place tonight so we can talk about it?”
    “Can do, Jack. But first, tell me: what kind of underwear should I be expecting?”

Red Binaries

    I rub my lips together pressing the red lipstick out evenly. My tongue runs across my front teeth as I adjust my rearview mirror to review my smile. Clean, white teeth and scarlet red lips. I look around at the brand new Mercedes that I bought with the life insurance money a few days ago. The scent of a new car, the smoothness of new leather seats yet to crack from sunlight and the dashboard a dark, unfaded shade of gray. These are things I have never experienced until now and I probably wouldn’t have either if it wasn’t for what happened. An associate professor’s salary was just enough, but not for frivolous luxury vehicles. It’s hard to think how much things have changed in the past three months. The thought of someone living in our house still hurts. I didn’t even go through his things; they were sold with the house. Zero, pi over two, pi, three pi over two.
    I know I should just crank the car and leave. I should go somewhere else, or just get a room alone for the night. I shouldn’t be here doing this, waiting on a “client” to call me, but as usual I sit here frozen staring blankly at the airbag logo on the steering wheel in front of me. A sudden knock on the fiberglass window jolts me. What is he doing here? My heart sinks to the floorboard and I put on my best surprised smile as my window glides down, breaking the transparent barrier between us.
    “New car? You must be getting paid pretty good these days, huh?” he says condescendingly. He has a devilish grin that reveals pearly white teeth. On the outside, Sullivan is confident. He appears bold, independent and self-assured to the untrained eye and, for the most part, he is all those things. Except when things get tough, or people don’t act the way he wants them too, or when he can’t understand others. That’s when he is truly himself. My eyes focus on his wicked but delicate smile. His lips are so inviting. He’s so handsome. A pang of guilt stabs at my gut and I try to ignore it. I know where it takes me and I don’t want to be there right now.
    “I guess you could say that. What are you doing here anyway?” I ask boldly and bluntly. I’m taken aback at how easily it was for me to ask but he’s not fazed. Back when we were together in college, he would tease me all the time saying that thoughts pour out of me like wine into a small glass, splashing stains onto a new tablecloth. But I can’t help it. I’ve never been a graceful person, physically or emotionally. I trip over the wall that’s always been there and can’t help but tumble ass first into love instead of falling. I don’t really want to know what he’s doing here; I don’t even need to know.
    “Come on Harp. I know you’re smarter than that.”
    I blush. He’s right. I am smarter than that. People only come to motels in this part of town for one reason and that’s me.
    “Well, I just wanted to make sure. My clients are important to me. I mean, what if you were here for someone else?”
    “Maybe I am,” he says smiling big.
    At first it hurts my feelings a little, but then I realize it’s just who he is. Sullivan never means what he says. When we were together, I learned what filter I should apply to Sullivan. Maybe that’s why it never hurts for long. The telescopes I would use for research come with a bunch of different lenses, each one a different strength. Like these telescopes, I use certain lenses when it comes to observing others. I’ve found that most people are just light pollution and there are very few real stars. With Sullivan, I have to apply the strongest lens possible and edit like crazy to get to the true light source. If I had to pin Sullivan down as a star, which I think he could be, rather dim though, I would have to say he’s a neutron star. A densely packed ball of mass, mostly shit, spinning furiously with very little concern on the effect it has on all the matter surrounding him. His warp on space-time and gravity is undeniable.
    “I doubt that,” I say jokingly but sure of myself. I feel my red caked lips rake into a smile across my teeth.
    Red is the color with the longest wavelength. It’s the last color you see before all visible light disappears. So, naturally, when Blake died I started to paint my lips with it constantly. I wear red lipstick with intense pride and satisfaction. I still remember the first time I put it on.
    Blake and I were seven months into our relationship. I shopped all day to find the perfect shade of red. Finally, after investing all day into my search I bought four different tubes. That night, after work, I rushed home as fast as I could so that I would have plenty of time to put each one of them on. It must have taken hours for me to blend a few of them together. In the end, I finally got that perfect red hue that I imagine Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter would have looked like. When Blake knocked on the door, I opened it zealously revealing my labor of love. His eyes darted directly to my lips. When I asked if he liked it, he didn’t answer me. He didn’t have to. Before we left I went into the bathroom and wiped it off. Later he admitted that it made me look unnatural. He said red was too rebellious for someone like me. Like a flower being spray painted, he would say. It detracts from the beauty beneath it; a false front. In the Doppler Effect, objects moving further away from us appear red, so to speak, and when he died I saw my life and everything I once held close moving away from me near the speed of light.
    “So,” he starts, “I was going to get a room by myself for the night but...”
    “By yourself? I don’t believe that for a second.”
    “Either way, I’m here now and so are you. What does that say about you?”
    “That I like making money and you like spending it,” I say grinning.
    He smiles as his deep gaze suddenly drops to his feet. Sullivan may be an arrogant bastard, but he loved me more than either of us care to admit. He still looks at me the same way he did when we were together. There it is again, that pang of guilt. Except this time it’s a different kind. I try to ignore that one too because I can see it taking me somewhere else I don’t want to be.
    When Blake was alive, it was easy for me to forget about all the good times me and Sullivan had; all I could remember was how often we fought. But now... As he stands before me, his forearms pushing his grey Armani jacket back so that he can fit his attractive hands into his pockets, I see a man who still loves me. My heart aches. I feel like someone has punched me in the gut, my lungs burn and breathing is hard. When I look at him, I see a man whose heart has been broken; once when I left him for Blake and a little more every time we do this.
    Blake was like a breath of fresh air after being with Sullivan for nearly two years. When Sullivan and I would disagree, it would always end up in a battle of wills. Neither of us would surrender, even when there was a clear winner. Blake was different. He always let me win. It didn’t even matter if I was right or wrong, what obscenities I would scream at him, he always backed down. There were times I could tell that he was hurt over some of the things I said and I would apologize relentlessly for it. I guess the difference in Sullivan and Blake was pretty simple; one of them fought battles while the other focused on the war. Ultimately, Blake won me and every tiny particle of my being. My God, that man loved me and I him.
    “What if I said that I could produce the finest red wine you’ve ever had?” asks Sullivan.
    “Well then you know it’d have to come in with you,” I say biting my lower lip.
    I know I shouldn’t be doing this, not again. For the last two and a half months, I have slept with Sullivan more than I ever did when we were actually together. I only agreed to it in the beginning for the wine. That is one thing I loved about him; his wine cellar. He has some of the most expensive and rarest wines in the world. His family has collected them for generations. Last year, when Sullivan got married, I heard that he wouldn’t let his new wife, Candace, uncork a bottle for their wedding or even their honeymoon. Yet here he is, pulling a bottle of vintage 1995 L’Ermita Spanish red wine out of his car for me.
    “Why don’t you go in and get us a room. I’m just going to freshen up for a second.”
    “Sure thing,” he says tucking his black hair behind his ear with his free hand.

