welcome to volume 79 (February 2010) of
down in the dirt
internet issn 1554-9666
(for the print issn 1554-9623)
Alexandira Rand, Editor
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Ice Pick in My Skull
Randy Boone
As soon as I dumped my last girlfriend,
she rammed a big metal ice pick
right into the front of my skull.
It was really pretty intense,
and I believe that she did it on purpose
mostly just to hurt me on the inside,
because I tend to be very sensitive
when it comes to such matters
of the heart.
I really should have seen it coming,
because as soon as I had dumped her,
she yelled very angrily,
“I’m going to find an ice pick
and ram it right into your skull,”
and then she promptly found an ice pick,
which I didn’t even know we owned,
and she rammed it right into my head.
Now that I stop and think about it,
I believe she picked up that ice pick
last summer at a yard sale in New Jersey
along with some old stainless steel tableware
(which, incidentally, she did not ram into my skull),
but where she got the ice pick
is really neither here nor there
in relation to where it ended up,
which happened to be lodged in the front of my skull.
Our fight didn’t last long after that
because I slumped to the floor in a heap,
but while I was going in and out of consciousness
with my girlfriend shouting and cursing above me,
I tried to be all cool
and make like it really didn’t hurt me,
but I think my girlfriend knew it did
based on all of the blood
and the involuntary seizures and spasms
and the fact that I have always been
incredibly sensitive on the inside
when it comes to such matters
of the heart.
[Originally published in Spout #31, 2007.]
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Randy Boone bio
Randy Boone weighs in at 220 pounds and hails from Hellertown, PA. He currently teaches writing and literature courses at a community college and can often be found lurking about thrift stores and coffee shops. His most recent publications include poems in Ya‚Sou! Ezine, Spout, Glimpse, Lehigh Valley Literary Review, English Journal, Connecticut River Review, Clark Street Review, and Epicenter, among other relatively obscure journals, reviews and magazines, and a chapbook of poems titled Ignoble Daydreams for Impudent Minds.
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SEPTEMBER BONES
A Six-Word Story
Mel Waldman
September bones beneath earth. Find us.
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BIO
Mel Waldman, Ph. D.
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, POETICA, CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND DADDIES and DOWN IN THE DIRT (SCARS PUBLICATIONS), PBW, 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 Amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. 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 Amazon.com, and other online bookstores or through local bookstores. A 7-volume short story collection was published by World Audience, Inc. in May 2007 and can also be purchased online at the above-mentioned sites. I AM A JEW, a book in which Dr. Waldman examines his Jewish identity through memoir, essays, short stories, poetry, and plays, was published by World Audience, Inc. in January 2008.
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End of the Road
Kevin John Dail
the house stares
from empty windows,
mouth agape
in a lonely cry,
wanting,
waiting.
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The Wall
Bobby Townsend
Brandi was a beautiful, little red-headed chick, cute as a button, but even in high school, she had something very sensuous about her. I think it was her eyes, those misty blue eyes.
When Brandi played Peter Pan in the Hingham High School play, she left you convinced that, indeed, she would “never grow up” and that she could fly as high and as far away as her dreams would take her. She could sing, what an amazing voice; and she could lay on the charm, and dance; God, could she kick up a storm.
When she played Annie the next year – she was a natural for the part with the red hair and all, although her hair wasn’t all curls and she didn’t have freckles – and as she belted out “Tomorrow,” she poured out her heart to you (and you couldn’t help pouring out yours to her in return) and she made you forget all about yesterday.
In her senior year, Brandi showed one and all in the town of Hingham, Massachusetts, that she was one helluva actress as well, that she didn’t just have to play parts that fit her like a well-crafted shoe. She was Virginia Woolf, or I guess the lead is Martha, in the play “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” and she was cutting and sarcastic as hell with venom oozing from every inch of her pores.
Everybody in the little town of Hingham was convinced there would be a red carpet to stardom laid out for Brandi; the little red-headed bombshell voted Girl Most Likely to Succeed in the Hingham High School Class of 1965.
My name, by the way, is Paul Hardin. I was a classmate of Brandi’s in that quaint, somewhat affluent Yankee community and was totally infatuated with her. I now play guitar and sing a little bit in a Grenwich Village coffee house. Between songs, I philosophize to the audience and tell them stories and the story I most often tell is about Brandi.
Brandi’s mom died when we were in our senior year, killed in an accident by a drunken driver, which was a very big blow to the well-planned progress of Brandi’s career. You see, her mother was the ultimate stage mom, bringing Brandi to dance lessons about three days after she could walk, getting her voice lessons about five days after she spouted her first words and driving her to talent shows up and down the eastern seaboard.
When Brandi’s mom was killed, it left a very big void in her plans because her old man (meaning her father in this instance) didn’t give much of a damn about her singing or her dancing or the talent shows. About all he ever cared about was his bottle and, after his wife died; he took to drinking even more because, you see, he was the drunken driver who had killed his wife.
Brandi was pretty depressed all that summer after graduation what with her mom just having died and her father awaiting trial for motor vehicle homicide and all. She got a job in a little store in Hingham center and it was almost as if she forgot she was supposed to go to Hollywood to become the country’s next great heartthrob.
Well, after the summer of ’65 was all burnt out and it started to turn cold again, Brandi told me she thought it was about time she went out into the world to realize her mother’s dream for her. She told me she was going to New York in a few days to see if she could land a part in a play or something.
“That’s amazing,” I told her, “I’m leaving for New York myself tomorrow. I’m gonna see if I can make some scratch with my guitar.”
Within a day of arriving in New York, I was playing my guitar on Broadway. Actually, it was on the corner of Broadway and 42nd Street where I set up shop strumming my guitar and singing in the chilling November air, my guitar case left open at my feet for passersby to leave change or crumpled bills to show their appreciation of my music. And I took several breaks during the day to shuffle on down to the Port Authority Bus Terminal in the hopes that I might be there to greet Brandi upon her arrival and help her with her luggage.
Or would she be arriving by train?
I should have asked.
Well, I know it sounds illogical as hell in a town the size of New York, but three or four days later when I was hanging around the bus terminal on a break between sets at Broadway and 42nd Street, my heart stopped. I saw Brandi and her gorgeous hair, which was now more of an auburn color, and misty blue eyes, toting a suitcase and pulling another on wheels behind her along the Port Authority floor. And I saw her stop to talk to some tall, long-haired dude in a swank overcoat, Cashmere scarf, spit-shined boots and a gray wide-brimmed hat. I swear, if the dude had been black and the hat red, I would have sworn he was a pimp.
I waited a minute.
They talked.
I waited another minute.
They talked.
Ah, what the hell? I walked toward where they were standing.
“Oh, my god! Paul!” Brandi said. “Imagine meeting you here!”
“Yeah, what are the chances?” I said.
“Paul Harding, this is Harry,” Brandy said. “Paul’s from my hometown,” she told him.
Harry looked a little perplexed.
“I just met Harry. He says he can hook me up to an affordable apartment.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Why don’t you room with me a little while until we both get on our feet? I’ve got a pretty cheap place and it will make it more affordable for the both of us.”
“Great,” Brandi said.
Harry didn’t look like he thought it was so great.
“Well, here, take my card,” Harry said. “It certainly was a pleasure meeting you and, if it doesn’t work out or there is anything else I can do for you be sure to call.”
She slipped the card into her coat pocket without looking at it.
I didn’t have to promise Brandi that our relationship would be platonic. She knew that I knew her heart still belonged to Wild Bill Jennings, the dude who was voted the Boy Most Likely to Succeed in the class of ’65, and I wouldn’t try anything inappropriate.
A couple of nights later, along about midnight, we were snug in our bathrobes in our drafty apartment, sipping wine, when Brandi told me she had finally taken a look at Harry’s card. Lo and behold, he was a producer! She said she gave him a call and told him she was an actress and could sing and dance more than a bit and was very much revered by everyone in Hingham, Massachusetts, and would really like to try out for one of his films or plays or whatever it was he produced. He, of course, jumped at the suggestion and she was meeting Harry and a camera crew at noon the next day.
Obviously, I had misgivings about the whole arrangement for what are the chances a beautiful young chick from Hingham, Massachusetts, is going to get off a bus at the Port Authority Bus Terminal and bump into a big-time producer and he’s going to make her a star? But I didn’t say anything about my misgivings because I didn’t want to rain on Brandi’s parade.
Now I don’t want to give you the impression I’m a stalker or an overly jealous sort or one to put his nose where it doesn’t belong, but when Brandi bundled up and left our apartment down by the Hudson River on West 57th Street about 11 the next morning, I waited about half a minute and followed her. It was beginning to snow pretty heavy and the wind was biting and it was a very uncomfortable stroll indeed, but I jammed my hands into my well-worn trench coat and followed along about a half a block behind the chick of my dreams.
It was no short hike Brandi was taking either. She traipsed all the way to the front of the Port Authority at 8th Avenue where she met up with Harry, another dude with a crew cut who was about the size of a house, a tall and lanky black dude who was hoisting a tripod on his shoulder with a bulky item on the top that was covered by a tarp (I took it to be a camera underneath), and a semi-handsome dude who looked like a young John Travolta, although I was too far away to see if he had a cleft chin.
They all jammed into a cab and started heading back toward me. I panicked for a moment, sure that they would soon be gone and my long trek in the snow and the wind would all be for naught, but suddenly I saw a cab with its light on, indicating it was an available cab, and hailed it down. I jumped in and fulfilled the ambition of a lifetime by shouting at the driver: “Follow that cab!”
Unbelievable. We headed back in the same direction Brandi and I had plodded. There obviously was a much more convenient place that Brandi could have hooked up with Harry, the dude the size of a house, the cameraman and John Travolta. In fact, when their cab pulled up in front of an old brownstone, down near the river, it was only about two blocks from my apartment.
I watched the four of them go up a few steps to the front door and disappear inside. I waited outside a respectable couple of minutes and went through the same door they had entered; only to find there was a glass door inside the vestibule. I tried the glass door. It was locked. There were all those buttons next to tenants’ names so you could buzz them to have them ring you in and I figured I’d try a few randomly, but that became unnecessary. A middle-aged chick in a shiny leather coat with a nest of black hair came toward the glass door and rushed out past me. As she passed, I could have sworn I saw the beady eyes of a little mouse peering out at me from her black hair, but that was probably only my imagination.
Anyhow, I didn’t let the glass door shut behind it. I grabbed it, mumbling about losing my key, but it was unnecessary. The chick with the nest on her head was out the door before you could say Jack Robinson.
Once inside, I got the awkward feeling of being all dressed up with nowhere to go. What was I doing there anyway? But deep down in my gut, I knew something was wrong. In my gut, I knew Brandi needed me.
I wandered the first floor hall. Even put my ear to a few doors. Didn’t hear anything except a television in one of the apartments; some kind of game show, it sounded like.
There was an elevator. I didn’t take it. I chose the stairway. The stairs creaked. At the end of the corridor on the second floor I saw the house with the crew cut standing guard like a sentry outside of one of the apartments. Well, I guess I knew which apartment they were in anyway.
I took a deep breath and, although my heart was thumping and my hands were shaking in my trench coat pockets, I walked with what I hoped appeared to be a determined gait the length of the hallway and, as I approached the crew-cutted house, who was eyeing me more than a little curiously, I whipped out a canister of pepper spray, which had been my first investment upon arriving in New York, from the pocket of my trench coat and blasted it into the gorilla’s eyes.
He let out a wounded roar, grabbed his eyes and keeled over into a fetal position onto the floor. Without hesitation, I lowered my shoulder and used it as a battering ram against the apartment door. The door didn’t budge, but I felt my shoulder shatter and collapse to somewhere in the vicinity of my lungs.
“What they hell is goin’ on out there!” I heard Harry scream from inside. Then I heard footsteps, presumably his, rushing to the door.
Without thinking, I reached out with my right hand (my left felt paralyzed because of my fractured shoulder) and tried the knob. It wasn’t locked! The door opened! straight into the kisser of the onrushing Harry. His nose burst wide open and blood splattered everywhere. I gave him a quick squirt of the pepper spray as a chaser.
Across the room behind him on a bed was Brandi, naked as a jaybird and bawling her eyes out. John Travolta, who had been lying beside her in a similar state of nudity, was now sitting up, sporting a dwindling erection. The tall and lanky black dude quickly hoisted up the camera into the crook of his arm and pointing the legs of the tripod at me like a lance, he charged at me like an armored knight aboard a sturdy steed, letting out a battle cry as he approached: “Yawww-heee!” A spilt second before the legs of the tripod seared my heart, I dropped to my knees taking the legs out from under the black dude and he went crashing into the door jam, splitting his head open. I gave him a dose of the pepper spray for good measure.
John Travolta was now on his feet, squared off with his hands clenched into fists by his sides. I charged, much like the black dude had approached me. “Yawww-heee!”
I couldn’t help but notice about how John Travolta, in all his nakedness, was so well equipped for the part he was playing. In all the showers I had taken in all my years at the Hingham YMCA , I had never seen a man hung one half the mass of the film star in front of me. My foot shot up and met John Travolta’s mass in all its glory. He squealed like a castrated pig and dropped to the floor. While he rolled around with his jewels cupped in his hands, I gave him a squirt, too.
“Come on, let’s get out of here!” I said to Brandi.
“My clothes!” she screamed.
“No time for that!”
I took off my trench coat and draped it around her.
We hurried away from John Travolta, past the lanky black dude with the broken skull, past Harry with the nose all over his face and finally passed the house moaning on the floor, rushed down the stairs and out the front door. The snow had turned into a blizzard now. Brandi didn’t have anything on her feet. I hoisted her up onto my good shoulder. The other one was shattered, shooting pain through my body.
I hobbled down the icy stairs, clutching the iron rod banister for dear life, and shuffled along the sidewalk, traipsing through a wonderland of snow.
“Oh, shit!”
“What’s the matter?” Brandi blurted through her tears.
A cruiser with two of New York’s Finest crawled down the street. You’d think they’d be more than a little bit curious to see a dude in his shirtsleeves hobbling along a sidewalk in a blizzard with a chick in a trench coat slung over his shoulder with her bare feet hanging out. You’d think they’d be curious. But they weren’t. They drove on by.
Brandi gave up thoughts about going into show business after that day. Everybody back in Hingham was so sure she was going to make it so big. But you never can tell about what kind of obstacles are going to get in the way.
Still, Brandi didn’t do so bad. She met some Wall Street power broker, fell in love and married him.
Today, she has a house in the Hamptons, two nice kids, a butler and a maid and she drives a Mercedes.”
You know, I’ve got to admit, back at the time of high school graduation, I secretly thought I was going to make it pretty big myself. Well, I fell short of my goals, too, but I did pretty well.
Today, I still have my 12-string guitar, I’ve got a gig in the Village that pays enough to put some meat on my bones and, like the song man said, “I’ve got the sun in the morning and the moon at night.”
Then there was the other graduate everybody in Hingham, Massachusetts, was so sure was going to make it so big, Wild Bill Jennings, the Boy Most Likely to Succeed who had stolen Brandi’s heart. He was a tall, good-looking bruiser who could run on a football field like O.J. Simpson could run through an airport. And he had more moves on the field than O.J.’s lawyers did in a courtroom. He was a pitcher who could throw a baseball harder and make it do more tricks than Dizzy Dean. But Wild Bill wasn’t simply a jock. He had great marks and was captain of the debate team and they said he persuasive enough to talk the spots off a leopard.
Bill could have had a free ride to probably any college in the country, but he had visions of going to Congress or maybe even the White House and the Vietnam War was raging, so he put off going to school and enlisted in the Marines. Whether he was simply that red, white and blue or he was just figuring how good it would look in some future political campaign is anybody’s guess.
Today, he has his name on a wall.
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Reminders
John Ragusa
Rose returned from the funeral with a sense of relief.
At last Frank was gone.
As she left the cemetery, her friend Bernice told her, “I’m so sorry, Rose. I can imagine how difficult all this has been for you.”
Rose wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “Yes, it’s hard, but I think I’ll manage.”
“If there’s anything I can do for you, feel free to ask.”
“Thank you.”
Her neighbor Claire approached her. “You have my deepest sympathies, dear.”
“I appreciate it,” Rose said.
Bob Myers, the family lawyer, said, “I’ll be reading the will tomorrow evening at your house, Rose.”
“That’ll be fine.”
As she drove home with her teenaged daughter Faye, Rose reflected on her newfound freedom. Finally there would be no more nagging about the things she did. Frank had always complained about her cooking, for example.
“Don’t tell me we’re having your meat loaf again!” he’d said. “It’s as dry as desert sand.”
“If you don’t like it, why don’t we go out somewhere to eat?”
“Do you think I could afford it? I’m not made of money, you know!”
That was Frank for you; he was the biggest tightwad on Earth. He wouldn’t spend an extra dollar on anything.
“Darling, do you suppose I could buy myself a nice dress today?” she’d once asked him.
He’d snorted. “When you start bringing in the bacon, then I’ll let you buy things for yourself. I work too hard to have you throw away our money.”
She’d wanted to wring his neck right then and there.
The other day, Frank had been fixing the gutter cans because he was too cheap to hire a professional. It had been too tempting for Rose to resist knocking over the ladder.
His death had been ruled an accident at the inquest.
“What are you thinking about, Mother?”
Faye’s voice brought Rose out of her reverie.
“Oh, I was just remembering your father.”
“It couldn’t have been with fondness.”
“Of course it was. I loved Frank.”
“Come on! You despised him and you know it.”
“Faye, that’s not true!”
“Then why did you yell at him all the time? Why did you insult and belittle him?”
“You have no idea what he put me through. Any wife would have reacted the same way.”
