welcome to volume 80 (March 2010) of
down in the dirt
internet issn 1554-9666
(for the print issn 1554-9623)
Alexandira Rand, Editor
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Order this issue from our printer
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Cover art “Amid The Asian Snow 026”, by Ernest Williamson III
Ernest Williamson III has published poetry and visual art in over 240 online and print journals. He is a self-taught pianist and painter. His poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of the Net Anthology. He holds the B.A. and the M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature from the University of Memphis. Ernest, an English Professor, at Essex County College, has taught English at New Jersey City University. Professor Williamson is also a Ph.D. Candidate(ABD) at Seton Hall University in the field of Higher Education Leadership, Management, & Policy.
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three “interviews” are highlighted here, from the book “Cloned Geniuses Speak,” by Tom Ball
INTRODUCTION
This book is top secret. It describes a secret CIA program to clone historical geniuses. It is not known when the cloning program began, but all the cloned geniuses in the book are 20 years old. This book details only a hundred and two of the many geniuses cloned. And all of the geniuses here are copies of dead people. Of course the CIA has cloned people who are alive today as well, but that program is even more top secret than this book.
The geniuses have been given a different face from the original and none know who they are. However they do know their country of origin. They also know that they are an experiment and that they live in isolation. They all have private tutors and are allowed to mingle with each other. However they don’t see anyone else and spend most of their time reading, or in the lab if they are scientists.
The reader will be surprised to see many geniuses who died long ago and whose graves are in what most assume were unknown locations. The CIA will not divulge how they got hold of the remains of many of the geniuses. They just mention that there were a lot of museums, cults, churches, scientific institutions and the CIA themselves which preserved bones or hair etc. of great people in history and that they have a number of brilliant archaeologists who have conducted secret excavations to extract the DNA of many great geniuses of the past.
Some of the few who have read this highly classified book have remarked that it would be impossible to get the DNA of some of the geniuses described in this book. Some of the readers of this book have also suggested that the geniuses are not who they are said to be but rather are other people who the CIA has brainwashed to think as they do. I, as the writer of this book have no idea what the truth is about that.
In addition some readers have pointed out that the geniuses in this book say many of the same kinds of things. They say this is clear evidence of brainwashing, but I think it could also be that great minds think alike. However the geniuses do share many of the same tutors.
Also some say that not all the people in this book are geniuses, but I have reserved judgment on this.
Furthermore, one should not assume that this book a comprehensive representation of past genius. Many geniuses’ DNA could not be acquired (according to the CIA) and some of them were not made available for interviews with me (I am Tom Ball, a “journalist”).
Each genius was interviewed briefly by me and the highlights of each interview have been given in the book.
Most of the interviews in the book focused on the modern world and its problems rather than the past. Although many scientists are in this book, no details of their secret work for the CIA will be divulged in these pages. In any case all the geniuses in this book are only 20 years old, so one must not expect too much from them.
Anyways most of the world’s problems need to be solved by political, economic, social and educational changes, and so the interviews concentrated on these.
PLATO
I: Plato was an ancient Greek philosopher who theorized we need “Philosopher Kings” to rule us. How do you feel about that?
P: In order to make government better we certainly do need better leaders and therefore a better system. Plato neglected to say exactly how we should pick better leaders and this has led to a lot of confusion.
However I think the answer is simple. What is needed is for a wise leader of any country to start an experiment. What should be done is the leader simply picks the wisest businesspeople, writers, scientists etc. and these people would then form a “College of Geniuses”. This group would then pick a President, say every 5 years, to lead the nation.
If the people in the College of Geniuses were truly wise and the leader they pick a good one, then that country would prosper more than others, and then other countries might follow suit.
Of course the position of President would also have to be made desirable to clever people. So a huge salary would be in order, say USD$2 million per year. And the President would just make decisions, he wouldn’t need to sit in the legislature or visit foreign leaders or talk to the media. Just make decisions. And if this would not be enough to attract clever people then other inducements could be offered. In fact you could simply ask such a potential leader what they want, and give it to them if the College of Geniuses approved it.
I: But do you really think the people would go for such an elitist system?
P: People will love it, if it works.