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The Truth And Lies That Red Tape Hides, art by Aaron Wilder

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DSCN 2479UZEYIR14K, art by Üzeyir Lokman ÇAYCI

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Double is Retired

    Today his palms did most of the work. A rheumatoid arthritis flare up rendered his fingers almost useless. The rheumies, he called them, dangled like broken twigs on a branch under the metal box the owner of Dasso’s Pottery held in his arms. The meds hadn’t kicked in; he grimaced in pain moving it from the counter. The doorbell startled him and he almost dropped it. Who was that? He stopped and made adjustments. If he dropped it, the money in the false bottom might fall out. He sat it on the counter and parted the wooden blinds on the door. Marco! What the hell did he want? He hurried and put it away.
    Two months ago he found it on the interstate when he stopped to take a leak. Who would believe him. Nobody. A million things went through his head. Who, how and when did the money get lost? It had to be drug money or a bank heist. Somebody was in big trouble. When he got home he looked closer, it wasn’t marked, but it felt funny. He checked every bill.
    A $100K and it was counterfeit. Just his frickin’ luck.
    He re-bundled it and made sure he didn’t leave prints. He couldn’t bring himself to toss it; yet.
    Gordie opened the door and went and sat behind the counter. Marco looked around at the low inventory.
    “How’s business, Dasso?”
    “How does it look? What do you want?”
    Marco snickered, “I got a scam goin’. Help me out.”
    Why did he let this fool in? “Marco, I am not a grafter, I picked pockets. Remember? Not con people, you know that.” Gordie’s ex-partner’s eye had an eerie darkness and the shadow of premature aging imprinted on his face.
    “C’mon, Double, hear me out.”
    “Count me out, and do not call me Double,” Gordie snapped. That name, Double Jointed, sickened him, just because his body used to be pliable, that should’ve made him the object of ridicule back in the day.
    “Sorry, just messin’ with ya.”
    Gordie sighed. This idiot doesn’t get it. “I been out the game a long time. See these fingers.” Gordie put his hands in his face.
    Marco frowned, “Jesus. Gordie what happened?”
    “RA. Rheumatoid Arthritis. I hate to be rude, but I’ve got business.” Gordie escorted him to the door.
    “Well, think about it.”
    He slammed the door on his heels. He hoped he got the hint. He needed to stay around the shop. Burglary wasn’t beneath Marco. So he called the nursing home and left his daily hello to his mom. He hoped and prayed one day she would hear him through the layers of unconsciousness. If she ever woke up what would he say about the family business she entrusted him? Sorry, mom, this curse I brought upon myself for stealing is the reason I have to sell or go out of business. That would put her in another coma. The machine beeped an ended his message.
    Years ago his hands were narrow, strong and quick, and with the help of criminals Gordie Dasso became a pick-pocket and his crew never got caught. His philosophy: greed will get you killed. And now he dealt with his affliction on a daily basis that limited his sculpturing of beautiful pottery. Marco was trouble, the antithesis of everything Gordie, Marlee and Sammy stood for: greedy, ambitious and impatient. The all around petty criminal; no sophistication. When the crew worked an area they stuck to the plan, not Marco. He tried to clip an old lady; she saw him and made a scene. A crowd gathered, but he calmed her down. Then he clipped the people who came to her rescue. Marco thought it was hilarious, Gordie didn’t, so he fired him and got out the game; and so did Marlee. Gordie started driving a bus for the transit authority and Marlee became a secretary and Sammy moved. He hadn’t seen Marco in well over a decade. What was this fool really up too? Gordie never had trouble with the cops, even when they stole. They cherished their stealth. And still did.
    He didn’t need Marco around. He hit his speed dial.