“Well, don’t pretend to be sad. Father’s out of your way now.”
When they got home, Faye went upstairs to her room. Rose took a bubble bath.
After she was through, she went downstairs for a martini.
She frowned as a familiar odor filled her nostrils.
She walked into the den. What she saw on the coffee table stunned her.
There, in an ashtray, was a lighted pipe.
She picked it up and examined it.
It was Frank’s pipe.
How did that get here? She wondered.
* * *
The next morning, Rose woke up to the sound of birds singing.
It’s lovely to start the day without Frank, she thought.
She got out of bed and spotted Frank’s slippers on the floor.
That’s funny, she told herself. I thought I put them away in the closet.
The way Frank’s things were popping up everywhere disturbed her. She hardly needed reminders that he had once been part of her life.
She brushed her teeth, dressed, and went downstairs.
Faye was at the dining table, eating cereal.
“Good morning, Faye.”
“Hello.”
“How did you sleep last night? I slept pretty well.”
“I suppose you did, knowing you wouldn’t have to face Father the next day.”
“Listen, young lady, I’ve had enough of this. Your father is dead and buried, and I don’t want to hear any more about him. Is that clear?”
Faye smiled. “Father is indeed dead, but perhaps he isn’t buried.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing.”
Rose poured herself some orange juice and went out to sit on the back porch.
She walked to the patio table and saw a pair of dirty gloves on it. She recognized them as the ones Frank had used when tending their garden.
What’s going on here? She asked herself.
* * *
That evening, the family gathered at Rose’s house for the reading of Frank’s will. His sister and brother, Eva and Gabe, received $50, 000, and Rose and Faye shared his estate. Rose felt she should have gotten more than that.
“Your father sure didn’t leave me with much money,” she told Faye after the others had left.
“You should be grateful for what you got,” Faye said.
“I didn’t get a lot of money when Frank was alive. He never let me spend any money on myself; he was too much of a cheapskate.”
“Well, what did you ever do for him?”
“I cooked, I cleaned, I was a loving, caring wife for 25 years.”
“You complained every day about it, Mother.”
“Frank was the one who did the nagging.”
“Please, Mother, I don’t care to discuss this anymore.”
Rose went to her room to read a magazine. She looked at the dresser and saw Frank’s embroidered handkerchief on it. She thought it had been left in the drawer.
Rose gasped. My God! She thought. Frank has returned! His ghost has come back to haunt me!
She went to the bathroom to get a nerve pill and saw Faye in there tinkering with something.
“What are you doing?” Rose asked. “Why, that’s your father’s shaving razor!”
“You caught me,” Faye said. “Yes, I was the one who left the pipe, the slippers, the gloves, and the handkerchief. I was also putting shaving cream on Father’s old razor when you walked in. I did all those things.”
“But why?”
“I wanted you to think that Father’s ghost was in the house. I thought you should be punished for making him unhappy during your marriage. So I tried to frighten you.”
“Oh Faye! How could you do this to me?”
“You won’t have to put up with me anymore. Tomorrow I’m moving out and going to live with my boyfriend, Roger. We won’t fight with each other once I’m gone.”
Rose tried to persuade Faye to stay, but she’d already made up her mind. The next morning, she packed her belongings and left.
* * *
A week later, Rose went into the den to watch TV when she again saw something shocking on the coffee table.
It was Frank’s pipe, freshly lighted and smoking.
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Who gives a damn what they think?
Emma Jackson
Throughout my fifteen years of existence, I never wished to partake in a random car accident. But, today was different. It would truly be a blessing if anything could prevent the purple 1996 Geo Metro I’m imprisoned in from taking me to 6731 Maple St. It’s the second day of my first job. Fear began to consume my lower gut with the mere thought of repeating what I endured yesterday. Getting whacked by an airbag actually doesn’t seem so bad right now.
While stopped at a red light, I did my best to tune out my dad who was belting out a very depressing country song. An unbridgeable chasm separates my father and me. When I attempt to communicate my innermost, plaguing troubles to him it’s as if I’m speaking in African click language. Sounds come out of my mouth, but I’m never sure if he truly understands the meaning behind those sounds.
After my fist day of high school when I told my father that my acne-splotched-tomato-garden face scares people away, he let out a thunderous laugh deep from the cavern of his round gut, “Why do you give a damn what they think?” Then he gave me some embarrassing advice laced discreetly with malicious mockery, “Make sure you stay away from shrimp and chocolate...I’m just kidding, you’re the most beautiful woman I know.” He clearly doesn’t understand how lonely it is to not have a single friend. And to spite him, I think I might eat 500 pounds of chocolate covered shrimp.
I couldn’t erase the feeling of being moments away from drowning helplessly in a Tsunami of doom. As an uncontrollable fear gnawed away at my lower intestines, I didn’t let a single peep slip out. Like trying to count every single sand particle at Miami beach, it would be futile to try to explain to my father why I wanted to escape the ensuing hell.
Far from positioned like an ennobling Greek Renaissance sculpture, I sat crunched over, my arms tightly wrapped around my sides as my dad screeched, “Life is falling apart, bruised up broken heart, Wife gone, my dog dead, Life is so damnnnn hardd.”
Whenever I wanted to take a momentary break from my often difficult-to-cope-with existence, I let my imagination create an alternative reality. Beyond the windshield, a shiny red Ford pick up accelerated on a wide empty suburban street. I shut my eyes, tilt my head back and let my mind paint a thrilling reality unlike the intolerable hell I would soon face at 6731 Maple St...
My dad too fixated on hitting the right screeching pitch to “Life is so dammnn hard” starts to loosen his foot off the break. The car slowly rolls through the red light. The red pick up accelerates from 70 mph to 80 mph just 30 feet away, then crashes into the passenger door. A force travels though out my body, I jerk to the left as the car starts to spin. It takes a while for my dad to snap out of his melancholy country music trance to a heightened sense of panic.
He desperately grabs onto the steering wheel trying to get a control of “Old Purple Cockroach” (My dad’s car was coined this name for its old rusty engine that emits phosphorous egg farts every five minutes and because of its cockroach like resemblance). The car stops spinning. The engine takes three lasts breaths then dies out forever. I look at my dad as smoke arises from the front. Police sirens break the silence. I clear my throat and plaster an insincere look of shock across my face, in a sarcastic tone “Wow, I really didn’t see that one coming.” My dad punches the steering wheel, the horn faintly toots, he yells, “Dammit, I had a good two months left on this car!”
I jerked open my eyes, back to reality. As the red pick up zoomed by, my dad howled like an alley cat, “Been crying all damn day. The IRS won’t go away. Life is do damnn harddd.” Then, a lump of fear ballooned in my throat. Adorned in black itchy stockings, a red dress with white polka dots, white gloves, yellow styrofoam booties, I was now minutes away from morphing into Minnie Mouse at 6731 Maple St for another spoiled rich kid’s birthday party.
I closed my eyes, the crisp haunting memories of yesterday’s American Girl Doll themed birthday party reluctantly resurfaced into my consciousness. All the girls were blown up cloned copies of their doll. It was bordering on cult. When the birthday girl received a black Versace dress and Rolex along with a miniature black Versace dress and miniature Rolex for her doll Sandra she screamed out in horror as if she got stabbed. To this day I will never forget that piercing scream. All I could here was, “What about the Tiffany’s charm bracelet for Sandra and me?” She shook her doll with fury letting the doll’s hair flap in wildly different directions. “What about our matching bracelets? Sandra and I are not happy!” She ran all over the room while holding onto a lock of her doll’s hair, stomping her feet.
Then she fell to the floor pretending to faint, sat up and started rubbing her hands like Lady Macbeth, wiping off imaginary blood, “The outfit is not complete! The outfit is not complete!!!” I sat there confused in the corner. I was grateful when my dad treated me to a $50 Olive Garden dinner. I assumed the mother would have scolded her for her psychotic outbreak, but instead she knelt to her side and comforted her, patting her head lightly, “I forgot. Hunny, I will pick up the Tiffany’s bracelets later today.” She smiled, but I could tell from her shaky voice that perpetual frustration plagued her soul.
My eyelids slowly peeled open. To distract myself from the immutable fact that I would have to repeat this same nightmare, I let my mind unfocus in a blank stupor. My eyes lazily scanned the red-brick, triangle roofed houses with the two-door garages. Every house looked exactly the same, except for the mailboxes-blue bass fishes, white passenger planes, and even a tropical parakeet. I guess it was a feeble attempt at showing off some individuality.
Then we came to the end of the block, the car jerked to a stop. I craned my neck back, scanned the biggest house in the suburban community that rested proudly on a green hill.
“Here we are,” my dad chirped like a happy finch.
The inescapable horror hit me. My imagination couldn’t save me now. Finally, I had to accept the fact that I’m about to enter into a stranger’s house dressed up like Minnie Mouse. My dad reached in the back and grabbed the plastic 4-feet wide Minnie Mouse head with the flappy elephant-like furry ears. He put the gigantic head right under my nose waiting for me to put it on.
“Well, here you go champ. Good luck! This should be boat loads of fun! I’ll be waiting out here for you.”
I looked straight at the menacing red brick house with the two prominent white doric columns and three car garage. I didn’t even notice the gigantic Minnie head under my nose. My father’s arm was still extended with the Minnie head, he then huffed and plopped it down on my lap.
The weight of the Minnie head didn’t break my focus from the house, my eyelids shot wide open with fear. I let gravity naturally weigh down my jaw. Yes, this was the house. Yes, I was minutes away from dancing like a moron in a ridiculous Minnie Mouse costume in front of people I don’t even know. My heart fluttered faster than a butterfly against my chest cavity. I gasped for air in a steady tempo. With the little breath I had left, I managed to muster out just four words, trying to stifle the panic in my voice, “I’m not going inside.”
My dad cruelly laughed at my misery. Then he stopped suddenly. He stared at my gaping mouth and bugged-out eyes, “What’s wrong?”
He must of repeated that five times before it could register. I slowly turned around and looked into his dark oblivious eyes and wide foolish grin. I knew that if I tried to explain how embarrassing it is to enter into a stranger’s house dressed like Minnie he just wouldn’t understand. My dad has never given a single thought to what constitutes normal behavior.
Whenever I go to the mall with him, he tries to bargain with the sales people to try to get a better deal as if we were in a Thai marketplace. He goes outside in his thin, holed underwear to get the paper. He even once got into a heated argument with a McDonald’s drive-through employee for forgetting to pack bbq sauce.
I sighed and stated without a trace of pretense, “You really wouldn’t understand.” Then hot liquid fear injected into me veins raising the goosebumps on my arms. I involuntarily blurted out my deepest worry, “You don’t know how absolutely ridiculous I look!”
“You will go inside that house!” he said in a steady, ominous tone.
After my dad’s divorce with my mother, my dad became prone to very irritable mood swings. I sat there frozen. He took off his seatbelt, rotated his rotund body towards me. He pointed his index finger at me with a sharp jab of his arm.
“Look at me,” he punched out the words. I snapped my head towards him obediently. “You’re not going to quit the second day for such a foolish reason!”
The hairs on the back of my neck shot straight up. I straightened my spine. Then, I mistakenly looked in the rear view mirror and caught a glance of my face-glowing criss-crosses of red streaks like a Jackson Pollock spattered painting.
I nervously turned away from the mirror. My tear ducts were filled to capacity. I mustered all my energy to stay calm to prevent tears from flowing down like Niagara Falls. I tried one more time to escape the horrific situation. I repeated, “you have no idea how ridiculous I look!”
My dad picked up the Minnie head from my lap and attempted to comfort me by stating the obvious. “Well with this thing on they won’t be able see you.”
I gave it one last try, knowing subconsciously it was in vain, “I don’t even know these people! I am about to humiliate myself in front of people I don’t even know. Can you understand that? Do you understand how that can be embarrassing?”
I was speaking in Icelandic, my dad did not understand a single word I said.
“Who gives a damn what they think! This is you second day of your first job and you are not going to quit. Did you here me? Life is tough o.k. It’s not easy. When you’re faced with an obstacle, you overcome it. You don’t run away from it chicken shit!”
“You get in there!” he grunted like an impatient foot-ball coach.
“I don-don’t wan-wan to go in there-there. And you can’t make me!”
I finally surrendered. My fervor to argue extinguished. I started to become light headed. I put on the Minnie head and started convulsively crying. My shoulders uncontrollably shooting up and down, as if I my body was continually being shocked to save my life from a lethal heart attack. I finally let the tears stream down my cheeks, but it was hidden behind a fixed plastered wide smile and round perky cheeks. My father finally realized I was crying when I put my hands inside the Minnie mask and came back with streaks of wet snot on my white gloves. My father gently rested his hand on my shoulders to try to stop my convulsions.
“Listen, it’s not that bad. You need to relax. Hey, wait a second let me get my book.” He reached in the back seat and grabbed Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff by Richard Carlson from his black duffle bag. He held the book 5 inches from my nose.
“This Richard Carlson guy, he’s like some omniscient being. I mean the stuff in here is truly brilliant. Ahhh here, let me read this, ‘The first step in becoming a more peaceful person is to have the humility to admit that in most cases you’re creating your own emergencies.’”
“Don’t you see how your panicking is creating your own emergency? Put things into perspective. Come on you’re not entering a battlefield. Heck, I had to pick up dead bodies in Nam. You go in there, play with the some kids and then leave. The time will pass by so quick and then you pick up your check. It’s really not that bad. 60 dollars, hmmm that’s not so shabby for a 15 year-old.” He nudged my lifeless arm and nodded his head.
Feeling as if I was submerged in water, I convulsively gulped for air, struggling not to butcher my words, “I don’t don’t ca-ca-ca-care about the ma-ma-ma money!”
“It’s not that bad, just,-
I was fed up with my dad’s preaching. I finally accepted my fate. My dad was incapable of understanding my hellish situation, it would be no use trying to argue any more. I managed to stop crying and compose myself, “O.k. alright, I’m going.” I swung open the car door and slammed it behind me. I looked up at the ominous house with the lavish black glass paned doors.
“Do you want a ride up there? It’s pretty far-
I began a slow grueling march, never letting my vision break from the doors.
“I’d prefer to walk!” I shouted and didn’t turn back.
As I walked up the steep hill, the memory of the girl screaming in desperate horror, “What about the Tiffany’s charm bracelet for Sandra and me?” rekindled. The tendons in my legs stiffened. I swallowed my fear and walked mechanically, one foot in front of the next. I finally made it to the black doors. As my shaky finger extended towards the door bell, the faint thought of sprinting back down the hill surfaced in my brain. Before my finger could press the door bell, the door abruptly swung open.
A young workout barbie-lookalike with black stretch pants and a pink stretchy tank top with bleached hair opened the door. The glow from her perfect Crest Whitestrips smile burned my eyes. “Hi, it’s Janice,” she said demeaningly. She turned inside the house and yelled in steady crescendo, “Here she is! It’s Minnieeeeeeee!”
I took a long-drawn out breath, stepped in the door to a packed room of adults who presumably just jumped out of a Lands’ End catalogue. A row of white khaki pants, a sea of multi-colored polo shirts, warm fuzzy crocheted sweaters wrapped around the arms. Their faces were contorted in pretentious glee. They all hooted and hollered in a cacophonous clatter, “Wow it’s Minnie”, “Oh my god it’s Minnie!”, “No way, how did Minnie get here?!”
I tried to maneuver through the sardine packed room. I felt hands touch my back and arm. I felt less than human, like a toy for adult sized-kids to grope. I just prayed that no one would grab one of my fuzzy ears. I didn’t want the Minnie head to roll off. I didn’t want anyone seeing my identity.
I finally saw Emily, the seven-year old birthday girl, with her possy of friends sitting on a white Pottery Barn couch. They were all dressed in polka dot Minnie dresses with red bow ties on their heads. When I saw their skeptical, unamused faces look up at me, a sting of pain shot in my armpits. I began to sweat profusely. This would be a tough crowd to please. I would have to perform some very buffoonish dance moves.
Emily stood up and approached me. For a split second, my fear subsided and I felt calm. Her perfect brown curls, the same shade as her bright brown eyes with her dimpled smile seemed so innocent. Maybe my dad was right, this wasn’t so bad. Then, she snapped her fingers and whistled as if I was a golden retriever. I was only some 6 feet away. I took two steps.
“Come over here, get closer Minnie.”
I reluctantly obeyed, I took two more steps and leaned over. She shouted out demands like a prison guard ordering a disobedient inmate, “This is my seventh birthday, a very important day. You will do everything I tell you to do. I don’t want you screwing anything up! You got that?”
Peculiar, I thought. I never had a seven year-old dictate orders to me. A hot flow of anger painted my cheeks flush red when I saw Janice laughing hysterically.
“My mom paid $300 to have you here, now let me see what $300 gets us!” Emily snapped.
I started to flail my arms, then flap them like a chicken, shake around my hips. I looked out of my dark webbed peep hole and saw faces violently seized in maniacal laughter. I turned in a circle, and then a second time, by the third spin everything became an inchoate blob. I stopped. I tried to regain balance, everyone was blurry. I felt like a carnival spectacle. I was pure entertainment to be gawked at. One of the Minnie’s in the possy snarled her upper lip, another Minnie rolled her eyes then tisked, another Minnie murmured under her breath, “pathetic, utterly pathetic.”
“Is this a joke? Mom, I can’t believe you wasted your money on this crap! I deserve better than this!!” Emily screamed.
I looked at Janice. I waited for her to do the right thing. She should scold her daughter for her blatantly ungrateful attitude.
“Well, I told you to pick the Hannah Montana performer!” Janice said in a nervous defense. “Look at what happens when you don’t listen to me!”