People say that one should keep the democratic system for better or worse. But it simply doesn’t make sense to not have your best people as leaders. You wouldn’t want a CEO to be mediocre would you? If the CEO is mediocre then the company would not thrive. It’s the same with government. Why isn’t it obvious to everyone?
I: What other improvements to society could be made?
P: I think that education is another important area where we can make real improvements. I think there should be a worldwide drive to make sure everyone in the world has at least a university or technical school diploma. And we don’t want to train people just in business and science. Every student should take a lot of liberal arts courses so that they can improve their thinking. If the developing world’s people were better educated in particular, many of their problems would soon disappear.
Also the College of Geniuses could appoint great thinkers to come up with new texts and new ways to educate people. Experimentation is what has led to such great progress in science, why not apply it to learning?
We should also have experiments in other aspects of life; indeed every person should be taught to try new ways of living all the time. People’s lives today are too routine and boring. Like watching about 4 hours of TV a day, as most people around the world do.
I: Are you optimistic about the future?
P: Well this is hard to predict. But I feel if humanity uses its best people to try to solve the world’s problems, then at least we would have nothing to be ashamed of. But it is obvious today that many world leaders are very mediocre; and with things like nuclear weapons proliferating so quickly, we really need visionaries.
If we have great leaders everything will improve in our society, yet in history we have so seldom seen great leaders. It’s time we all smartened up, I think.
COLUMBUS
I: In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue. Do you think that Columbus was great?
C: Columbus was mostly the right man in the right spot at the right time. In his day exploration had already begun such as the circumnavigation of Africa by the Portuguese. Ships had been recently improved and cities were again beginning to thrive due to the revival of trade. It was inevitable that sooner or later expeditions would be launched westwards. However Columbus was a virtual genius in getting his crew to follow him and remain loyal throughout his first voyage. But due to bad luck and his lack of skill as a governor they didn’t even name the New World after him. He died in poverty and disgrace I understand.
I: How do you feel about the modern global village that is developing?
C: I think its just beginning. In a world global village I think development will come to all regions, as people are our number one resource.
I: What about the exploration of space?
C: I think putting colonies in space will be expensive but it will have a lot of benefits for science. Since many planets and moons are different from earth, scientists will be challenged to understand these bodies and will make new scientific discoveries in the process.
I: What about the exploration of the ocean bottoms?
C: We might be surprised by what we find there. Obviously the oceans have a big effect on climate and so we need far more research in this important area.
I: Do you think our era is lacking in adventure? After all exploration of space and the oceans is a lonely business.
C: Well the nature of adventure has changed, but there is still plenty of adventure to be found. I think going to exotic countries and being able to speak English in most cases offers a lot of adventurous opportunities, not the least of which is romantic opportunity. Of course knowing other languages would enhance the experience.
In Columbus’ time for example you couldn’t communicate at all with many peoples throughout the globe, but now you can. There are still a lot of cultural differences despite the advent of the global village.
In fact I would say there has never been more opportunity for adventure. But maybe in 50 years time there will be much less cultural diversity and chances for real adventures.
I: Should everyone try to have adventures in their life?
C: Yes, but most people are too conservative and too closed-minded to really try and have an adventure. If they go to a foreign country they often just see the sights which they could have read about in a book. Often they don’t really meet any local people at all. It seems a shame.
Many people think that experiencing life vicariously on TV makes for a satisfying life, but they have never known true adventure. People are simply not educated well and no one really tells them about how to truly have exciting holidays.
JESUS CHRIST
I: Plato described a concept which he called the “royal lie” whereby some lies have to be told to the people for their own benefit. Do you think Jesus was the same?
JC: Of course Jesus lived after Plato and he probably appreciated the reasoning. Back in those days people needed to believe in God and believe that God wanted them to behave justly. Also many people like the idea of brotherly love that was advocated by Jesus.
Jesus knew that he didn’t do those miracles, but it was necessary to tell the people that he was divine. Obviously if a real God had sent someone to earth this God would visit everyone, not just a few, and would be so awesome that everyone would believe immediately.
So Jesus didn’t believe in God, but he really cared about people and wanted the best for them.