    “Hello.”
    “Hey, Marlee. How are you?”
    “Good, Mr. Gordie, it’s been a while. Me and my hubby are working hard on our latest venture. How are you?”
    “It all depends. Marco stopped by, he’s talking crazy. He’s a grafter now and he wants my help with something. What’s his story? I know you hear things.”
    She giggled. “I’m like you. Hear none, speak none and see none.”
    “Yeah, right.” She would come through, with her hour glass figure and personality people opened up. That magnetism distracted many a mark focused on her behind and that made her a vital part of the crew. “Hit me back later.” Gordie snapped his phone shut.
    He sat by the window and looked past the neon sign at the vacant lots and stores on the boulevard that closed over the past ten years. The phone startled him. “Hello.”
    “Gordie, your boy did a dime down state for fraud and armed robbery. He’s delusional, that grafter crap is what got him time.” Marlee said. “They say he owes the wrong people some money. Gambling.” He knew it; the sneaky SOB was trying to get him mixed up his mess. “You still there?”
    “Yeah, go ahead.”
    “If he asks, you have not seen me. Be careful babe. Bye.”
    The accelerated rate of the RA forced him to go on disability and limited his sculpturing. A decision had to be made whether to close Dasso Pottery. Some flexibility returned to the rheumies, so he tried to do some work. He uncovered the clay wheel, flipped the on switch and stepped on the speed control. It came to life with vigorous hum. He took a cylinder of clay out of the pugmill and centered it on the wheel. He opened his tool box and sorted through the scrapers, rollers, various string tools and shapers. All of his tools had excess padding so he could get a grip. He improvised, palmed the instrument and pressed his other palm on it. The clay would peel off and form the desired shape. The problem: his palms couldn’t hold it tight enough. The result: the cylinder wobbled and produced a defect. Gordie dropped the shaper and back handed his tools off the workbench and kicked them across the room. “I’m sick of this shit!”
    He couldn’t do the two things he loved; stealing and pottery. Dasso’s Pottery will close.
    Gordie saw a shadow through the blinds leaning on the buzzer. “What! I’m coming, get off the bell!”
    Marco had a smirk on his face. “Can I come in?”
    He moved aside and shut the door. They stood face to face. The former partners were the same height, but Marco pumped iron in prison. His blotchy unshaven complexion wrapped around a sinister grin that displayed gaps between yellowish teeth that screamed to be cleaned. “I told you, I’m not interested in what you selling, Marco.”
    “Hear me out,” he pleaded. “You ain’t got much product, your hands are shot and it looks like ya going out of business.”
    “And?”
    “And, I can help.” Marco snapped.
    “What if I don’t want or need it.”
    Marco got in his face. “Just give my nephew some pointers!”
    “Don’t holler at me!” Gordie snarled. “What nephew?”
    “My sister’s kid, Little Richie.” Marco sighed and back up. “Listen, I tried to tell him not to do crime, but since he won’t, I thought if you school him a little, he might not get caught, like you. These young boys think this shit cool til they get in the joint. Help him and when I get the rest of the plan, I’ll fill ya in. If you’re interested, cool, if not I’m gone. Deal?”
    Gordie looked deep into his eyes. He looked sincere; one way to find out. “Deal.”
    Marco extended his hand and then retracted it, smiling. “Sorry.”
    Gordie slammed the door. He leaned on it and took the padded pliers and flipped the dead bolt. He had to get rid of him. But how? He sat and pondered that question. He looked at the tools scattered on the linoleum floor and picked them up. Then it hit him. The money was the answer. If he owed people like Marlee said, Marco would jump at the chance to get it. If he paid with funny money, he wouldn’t see him again. But how could he do it? Marco was a burglar, but if he broke in and got the money, it would lead back to him.
    Chill, Gordie, it’ll come to you.