Everyone in the room stopped and stared at us.
“You’re right mother, I should have picked Hannah, instead of whatever that thing is,” Emily grunted. She lowered her eyes and shot an ominous glare at me.
“Well, we didn’t know did we? I got you five different colored Ipods, red, silver, black green and blue! Hopefully these Ipods should make up for this. Let’s not ruin the celebration.”
They both looked at me with disgust. Janice handed her five shiny Ipods. Emily raised the Ipods, letting the light illuminate the shiny metal, as if they were tokens of honor.
“Ahh, mom I love you!” Emily gurgled out the words in glee.
I stood there perplexed. An enlightening thought surfaced in my brain: Janice was incapable of love. She molded her child into a self-entitled snob. Instead of giving her daughter the scolding she deserved, she fed into her self-entitled mindset. Instead of telling her to be grateful and show a little respect, she yelled at her for not getting the more expensive performer. For some strange undefined reason I never felt closer to my father.
“Time for photos!” Janice perkily blurted out.
I sat down at the photo booth set up in the living room. The Minnie crew surrounded me. Flashes from the camera went off every 1/10 of a second, I closed my eyes and white, yellow strips streaked the darkness. I opened my eyes and felt nauseous.
The photographer leaned over and showed Emily the images on the digital camera.
Anger turned her ears beat red, “Look at this mom! Thanks to this stupid Minnie dress I look like a fat cow. I don’t look sexy at all!”
“If you don’t like the dress then why don’t you change into something more form-fitting hunny?” Janice said calmly.
Form fitting? Did I just here her say change into something form fitting?
Emily rushed up stairs, minutes later she came down the stairs with a hot pink halter top and tight leather pants with rhinestones down the seams. Blue eye shadow and hot pink lip stick painted boldly on her face.
“My daughter looks so beautiful!” She asked everyone at the entire party, “Isn’t my daughter just beautiful?”
Silence.
I was lucky the Minnie head covered my pale face of horror. The outfit, the makeup was the most inappropriate thing I’ve ever seen. Let alone for a child wear! How could Janice teach her daughter that clown makeup and tight leather pants are beauty? Emily jumped back in front of the camera. She stuck out her hip, blew a kiss into the cameraman. Then she backed up and walked towards the camera while shaking her outstretched shoulders like a mini burlesque dancer.
“Oh, that outfit is so mucccch better!” Janice smiled.
A flow of anger ran through my veins to my pulsating temples. I never met a worse mother in my life, and I felt sorry for Emily. I couldn’t believe I came in here worried about what Janice of all people would think of me. A surge of adrenaline ran throughout my body. Without thinking about what other people may think, I took off my Minnie head and threw it to the ground. It made a loud thump. Gasps of horror arose in the room. I looked straight into Janice’s eye and pointed my finger to Emily.
“Let me ask you Janice, it’s a simple yes, no question. Do you love your child?
She paused, a look of incredulity washed over her face, she stuttered, “Of course, I do, why are you asking such a-”
“Is this the symbol of your love for your child? An Ipod? You’ve let these things.”
I picked up two Ipods and shook it in front of Janice’s face.
“These things take away the harder task of being a good parent. Buy her 100 ipods, hire the Hannah Montana Performer, she will just continue to demand more and more and you will continue to give her more and more in the false hope that you will one day feel good. But you know in the pit of your conscience that you have failed to be a good parent! FAILED! She’s completely ungrateful for this very expensive party. She never said thank you once this entire time. Your daughter doesn’t need make up to be beautiful, she needs good character and don’t you see how you’re destroying that?
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spitted out venomously. She sunk her manicured nails into my arm and I shook her off.
“Here’s the check. Now, get the hell out of here!” her husband with the matching Crest Whitestrips smile said. He shoved the check in my face.
“Thank you, I will take that,” I snatched the check out of his hand and held it up high for everyone to see, “and I know I’ve earned every single penny!”
“Bitch!!” Janice screamed out helplessly before I left.
I snatched the Minnie head from the floor and turned around with my head held high feeling radiantly proud. I opened the door. A sun ray gently warmed my face, I looked up. The sun never looked brighter, I smiled. I felt a pulsating energy run through my veins like I was truly alive. I walked outside feeling immensely strong, I finally stood up for something in my life.
I ran down the hill laughing the entire way down and got inside the car. My dad woke up from his nap, a little startled, cleared his throat, “how did it go champ?”
“You were saying this wasn’t like a battlefield? Well whatever that was, I feel like fought and won. You were right, who gives a damn what they think.”
I looked in the rear view mirror and for very first time in my life, I felt beautiful. My dad put his arm around me, and I realized who my best friend was all along. We drove away.
I squeezed the check in my hand and then snapped at my father, “And, please turn off this damn music. It’s very depressing!”
He turned off the depressing country music and we rode in silence. While stopped at a red light, my dad plopped his favorite book on my lap Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff. He insisted I didn’t need the advice though.
I looked down and smiled. Just, a small, awkward way of showing his love for me.
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Emma Jackson Bio
Emma Jackson attends Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University. She has experienced a compelling need to write fiction. She is tired of being a human recorder and writing out just straight news facts. She wants the challenge of being able to create a story solely from her imagination and philosophy on life. Emma is just beginning her career as a fiction writer.
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Book Ends of Life
Chloe Viner
Marilyn Monroe was wearing pearls
when they found her body,
she insisted on being elegant even in death.
Eli Weasel says to judge a book by its
first sentence
but if you judge people that way
they nearly always fail
Books can be read
and tell the content
of what is written between their
stoic masses.
So much is told in the beginning and ends
that the middle might as well
be dead weight,
urging on existence
but containing no details
as to the substance.
You can yearn for a middle
you can even live in the middle
but you can read the most
from the ends.
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When the Morning Comes
Erika Murdey
A rustling sound stirred her from her sleep. Her eyes creaked open as the small dog emerged from beneath the sheets. His dark shape oozed across her covered legs and onto the floor. “Bowser, come back!” she hissed. But she might as well have been pleading with the moon.
Steady snores broke their pattern beside her. She turned from the disobedient dog onto one elbow to face her husband. Her whispers had not completely shaken him from sleep- his breathing resumed its familiar nighttime rhythm. She watched his back; his smooth side rose and fell. Slurping noises in the hall jerked her attention away from him, her eyes went wide, her own breath fast and ragged. Then she relaxed. Bowser was drinking water. He was thirsty. He didn’t have to go outside.
The past few nights the little terrier had needed to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. She’d come to dread his early morning excursions more and more. There were things out there.
What kind of things she couldn’t tell. Sometimes there were scurrying, scampering things that tumbled through the field at the edge of her backyard. Sometimes there were crashing, thumping things that tore through the grass at her approach, and she couldn’t tell if the things were running away- or towards her.
But when Bowser finished drinking he would come back to bed, she was sure of it. She eased back under the thick comforter and listened as the dog’s tongue lapped the water, soothing as white noise.
When the sound cut off and the dog’s black and white face failed to appear in the doorway she sat up. “Bowser!” she whispered, hoping either to draw the dog back or awaken her husband. But no dog came to her call, and her voice did not pierce her husband’s slumber.
She threw off the covers and swung her feet to the floor, then fumbled in the darkness for her bathrobe. Trying to trap the clinging warmth of the bed under her robe, she wrapped it around her thin nightgown. As she did her eyes found the clock. 3:30. The red numbers seemed as angry as she was. Why did the dog have to get up around three each morning? At least he had let her sleep in thirty minutes more than usual.
The dog’s bladder seemed to have its own alarm clock, lately. Even if she took him out late in the night he roused her around three to go out again. She and Bowser would shamble outside, shut the main door behind them and leave the screened door to swing shut on its own. And then they would leave the front yard with its meager glow from the porch light and journey to the backyard. Where the things were.
Encased in her bathrobe, she left her husband and his comfortable snores behind. Feeling her way down the hall, she entered the living room.
Starlight poured through the windows, seeming too bright after the dark corridor. She maneuvered around the coffee table, its solid cherry-stained wood dominating the middle of the floor.
As she passed the tall, oak TV cabinet a threatening hiss hit her ears. “It’s okay, Alfie,” she told the luminous, white cockatiel, “it’s just me.” The bird ruffled his feathers and resumed picking at the seeds in his dish. Hulls flew in a cloud around him, and in the night’s stillness she imagined she could hear them as they fell to the bottom of his cage.
She turned to find Bowser and instead saw Franklin sitting on the window sill, his pointed ears erect and alert. He stared, immobile, out the window by the door. “Franklin, you silly cat. What are you looking at?” She stroked his silky, short fur and he purred, the sound like marbles rolling on a hardwood floor. He briefly regarded her with glowing green eyes before turning back to his vigil at the glass.
Bending beside him, she followed the cat’s wide-eyed gaze. The world outside was painted in blacks and grays. She looked at the cat, at the dog. Their bodies were tense, even in the dark. “There’s nothing out there, guys.” But did she believe it herself?
She shivered, then shook her head. If she was ever going to get back to bed she had to take the Bowser out. That, or go back to bed and have the first sight to greet her in the morning be a little pile of dog crap.
The leash hung by the door, and she removed it and hooked her dog’s collar to it. She took a deep breath and opened the door. The screen door was there, with a long gash across the middle that she’d been meaning to fix. Suddenly, she wanted to turn back, dog poop be damned. Instead she pushed down the latch for the screen door and stepped through.
Bowser darted forward. “Hey!” she cried. He pulled her around the house and it wasn’t until they were in the backyard that she realized she hadn’t shut the main door. But the screen door always closed on its own. What would enter her home? A few minutes of early fall chill? The last of summer’s moths? If she brought her dog around to close that door she would never be able to convince herself back here. Where the things were.
She let the dog lead her down the hill, as they’d done every night. When they came to the edge of the field with the tall grass Bowser hunched to do his business. She looked into the field, into the dry corn stalks a few yards from where she stood. There was papery rustling to the left, then the right. A quick crunch of dried stalks- a deer? A pattering of what, mice? The sounds didn’t follow a path, they were legion. Her skin felt pinched, and she looked at her wrist to find she was covered in goosebumps.
Bowser growled.
She stared at the dog. “What is it, boy?” she whispered.
He growled again, then she heard his loud, threatening bark. She froze. He never barked, never growled, never made a noise. Then she heard it.
It sounded like a train rolling through the field. A wide path of corn bent before it. Whatever it was, it didn’t cut through the corn, it ploughed over the corn. Her body was ice, and she watched from the hill as the black line in the field rushed closer and closer.
Her legs cut out from under her and she screamed. Then Bowser jumped on her chest and refused to budge when she pushed him. “You knocked me down? We have to get out of here, we have to-”
A gust of wind hurtled past her. She forgot her anger and hugged the dog tight. It was like being on the edge of a tornado. Then the current died and she sat up. There was a path cut through the corn and long grass that led up the hill, and to her home.
She stared dumbly at the line, her head and throat felt hollow. “We have to go, go see,” she said. She started up the hill and found herself anchored to the ground. “Come, Bowser.” But he wouldn’t move.
She scooped the dog up in her arms. He was shaking.
She trudged up the hill and around to the front of the house. The hole in the screen was wider now. A heavy gust of wind blew out the door, from inside the house. She was shaking too, now.
She shoved the screen door open and slammed the main door behind her and locked it. Then she set down Bowser. He stood as though he’d been hit with a volt of electricity, a line of hair along his back stood on end.
Franklin was absent from the windowsill, but he lay in an awkward position below it. “Kitty-cat?” He didn’t wake up.
Further into the room she looked up at the bird cage, but Alfie was nowhere to be seen. She didn’t hear him moving. Did birds sleep on the floor of the cage? They had to sometimes, right? She wanted to look but couldn’t. Something cold touched the back of her leg and she jumped. It was Bowser, who trailed her closer than a shadow.
She had to go back to bed.
In the bedroom there was absolute silence. She strained for the sound of her husband’s snores, her husband’s breathing. Anything. But there was nothing. “Honey?” she said. The word echoed like it had been spoken in a crypt. His side was as still as stone. She reached for his shoulder- she had to shake him awake.
She stopped just before her hand touched him. She couldn’t wake him now. It couldn’t be true. She was fooling herself.
She climbed into bed and Bowser jumped up and huddled beside her. He still trembled. She petted him and tried to comfort him. Everything would be fine when the sun came up. Everything would be fine.
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Birth Defect
Jon Brunette
Inside the mental hospital, Linda held her baby like it alone mattered to her or to anyone. Looking into black eyes that couldn’t open fully, she lifted the fluffy blanket off the two-year-old head and explained to the psychologist why she had come. Her baby, who stood just below three feet, didn’t look at her as happily or intently as she looked at him. After a few moments to play with the child, touching the nose and lips, she watched through the window as the doctor walked from the lobby into his back office.
No reaction from her bundle, at least none recognizable, had opened her eyes widely, like it had opened his. With frustration on his face, the mental health professional stood behind Linda and bowed. He had to tell the mother that the baby looked healthy, and would be able to think and behave properly. Otherwise, Linda would panic, in her mind and inside the entire mental hospital. And yet, he couldn’t.
After the doctor listened to the problem, he told news to Linda that pumped her blood and quickened her breath. He said, “I apologize, like this entire facility apologizes. We understand your pain; I realize your baby suffers, too, and he will suffer throughout his life.” He said, “I must confess that your toddler suffers from massive amounts of brain trauma. Like you, I understand that my apology does little to help the situation.” He looked at the metal clipboard in his thick hands, shook his head, and looked back at Linda. “We have very little information, but I would list it as a type of mental retardation. We cannot tell the level yet, but we will when the baby returns and we begin additional tests. You should make other appointments, with multiple doctors. We will check him thoroughly, and share those records professionally.”
He said, “Naturally, we will find personnel that will allow you to live with his condition. Understandably, you feel upset, like anyone would. We will help in any manner that you require.” With a hand on her shoulder, he said, “You should never feel alone. Like my colleagues, I will work tirelessly until you don’t.”
Shaking her lips, Linda said, “How did it happen?” She tried to compose her body but she just couldn’t. “What hurt my baby so badly?”
Cocking his head, the doctor inquired, “Did you fall while pregnant?” Linda looked at the floor. “Or, did you harm the baby in the fetal state? It will help in the recovery process for baby”—he paused—“and it will help you. It will never heal fully; you shouldn’t expect it to heal completely.” He said, “We will help you to live with it somewhat.” Linda didn’t speak. Instead, she hugged her child like the small bundle would break if she didn’t.
With a lifted eyebrow, the man said, “The birth didn’t harm him in any manner, I presume? They could prove it in court, I hope? Otherwise, you should hire an attorney, just as a precaution. Everyone in your medical hospital will hope that you won’t blame the birth, but I don’t work in that hospital. I took no part in what brought your baby into this world. I would trust the people in your hospital, but I admit that mistakes do happen occasionally.” Looking Linda squarely in the eyes, he said, “Never blame yourself for this abnormality.” Linda bowed her head silently in reply.
When Linda welcomed her first child into her house, she understood immediately that he had suffered a brutal day at school. She listened carefully as he told her through bloody lips that he wanted to learn karate. Without hesitation, Linda agreed; she understood that boys fight and they should learn to defend themselves. It took just a few lessons before he learned to punch properly. Without friends, Linda told him that he should hit someone who wouldn’t fight back, just to practice. “Anyone in school would pulverize me,” he said. Looking at the pillow below the breasts of his mother, he appeared to find answers that unnerved Linda. “Please,” he said, “just a small blow to the middle, like the instructor teaches. It won’t hurt you, but it will keep everyone back.” He said, “They won’t hurt me as badly if I study karate.”
Linda looked into his wet and shiny eyes, and told him to hit softly. “After all, I have been impregnated.” She said, “You do want to love the baby brother, or sister, in my belly.” He punched her softly, at first, but it still hurt. It bulged impressively, her impregnated middle, with redness and soreness. Like a brick had bounced off her belly, the fist brought bile into her windpipe. Still, she smiled as well as possible; after all, her boy wouldn’t come home with bloody lips and a broken nose anymore.
The psychologist said, “We believe the part of the brain that controls motor skills suffered incredibly.” He said, “Your baby looks lazy in the eyes, and he fails to respond physically. When he talks, he suffers; he especially will when he matures. He will probably talk slowly for the rest of his life.” The mental health doctor said, “Although I shouldn’t offer advice about his body, I will tell you that he shouldn’t walk until he finds skilled instructors. They should teach him to walk properly.” The doctor said, “He may need professional help to perform simple tasks throughout his life.” He shook his head. “His brain responded poorly to many vital tests. When I first looked at his face, it struck me; why didn’t this child behave normally?”
Again, Linda shook her head. The psychologist said, “Do you know of any type of fetal trauma that I don’t?” He said, “In this health facility, we have never found anyone at this level of retardation before.” He added, “I would have medical professionals test him, as well. Obviously, his body behaves as poorly as his brain.”
On their anniversary, Linda looked at her husband. Glowing like a massive candle, he offered a tumbler filled with champagne. She bowed her head. Still, he said, “On this date, we always have liquor, this particular liquor, to celebrate.” He touched her belly, which didn’t bulge, and maybe wouldn’t. “Probably, the baby would enjoy the treat. With all your friends here, you need to sip, just a little, but you need to sip champagne.” With friends yelling her name like a rally at a football game, she relented, and drank hungrily.
The doctor rubbed his bushy beard. He said, “Without help from you, I must assume that it just happened naturally; your baby just”—he shrugged—“didn’t grow properly. Any help would fight the battle, little by little. It will never heal fully, and the attempt to heal the condition will cause frustration for him and his family.” Finally, the psychologist said, “Would you like to tell me what trauma you suffered while impregnated?” While he patted the small, fluffy head of the two-year-old baby, he said, “Somebody hurt this kid badly.”