I: So how do you feel about modern religions then?
JC: You can see that at least, in the developed world, people are abandoning religion en masse. People don’t need it any more, especially if they are highly educated. Most educated people can see that religion was not made up by Gods or God but rather by humans. And it seems to them that there is no God.
But I don’t think this has made people any more evil or bad. In fact people are becoming more liberal and open-minded which is an improvement.
But the message of Jesus lives on. Love everyone. In the 1960s they almost changed the world and one day reformers will probably succeed. If only we could get rid of AIDS the whole love revolution will come back and it’ll be a great day for humanity.
In the future automation will allow people to have much more free time, and they will not be so stressed out and will have time to love everyone they know.
I: But in the 60s it was a relatively small group who wanted change. How can the masses be convinced?
JC: Perhaps we need to change our governmental system. We need a system that will produce leaders who are not only intelligent but also kind and caring. Perhaps a group of caring people could be elected and they could determine which candidates are kind enough by studying their pasts. Or some other such system. It could all start with someone like one of the saints running for office and then changing the political system.
I: Do you think that a Jesus type person is what is needed?
JC: I think in a world of over 6 billion people there must be a lot of Jesuses. It’s just a matter of getting them involved in politics. Like I say a saintly or Jesus type person could win power and then search the world over for other good people to join the government.
Many people have big hearts and have great potential to do good work. We need to find such kind people at an early age and send them to elite schools which will train them for taking political power. I think many good people would be willing to donate money towards establishing such a school. The school need not be Christian, as this would turn a lot of people off, but rather should be open to any kind person.
Many people think that kind people are stupid, but I think there are people out there who have many brilliantly kind and caring ideas. They are veritable geniuses. And we need to use them.
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SURVIVED/h2>
A Six-Word Story
Mel Waldman
Buddies died. Survived war. Why me?
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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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Rain
Dustin Naughton
Joey strained upward, reaching
For the hidden top shelf
Books stacked on a bar stool
Provide a precarious foothold
Grasping, stretching desperately
For unseen wrapped-up purchases
Cool steel! To his delight, fingers touch
Finally taking hold, forbidden treasure!
Walking through my parent’s bedroom door
Unaware
I saw him take it down
Father’s loaded rifle!
“No!” I shouted, “Put it down...now!”
Five years old, precocious, innocent
Joey could not understand
Surprised, caught red handed
Vacillating,
Joey leveled the gun
Aiming straight at my face
“Stick em up!” he hollered
in delight
Click...click! The safety’s on
Lurching forward, frantic
I seized the rifle
Flat handed, I caught his left cheek
Anger, relief, spilling over
“You could have killed me you little shit”
Falling from his Babel tower
Joey ran, crying, howling
Stool tipped over, books spilled
Crashing, creating aftermath
In strode Andy, white as a sheet
Pointing at the rifle
Asked, “What’s going on here?”
I replayed the events
Replacing what had been removed
Hot tears streaking down my cheeks
“That could have been it for me”
Wrapping his arm around my shoulder
Andy said “you did the right thing”
Moments like hours
Father walked in
Lurching forward with clenched fist raised
“If you ever hit your brother again I’ll kill you!”
Fist stuck face, stars and searing pain
He turned and walked away
“That’s it! I’m leaving this place,”
“don’t tell anyone!”
Andy pleaded, “Please don’t go”
It was no good Dad had gone too far
Didn’t care to ask the truth
Back pack in hand
I strode out the back door
To grandma’s, cross town
How hard cold it be, I was eleven?
I didn’t look back, no fear
Dark clouds moved in overhead
Halfway there, in potter’s field
It hailed!
Big as marbles, hard as stones
Blinding, crashing, searing pain
I fled
Hail slowed, the rain came
Droplets like grapes, impossibly fat
I couldn’t tell tears from rain
Then...I heard it
Honk!
Honk!
My father was there
Leaning across the passenger seat
He opened the door
“Please forgive me son, I didn’t know”
My best friend Andy had told him what occurred
Too tired to argue I got in the car
Father smiled, “I’ll never misjudge you again”
A new chapter had begun. |
The Painting
John Ragusa
Maury Amherst didn’t quite know what it was that attracted him to the painting he saw at an art exhibit. It was an ugly portrait of a gargoyle, and there was nothing appealing about it. But it was bizarrely fascinating. Amherst couldn’t take his eyes off of it. He knew he just had to have it.