Soul Fuel 501

    “I know it’s not every day you stop someone driving their own fire truck, but it’s legal...and it’s mine. The other cops in this area know me. You could’ve pulled me over in the shade. It’s 100 degrees.” Evan Burgess wiped his forehead and sneezed when traffic wheezed by and kicked up dust and blankets of heat. His denim overalls reeked with smoke. They were too tight for his 6'5" frame, but he couldn’t find the one’s that fit. He dug in the tiny pocket. “Here’s my license and registration...you can read, can’t you?” The short muscular cop looked up at Evan and then at the papers, his eyes narrowed into a hateful stare and gave them back. Evan grinned; he got the cop’s goat. Now to really piss him off. “Let me give you a little history of this beauty.” He rubbed the truck and walked toward the front. “This is a ’67 Howe Defender. I converted it into a mobile BBQ. I’ve met all health department requirements. See the number on each side. It had a 1000 gallon water tank that pumped 750 gal/min; which I junked and made room for grilles and refrigerators. Now for the good part—.”
    “Whoa.” The cop held up his hand and struggled to contain his laughter. “You think I’m harassing you.” He shook his head. “We’re familiar with your charity work at foster centers, your sauce and around the county over the past year...admirable. So, I want to hire you for our family reunion.” He handed him a card. Evan’s mouth opened in silence. The cop laughed. “Now you can wipe the egg off your face. Call our coordinator. Be careful, Soul Fuel.” He got back in his cruiser and left.
    Evan hopped in the cab and flipped the toggle switch on the Howe’s dual electrical system and ignited the massive inline six cylinder engine. His young passengers asked about the cop.
    “A new customer,” he said.
    They didn’t believe him. Those three kids were no strangers to abuse from authority figures, in and out of foster care. When they relocated near Evan they took interest in the truck, being from a foster home he knew the feeling, so now and then he took on a job. They were eager to work, but he could only let them do so much. His partner objected and the kids sensed his disdain. “Why doesn’t Mr. Cooper like us?” They asked. “He likes you.” Evan lied. Cooper was too stupid to realize, if nothing else, it was good PR, and since the addition of the frosty machine, kids everywhere loved Eng. 501.
    Time had flown. He promised their guardians he’d return over an hour ago.