Tearfully, Linda held her child tightly, like she had held her first baby more than nine years before. She said, “No trauma happened to my toddler.” She shook her head forcefully. “I would never hurt my children.” She closed her eyes, and said, “It appalls me whenever someone harms a baby. I will not tolerate it. I would never cause a child to suffer.” She fought her conscience until she believed it completely.
|
from “Tales of Madness, Vol. II” by Tom Ball
DOWN IN THE DIRT
Said a man to a woman, “I hate this pristine sanitized world. I hate wearing white.”
The woman replied, “Clothes are nonsensical and no need to fear new viruses and bacteria...”
Finally the woman went to another planet where people camped out in the wilderness, down in the dirt.
To feel the earth, to breathe fresh air, to have big open spaces.
People have lost their relationship with nature and many people even hate nature. They live in cities with new kinds of pollution e.g. in the water...With no Earth-like plants.
Of course the government says the chemical pollution is safe, many people believed otherwise... and plants were a luxury. Only chemicals could be produced in the lab... It was all synthetic. No plants...
Some people lived in antiseptic domes and let no outside air through the airlocks. They were afraid of a biological attack but also wanted to be clean.
Many in these planets had obsessive compulsive disorder. They were perfectionists also. And so were hard to get along with. “Perfect silence” some critics said. As these people mostly were misanthropes... They loved only themselves...
Some people said we need “new nature on new planets.” New plants, new animals and people living naked and free. With all natural drugs for good feelings.
WORLD OF THE SHEBARBARIANS: MATRIARCHY PLANET
The Shebarbarians were a race of tough women.
Their leader was known as the Great Shebabe.
There were men on the planet too, but they were mostly kept in cages while the women enjoyed living their lives. They cloned each other rather than have kids with a despicable man.
However they craved variety in their offspring so men were like cows who needed to be “milked” of their semen everyday.
Despite being in small cages, some of the men were happy to be slaves.
In truth many women had potential for violence, and this was well-known to the Great Shebabe. But there were no wars here.
This was a newly settled world where most of the men here were wimps and weak-willed. That’s the kind of men the leader wanted.
Meanwhile the women who were in power virtually ignored the men.
The women said their rule was kinder and nicer and better all round.
But now that they were in power they could be very tyrannical.
However many of the women here complained about the men. They wanted tough, strong men. You can’t have it both ways said the leaders of the colony.
But finally they deported all the men and most of the women (lesbians) and got some new men to come and be equals with them, or so they hoped. Or so they thought they hoped.
But the men ordered love androids to be sent to the planet and so had no need of women.
ANROID BATTLEGROUND, ANDROID FABLE #10
In this world of war in the far reaches of the Milky Way, disputes were settled by warfare using android troops. Humans didn’t die, only androids. But everyone knows androids were not as good as humans even though their brains had been copied from human brains...
They produced thousands of adult androids every day, ready for battle.
Most of the androids had some kind of special power, e.g. flying or shooting lightning bolts. And most of them were hypnotized so they would obey orders implicitly.
The people enjoyed a good war, and no people got hurt physically, although people lost land and possessions. There were a number of homeless refugees here who had lost everything in gambling on the wars and they lived in dirty refugee camps.
But finally one king got control of the world. His idea was to have people fight instead of androids. More exciting he said.
***
Soon finally nearly everyone was dead and the king was bored. So he copied himself into androids and started up the android factories again so that wars of “pleasure” could continue.
In some cases his androids would fight androids that were both based on him.
He was just fighting with himself.
Moral: creating androids will likely not yield a good result, but androids are inevitable.
LOST IN CYBERSPACE
Cyberspace was giant network of the mind. People left their body temporarily and dreamed and had fantasies in cyberspace.
But you needed electronic credit to pay your way through this huge network...
Some people never left. Some people ran out of money and remained stuck in the same place
Of course without the body it was a purely intellectual experience.
But I was lost in cyberspace. I needed to get back to Detroit nexus. But I couldn’t find it and nobody seemed to know where that was...
It had been years now since I left for cyberspace...I had gone whichever way the wind blew me and now I was lost and losing hope.
I longed to have my body back... assuming it was still there in suspended animation.
And I was running out of credits. I needed money to travel, but if I ran out of credits I’d be marooned here forever.
And there was a lot of fraud on cyberspace, but the penalty for fraud was death, if you could catch them... I was worried I would lose my money...
Some people asked what was the reason for cyberspace? Others replied it was like a giant dream. What’s wrong with dreams and fantasies?
SITTING PLACIDLY BY THE LAKE
I was sitting placidly by the lake when suddenly out of the sky a space ship appeared and landed quite close to me. Out of the ship came what appeared to be small robots. The robots went out in every direction on the land.
One came up to me and I was very scared, but suddenly the robot grabbed a few of my hairs and went back to the ship. After an hour had passed the others had seemingly all returned. And the ship blasted off for space.
I figured they wanted our DNA which could be found in a hair.
But when I told this to others, the few that believed me said it was probably a spy ship from Earth trying to cover up secret voyages to space with fake aliens.
Who else would send a ship filled with robots but our government?
Of course it was illegal to store people’s DNA so they did it this way (send a space ship). Perhaps each time they landed they had one person in particular to get their DNA but perhaps they had use for normal people too.
Who knows what secret programs the government was working on?
Some even said that Mars had already been colonized. People lived in underground tunnels that could not be detected with a telescope. And so who knew what they were up to.
PLANET OF THE VOWAX, MAD ANDROID FABLE #11
All the smartest people from recent times had their brain cloned and put in a high tech wax statue. 10 000 different people in total. They were a weird kind of androids...
Some were cloned from hairs or bones of historical geniuses.
***
Tourists could come here and ask for advice from the statues who would turn on when someone addressed them.
I had a talk with “Plato.” I asked him about his philosopher king idea. He said the problem was he didn’t make clear what type of philosopher was king. So many leaders thought they were philosophical kings. He said he meant that great thinkers needed to rule.
But how do you choose thinkers? I said
***
You could buy some of them (copies) and bring them back to your home planet as “amusements.” Or turn them into regular androids...
If you wanted you could buy them a cloned body and bring them back to life again...
Some of them were controversial e.g. Genghis Khan or Stalin or Hitler.
But the world at this time had much bigger conquistadors. Such as The Great Gar, Celeste the Great and the Star Baby.
Moral: future people will put brains in anything.
BIZARRE ONES
On bizarre planet, also known as Hero’s planet, people were strange. They told each other “Cultivate your strangeness. Go to strange planets, talk with strange people, read strange books.”
Books like “Strange World,” which guides people how to be strange.
1. Never appear ordinary when you first meet someone.
2. Always wear bizarre clothes.
3. Say the craziest things you can think of at all times, let them think you are a madman/madwoman.
4. Have no routines
5. Practice acting mad at home, so you can really knock people’s socks off.
6. When other people are sad, you should party.
7. Try to say things that are both strange and deep.
8. Train your kids to be strange as possible.
9. It is best to make love with a stranger.
10. Take drugs to make you stranger, including illicit ones
And so on...
In the country of the strange, the strangest is king/queen.
If people have an open mind they can love strange people. But most strange people are rejected by society for not toeing the line. So you’ve got to hide your true persona from the populace at large.
Who can deny that it is not a strange world?
But all great ideas seem strange when first conceived.
WOMEN WITH MEN’S BRAINS AND VICE VERSA
On the planet of “Brains” (Q-34), they cloned 50 men and 50 women with a woman’s brain in a man’s brain and vice versa.
It turned out to be a relatively peaceful society. People got along fine. Only the men were more effeminate and the women a little more masculine... but it turned out there was less difference between men and women than they thought.
They were forced to admit that culture determines the role of both males and females...
Some tried it and then later switched back to their original sex. It was kind of a rite of passage to know the other sex well.
Some people claimed they would be willing to do anything. And such people toured this planet to experience its strangeness.
Some people said androgyny was the future. Make love with anyone...
All sex is good...
But some people of course said it was a freak show. But others said what’s wrong with freaks...? Freaks are something different.
Open your mind said the freaks.
HYPOTHETICAL GODS
They built neo-temples here on this planet.
It was a planet that welcomed Christians...
There were however warring factions which argued over the nature of God. The fact that there was even some violence in this advanced age, was quite surprising, to some.
Some said God created our universe and we should enjoy life, others claimed we would make Gods from humans in our own image. Still others adhered to traditional religions.
But they vandalized each others’ churches... And showed open hatred towards each other. Sometimes even inside sects of the religion hated each other..
Finally they all moved to their own islands to get away from the other Christian sects. There were 23 islands on the planet and there were 16 sects.
They lived by fishing the black waters of this worldwide ocean...Terrestrial fish and seafood, plankton and so on had all been brought here from Earth.
For a while there was peace but then they started fighting over fishing rights.
Many said that Christians should show brotherly love and be good to your fellow human. Most felt this way, but there were a lot of bad apples especially as leaders.
If you want peace you need good spies...But if you have spies there will be endless strife. If you know what I mean.
In the end, in the future, everyone will want to be a God.
SOME CITIES OF FOOLS
On planet Earth in the year AD 2105, clever people would hide in cities of fools so that the government could not find them. All clever people were rounded up and slaughtered by the tyrant who didn’t want any competition.
Some people spent their entire life acting like a buffoon. Strangely it was like second nature to clever people to act stupid when the pressure was on.
In the country of fools the blind man is happy.
All the world’s a stage and here everyone played dumb.
Some said in secret that it was an easy world to live in.
Meanwhile if the government identified you as a dissenter, you would be eliminated. The government was satisfied that they had gotten rid of almost all, if not all, of the clever people.
Just another “genocide” type action in the long history of Earth people.
Only this one would never be recovered from. Henceforth the human race would be totally mediocre.
Some of the few remaining clever people said it was like sending humanity back to the state of mankind millions of years ago.
It had taken millions of years to develop a lot of clever people.
Now civilization would probably break up and people will go back to living on the farm. Just like peasants of the Dark Ages.
Life would be short and cruel.
KOWTOWING TO GLOBAL WARMING
In history the weather was always changing. Some ice ages other hot ages like the dinosaur periods.
Now people say the world is getting hotter due to CO2 but they can’t prove it comes from CO2.
In any case if the world keeps getting warmer, coastal cities will just need to build dikes like Holland did. Even produce more land with the dikes than previously. It would be the greatest construction project ever by a long way.
And they need to change the weather...
They need more rain in some areas and they need more warmth in other areas. All this would prepare humans for terra forming planets and moons.
There’s a lot of heat trapped under the surface of the Earth which could be harnessed to change the climate for example
All this new land would allow many people to live in houses rather than apartment if they wished. With fast air cars and the Net, people didn’t need to live in big cities any more.
But some preferred “real nightlife” of the cities, they didn’t like the Net chats; but country dwellers were never more than a few minutes from downtown by air car taxi or their own air car if they were rich.
And not much land would be needed for food. Plankton and soil machines would produce abundant food very cheaply.
However some areas of the Earth were more crowded than others. But this trend would become less as people spread out a bit more to new lands. Like Russia and Canada... and even the North sea, the Beaufort Sea and other shallow seas.
EVERYONE IS CORRUPTIBLE
Live with truth.
Corruption is everywhere but more in some areas than others.
In the future they will use lie detectors on those who wanted to be part of the government. Such tests were also conducted regularly on all those in high positions.
Some people, such as the Inter World police thought it was a good idea and soon most colonized planets made use of lie detectors.
It kept the peace anyway.
Some said testing people with new and improved lie detectors was the best thing the human race has ever done.
Of course some people complained. They said it was a violation of their privacy.
Others said that finally you could trust people again like back many years ago.
But some lovers found difficulties using lie detectors on themselves. It caused a breakdown for lovers...
The truth hurts in most cases. And these people who insisted on the truth didn’t get what they were searching for.
The truth is people are all mixed up and confused in many cases and don’t know how to live with people watching them so closely.
Many people went completely insane over lie detectors.
Some said we should ban these truth detectors... But the majority wanted them.
People who failed lie detector tests were often imprisoned until they could think right thoughts. Some could not do so and remained prisoners.
VENGEANCE
I told her to “go to hell” after she took all my clothes and recycled them. I left her but as I did so I sold her air car cheap.
She must have really liked that air car because she had a private investigator track me down in Africa. So I had to pay compensation.
After that I got a job on a space ship of 20 crew headed for deep space. They carefully selected the crew and I was lucky enough to be chosen.
But wouldn’t you know it, my ex (of the air car fiasco) was also chosen as crew. I didn’t find out until it was time to blast off.
We loathed one another and gave each other the silent treatment.
One day she tried to throw me out the escape hatch. It was all captured on video of course so her punishment was 5 years in chains (the voyage was 25 years). I laughed at her and mocked her and finally they put me in chains for 2 years.
It was excruciating to stay chained and no one would talk to me. But I didn’t dare yell as then I might get even worse punishment.
Finally we arrived at the destination where our group was broken into four. My friends and her friends... and the others (two groups).
We lived separate from the other groups and built a very different village. Our village was of crystal; theirs was of clay...
But as time passed tourists liked to observe that the four villages were distinctly different and we were totally at odds with each other.
Strangeness were what every tourist craved. But the tourists predicted this civilization would not last given the rancor that we lived in.
The whole planet was based on hate and there was little love, tourists mused.
END OF THE UNIVERSE
The ship was reaching the ends of the universe (AD 2578)...It got darker as we reached the edge but then suddenly all was blackness and we couldn’t see anything.
We went on at maximum speed for 2 years without encountering any matter. But then suddenly, we saw a massive star which was triangular in nature and we were being pulled into its gravity. We tried to turn back but it was no use. We were being drawn into this strange sun to be destroyed.
Just when we were about to be incinerated (it was getting hot) we saw a planet and had enough power to land on the planet.
The planet was a square cube made up of water, ice and foreign materials.
We could not go back nor go further so we gratefully accepted living here.
Some of our crew when walking outside on the surface reported seeing “ghosts of a strange type.”
As time went by strange objects started appearing outside our ship and improvised camp. They were convoluted things that might pass for abstract art.
Anyway we figured no one would bother us here so we began to dig tunnels into the gravelly surface. There were a lot of glaciers on the poles but the equator was boiling hot. We decided to put our base on one of the poles. We told each other we were mad to leave our native universe, but it couldn’t be helped.
Everything was squares here. New elements that were composed of square structures. Space was truly cubed. 3-D.
IN PRAISE OF CLOSED-MINDEDNESS
I told her I had never told a lie. At first she didn’t believe it, but eventually she could see the truth in me and she loved me for it.
“But you are crazy to always tell the truth,” she said. “And look at you, how poor you are.”
I said, “Of course there is seldom any prize for the truth. In fact being open-minded and truthful only makes enemies of others.”
And I said, “But I am planning to adhere to my principles to see where it leads me.”
She said, “To be totally open-minded is too cease to exist as a thinking person.”
I told her, “It’s a dark world I travel.”
She said, “You have to stand up for your beliefs...
I said, “Beliefs lead to war and destruction. Many modern day wars (AD 2109) are caused by intolerance of other people’s beliefs.”
She said, “Mankind has always believed in some things such as peace, God, children’s future and so on.
But I said peace isn’t happening and we can’t find God and few people want children.
She said, “Still I think old-fashioned beliefs are best.”
“You are old-fashioned...” I said.
ASK ME NO QUESTIONS
My true love thought I was mysterious as I didn’t reveal anything from my past. She said I was driving her “insane.”
Finally I told her I was a spy for the Inter World police, and could not reveal anything (which was a lie). But that only intrigued her more and she wanted to cling to me and be amazed.
So I dumped her unceremoniously.
I reflected the highest love is a mystery.
Actually I was not a spy, I was a writer. And like a vampire I would take what good stories someone had and write about them on the Net blog.
I would ask questions, like “What is the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” Or, “What do you think about this world?”
I had assembled 2000 pages of answers from 1000 people and I sold the book for big money. It was interesting to learn people’s deepest secrets.
And I thought to make a book of “8 billion” and have everyone in the known worlds tell their best story. A true treasury of all the people.
And do it once every 20 years.
Those with the best stories would be promoted to a high position as “Guardian of the Books.”
So people would compete for the best stories and a lie detector was employed to make sure they didn’t exaggerate.
But some said fiction was more free and imaginative than the truth. Many people had thought so in the past, but now many people saw the “light of the truth.”
POWER BEAM III (HOLOGRAMS AGAIN)
On planet Cool-90, people had all been converted to holograms.
It was a place of “souls.”
“People” here had no materialistic desires and lived only for conversation, anecdotes and travel.
Of course holograms could travel faster than space ships 1000s of times the speed of light.
Some were unhappy to lose their body, but they were not allowed to change back.
Their planet had been colonized several times but it was a small and hostile world so starships just used the planet as a place to garner supplies.
So the holograms had the whole place to themselves. Many went out into space however only to return to this place where every hologram got on well.
Some of these holograms were bored and wanted to kill themselves, but this was impossible. As their leader said, “the body is mortal, but the soul lives on...”
It was in fact rumored however that some holograms had gone to other universes, but this could not be confirmed.
Maybe everyone will be a hologram one day. And we could forget about our material desires...
FAKE LOVE
I told women many lies and finally I usually used a fake diamond to ask for women’s hand in marriage. I’d used the fake diamond trick many times with very large fakes.
Then I would ask the girls to have a joint bank account. And then I would abscond with the money and never see her again.
I was truly “lost in love.”
What girl can resist a handsome, charming suitor who proposes on one knee to marry her? And has a large diamond as well?
It occurred to me that most people are shallow and can be used and abused... Given their greed for a charming partner.