He approached the curator. “Do you suppose I could buy this painting?”
“You’ll have to ask the artist who painted it,” the curator replied. “He’s standing over there in the corner. His name is Brock Linzer.”
Amherst walked up to Linzer. “Hello there. My name is Maury Amherst. That’s quite a painting you created.”
“That old thing?” Linzer laughed. “I think I was drunk when I painted it.”
“There’s something about it that is awesome.”
“I guess it’s okay if you like weird art.”
“Would you be willing to sell it?”
“I’d do anything to get rid of it.”
“I’d like to buy it. How much do you want for it?”
“I suppose $5,000 will be enough.”
“Consider it sold, then.”
Amherst wrote out a check and gave it to Linzer. “There you go.”
Amherst took the painting home and hung it on a wall in his bedroom. It added decoration to the plain design in there. Amherst looked at the mural closely. It seemed very lifelike. Every detail was vivid and realistic. The gargoyle looked like it would spring out of the painting and fly into the room at any moment.
He couldn’t stop staring at it. His rapt attention was focused on the gargoyle. It was almost impossible to look away from it. It was certainly different than any painting he had ever seen.
The gargoyle seemed to be breathing, but it was a trick of his mind. Whenever someone looks at a photograph too long, it will appear to move. This was a similar optical illusion.
Amherst wondered how Linzer had been inspired to paint the portrait. The man must have a great imagination to have conjured such a vision. The gargoyle truly resembled a creature from hell.
Of course, no such monster existed in real life. It was a product of superstition and myth.
Amherst was curious about the other macabre subjects Linzer might have painted. He was comparable to Goya, that master of ghastly images.
The painting would adorn his bedroom with a horrific magnificence.
* * *
That night, his girlfriend Sondra came over for dinner. After they ate, they went into his bedroom to watch TV.
“Where did you get that awful painting?” Sondra asked, pointing to the canvas.
“I bought it at an art exhibit today,” Amherst said. “Isn’t it brilliant?”
“I think it looks creepy. I can’t imagine what you see in it.”
“It’s true that it’s not pretty. But it does happen to be unique.”
“It doesn’t do a thing for your bedroom.”
“Well, I paid too much for it to just throw it away, so I’m going to keep it.”
Later that night, after Sondra had left, Amherst glanced at the painting again. He got the feeling that the gargoyle was looking straight at him. Seized with a sudden nightmarish feeling, he no longer admired the painting. It seemed grotesque and repulsive, and it gave him shudders.
Why did he ever buy this horrid painting? He must have been out of his mind to have wanted it.
A strange thought then occurred to Amherst: What if the gargoyle came to life and killed him? Such an ogre would surely delight in tearing him to shreds. It would cherish the act of slaughtering him.
But that was absurd; he was letting his imagination run away with him. Such a thing could only happen in a horror movie.
He decided to take the painting out to the junkyard in the morning and leave it there. He neither needed nor wanted the portrait to be in his house with him.
He realized he was tired, so he got into his pajamas and brushed his teeth. Then he bolted his bedroom door, turned out the light, got into his bed, and fell asleep.
* * *
The next morning, Amherst’s housekeeper Cammie came to his house to do her weekly cleaning. No one answered her ring, so she got worried and called the police on her cell phone. They arrived 20 minutes later and bust down the front door and Amherst’s bedroom door.
Lt. Horton found Amherst dead in his bed. There were claw marks on his throat and a look of abject terror on his face. Since the bedroom door and window had both been bolted from the inside, Horton concluded that Amherst must have committed suicide, though he couldn’t figure out how he could have clawed himself to death. To compound the mystery, no suicide note was found, either.
What puzzled the detective most of all was the wet blood he saw on the gargoyle’s talons in the painting that hung on the wall.
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Error
Nathan Hahs
1.