    He made a there point turn and back into his cul-de-sac. He cussed and squeezed 501 between diagonal parked cars by the driveway. He blocked the tires and connected the power to charge the batteries. A ten minute shower and a rub on Clarisse’s stomach got him a kick from their unborn daughter. Twenty miles over the speed limit got him to the lawyer’s office with a few minutes to spare. He parked his early model blue Camry in a handicapped. This shouldn’t take long. He pushed the revolving door and his voice mail rang. “Evan...A Mr. Larry Goodman called saying he’s from some foundation. I forgot just, but it sounds important. Love you, bye.”
    He snapped the phone shut. Who’s Larry Goodman? Was he reviewing, analyzing or whatever they do, his grant applications? He hadn’t heard from The Pelter Foundation. Why? He needed the funds for phase two of his plan, but first, get rid of Cooper.
    He walked past the maintenance people polish floors and glass partitions. Floor drying fans hummed and circulated the scent of disinfectant in the corridor. This would be the final meeting with Isaiah Cooper, former friend and business partner. Evan’s hearty greeting surprised the tobacco stained teeth of the grinning legal piranha’s that shook his hand. Now his palms smelled smoky. Cooper swiveled in his chair with a smug grin on his face. His narrow set eyes and large forehead attached to a long frail body made Evan laugh to himself.
    “Good afternoon, Evan.”
    Phony as usual. “Hello.” He cut his eyes at his lawyer and hoped the papers were completed. “Things ready to sign?” His attorney nodded. “Cooper, are you happy now?”
    “Yes, I’m moving on.” Cooper pushed his glasses up the bridge of his broken nose. “I’ve outgrown your conservative business model.”
    “It’s good enough for you to siphon off some of my customers and tell them about a new location in Nashville.” Cooper blinked...surprised. “You two-faced SOB.”
    “Our customers...I’m taking mine with me. Evan, we have different levels of sophistication. I lean toward upscale persons...you, working class...and lower.”
    Evan shook his head in disgust. “You didn’t mind encouraging under-privileged children. What happened?”
    “That served its purpose.” Cooper pointed at Evan with contempt. “You do charity...I’m in for the money.”
    “Your snobbish friends know where you started, Mr. Financier?” cooper clinched his and held his anger. “You didn’t tell them about two DJ’s who were competitors and started selling BBQ at the clubs, here and there, joined forces. One a smooth talker; you...the other an innovator; me. You like being stationary, but mobility succeeded, Soul Fuel, my idea. If I didn’t need additional financing, I would’ve never messed with you.” Evan reached over his lawyer’s arm and pushed the documents at Cooper. “Sign this so I can go...I’m sick of looking at you.” Evan’s lawyer touched with a calming gesture. “Devote your time to your new shady partners, Cooper.
    “They’re not shady!” Cooper leaned across the table. The attorney’s shuffled in their seats and positioned themselves to intervene.
    Evan leaped to his feet. “Don’t holler at me! You’ll never beat me. My sauce made Soul Fuel famous, here and in the surrounding towns. You and everybody else have tried to imitate it. It won’t happen.”
    “I have a better plan and marketing, Evan.”
    “If it’s so good, why do you still want a hand in Soul Fuel?”
    “I don’t.” Cooper grabbed the pen and his attorney showed him where to sign. He looked at the check and grinned. “You’ll wish you came with us.”
    “No, I won’t. When I heard about the brother’s you partnered with...I’m glad. You’re right, Cooper. I don’t have what it takes. You stalled to the right buy-out price. Now you’re happy.” Evan checked the document, folded it and put it in his briefcase. “Been to the casino lately?”
    “Been to the tavern lately?” Cooper mocked. “It’s none of your business anyway.”
    “Now it isn’t.” Evan countered. “That’s why I gave you that inflated price. You’re a compulsive and I don’t want your associates leaning on me when you hit rock bottom.”
    “Don’t judge me. You’re a drunk.”
    “Who stays out of taverns; but you’re smarter than me. See if it works on, the brother’s.”
    “Like they say, don’t be a hater.” Cooper laughed. “Soul Fuel won’t last, but you can turn 501 into a set of four wheel monkey bars for those ghetto kids.”
    “Good riddance.” Evan walked to the door, turned and flipped him the bird and walked out.