Sometimes love is nothing more than greed. Greed for love and money...
Some are like a beggar for love, others cling. Still others demand love...
And I reflected women love romance more than men. So give them a candle lit dinner, take them on a cruise and so on and they will love me.
But I myself didn’t believe in love. Which gave me the upper hand on women I met who mostly fell in love with me at first sight.
I say take all you can from your lover and then dump them. It is their own fault for being so naïve... It’s a dog eat dog world.
THOU SHALL NOT KILL
On Earth in the year 2107, all food was synthetic and it was against the law to kill an animal. Punishment was 5 years in prison.
India still had the custom of some monks wearing a mask over their mouth so as not to swallow and kill a bug. But it was not against the law to kill bugs.
These days all food was synthetic and delicious to almost everyone’s taste. Though of course the best types of food were very expensive.
But one day the pacifist government was overthrown by a tough general and he imprisoned the pacifist leaders and embarked on a program of destroying the monasteries and insects and many animals.
They were crazy to think they could perpetuate such monasteries... people said.
“Passive people will play no role in the future. It’s going to be dog eat dog.” Said the general.
“People who are nice and passive and weak all need to be re-educated,” he said...
“The strong survive,” he told the people.
Henceforth he put the whole planet on a military path.
But he was quickly overthrown by the Inter World police in another coup.
The IW police gave ordinary people something to cheer about. They were happy to know that someone in power cared about them.
So their society went back to the way it was before.
HERD OF GOATS
On the planet of Goats, they played sports with goats. For example a game of rugby would feature hundreds of goats all over the playing fields.
Many people thought of it as a “sports comedy.”
The rules were you couldn’t attack a goat or your team would lose the game.
And they made movies with goats. Spoofs on human society mainly.
The Goat who Loved me. My Life as a Goat. I Got your Goat. To be a Goat or not to be a Goat. The Narcissistic Goat. Shootout at the Goat Corral.
Planet of the Goats. Goats in Love. Gone with the Goats. Goat days and Goat nights.
Goat superstar. A Clockwork Goat. Year of the Goat. The Goat Castle..
2130: A Goat Odyssey.
And so on.
And people in this world who were not creative enough to satisfy the rulers had to wear a goat head over their own head. It was a sign of shame and everyone laughed at the goat men.
But they made a lot of money on these movies and soon many tourists considered it to be a key stop on the tourist tour of space.
And many tourists wanted to buy real goat genes to breed back on their home planets.
What’s next, insects? One tourist remarked.
NEW GARDEN OF EDEN
I was sitting under the apple tree and a few apples fell on my head and I decided I was in the Garden of Eden...
For some years I lived off the land picking fruit, eating nuts and meat when I could get it.
I had no woman but I thought to myself, what do I need a woman for?
And I amused myself making clay sculptures and thinking about art.
I was the only one left on this planet. They had grown plants and trees and made for a breathable planet only to abandon it out of boredom.
I wondered why everyone had left. What could be better than this garden planet?
But I had no eternal youth so finally at age 70 I found myself dying. Probably cancer. At this time I regretted staying on the planet.
And that was the end.
But then tourists heard about it and they built a tomb for the bones of him and were encouraged to live in the garden of Eden together with his numerous sculptures.
The tourists couldn’t understand why he wanted to live here all alone. And they didn’t stay long.
REVOLUTION
I told him he was “chicken-hearted” for deserting the revolution.
He said, “Why should I throw my life away?”
And he said he would go to a neutral world and wait for the storm to pass.
“Nationalism means nothing to me,” he said.
“What was it that Kafka said about revolution? That one just leads to another... something like that...” He said.
“And there is always a safe place to go during wars. Wars are not precious to me, nor the willing slaves who fight them,” he said...
I said, “You have to stand up for your beliefs.”
He replied, “Beliefs are nothing more than prejudices.”
And I said, “It’s a shame you feel this way.”
He said, “The world has always been about the strong dominating the weak.”
“You have to rise above it...” I said.
|
ROOK
Dustin Naughton
Rook1
It’s 2am, Shaun strides out of Stan’s pub
He’s sober, much to everyone surprise
Gets into his pick-up, swings the ignition
Contemplating Matilda’s call
‘I’m gonna be a daddy today!’
The pick-up idles for a while
Shaun gathers his thoughts
Even though no one can see it
He’s still smiling ear to ear
‘I sure hope it’s a girl’
Pulling out of the parking lot
Shaun lights up a smoke
He’s never felt this way before
The joy is over whelming
‘I’m gonna clean up my act’
Tears are welling in his eyes
So many years wasted
Working without a goal
Finally something to live for
‘I’ll never drink again’
Shaun turns on to the main rd
The street lights are out so it’s dark
He switches to high beams
Then turns on the radio
‘I wonder if she’ll look like me.’
The road to Vanderbijl is long
He’s too excited to dose
Thinking of all the good times
The two of them will have
‘She’d better look like me,
Or her mammas in trouble’
Shaun keeps to the speed limit
There isn’t a car in sight
He doesn’t feel alone though
Thoughts filled with her
‘I’m gonna give her everything,
Everything I never had’
Def leopard are on the radio
Shaun’s too occupied to notice
Thoughts of what to name her
Swimming through his head
One name springs to mind
‘Cheyenne is a beautiful name’
Red break light loom in the distance
Shaun slows the pick-up down
Too dark to judge the distance
Can’t even see what it is
‘I wonder if she’ll like fishing’
Suddenly it looms before him
Like a pitch black monolith
Ready to suck him in
Shaun slams on breaks
In time to miss the truck
‘That was a close one Cheyenne!’
The road is still quiet
Save for the beast in-front
Shaun peers down the side
To make sure it’s safe to pass
‘I just need to get to the hospital
In one piece my baby’
He drifts to the right
Begins to overtake
He is halfway past the truck
BANG!
Shaun’s van begins to shudder
Then veers toward the truck
‘I’m sorry Cheyenne....’
Rook 2
Its 3am, the phone is ringing
The nights a visceral black
I reach over the night stand
And answer, ‘yes... who is this?’
‘Its dad son....I have bad news’
Sitting up I light a cigarette
‘What is it dad?’
What could be that important,
That he should wake me up at this hour?
‘It’s Shaun son, there’s been an accident’
Not yet with it, I shake my head
‘Is he ok dad, what did the doc say?’
There is a long pause
And then
‘No son, he didn’t make it, he’s gone’
I can feel the wind knocked-
Out of my chest
My body begins to shake
First shock, then disbelief
‘When dad? How?
Michelle my wife moves next to me
Puts her arm around my waist
She hasn’t heard what father said
But she knows there’s something wrong
‘Dusty what’s the matter?
Who is it?’
I’m not ready to answer
I’ll begin to cry if I do
‘Just give me a moment love’
Father continues
‘He had a blow out son,
Pulled under the truck’
I can no longer hold my composure
Tears streaming from my eyes
The phone drops from my hand
I begin to truly cry
‘My Rook is gone’
Like an older brother
Shaun always cared for me
Extremely positive, full of fun
Never a dull moment
With my best friend Rook 1
‘Oh love I’m going to miss him’
It’s the morning of the funeral
We’re on our way to the church
Michelle is holding my hand
Comforting me
She squeezes my hand and smiles
‘Tell me why you call him Rook?’
Surprised by the question
I take a moment to think
The answer brings a smile
‘As children we loved to play chess,
He was Rook 1 and I was Rook 2’
We’re at the church yard now
I see Shaun’s wife Matilda
We’ve never even met
She’s cradling his new born baby
Gently in her arms
‘I wonder what she named her.’
I gather up my wits
As I walk up to her
‘Hi there, I’m Dustin, Shaun’s cousin’
‘Ah, Rook 2, he told me all about you’
It’s then that I look down
Into the most beautiful blue eyes
The spitting-image of Shaun
‘Oh Dustin, meet our darling Cheyenne’
|
Beneath us all
Wendy Beth Noyes
Beneath us all, in the depth of our underground missions and souls, we are all the same, for in reality the isolation in one self is very much an equal substance rather than a substitute. Most are unable to keep up and they stay humble within, alone, buried in the rocks and rubble of ones own mysterious pasts. Those circumstances are what keep you buried beneath, toppled on. You are not your past. Your thoughts keep you there. Thoughts are nothing but useless clutter. They will keep you back; they will ruin your soul and stick to you like Velcro. Break away and make your own present. Let the comedy of it come through all the while your gray lost pieces to the puzzle vanish in useless remembrances. Lost and found, countless pieces, put them back together. Solve the equation by sticking to the now, and forget the dark pictures of the past. Open up and embrace the now, the everlasting love to a brand new you.
|
That Ugly Crowd
Nathan Hahs
Chapter 1
I am a teller at a bank. It’s a small bank with only 10 branches, all of which are located here in Denver. The branch I work in is downtown. I am one of only two male employees. The other one only works on Saturday.
My apartment is on the corner of Alameda and Quebec. To get to work, I take the #2 bus north on to Colfax. From there I take the #11 bus west downtown to Broadway. I see a lot of weird shit on the #11.
This morning someone set off a stink bomb on the #11. I could smell it right when the driver opened the doors. A few people actually refused to board the bus. I don’t really blame them. I covered my mouth and nose with my scarf and I could still smell it.
I won’t be going home for Christmas this year. I went home last year. My parents and my little sister live in Fairbanks, Alaska. I was born and raised there. Between my junior and senior years of high school, some friends and I took a road trip from Fairbanks down to Denver. I really liked the Mile High City and moved here right after graduation. I didn’t know anyone then and still don’t, really. I became friends with Mark Johnson (a coworker), but he moved to St. Louis last year.
The next day, I encountered some sort of neo-nazi on the #11. He was exiting the bus as I was getting on. All I heard was “...and the Aryan race. May God sodomize you people and remove you from this planet.” I stepped aside as he walked past me and out the door. He then turned around, gave us the nazi salute, and shouted “Heil Hitler!” I feel bad for those people who were stuck on the bus with him.
At work a man walks up to me and says, “Thirteen is such a janky number for me.”
I said “Okay. How can I help you?”
He explained that he has two savings accounts and that the balance on both of them is identical- $100.13.
“You see, I can’t feel right with that number in there.” He handed me two withdrawal requests, each for $0.13.
I processed his transactions and gave him his money. Superstition sure has a grip on some people.
My girlfriend Tanji came over tonight. She’s very attractive, but not very interesting. She’s always telling me stories about her friend Michelle, whom I’ve never met. From what I gather, this friend Michelle has had an interesting life. She told me how Michelle had gotten thrown out of a bank once for making a joke about a robbery. Michelle was cashing a check or something and made a comment about a robbery. The teller did not find this amusing and asked an armed security guard to throw her out.
I told Tanji that it must have been a big bank to have armed security guards. At Front Range Bank- where I work- we don’t have any guards. She said that she wasn’t sure which bank it was.
Tanji is leaving tomorrow on a trip to her parent’s for Christmas. Her parents live in Hawaii. She’ll be back on the 30th. She and I don’t have any plans for New Year’s yet, but I’m sure we’ll do something together.
Tanji’s little brother is retarded. I met him last July 4th when her family came here for her birthday. He’s short and pudgy and calls everybody Guy. I get nauseous when I’m around retarded people. I don’t hate them or anything; I just get nauseous. I’ve only vomited once. It was at a McDonald’s several years ago. There was a field trip or something for retarded people and they had stopped for lunch. As soon as I saw them I totally lost my appetite. They sat by me and I got sick. I ran into the bathroom and puked up my two cheeseburgers. I’ve told this to Tanji and I think she understands that I don’t ever act mean or condescending. I just get nauseous.
Chapter 2
One of my coworkers is from Alaska. Cathryn Gray was born and raised in Anchorage and is the same age I am. Her husband is also from Anchorage. They moved to Colorado to be with his parents, who moved here when they retired. I have a little crush on her. On days when we have our lunch breaks together, we swap stories about life in the 49th state. She’s one of the two people I talk to about my personal life, her and Mark.
This morning a woman cashed a check for 14 cents. It was for some sort of rebate. Who the hell sends off for a rebate for 14 cents? It cost more to mail the check.
Later in the day this man says to me “What do you think of the rectum as a hole?”
I looked up at this man who had just deposited his paycheck and said “Excuse me?”
He repeated his question. I thought that maybe my dirty, little mind had jumbled what he had actually said, but I was wrong.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.” I said and stared directly into his eyes to try and tell if he was making some type of joke. He repeated himself and stared right back at me. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he nodded at me and said “No comment?”
I said nothing and the man turned and walked out of the branch. The teller next to me asked me if that man had said what she thought he had said. I confirmed her suspicions.
“I’m glad that happened to you and not me,” She said.
The flu is going around here. Everyone seems to have a cough or a fever or an upset stomach. I saw on the news that some schools are even closed for today and tomorrow since so many kids are sick. Our call-ins at work have been higher than usual, but I didn’t think we were having an epidemic. Maybe we are. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that I don’t get it. I haven’t had the flu since junior high.
This evening I did my Christmas shopping. I took the easy way out and bought everyone gift certificates. With the exception of Tanji, everyone got a gift certificate. Tanji is getting a necklace from Tiffany & Co. She goes ape over anything from Tiffany. Most women do.
She called me early this evening from Hawaii. She has the flu. It started on her flight. I feel bad for her. She sounded awful. That’s no way to spend Christmas and who the hell wants to be sick while they’re in Hawaii.
A homeless man was standing on the corner of Quebec and Colfax this morning. For some reason, I gave him what little change I had in my pocket. I never give the homeless money. Never. Today I did and I am ashamed to admit that I feel guilty for doing it. In my mind that homeless man is only going to spend that money on booze or drugs. He won’t buy food; he’ll buy shit to feed his addictions. So have I really helped him?
I just realized that my Christmas cards have a typo on them. Instead of saying “Have a Happy Christmas” it says “Have a Bappy Christmas.” Well, too bad. Everyone will have to settle for this janky card.
At work I spend half of my time working in our drive-through. To keep myself from dying of boredom I tally the number of smokers and the number of fat people I see. Today My FPN (Fat People Number) crossed the 6000 mark. My SN (Smokers Number) is significantly lower. Right now the count is 3103. If there’s one thing I don’t ever want to be, it’s bored.
There was a retarded man on the bus. He was making an incessant ‘raspberry’ and spit was flying all over the place. It was nasty. It made me feel so sick that I couldn’t read. I had to distract myself by thinking of Tanji naked and fantasizing about her.
One of my neighbors was arriving home at the same time I was. Judy lives next door to me and is in her seventies. She was trying to get down the hall with all the usual crap she carries (she’s a packrat) as well as her groceries. First she dropped her newspaper, then her umbrella, then her purse. I offered to help and she handed me her one bag of groceries. I escorted her to her door and wished her a Merry Christmas. I’m not very friendly or out-going with my neighbors, except Judy.
I had a voice mail from Tanji when I got home. Her mother is a hypochondriac and is always trying strange and unusual home remedies. Tanji said her mother is having a heyday with her flu. Being sick is bad enough, but having a mother who wants you to eat garlic, ginger, mandrake, and I’m not sure what else must really suck.
The temperature reached a warm 59 degrees this afternoon. Not bad for being three days before Christmas. I was able to wear only a jacket (it was pretty windy) instead of my winter coat. I haven’t worn this particular jacket since last year, when I went to Estes Park with some coworkers, to get out of the city. We hiked around and I must have picked up an acorn, because I found one in my jacket pocket this morning.
A woman deposited a check for 6 cents today. I thought the 14 cent check was ridiculous, but this is even worse. The ink and fancy paper cost more than 6 cents. It’s not worth even standing in line for that amount. Both checks were drawn off the same bank, somewhere in Idaho.
When I got home there were a couple police cars and an ambulance parked by my building. The apartment manager was also outside. It turns out that Judy died in her sleep. I mentioned to the police that I had seen her last night and they asked me to fill out a statement. I think I was the last person to see her alive. That’s a little creepy. I hope this doesn’t ruin Christmas for her family, if she has any.
The next morning I got a voice mail from somebody named George Trujillo. He said he was calling in reference to Ms. Janz. I don’t know anyone named Janz, so I erased it.
I called my family and friends to wish them all a merry Christmas.
Tanji is getting better and returns to Denver on the 30th. We decided that we would find a bar near my apartment and hang out there on New Year’s. A simple plan is a good plan. I told her about Judy’s death and she told me that her friend Michelle used to work with this man who got fired right before Christmas for being drunk at work. He then got completely wasted and committed suicide on the 24th. Tanji said that Michelle told her that the suicide letter he wrote blamed everything on his being fired.
I couldn’t get a hold of my parents. I think they had gone to church. Every year they go to midnight mass or something similar. When I called my sister, she said the Mom and Dad were, indeed, at mass. She and I talked for almost an hour. We don’t talk often.
My grandparents are dead, so I didn’t call them.
I think most people did their banking earlier in the week, because it was a rather slow day. It was also a short day; we closed at 1pm. But as soon as we closed the doors people began banging on them. Those people should not have procrastinated.
Chapter 3
Somebody puked right by the employee entrance to the bank and it was frozen to the ground. It was a huge mess that we all had to walk around to get the door.
At work we have a bulletin board where the manager puts up information that she thinks we should read. One of the things up there is the Fraud du Jour. Everyday she posts info regarding crime. Today’s posting was on counterfeit currency. I’m glad I read it because I encountered some today.