Gideon stared at the ocean before him. He could hear the gulls and feel the breeze on his face and chest. He stepped forward as the waves approached. The water was relatively calm. He took another step closer to the water. When his feet touched the wet sand, a chill ran down his spine and the wind ran through his hair. He walked closer to the water’s edge, with his eyes still on the water. He felt a seashell under his left foot. He stopped and picked it up, taking his eyes off the water for only an instant. He placed the shell inside his pocket and continued walking. The salt water rushed over his feet and he stopped. One thought occupied his mind, “How did it come to this?”
*
Gideon Edwards pressed the “Enter” key on his computer. The message had now been sent through his email. He turned to the filing cabinet to his right and began filing the papers that had arrived earlier that day. Papers regarding his latest project: Project Go. Mr. Edwards worked in the Project Analysis Department of the EnTee Corporation. His job was to evaluate the work of the Development and Design Department. Project Go was the most recent in a long line of computer programs structured to assist in the examination of other computer programs. Gideon’s job was to evaluate the evaluation programs. Project Go, named after the Chinese board game, was the culmination of five years of work by the Development and Design Team. Previous attempts had all been seriously flawed. Gideon had been working with this current program for six weeks and believed the D & D team had finally succeeded in their endeavor to create a properly functioning program. The email message was to notify the other department that Project Go had passed all preliminary examinations and had only to undergo the last few steps. No other examination program had come this far. The final tests would begin the following morning. Now, it was five o’clock and time to go home.
Home was in Carmel, five miles south of the office in Monterey. Gideon’s home was a family heirloom, handed down from his father’s side of the family. This 4,000 square-foot house sat on Carmel Bay, with a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean. Although the house itself was over one hundred years old, it was decorated in a contemporary style, with several works of art by twentieth-century American artist ranging from Jackson Pollock to Ralph Steadman. Gideon stood, beer in hand, on the back porch. He watched a sailboat fade into the horizon before heading inside. After finishing his beer, he went upstairs, took a shower, and went to bed.
*
Charlie Garten loved her cubicle partner. She had been in love with him since the moment she met him two years ago. They worked in the Project Analysis Department together. He had been working at EnTee for six months when she was hired. Everyday she tried to look her best for him, hoping he would give her a sign that he was interested in her, and everyday he was nothing less than professional. In two years, he had never made an advance. Not even a second glance. Her resolve was that tomorrow morning she would make the first move.
2.
Gideon arrived at work the following morning ready to begin the final testing stages of Project Go. His cubicle partner arrived only a few minutes later.
“Gideon,” she said.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Would you like to have lunch together today?”
“Sure,” Gideon replied.
“Do you like Chinese food?”
“I do.”
“I know this little restaurant just a short walk from here.”
“Great. Let’s go there,” he said.
“Alright,” she said, “Have fun with Go.”
“I will.” He turned to face his computer and she sat down at her desk. Both of their computers beeped as they booted up.
*
Stephen typed the encoded message into his computer. He was the creator of Project Go. He had given his project a backdoor that only he knew about. He had been observing the Project Analysis Department since the project had been given over to them. Workers in the D& D Department retained their anonymity in their work. No one evaluating a program knew who wrote it and no one writing programs knew who was evaluating them. Until now.
When Stephen received the message yesterday with the update on the status of Project Go, he opened the trace program in Go and discovered that the message had been sent by Gideon Edwards. Stephen knew of Mr. Edwards and he knew that he was the best man on the team. Stephen also knew that Mr. Edwards’ cubicle partner was Charlie Garten, the number-two person on the team. Stephen was going to play a game.
*
“How’s work going?” Charlie asked him.
“Very well.”
“That’s great, Gideon.”
“Yeah, I think this may be the one. I’m excited to see how the rest of this week goes.”
“You’ll have to keep me posted.”
“I will.”
“How about tomorrow? Lunch?” she asked.
“Okay.”
They finished their lunch in silence, but made small talk on the walk back to the office.
“I had a good time,” Charlie said as she sat down in front of her computer.
“So did I,” Gideon added as he opened up Go.
The two of them worked the rest of the day without saying a word. Gideon was running an algorithm program through Go, looking for bugs.