    Evan didn’t feel his phone vibrate; he allowed his nemesis to distract him.
    The text read: Dr. Larry Goodman called; contact him first thing in the morning.
    This Goodman might be a potential customer, but something seemed strange, but positive. When he got home they’d go celebrate the severance with Cooper, but first he wanted to look at his dream. Cooper kept his plans a secret, and so did Evan. He knew he needed to expand the business, being mobile wasn’t practical during the winter.
    He needed a base: a fire station.
    Compton abandoned their firehouse during the real estate boom. The new subdivisions required more and bigger trucks. The mayor said he wouldn’t demolish the building for sentimental reasons, but since it became an eyesore that statement was meaningless.
    Evan had the solution.
    He cruised through the waves of heat that rose from the crowded country road. The rays of the sunset trickled through the tree lined highway to Compton. The serenity of the winding road and breeze the leaves made him appreciate the rural areas. He peeked around traffic and waited for an opportunity to pass a truck only to be forced back in line. He descended from the hilly road into the outskirts of his destination.
    He pulled into the drive and witnessed the battle between weed and the multiple cracked concrete. The weeds victory meant a new driveway. Nature’s reclamation had progressed each season, now the station needed tuck pointing. Branches of a huge oak tree grew up the walls over the roof. It embraced the chimney and its smaller branches clung like fingers to the mortar between the corroded bricks. The cost to cut down the giant was figured into Evan’s imaginary budget. The town inspector’s installed newer board-up devices, but he could still see between the cracks. The floors weren’t cracked and the staircases hadn’t separated from the walls; no standing water or mildew odor. The fire poles looked sturdy. Only God knew what the plumbing would cost, but once he got inside he’d know for sure.
    When Evan dee-jayed he accumulated state-of-the-art equipment. Renting it bridged the gap during the winter, but the economy slowed everything. He got tired of calling about his offer; his dream was bound in red tape. He gave the building a pat and headed home.
    Evan walked in the door and Clarisse greeted him with a hug, kiss and a horrendous appetite. She insisted only the buffet at the casino could satisfy her cravings. She spun and showed off her new blue outfit that clung to her hips. She’d cut her hair short like his. Easy maintenance, like he said, but jewelry really set off her beautiful high cheek bones. It seemed the only weight she gained was the baby.

    They strolled down the red carpet under the neon lit marquee and embraced each other like newlyweds. All the shops and restaurants were in back of the tables and machines. Laughter and celebration didn’t exist, replaced with concentration, faint ringing bells from slots and whiffs of smoke. Glitz and glamour couldn’t hide the disappointment Evan felt seeing the seasoned crowd relentless in their efforts to beat the house.
    Evan led them through the crowd when he paused and guided Clarisse behind a bank of machines in front of the restaurant. “Look, there’s Cooper.’ He whispered.
     “Where?” Clarisse rose on her toes and peered over her husband’s shoulder. “I see him.”
    Cooper sat at one slot machine and leaned on the seat back of another. His jacket was draped on the seat staking his claim. Oblivious to his surroundings he played the bandits. A guy walked over and placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke. Cooper pushed his hand away. “You changed my luck!” He pounded on the buttons. The man put up his hands in an apologetic gesture and walked away.
    They sat in front of the buffet. Evan wanted to see the look on Cooper’s face when he saw him. Cooper’s frustration intensified. He slammed and banged on the machines. He got up, stepped back and beckoned for the waitress. Another customer sat at his machine and it hit. The machine exploded in celebration and Cooper exploded in rage.
    “That’s my machine!” They were nose to nose when security arrived. He snarled when he saw Evan, who grinned and waved as they escorted him to the door. Evan guessed the stranger violated slot machine etiquette.
    Intermittent showers added to the mugginess during the journey home. Clarisse’s peaceful snore faded to silence when he rubbed her stomach.

    “Good morning, Goodman Foundation,” a smooth female voice said.
    “My name is Evan Burgess. A Mr. Larry Goodman asked me to call.”
    “Yes, Mr. Burgess, hold just a minute.” He took a deep breath and exhaled, surprised he was nervous.
    “Good morning, Mr. Burgess...you’re a hard man to catch,” he said with a heavy southern drawl.
    “Sorry, Mr. Goodman...I’ve been busy.”
    “Call me Larry.”
    “Ah, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve never heard of your organization.” Evan opened his laptop and googled it.
    “I understand, Mr. Burgess,” Goodman chuckled. “May I call you Evan?”
    “Yeah.”
    “We’re legit, believe me. We took over the Pelter Foundation’s grant applications; a business decision. We’ve been dormant due to the recession, but things loosened.”
    Their website impressed the owner of Soul Fuel. The foundation was huge. He closed the computer.
    “We’ve reviewed you’re your grant application and we heard about your charity work with foster care. I’m impressed. I’m a product of that system. Well, you’re the recipient of our entrepreneur/humanitarian of the year award. The youngest ever I might add. Your unique business put you over the top. Congratulations.”
    “Well thank you,’ Evan’s voice rang with joy. “Any perks with that?” He laughed.
    “Yes...grants based upon need.” The CEO said.
    “Well, I’ve got a plan.”
    “Can I see it?” Goodman asked.
    “Well, I’d rather show you in the morning. If that’s alright? Are you near or what?”
    “That’s fine. I’m in Nashville.”
    “Cool, take Highway 29 into Compton.” Evan instructed. “You’ll see an abandoned fire station. I’ll be there at 8:00am.”