This fifteen year-old girl comes to me with a deposit of cash. It was mixed bills and I noticed that the five dollar bills felt different than the rest of them. I asked the girl where she got the money and she told me that her mother, who was outside smoking, had given it to her to deposit into the mother’s account. She said her mother had gotten the money from another downtown bank. I excused myself and found my lead teller. The lead teller called the police while I went back to the girl and pretended that something was wrong with my computer. We use the computers as an excuse to stall. People expect computers to malfunction. Within a couple minutes the police arrived. We have two little offices that are used specifically for questioning people. The police took the girl in one of them. After about 15 minutes, her mother came in the branch and the police grabbed her. They took her to the other office for questioning. After another 15 minutes, my lead teller pulled me aside. The police now needed to talk to me. I told them what had happened and one of the three officers in the room took notes. It was fun. I like it when I get to help catch the bad guys.
Just before leaving for the day, our Branch Manager Janet called me into her office. She gave me a $50 check for catching the fake bills and updated me on what had happened. She said that the mother had told the police that they were all innocent. She said that she had gotten the money from a casino in Black Hawk and simply wanted to make a deposit. She then said that she had nothing to hide and that the police were welcome to search her house. So they left the branch to do exactly that. My manager said that we’ll probably never know if they found anything.
December 26th is always busy for us and today was no exception. Everyone wants to cash their Christmas checks or get money for the after-Christmas sales. Some people even made their loan payments. Good for them.
The police were back at the bank today. A man gave us a stolen social security number as proof of identity. One of the Account Representatives was trying to open a checking account for this man when she caught it. The usual procedure is for the Account Representative to email our risk management department and then notify the manager so the manager can call the police. The A.R. stays with the customer just to stall them and keep them from running out. As with counterfeit bills, this is handled with faux computer problems. This is exactly what the A.R. did today. The police arrived before anyone knew what was happening. We see this type of identity fraud once a month.
A man came in to turn in the keys to his truck. The keys were in an envelope with a note stating that he could no longer afford his payments. He walked in, handed the envelope to the teller next to me and walked out. He didn’t say a word. This was right after we opened.
At lunch Cathryn told me that she is pregnant. She said that she went to her doctor on the 24th. I’m a little envious of her husband. They weren’t planning this, it just happened. They told their parents on Christmas day. Cathryn seemed a little in shock. She’s due in August and is going to announce it to everyone else next week.
Right before we closed Jot came in. Jot d’Lowry is this old black man who is always drunk. He’s usually very friendly, but always drunk. He comes in regularly for cash. Jot never can remember his account number or his balance. I helped him withdraw his last $200. I asked him if he was doing anything exciting for New Year’s. His response was “I’ve already started.”
FPN: 6205
SN: 3271
Someone puked on the bus this evening. It must have happened right before I got on, because it smelled fresh.
A moving company was at Judy’s when I got home. There didn’t seem to be any family present, because everything was handled objectively and in a business-like fashion. They packed up all of her things and just hauled them off. Everything was done as if she were moving; it was boxed up and labeled. I suppose they will auction off all of her junk. She had so much stuff in her apartment that it gave me a claustrophobic feeling to be in there.
I received another voice mail from George Trujillo. This time he left his phone number. I’ll call him after New Year’s and find out who he is and who this Ms. Janz is.
Chapter 4
Tanji got home yesterday. It was quite a climate adjustment for her. Two days ago she was in Hawaii hanging out at the beach; yesterday she landed in Denver and it was snowing. We got about six inches. I talked to her on my lunch break. She is coming over at 10pm. She said she finally overcame the flu, but gave it to her sister before leaving. I saw on the news that all 50 states have now reported cases of influenza.
When she came over, she brought her Christmas present from Michelle. It was a Patsy Cline CD. We listened to “Crazy” about a hundred times. That was Tanji and Michelle’s song. According to Tanji, Michelle would always play it on the jukebox at their favorite bar. Without fail, somebody would ask Michelle to dance. I don’t get it, but apparently Michelle goes ape for this dead country music singer. That song is like some sort of aphrodisiac for her and the men around her.
It’s so good to see Tanji. She looked amazing! She was wearing a long, black dress (low-cut, of course) that emphasized all the right parts. She’s a knock-out. We walked to the bar, which was very crowded. I ordered us a round of drinks and Tanji disappeared. “Crazy” was playing before she even got back to me. I didn’t realize that damn CD was in the jukebox here. I guess I can tolerate that song, if this date will end a certain way.
The bank was closed on the 1st, which was nice. Tanji and I were able to sleep off our hangovers. We woke about noon and went out for lunch. Afterwards, Tanji went home. She had to finish unpacking and wanted to give Michelle a call. Tanji and Michelle always talk on New Year’s Day. It’s a little tradition they have. Mostly they swap stories about the previous night’s adventures.
Jot came back in today wanting some more money. He said he should have $200 still in his account. I told him that he had made a withdrawal on the 31st, but he had no memory of this. Being the good-natured man that he is, he responded with “Dandy. Well, my social security comes through tomorrow. I guess I can wait till then.”
I wish everyone was as pleasant as Jot. There was a full moon last night and everybody was acting funky all day. There was a weird vibe amongst the employees and nearly every customer seemed agitated or pre-occupied.
The temperature dropped to -7. Hardly anyone came into the lobby; everyone was at the drive-through. I worked the lobby today, so boredom was inevitable. In a futile attempt to stay busy, I filed December’s paperwork. Normally this takes all day, but with no customers I completed it in half an hour. I ended up leaving work early because it was so slow.
When I got home I called Mr. George Trujillo. George is Judy’s lawyer and Janz is her last name. I’d lived next door to her for five years and never learned her last name. She, however, knew mine. In fact, she knew a lot about me and I guess she liked what she knew, because I was the only person named in her will. She had no family and no friends, except me. So, today I found out that I inherited $250,000-the total value of her estate. Holy shit! Mr. Trujillo told me that I need to come to his office as soon as possible to sign some papers and finalize this matter. I said that I would be there first thing tomorrow.
I called the bank to request a personal day for tomorrow. My head was spinning and my heart was racing. I was going ape. I switched on the TV to distract myself, hoping to calm down a little. I began making a mental list of what I needed to do and what I wanted to do. This list occupied me until dawn.
When the new year begins, people can’t seem to remember to change the year when they date their checks. This results in a lot of problems for people trying to cash or deposit these checks. Generally, we refuse them. For stubborn customers who insist on depositing these stale-dated checks, we just tell them that if the check is returned, they will be charged $25. The bank makes a killing on this $25 fee each January.
We have a customer who is a cross-dresser. I know it’s a man, because the drivers license says ‘Wayne’ on it, not Jane, which the customer likes to be called. He also has an adam’s apple and hairy knuckles. The picture on his drivers license is just how he looks when he comes in, complete with make-up and big, dangling earrings. He doesn’t talk or behave like a woman, he only dresses like one. Today he came in with his wife to get a check for their house closing. I know it’s his wife because they both wear wedding bands and I’ve seen his wife’s ID and it matches the name on their joint account.
After my lunch break Janet called me into her office. I wasn’t sure what was going on, until she asked me if I had any knowledge of a large deposit wired into my checking account. I remembered George telling me that I could expect to receive my money very quickly. I didn’t think it would be so soon. I explained to my manager what I had been doing the previous day. She told me I should have notified the bank of this deposit prior to receiving it, so it does not arouse any suspicion. I apologized and told her that I just found out myself. She assured me that I was not in any trouble and I assured her that I was not up to anything criminal. She congratulated me and asked if I had any plans for the money. I told her that my big plan was to buy a house. I came up with this during my brainstorm two nights ago.
My list, in it’s entirety, is as follows: take $200,000 and buy a house; $5,000 will be spent on a vacation that Tanji and I will take next month to Mexico; I will put $35,000 in a 60 month certificate of deposit; I’ll give $1,000 each to Cathryn and Mark, my two friends; $3,000 to my sister; $5,000 to my parents. I was tempted to go on a shopping spree, but after the house is paid for I’ll no longer have to pay anything for a roof over my head. That will free up several hundred dollars a month from my regular paycheck. I can use that to update my wardrobe. It’s not the most complicated plan, but I am happy with it.
Tanji and I went out for dinner tonight and I told her about the money. She went into hysterics and we had to leave the restaurant. When we got back to my apartment and she calmed down (this took over an hour), I told her about the trip to Mexico. I have not booked anything yet and asked her if she’d go with me on Saturday to see her travel agent. She emphatically agreed. I figured she would.
I woke up late today and didn’t have time to shower before running to catch the bus. The public address system was broken on the #11. It was continually announcing the next stop and it was louder than I have ever heard it. “...Next stop Monaco, transfer to Route #13 and #409...Next stop Monaco, transfer to Route #13 and #409...Next stop Colorado Boulevard, transfer to Route #265...” This got stuck in my head.
At work we had an older customer wet himself on one of our lobby chairs. I got stuck cleaning it up, since our cleaning crew only works after hours. All I could hear while I scrubbed the cushions was “Next stop Grant...Next stop Grant...”
I would never sit in one of our lobby chairs. I have seen a dog shit on them, a child puke on them, and now the urine. People don’t know what they are exposing themselves to when they take a seat.
FPN: 6331
SN: 3307
Chapter 5
When I came up with my list, I was up all night. I haven’t been up all night since my road trip out here and that was over five years ago. I have a headache that, I’m sure, is a result of lack of sleep and I can’t get the damn bus intercom recording out of my head. With the excitement of buying a house (I have an appointment with a realtor in a few days), the vacation, and the extra money, I’m not sleeping well. My sleep schedule is all out of wack.
Tanji and I went to her travel agent on Saturday. The weather was so nice that we didn’t even need jackets. It was -7 last week, but has been in the low 60’s almost everyday since then. We walked and whenever I saw a bus, I would hear “...Next stop Monaco, transfer to Route #13 and #409...next stop Monaco, transfer to Route #13 and #409...Next stop Grant...Next stop Grant...” in my head.
We booked an all-inclusive two-week trip to Mexico. We leave the first Friday in February and are staying at a very nice resort in Acapulco. We’ll spend most of our time at the beach, but will spend two days in Mexico City, just for a change of scenery.
This morning the heater on the bus was broken. The temperature dropped into the twenties last night and my ride on the #11 was very uncomfortable. I could see my breath inside the bus. Riding the bus has become a particularly unpleasant experience for me, because I hear the bus intercom externally (the real one) and internally (the one in my head).
The bus driver would announce “...Next stop Glencoe, transfer to the #28...” and then in my head I would hear “...Next stop Josephine...Next stop Josephine...”
Since I woke up I had been preoccupied with buying a house. I never noticed how many ‘For Sale’ signs there are in my neighborhood, until I was looking to buy a house and houses in Denver are expensive. I was hoping that for $200,000 I would have a little something to show for it, but it looks that amount will essentially only buy me a condo. I don’t want a condo. I want a little land, not a lot, just a little.
“...Next stop Grant...” I heard the driver say. “...Next stop Monaco, transfer to Route #13 and #409...next stop Monaco, transfer to Route #13 and #409...” My mind added.
Work was slow all morning. Jot came in and withdrew some money. When I was finished with him, I walked down to the copier to refill it with paper, something I do when it’s slow. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jot walk over to my manager’s desk. I grabbed two reams of paper and put the first on in the copier. I stood holding the second one while I heard “...Next stop Colorado Boulevard, transfer to Route #265...” in my head. This was suddenly interrupted by a scream. I looked to my left and saw Jot strangling Janet. My eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. This was the most wild thing I have ever seen at work. More exciting than the stolen checks, more exciting than the old man who peed his pants while standing in line, and crazier than the woman who tried to give me her drugs and her crackpipe. Without even being aware of it, I walked over to Jot, the ream of paper still in my hand. I did notice that all of the other employees were just standing there dumbfounded. No one was helping our manager. I raised the ream of paper and shouted “Hey” at Jot. With his hands still on her neck he twisted his head to see who was yelling at him. When I saw his bloodshot eyes, I swung the paper directly at his head. His nose caved in and blood began pouring out. Those bloodshot eyes rolled back up in his head and he went limp. His arms fell to his side and he collapsed. His head made a dull thud as it hit the floor.
By the time he hit the floor, one of the A.R.’s had called the police and one of the tellers had gotten the first aid kit. Every desk and teller station has a manila envelope taped under it that contains various documents and instructions for what to do in the event that something like this happens. Most of us thought we’d only open our ‘Crime Packets,’ as we call them, if we were robbed. Today we got to open them for Jot.
Janet was given an icepack and the lead teller stayed with her until the paramedics arrived. She was taken immediately to the hospital. The two other customers who were in the branch when this happened were cooperative enough to fill out statements for the police before going home. I was put in a room all by myself until the police arrived. Our Crime Packets tell us to separate everyone directly involved. Janet got to go to the E.R. I got to go to one of our little interrogation offices. The rest of the day our branch was flooded with people from our corporate office. Some of them needed to be there; most of them just wanted to see what happened.
Before we were all sent home at 5pm, we were informed that we would be closed the following day, but that we would all have to report to work as usual. They also said that Janet was okay, but was going to take the next several days off. I was then pulled aside and told that I would be working at our corporate office the day after tomorrow. They didn’t tell me why, but I figured that someone- our H.R. Director, Security Director, or possibly a Vice President- wanted to talk to me. I didn’t think I was in too much trouble, since I was not arrested, but you never can tell.
FPN: 6404
SN: 3353
I called Tanji at work to let her know what had happened, but couldn’t get a hold of her. So I emailed Smoe. I spend that evening and almost all night on the internet looking at prices for homes. First I checked only the Denver area, then all of Colorado, and lastly the entire West and Midwest. I found the largest houses for the cheapest price in Cleveland, Ohio. I finally went to sleep at dawn while “Next stop Glencoe, transfer to the #28...Next stop Glencoe, transfer to the #28...Next stop Grant...Next stop Grant...” played in my head.
The bank’s Security Director William stayed at our branch today. We were all asked to come to work so we could talk about the prior day’s incident. William called this a critique. As I am normally the only male at work during the week, it was nice to have another one around. The bank bought us all lunch and all we did, all day, was talk about work, the incident, and our reactions to it. Towards the end of the day, we were all asked to fill out a statement. William told us we would fill out another statement in a week, another one in a month, and a final one a year from now. He said the bank’s priority was its employees and these statements were one way of monitoring our mental well-being and recovery, while aiding in the investigation of Janet’s attack.
Cathryn and I had sat together at lunch and chatted a little. She told me she was proud of me. She said she was still in shock over the whole thing. I told her it would take time to get over and she gave me a hug. All of the women here are super-emotional today. I’ve never seen so many people cry at once. William said this was normal.
Just like yesterday, I was pulled aside at the end. William thanked me for intervening and helping Janet. He said that tomorrow I would be speaking with the Director of H.R. and Janet. He said I should not be nervous, which I wasn’t. He told me this meeting was at Janet’s request. I could dress casually; it was to be a very informal day. I would be paid for a full day, but could go home at noon. After that, my schedule (along with everyone else’s) would return to normal. I hadn’t really given it much thought, but I was beginning to get the impression that I was something of a hero. I’ve never been a hero before. With all of this excitement, I’ve had trouble concentrating. The bus intercom “...Next stop Broadway, have a nice day...Next stop Broadway, have a nice day...” was still running.
After work I had my appointment with the realtor. Her office is downtown, only a short walk from the bank. This meeting was brief. I told her how much I had to spend, but that I wanted to buy something in Cleveland, not Denver. She said she had a colleague in Ohio and that she would have this person call me in the next couple of days.
I finally got a hold of Tanji tonight. I had called her early this morning and also at lunch, but never reached her. I was shocked that she didn’t go ape when I told her what happened. The bank managed to keep it off of the news, so no one except the employees (and those two unfortunate customers) really knew anything about it. She said she was not surprised that I had jumped in and hit Jot. She said I was brave. I didn’t mention Cleveland to her. That will upset her and, besides, I was tired of talking.
At our corporate office Janet did most of the talking. This was her first chance to discuss her attack. She and the Director of H.R., whose name is also Janet, both talked a mile a minute. All I had to do was sit there and add an “Okay” or an “I agree” every now and then. This was fine; I felt I had said my piece yesterday. Janet, my manager, wanted to thank me and Janet, from H.R. wanted to be sure that I was doing okay. She said that it’s not everyday you get to be a hero. I was about to add something meaningful and heartfelt to the conversation, when the bus intercom went off in my head. “Next stop Broadway, have a nice day...Next stop Broadway, have a nice day...Next stop Cleveland...Next stop Cleveland....”
“Thank you,” was all that came out.
H.R. Janet commented that I was rather quiet. I explained how I felt and she said that was understandable. I said that I didn’t consider myself a hero. As soon as I said this Manager Janet burst into tears. She said that her whole like had flashed before her eyes when Jot was strangling her. She said she had been involved in two robberies, but had never had anyone just come after her. She told us that this was much more personal for her. No one had any idea what had caused Jot to do this.
The Ohio realtor called me tonight. I am flying to Cleveland tomorrow to look at some homes and will fly back Sunday night. Tanji is coming over then and I’ll let her know about my proposed relocation. I’m going to tell my family and the bank on Monday.
I emailed Mark to let him know that I will be probably be moving a little closer to him.
Chapter 6
I looked at 20 homes on Saturday and eight more on Sunday. After viewing the eight on Sunday, we went back to the second home that I saw on Saturday. This was my favorite. It was ranch style, four bedrooms with three baths, on a one-acre plot of land, built in 1984, and available for $169,000. I told the realtor that he would be hearing from George Trujillo, my attorney, and that I would like to get things moving quickly. I took two rolls of pictures to show Tanji and my family.
“Tanji,” I said, “I have been giving some thought to moving.” We had just finished dinner and were each sipping on a glass of pinot grigio (her favorite wine).
“Yeah? Where?”
“Well...in Cleveland?” I said.
“Oh.” she responded. I could tell she trying to figure out if this was some scheme to break off the relationship.
“Ohio. I looked at houses over the weekend. I had wanted to buy something here, but...
“You went to Cleveland? When?” she asked.
“Over the weekend. To look at some houses. Remember, I told you I wanted to buy a house? Everything here is too expensive. I found a really great deal. I have pictures.” I was talking quickly. I could feel her blood pressure rising.
“Now calm down.” I told her reassuringly. “I don’t want to break it off.”
“You don’t? Well...?” She raised her eyebrows. Her eyes were red.
“I thought maybe you would like to move with me.” I said and took finished my glass.
“So you don’t want to end our relationship.” She let out a huge sigh. “You want to move to Cleveland when?
“Pretty soon. As soon as I can get everything squared away.” I told her. “Next stop Cleveland...Next stop Cleveland...” I thought.
“So, like a month?”
“Yes. We can start packing when we get back from Mexico.”
“So, we’re still going to Mexico?”
“Hell, yeah. And then we’re going to move to Cleveland. It’s a nice house. Let me show you the pictures.” I refilled our glasses and talked her through the pictures. After much cuddling and reassuring, Tanji consented to moving to Ohio with me. We spent the rest of the evening planning who to tell and how to tell them.
Janet was not at work (she’s still recuperating) so I told our Assistant Manager that I would be leaving at the end of February. She seemed disappointed, but not shocked. “You’ve had a strange month, haven’t you?” she asked. I nodded.
“Our hero is leaving us,” she said as I left her office. I smiled at her and said that I felt bad for Jot’s nose.
That evening I wrote out the checks to the people to whom I was giving money. I enclosed a letter updating everyone on my plans. I expect that everyone of these people will call as soon as they see the check. They probably won’t even read the damn letter.
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The Ten Commandments Of Going Out
J. J. Brearton
Britney Spears rang my bell.
I was flipping between WWE
and American Idol on the TV.
She said, “You got to read these!”
She had in her hand copies of
RuneScape and Naruto.
I said,
“Does your Dad know you’re here?”
She said, “Yeah, you’re on the
permitted list.”
“Great,” I said. “Who else is on it?”
“Jessica Alba. That’s about it.”
“That’s cool.”
She said, “Did you hear
Barack Obama is going to appoint
Lindsay Lohan as ambassador to Chad?”
“Who’s he? What are they doing,
like, an intervention?”
“No, that’s Angelina Jolie.
She’s intervening in Senegal.”
“In Canada? I thought that had to be
in a foreign country.”
“Sure it is, silly.
Now just read these books.
They have a lot of pictures-
not that many words.
I’ll be back to test you on it later.
I’m on my way to do a guest shot on
Miley Cyrus’ show.
My Dad and her Dad
are trying to put a CD
together for us.”
“What’s it called?”
“The Ten Commandments
Of Going Out.”
“Is that a religious album?”
“Not the way we sing it.”
|
Days Ago Tomorrow,
John T. Hitchner
On a jungle hot day, Private 1st Class Thomas Harbison walked with his platoon in a jungle like all the other wet and green and bug-infested, gook-infested jungles in a country he did not know existed until his American history teacher had pointed to it on a map. Private Harbison understood his platoon’s mission—search and destroy a hamlet of enemy sympathizers. He knew that orange and black flames would roil from the hamlet’s huts and smear the sky just like the fire from another village they had wiped out last week. He had watched pieces of enemy soldiers’ flesh spurt from the impact of bullets from his and the platoon’s M-16s . He knew these things.
But on this day, Private Harbison wondered about the fate of his beloved New York Yankees. Maybe a pennant? Maybe World Series champs? He thought, too, of his girlfriend Holly and remembered the last time he had caressed her and saw the surprise and smile in her eyes and on her lips when he drowned in her.
Behind him now his buddy Stoney said, “Them gooks gotta be—”
Stoney’s voice was crushed in an explosive vice that ascended from the ground and descended from the trees. Chunks of Stoney flared up and out and over and into vines and trees and helmets and into Private Harbison’s face.
An ocean and three thousand miles away, Private Harbison’s father awoke, the bed sheets twisted and damp over his chest.
“What is it, dear?” his wife asked.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Neither can I,” she said. “I keep thinking about Tommy.”
Days later the Harbisons received a call from a hospital in Tokyo. A military voice identified himself and then explained to Charles Harbison his son’s mission and the results of the enemy’s explosive devices. “Your son received shrapnel wounds in both legs, but he is not critical, sir, and he is out of danger.”
“Will he be able to walk?”
“Yes, he will, sir. He should be up on his feet in the next few days.”
“When can we talk to him?”
“As early as tomorrow, sir. He’s resting now.”
“Thank you.”
Charles Harbison turned to his wife. “Tommy’s all right,” he said.
“Now we know why, don’t we...But when will it be over?” asked his wife.
“When he comes home. When we see him walk through the door.”
“And I’m never going to let him leave,” she said.
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A Letter I Found On a Bus Stop Bench
Adam Graupe
Dear Jane,
The prison warden handed me your note
I felt sick not hearing from you
for twelve months and then you have
the nerve to send me that letter demanding
I apologize to Henry because he got shot.
Let me tell you, that was your fault
not mine.
If you hadn’t left me for two days
I never would have met Wisteria online
and she and I never would have had
an affair and those gas stations never
would have been held up and
those clerks would have lived.
Let me tell you, that detective with the greasy face
hunted me down and showed me the videos
you and your cousin Henry took having rough sex
in our bed and filmed with my video camera.
That made me furious
So it’s your fault Henry got shot,
not mine.
Anyway, don’t write me again
I don’t care what you do with the apartment
But when I get out I am coming back for my cat.
Don’t try to deny this,
Ned.
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Adam Graupe Biography
From writing about a 180-pound bipolar wood tick to about a bear having an affair with a whore called the American Dream, Adam Graupe’s fiction has run the gamut from the strange to the bizarre. He has been published in America, Finland, and England. don’t try, his first novel, will be out in 2010.
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David and Goliath: the Stage Play
Kenneth R. Fox
They came to court: Goliath, Inc.
Their cast of sixty- one.
The plot they wrote saw David slain,
His technology they felt sure to inherit.
For twenty days the show went on
Goliath’s playwrights were quite busy:
Lawyers, lackies, witnesses, experts
Even Goliath CEO: Big Bob
Leading roles or extras, all were scripted in:
Bullshit jargon, jaunty jive,
This army of paid assassins: all whores.
Obfuscation, self- glorification,
Vehement David denigration.
How beautifying they made grand theft seem.
Their theater of fictions was sublime
Their production costs were high-- for this
Business story written as pure fiction.
With arrogance, insolence
And presumptiousness apparent
Even a court caricaturist had they,
And they even held the victory party
On the night before the verdict.
But scruples, integrity and conscience they lacked.
The judge and jury panned the show
They saw it as a tragedy,
It seemed the acting was quite grand
But the playwrights had simply lost the plot.
They found for lowly David
His patents were affirmed,
Goliath was found infringing
Big bucks they had to pay,
Big Bob was duly vanquished,
And the Goliath stockholders were not amused:
They voted with their feet.
And Goliath fell asunder.
David was justly vindicated
For his inventive prowess,
He was amply rewarded
And his caricature was stupendous.
|
Colored
Chris Butler
Nigger
is not a color
created by
Crayola,
but peach
flesh once
was
non-toxic
to American
children.
|
note to self
Richard Lighthouse
stop being so invincible.
people are drawn to you
in that annoying way.
following your eyes around the room.
maybe they’re lost. building
cathedrals to your confidence.
waiting to be anointed.
chase them into corners
and beat confessions from them.
it cannot get worse
or so tell them.
make another note.
about happiness slipping
away in clichéd terms.
become that cliché.
then dance around the room
as you watch them
watching you.
|
People Enjoying Themselves
J. Michael Dashiell
Tina wanted to have some fun. After weeks of caring for her infant son, she felt she deserved it. Though she couldn’t afford or want to waste money on a babysitter, she did have enough to get sweetly drunk (though she might need a little generosity) and finally have the opportunity to release some of her pent up tension. Her mother wanted no business with her. Her son’s would be father had already skipped town and had returned to Oregon she believed. It was now just her wits and herself. Her son was awake and unfortunately crying for formula again, yet Tina had devised a plan to silence him, and render her attention unnecessary. It’d likely pacify him for hours and allow her enough time to enjoy a complete intoxication without concern.
She removed her sneakers, jeans and T-shirt and quickly put on a nice dress she’d bought at Goodwill or else was donated. Tina couldn’t remember. When on Welfare the agency often connected her with goods and services free of charge. Since her son was still crying with a fury, she prepared his meal, yet this time, in accordance with her plan, she crushed up a tablet of Xanax and mixed it in with his formula. She’d high-pressured a doctor to write her a prescription. It was a popular tranquilizer sold illegally as much as by prescription. Tina attempted to keep enough for her needs, and have a few left over to sell for ten dollars a tablet. This extra income really helped. When she saw a doctor again, she planned to high-pressure him into writing her a prescription for OxyContin for back pain though in reality her suffering was infrequent and minimal. With this drug available she could sell it for twenty-five dollars or more a tablet. It’d enable her more to have more fun, and buy needed things.
She picked up Benny from his crib and began to administer the formula. He immediately became quiet and eagerly consumed about half a bottle then immediately fell asleep. Tina knew the drug had already taken effect since he almost always finished his feeding. She returned him to his crib and smiled. Her plan worked! A rush of liberty and vanishing of burdens gave her a much awaited exhilaration. She applied make-up in a hurry because her exit couldn’t happen fast enough. The final check of the bathroom mirror however confirmed it looked fine. Still barefoot she put on a pair of elevated sandals, fetched her purse, and headed for the door to make the six block walk to the 8th Street Bar.
When Tina pulled open the glass door, she immediately heard scratches of conversation at the bar. The room was carpeted and fairly dark with a jukebox playing “Strokin’”. She’d already long since recognized the duct tape on booth seats and bar stools, the tobacco smoke stains and dust galore on the less popular liquor bottles and horizontal mirror. An extended crack was still present on the bar’s only window made by an avenging drunk with a tire iron years ago. The restrooms were fit for no lady or gentleman. Tina no longer noticed these obscenities. She took an available seat at the perpendicular end of the bar that extended to the back wall. It appeared about twenty people were present, mostly guys, the time still before sunset. Tina looked anxiously at the bartender none too quick to serve her. She hoped to meet a new guy too as well as get drunk and looked about for a prospect. A black guy with perfect teeth and a charismatic smile was talking to a fatter, older woman. Tina was sure she could extract him from this inferior company to devote his attention to her. After about five concentrated minutes the bartender served her order for a Tequila Sunrise. Tina took a quick swallow, and well-being spread with an emanation and wave.
A guy with blond hair and a mild appearance, said to a friend, “I saw my younger brother yesterday. Instead of looking for pussy, he’s reading a book about masturbation techniques! Can you believe that? Here he is, only twenty-two, and he’s already resigned himself to jackin’ off! I tried to talk with him about this crap but he simply says he’s too shy to crack on girls.”
His friend, Steve, said with a look of mischief, “You should have told him ‘A bird in the hand ain’t worth one on the bush!” Both of them laughed. Andy had always liked Steve’s wit. “Or tell him to drink a little liquid courage. When starting out it can break the ice. If he drinks like we do he’ll shatter any barrier!” They laughed again. They both liked how alcohol affected them, and enhanced their daring and abilities.
Herschel, a scruffy looking man of perpetual lust, was talking to a friend beside him and the bartender as well. His eyes blinked with amazement when he said, “I saw my daughter again after eight years. What a young woman she’s grown into! Teresa has tits the size of cantaloupes.”(He bent all ten fingers to mimic a grasp) “and a heart-shaped butt with cheeks that protrude like... eggplant! They invite like Porsche car seats. I mean she’s stacked! I’ll bring her in here sometime and show her off.” (He took a swallow of Bud Lite) “I’ll even auction her to the highest bidder!” All three of them chuckled. Herschel’s lust even extended to his offspring. “She’s worth her every cubic inch.” He once declared his dick acted as an arrow that directed him to every opportunity.
“Pee stain” otherwise Kevin was sitting beside Edie whom he’d always found especially attractive. He’d permanently earned this nickname when he removed his undershorts in a fit of wild drunkenness and tossed them at a woman who attracted yet scorned him. They betrayed the yellow drops and a streak. Bart saw them and attached this new name that became the bar’s standard way of identifying him. They now only knew him as “pee stain” not Kevin. As most bars it forever sought a negative to exploit or ridicule. It bolstered the general well-being at the others’ expense. He was telling Edie a story of his newfound good fortune that he thought would fund his needs for the next few years.
He took a quick drink of his CC and Seven and continued. “My grandmother never suspected a thing! I was so nice. I visited her for dinner every Sunday, played Bridge with her on Thursday, and took her shopping every Saturday morning. I paid her every attention and consideration. I quickly became her favorite grandchild! I even told her lies about the others. I told her my brother once spit on her picture. I told her my cousin once told me he hated her, and that her darling granddaughter took drugs and fucked anybody. She believed every word. My effort amounted to a masterpiece of dissimulation! So it came as no surprise to me I got the lion’s share of her grandchildren’s inheritance. One hundred and twenty-six thousand, baby! My patience paid off. I figured it was worth the time I spent on her, and the prolonged suffering it caused me.”
Edie’s ears almost fluttered. She saw this moment as an opportunity to share in his new fortune. She planned to get her hands on most of it by using her own wiles and his own modus operandi against him. “I knew you were smart. You know how to get what you want!”
Pee stain said, “I’ll now have money for all the coke and booze I want! I’ve had my eye on a BMW for years. I see myself in one already.”
Edie grasped his hand. “I see myself riding in it with you too.”
Naive pee stain said meekly, in an unbecoming way, “Really? You’ll be my girlfriend?”
Edie told a grotesque lie with utmost sincerity. “I’ve always liked you since you started coming in here. I’ve wanted you for a boyfriend even before your inheritance. Though most people in here think you’re a joke, I always took you seriously! You have a mind and ingenuity no one else in here can match!”
She gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
Completely gratified pee stain said, “Let’s get out of here. We can discuss this in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
He chuckled and Edie picked up her purse. They conspicuously headed for the door with Edie leading him by the hand. Malcolm said, “Looks like Pee Stain’s about to get lucky!” but they chuckled and knew it was only Edie’s shenanigans. He’d already boasted to everyone else of his cunning success, speaking of his achievement with grandiose pride. As a guy they knew no one would ever take that flake seriously.
A few minutes later Butch began to unload the truth about Lester to his bar companion, Rudy, after he mentioned Lester was out of jail.
“That fucker will fuck anybody! Lester fucks old women, retarded girls...he’s even had sex with mentally ill and homeless women right there on the spot in Cooper’s Alley. Talk about a real sleaze-bag, he even likes to go to jail for all the gay sex he can get! Rudy, I wouldn’t ever hang with a guy like Lester. I know he’s nice but this guy hasn’t a shred of class! His motto is ‘If it has a hole, fuck it!’ There’s no tellin’ where that freak’s cock will wind up next.”
They laughed together. Rudy had heard rumors about him even with his Lester’s cordial and pleasant disposition. Though only 10% of Butch’s account was true, it made worthwhile slander.
Another young woman stepped in with a male friend. She’d just drained an unfortunate young man’s bank account by stealing his ATM card from his wallet as he slept off his drunk at a previous party at her house. This guy had even had been careless enough to have his PIN number written on a business card for times when he needed quick cash and was too drunk to recall the correct digits. The theft was just so easy. Marilyn had Ted take her to every bank machine in town where she withdrew one hundred dollars at a time until both this guy’s checking and savings account was depleted. They felt a sense of mischief and triumph, and planned to drink and party until closing.
A marijuana addict was conversing with a plain if not outright unattractive woman whose face bore the wrinkles and coarse complexion of a hard life. They sat at a booth. His wife had kicked him out of the house for his daily behavior of smoking pot on the sofa and watching television all day and night with no mind or intention to work or help in any way. She handed him fifty dollars and commanded him never to return.
He only seized the opportunity to drink and hopefully find a new female provider. His mind suffered from a vague listlessness or attention entropy that he mostly listened to the woman’s hard luck story without comment, sometimes saying “uh, huh”. Yet the woman appreciated his company. He bought her drinks and nodded his head in approval. His apparent compassion impressed her. Later they began to laugh together at the absurdities of life. She invited him to her apartment. He complied. They made satisfactory love though his penis was slightly limp. They continued to drink and talk. That’s when he unloaded his own hard luck story, lying and exaggerating its hardships to an extreme, making himself out as an innocent victim. The woman was moved to compassion herself. She invited him to move in with her. The guy immediately accepted her offer and smiled with gratification. He proposed they smoke a joint together. She accepted and soon they were both sunny and carefree. All of this was done within six hours.
The real life in the 8th Street Bar that evening was from a young twosome. It was a cute girl and a fresh looking young guy who only knew each other casually but found a point of communication that had them laughing together to extremes. When Danielle told him she’d run across her fat friend, Janet, three times that day at the shopping mall, pharmacy and gas station, she cried out “There’s too much Janet on this planet!”