    Evan ran around his office screaming and shouting gathering his files and plans. He calmed himself and wished he had Cooper’s gift of persuasion. In that area he felt like he’d amputated an arm.
    Get it right, no mistakes. The future depended on it.
    Evan rehearsed half the night. He said a prayer and sped down the road.
    A tall thin white haired gentleman who looked dressed for a round of golf emerged from a black four door Bentley. He had all the attributes of a CEO. He leaned on the door and adjusted his cane and stepped toward the approaching vehicle. He smiled when Evan pulled up. Goodman’s hand shake was firmer than he expected. “Good morning...Mr. Burgess?” He asked.
    “Yes. How are you this morning?”
    “Good.” The foundation head seemed relaxed and curious. “You like to start early.”
    “Beat the heat. I know you’re busy, so let’s get busy.” They walked to the side of the building. “I’ve come up with a rough estimate of plumbing, electrical and other repairs, but this makes my plan unique.” Evan said, and unrolled his drawings. Goodman stepped closer and Evan took out a pen and placed on the starting point of his presentation. “The ventilation system will be completely rebuilt and a Plexiglas partition will divide the first floor, 501 will park on one side, the restaurant will be on the other. The grills will be visible and two side doors will lead to the patio. The fire poles remain, but the openings will be sealed from the second floor where his audio rental equipment will be stored. The building façade will be rebuilt to the original specs with the addition of a small name marquise with flashing lights on both sides. Landscaping ideas will be Clarisse’s job.” Goodman smiled in agreement. “A woman’s touch always helps.” Goodman gave him his undivided attention. Evan read Goodman’s expressions during the presentation. An occasional nod and smile in conjunction with analytical stares told him; he was good to go. “Well...what do you think?”
    “Sounds good, Evan. When would you like to start?”
    “Next week. But, there’s a program the county offered; leasing rehabilitated county buildings is a dollar for the first year, but my application seems to be lost.” Evan shrugged. “Or whatever.”
    “I’ll look into it, it won’t be an issue.” They shook hands. “I like this a lot. It’s almost as good as your sauce...Ah, surprise. Can I have your recipe?” Goodman asked.
    “No.”
    They laughed and shook again.
    “I’ll be in touch.” The foundation CEO pulled on to Highway 29 and accelerated over the hill out of sight.
    The grant and the county’s approval came within a week. The interior inspection proved to be in Evan’s favor. The contractors finished in two months. The Labor Day grand opening was an overwhelming success and his audio rentals had increased twofold. However, the winter months would tell if his upgrade proved worthwhile.
    Soul Fuel’s hours were modest; opening later in the afternoon and closed by ten. Customer’s requests to purchase bottles of sauce were limited to small cups on the side. He stuck to his motto: one step at a time, greed will kill you.

    A spring deluge subsided by the time Evan parked. He got there early to catch on some paper work. He stuck the key in the lock as Cooper pulled up.
    Cooper jumped out with a snide grin on his unshaven face. “Evan, how are you? Belated congratulations on your daughter.” He extended his hand and Evan just looked, removed the key and blocked the door.
    “Thanks...Get to the point.”
    “Don’t be hostile—”
    “What’s a city slicker doing around us country hicks without his Escalade?” Evan interrupted and glanced at the earlier model green rusty Chevy sedan. That inquiry wiped the smile off his face. “And what’s all that stuff in the back. Going somewhere?”
    Cooper’s eyes narrowed. “None of your business!”
    “That’s better...that’s the real Isaiah Cooper.”
    “How did you do it...whose idea was this?”
    “Mine.” Evan pointed at himself annoyed at the question. “501 is my idea, remember?”
    “Evan, you are not that smart.” Cooper sighed, unconvinced. “You still had to have help organizing this. This is too successful for you.”
    Evan’s icy stare froze Cooper’s expressions. Worry and stress was etched in the thirty year olds face. “You feel better now that’s off your chest. All that education and charm...now look at you.”
    “Fuck you, Evan,” Cooper snarled.
    “I forgave you for your treachery and I even said a little prayer. Now get your sorry butt off my property.” Evan stepped toward Cooper. He got in his car and drove in the opposite direction of Nashville.
    Evan sat in his office and remembered the times he drove past Cooper’s house. The grass was long; the next time, longer, and then one day he saw a foreclosure sign. He leaned back smiled and admired his creation.