This comment inspired Robby to follow her lead. He said, “When a man has herpes simplex and erectile-dysfunction what do you say Danielle?!” She looked at him for an answer. “There’s too much sick in your dick!” They both broke into a mad laughing glee, completely drunk on shots of flavored schnapps and bottles of Heineken. Danielle immediately conceived of a reply: “When a man eats chitlins and dumplings and black-eyed peas, what do you say?” Robby didn’t know but appeared curious and ready. Danielle shouted “There’s too much south in your mouth!” They laughed wildly again. Robby immediately said, “When a man who never gargles or brushes his teeth calls out to his pigs, what do you say?” Danielle gave him an anticipating look. “There’s too much smell in your yell!” She laughed until her belly ached. Finally they were getting looks from the bartender and other customers. Danielle released her last best effort. “When a model walks down the catwalk cutting choo-choo train farts, what do you say?” The guy was nearly shaking with excitement. “There’s too much gas in your ass!” This time Danielle unleashed a wild spout of vomit across the bar and Robby fell backwards off his barstool. He rolled on the floor laughing and Danielle chuckled with embarrassment at the mess.
The black charismatic guy finally noticed Tina. Her dimpled smile drew him over. They began to talk. He said his name was “Tracy” and that his regular girlfriend worked as a stripper at The Funky Monkey. Tina thought this was interesting. His smile continued to enchant her. She invited him to her place. He gave her a ride in his Cadillac that impressed Tina further. He said he’d won it in a mob raffle. This intrigued her still. Soon they arrived at her apartment building stairway and began kissing desperately.
Still clinging and kissing they entered her apartment. She began to undress him, and finally commenced a blow job. They fell on the bed. She got him up to a massive erection. She removed her dress and panties. He couldn’t wait. She lay back with her arms around his body as he began to thrust and withdraw. Tina moaned. Tracy looked nasty and intense. She finally let out a wild wail and Tracy rolled off the bed and shivered as though possessed by frigid cold or lust. They lay separately for a moment until their separation seemed strange.
Tina said, “It was good, Tracy. The minute I saw you I knew it’d be good.”
He chuckled. “I like a girl who makes me shake!”
They began to talk again. Tina finally told him how she’d sedated her baby with a prescription tranquilizer in order to have the chance to go out. He said his girlfriend had given him seventy dollars to take their Doberman to the veterinarian but he confessed he needed it to drink.
Tina said, “Well, aren’t we mischievous?” she mispronounced with a strong, extended “e”.
|
brief author bioJ. Michael Dashiell has written 2 novels, 98 short stories, 30 new poems, 10 essays and 1,247 jokes. He’s had 8 short stories published: Most recently, Alien (underground) appeared in the December 2008 print edition of CC&qamp;D now published in book anthology, Bending the Curve. A Vacation from Life (literary) was published in the November 2008 Issue #30 of Sugar Mule Literary Magazine. Chainsaws &qamp; Munchkins (humor) preceded it in the April 2008 issue of Defenestration. The remaining five stories have appeared in Word Riot, Thieves Jargon, The Circle Magazine, The Blue Review &qamp; The New England Writers’ Network Magazine.
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So Dark You Forget Who You Are...
Red Chatham
I kissed a stranger last night
in an unbridled expression of impulse
An act not thought through
not reflected upon. And censured
it was cold outside
but inside (where the party roared) it was too hot.
and I don’t remember a name now
or if we were even introduced...
That morning as I walked down the street
a nut fell from a tree into my unexpecting palm.
It rested there momentarily
as I stopped in my tracks
before I tossed it over my shoulder
and resumed my brisk, unseeing stride.
I saw it coming a mile away
the lidded eyes, the quiet smiles...
we were chatting about something
And he smoked
in that way I cannot call anything but sexy
despite my distaste for the habit
the park was surprisingly empty
for that hour of the afternoon
but then, rain had only subsided
recently enough for benches to be damp.
I watched dewdrops
hanging precariously from leaves
because there were no people
on whom I could look with contented longing...
when he made the move it was almost a relief
the tension broke like a wave
moving with his lips and tongue;
I let him move me.
Two girls walked past
(and a boy with a dog)
one of them with a purse and colorful phone
the other wore wellies three sizes too large
and intentionally torn jeans
She made a point
to step in every puddle they passed
no matter how small.
I pulled him close
My back against the stone wall
—damp from the rain hours before—
I made love with a stranger last night
In that way people will
not doubting the impulse
Or answering regret.
(there would be tomorrow for that)
No, I let him move me
willing in that moment to forget who I was...
|
Jumper
Megan McDonald
Heart pounding
Racing toward the train
Life in every limb
He dives low
Dives for the sparking wheels
Heedless of the ever-wide eyes on-board
The hollow circle mouths
Purpose in every limb now
Scattered across the tracks
Clinging to the train
Begging two questions
Of the heavy silence
Where does the pain begin
And does it ever end
Several miles up the line
Held back by a weak link fence
The next one watches
And waits
|
Combustion/Dream-Spark/Saturnalia
Brian Spaeth
Under the sway of a remote and uncertain star in a constellation of chalk...
Strobe-Alarm Nocturne on the 10th Floor
Numberless poisons comingle and flourish in our innermost dreams
Faceless threats and streaks of lightning around the Old Bennett Building
Ancient fireworks burn & flare in the sulphur skies:
Conflagrations and bonfires too hot to put out
Flares that leave green spots on your eyes
I choke on infernal fumes as sparks appear on my corneas
Stories boiled & leached out of wormwood
Stories steamed, pressed, and blocked into the shape of a hat!
Dreams bathed in chemicals...
Apotheosis at the corner of Fulton & Nassau!
Thoughts filtered through charcoal...
Wobbly in absential ash-mound fever—burnt cylinders and caustic sparkplug-narcosis
Stars flutter and burn, sending intermittent signals in a time of great distress...
|
Brian Spaeth
My book of poems and short stories entitled “Clocks Stopped at a Strange and Savage Hour”was published by Serious Ink Press in 2008. It was inspired and provoked by my experience of being homeless in NY, and living illegally in a small office space two blocks from ground zero in the aftermath of the attack. I wanted to convey the sense of helplessness and terror as I was driven from one place to the next, all the while suffering from the debilitating effects of the WTC toxins and the psychic aftermath of the attack. Some of the major themes that run through my stories are loneliness, isolation, and a heightening of perception that can transform a street or a landscape into an hallucinatory spectacle. Dreams and memory are also important to me and are woven throughout my work.
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On Broken Glass
Lisa M. Cronkhite
 I’ve tried to get over it, but I can’t. It was two years ago when it happened. I could still taste his filthy hands wrapped around my mouth—hear his heavy breathing in my ear. When he strapped me down with the weight of his body, I could feel the broken glass slitting my back open. As I fought, wiggling my way out of his grip, the glass dug deeper.
It was my birthday and I was out with Jane for drinks at Excalibur. I remember seeing him on the dance floor a few times, grinding up against all the sexy women. The lights flashed against his demonic face, smiling a devilish grin as he groped and felt his way through the crowd—a prelude as to what was to come.
“Susan, stay a little longer,” Jane had urged, slurping down another Cosmopolitan.
“No, I can’t. I have that book signing tomorrow, member?”
“Ah, that’s right. Susan Geller—the great novelist,” Jane replied with a jealous smirk.
“You know how important it is to me. Why do you have to say it like that?”
“I’m sorry Sue. I was just hoping we could have a little fun here.”
“I did, but I have to go.”
I got up off the chair, feeling a little tipsy from the two long islands—gave Jane a peck on the cheek and left. Usually we’d leave together, but I was in such a hurry to get home—to catch some rest, that I didn’t think anything of it. Little did I know, he was following me all along.
I took the back way, thinking it would be quicker to get to the parking lot. But after I dropped my keys, an overwhelming dizzy feeling came over me as I rose back up. So I decided to walk a little slower, trying to shake it and try to regain my balance.
That’s when he grabbed me—pulled me from behind.
“I’ve been watching you.” He breathed out in a low voice.
“What do you want with me?” The very words caught in my throat. I froze as my body began to tighten up.
“Oh, you’ll see,” he whispered back as his brace clung close, wrapping his arms around my waist.
“Please don’t. You can have my purse.” My mind was running on haywire. I couldn’t think straight.
“Oh, I want something else.”
He shoved me into a small alleyway, behind the club—right between a dumpster and the brick wall where no one could see. It was as if he had it planned. And as he pushed and shoved, I slipped, breaking my heel.
“Please don’t.” I was so afraid yet so angry at the same time. Why was this happening to me? Why here? Why now?
He smothered his body onto mine, ripping my zipper off my jeans and slipped his hand inside me—his dirty disgusting hands. His putrid breath was worse than the dumpster smells looming overhead.
I numbed out the excruciating pain from the broken glass that lied underneath me.
“Take it bitch,” he spit out as he continued to have his way.
I couldn’t breathe with his hands all over me. As his heavy thrusts shifted my body, I searched around on the ground for something, anything. Until finally I grabbed a hold of a sharp object—my broken heel.
Quickly I wrapped my fingers around the top, holding the pointed center out in the air. And with one rapid stab, I plunged it into his eye.
“Oh, bitch, what have you done?” He cried out as he let go his clamp on me and shielded his face from the gushing bleed. And as he got up, I suddenly squirmed my way out of the small entrapment and ran my heart out down the alleyway.
After the police came, they discovered his body exactly where I described it would be. The heel was still rammed into his face as he laid there in a pool of muddy blood.
Two years ago it happened and I still can’t believe it. Later it was found out that the man had been stalking me for months. He was an obsessed fan of my novels and turned himself into the main character. It wasn’t until the police told me his name that I found out who he was— Mark Stewart, a guy I used to date in high school.
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Lisa M. Cronkhite’s work has appeared in The Storyteller, Ruminate Magazine, The Skyline Review, Bible Advocate, Combat Magazine, Clark Street Review, Salome Magazine, Scrap & Stamp Arts Magazine and many more. Having completed her writer’s course in July of ‘09, Lisa has received her certificate in The Institute of Children’s Literature based in Connecticut.
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Hunter
Dave Migman
Here’s to the ride in the middle of the night. Here’s to the sullen shades of defeat that linger on street corners like the buckled ghosts of junky children. Here’s to the defeat of modernism... here’s to the fall...
I stick in the key, the engine purrs gently, like a tiger. I release the handbrake and glide through the rain sodden streets. The dash is lit by the little displays. The radio is off, I don’t need music, I don’t want those vibes giving me haywire confusion. I need clear thoughts. I need to focus.
Comfortable? I hope so. You don’t mind me mumbling away like this do you? I have a lot on my mind. I really owe you some form of explanation, don’t I?
The car is an extension, like any tool should be to any craftsman. You must assimilate; push out your senses and clothe the gleaming carapace with your own skin so that you can feel the rush of the chilly Glasgow night. Turn off the heater, the air conditioning, open the window, let the filthy polluted night in...
Would it surprise you to learn that I have a good job? A warm office, a new computer, fax, printer and tiny cell phone. I have no girlfriend, I used to, but the last relationship ended a year ago and apart from the sex I can’t say I pine for her. Who the hell would pine for a company girl?
Once I was a company boy. Then, one day, nigh on a year past, I woke up. Cilla had been gone three weeks, leaving me alone in my sterile pen. Even the pillow, still perfumed by her scent, failed to induce even the mildest stirrings of any emotion - no hatred, no loss.
I realised then that I was drowning, submerged in a life of work with the single purpose of accumulating more and more material possessions that really had no use but to reflect my passionless, empty lifestyle. I filled my home with empty spaces: fringed wide rooms with stainless steel cupboards and severe utilities, stark aerodynamic chairs, glasses and plates of pastel frosted glass. I had become another lifeless furnishing, a walking talking, smiling automaton.
I started going to the library, a place hitherto unexplored and alien to me. Being in the proximity of all those tomes had a redeeming effect upon my soul. As I wandered around the shelves by the historical section or the natural history encyclopaedias I could sense each book humming with Knowledge.
It dawned on me, after several regular visits that I was searching for something: I was longing to tear off the plastic surround that kept me safe and detached. I wanted to tumble the walls of my sterile tomb, but I didn’t know how. I needed to learn, to develop my mind and elevate it above the confines with which I had imprisoned it.
A big fat book on ancient history became my best friend. It revealed our hunter-gatherer past, the time before the settling. Over ten thousand years ago the ice sheets began to retreat. The tribes followed the great bison north. They skirted around the inland lakes, hunting the buffalo, elk and giant deer...they survived.... using all their senses - the senses we, in our laxity, have neglected. They lived a purer life, inhaled pristine air, ate unsoiled food, bartered perhaps, but weren’t owned by a token currency. The world was huge, the landscape mysterious, sacred, an aboriginal mythscape through which the nomad tribes moved.
Somehow these memories still linger in the darker recesses of our minds and primal instincts still throb within our veins. Once we crept across the open savannas and the plains of central Europe the haft of the spear gripped tightly in our in gnarled tree root hands, towards the stirring Mammoth, hunger in our hearts. We killed but not one thing went to waste. Now we litter the land with our garbage, bury it, float it out to sea, fill the ocean, fill the countryside. We are filthy little creatures polluting our lives with soap operas, celebrity weddings, matching curtains for manicured minds.
Surely each of us is filled with our own genetic history, those ancient codes stretching back to our forefathers, they breathe and pulse within us, but even when we sense them we hold out, stifled by conformity.
I could hold out no longer!
I thought I might take up hunting to induce some reality into my wretched shadow world. But the countryside around the city was as tamed as we; golf courses, neglected canals and beyond these cultivated lands of produce filled with domesticated crops, fenced in by rectangular rows of rusting wire, polluted streams turning white and lifeless - nothing natural, nothing untouched... all the real animals were gone. We turned them into Disney drones, we made them laughable, their only purpose our sickening entertainment.
I sold virtually everything I had hitherto owned; entertainment system, bland furniture - I pawned the lot except my car and clothes (I dreamed of making my own from the produce of my kill - But kill? What exactly was I going to kill?)
The wastelands, the tenements, industrial estates, housing estates, gloomy parks, lonely roads between zones of fallen industry, became my jungle.
The hunting began.
I began with cats. I bought myself a hefty crossbow and a large hunting knife. At first it seemed too easy, I had to frighten them first to derive any sense of enjoyment from the kill. They were still easy though. Same with dogs, though the latter has more meat on them and taste marginally better than cat flesh (to which you must add curry, spices - anything to take the bitter taste away from their stringy meat). To my surprise I discovered that I was not a bad shot. On one of my forays I came across an urban fox, but I couldn’t shoot it, it just didn’t seem right to kill something that still retained some of its wildness.
My activities were virtually harmless and caused little stir, though several of my colleagues were intrigued at my growing collection of skulls and pelts.
I needed the thrill of big game, and what better than to track and take another human. I know - I went through weeks of mental trauma, conflicts of conscience and doubt. I realised the biggest factor in not taking the life of a fellow human was the threat of retribution. A life sentence, stuck in a cell - there was no way – I would die first! As for the life I would take? Well, you know yourself, I mean, I had to set definite boundaries.
I chose my target carefully. I watched his progress along the long open stretch of Grand Parade. The hood was drunk, dressed as cheap white trash always do. I knew his type, one of the chattering sports clad monkey packs, fucking and snarling and fighting, marking down their feeble territories with hissing tongues of silver or post office red. It was 4am, not a car to be seen. I collected my thoughts, breathed slowly, remembered what I was doing and why. He stopped at one point to spray paint a wall, marking his territory like a dog. I cruised real slow, almost silent. As I approached he turned round to give me some drunken lip, but his mouth fell open and his eyes bugged out as he saw the crossbow. He raised a shout but it was curtailed by a cry of shock as the head of the bolt thwacked into his larynx. He jerked spasmodically and slumped to the ground. I checked my mirrors, nothing coming. Good. I slipped out and dragged his body to the boot. I hefted him into the plastic sheet lined cavity and then slowly drove back home relishing the strangest of sensations.
The city was mine now. I ruled it as a solipsist hunter, taking to the night streets to exercise his primal rights.
I used most of the remains, but I really didn’t fancy eating the meat so I ground it to a fine mince and left it in plastic bags in back alleys for dogs.
Though the satisfaction lasted some weeks I became restless again. I needed something else. The thug had hardly been any more difficult than a dog. The thrill of the hunt, that’s what I needed.
I would capture someone; take them out to one of the most uninhabited part of Scotland. Give them a head start and I go after them. This was perfect because I would be on foot, exposed to the elements as much as my prey. I would have to utilise every facet of the primal hunter, use every skill that they used. It was perfect.
I began to read about tracking and hunting in earnest, building on my personal library and testing out what I had learned in quite county parks and forest walks.
So there, that’s the gist, you get the picture. That’s why you are here, bound and gagged on the floor of the back seat with a blanket on top of you. I picked you carefully, Mr. Wilson, CEO of a munitions company selling landmines to failed states. I think it’s a great opportunity for you. There is no certainty that I will catch you. You might survive - though I am going to plunge my knife into your leg (I need a little bit of help. This is my first).
Don’t worry there. Yes, I know it’s a beautiful night; we’ll be there in approximately five hours. Now excuse me, I must concentrate, I must summon up my primal hunter. Here’s to the ride through the middle of the night.
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uh huh
Jackson Warfield
the luck was on the wheel
the whiskey in the jar
and the leaves on the trees
were burning down the world
when I saw her in the parking lot
of a supermarket
we exchanged greetings
and she said, “so, you’re growing a beard?”
I looked away from her green eyes
and said, “I’ve been busy
with many things.”
three geese flew overhead
outcasts from their flock
and there was a chill in the air which
served as a reminder
for those of us who didn’t like winter
that we were fucked for another six months.
when our eyes met again
she said, “you’re kind of weird, you
know that?”
and we both smiled
because we knew that wasn’t true
not that thing about me being kind of weird
but that other thing
about me growing a beard
and about being busy
and even the color of her eyes
that too, was a lie
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Jackson Warfield grew up in New Hampshire and has traveled widely throughout the US and abroad. He writes for entertainment, his own and others.
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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
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.
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