Grip

    Cynthia Massey meant business. The 5'3" frail addict stepped from behind a huge oak tree and pointed a 9mm pistol at her victim’s chest. He froze. “Don’t move,” she said in a soft, but stern voice. She didn’t want to break the 2am silence. She knew he couldn’t identify her in the dark hoodie. “Empty your pockets...now.” The medium height and build uniformed mass transit worker frowned; his hands didn’t move. “Have it your way.” She squeezed the trigger. He groaned and lunged at her before his face slammed into the grass. “Mess with me, you fool.”
    She looked around; no lights came on in the houses that bordered the four square block park. She pushed him over with her foot.
    Hurry up; go through his pockets!
    She snatched his wallet and shook it. No money. She checked his front pockets. Bingo! Cash, it felt like enough for an eight ball. She turned to run, but a hand grabbed her ankle like a vise grip. Cynthia fell forward into a pile of mud. Something stunk! Dog shit! She wiped her face on her sleeves. “Let me go,” she hissed and slammed the pistol into his skull, over and over again, but the grip tightened. The butt of the 9mm slid in the gashes on his head and blood covered her hand. He went limp.
    Finally, he was dead.
    She had to get away!
    “Let me go.” She hit at her victim’s fingers with the pistol. The butt missed half the time and struck her ankle. Slow down, Cynthia.
    She stood, kicked and stomped the corpse’s arm. Nothing happened. She grabbed the other arm and tried to drag him on the wet grass. Cynthia forgot the knife in her pocket. She opened it, eased it between the fat fingers and twisted the blade. It snapped shut on a finger. She pounded on the knife until it cut through the bloody flesh and bone. She tossed it aside and fluid ran down her ankle into her sneaker. She worked the hand back and forth. The grip loosened. She tried the next finger.
    Dammit! His ring got in the way.
    Headlights approached and slowed. She ducked and a cop cruised by and put a light on the trees. She ducked and the light passed over her head and the car kept going. Thank God.
    Cutting fingers took too long.
    Cynthia plunged the knife into the wrist. Repeated stabs and twists began to work. She twisted her leg back and forth. Cartilage and gristle snapped and popped. She pumped her leg rocking the clinging hand.
    Come off, dammit!
    She stabbed and stabbed the joint. Shit! She picked up the pistol, checked for cars, and moved her leg to position the hand just right. She squeezed off two rounds into the wrist.
    Fall off, hand! It was loose; now try it.
    She struggled to her feet; took a deep breath and yanked it. She stumbled backwards, fell and hit the back of her neck on something. Her arms and legs trembled out of control. The pain subsided, but she couldn’t move. Her screams for help were mere whispers.
    Cynthia lay paralyzed and watched starless skies brighten. Tears streamed down the side of her filthy face. It was his fault; all he had to do was give her the money. So, she will tell them he tried to rape her on his way home from work. When she recovers she will join a rape crisis group. The only hitch in the plan; she forgot if she used that 9mm in another stick-up.

The Last Sunset

    “If I cry, will he think less of me?” I asked myself, just about ready to give in. “No. I can’t do this. I have to be strong.” My dark brown hair was blowing gracefully in the gentle wind as I stared deeply into his eyes. I knew that I didn’t have the strength or courage to tell him “goodbye,” so instead, I whispered, “See you soon.” Trying to disguise my expression, I smiled, acting as if I wasn’t worried. “I am so proud of you.”
    Then, too suddenly, the love of my life walked away towards the sunset, leaving to join the army. We both thought it was going to be temporary, but I hadn’t realized it then that he would never return.

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.