*
That evening, as Gideon sat on his back porch, he thought of Charlie. He had had a good time with her. She was attractive, very attractive, but he was unsure about getting involved with someone from work. Perhaps he would have a clearer idea of what to do after lunch tomorrow.
3.
Stephen watched, unseen, as Gideon ran the advanced algorithm program through Go. There was not a bug to be found. At least, not yet. When Gideon would discover that you engage the computer, if he could beat the program, he would then discover the bug. Stephen, through the backdoor, inserted the bug and closed the door. He could watch from anywhere and he was going to do so.
*
“Time for lunch,” Charlie said to Gideon.
“Okay. Just give me a minute.” He powered off his computer and they left to eat.
“Let’s go back to that Chinese restaurant,” Gideon suggested.
“Sounds good to me.”
The food was good. The conversation was good. They were both enjoying themselves.
“Have you ever played Go?” Gideon asked Charlie.
“Yes, I have. I like it.”
“Me, too.”
“Well, we should play sometime.”
“How about tomorrow night...around seven?” he asked her.
“Is this a date?” she asked him. Her heart sped up.
“Okay.”
“I’d love to.”
“Sounds great. I have a board at home. Seven?”
“Seven it is. I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”
Gideon gave her directions and they left the restaurant and returned to work.
*
As soon as she got home, Charlie began searching through her closet. She had to find the perfect ensemble to wear to Gideon’s. After trying on close to fifty outfits, she found the right one: a mid-length black skirt, with black boots, and a blue button-down shirt that matched her eyes. She pressed the outfit and went downstairs to pick out a bottle of wine. Her wine collection contains approximately one hundred bottles of white and two hundred red. After only seconds, she selected a bottle of pinot noir from California’s Napa Valley. Then Charlie ate dinner and ran off to bed.
*
Gideon lit his cigar. He rarely smoked and only did so on special occasions. Tomorrow would be his first date in over a year. He had immersed himself in work and had thought of little else in the past twelve months. He had been reconsidering getting involved with a coworker romantically. Since it had been so long since he had had a woman over, he figured this was as safe a place as any. At least they had work in common, if the conversation went dry. They could always talk about EnTee. And, he thought, it would be nice to play a game of Go. Gideon was good at his job, but he was even better at Go. He wondered what type of opponent Charlie would be. He finished his cigar and his beer and went to bed thinking of her.
4.
When Stephen had received the email from the Project Analysis Department a few days ago regarding Project Go, he got butterflies in his stomach. This feeling was something akin to what Charlie had felt when Gideon had asked her out. Things were falling into place quite nicely, he thought. Mr. Edwards would soon find the game in Project Go and then the pace would quicken. The game was going to get very interesting very quickly.
*
“Good morning, Gideon,” Charlie said as she stepped into their cubicle.
“Good morning, Charlie,” he said.
She turned on her computer and caught his eye. He smiled and turned on his computer.
They did not have lunch together that Friday. Gideon did not even take a lunch break. He worked through the whole day, running the last evaluations of Go. At five, Charlie tapped him on the shoulder.
“Time to go,” she said to him.
“I’m just going to wrap up some loose ends. I’ll see you at seven.”
“Sounds great. Good-bye.”
“See you later, Charlie”
Gideon loaded Go onto his laptop. He needed another hour to finish up the logistics program on Go, but he could do this from home.
Once at home, he immediately started the program. As it was running, he straightened up his home. It was not unclean to begin with, but he wanted to light some candles and start a fire in the fire place. He wanted his home to look romantic without being too obvious. He dusted off his Go board and set his laptop on the table close to it, so he could monitor its progress
Then the doorbell rang.
*
The wine was good. The conversation was good. Charlie was quite enthralled with his art collection, especially the Jackson Pollack. Gideon had purchased it from a private collector in Arkansas. The only problem with the evening was that Gideon had lost their game of Go to his date. This frustrated him. It had been years since he had been beaten. It was close to midnight and the two of them were playing another game. Gideon felt he could win this one for sure. He placed his white stone down and the computer, which had been running silently in the background, beeped.
Gideon turned to face his laptop.
“Hold on just a second,” he said. He looked closely at the computer screen. It displayed a Go board. At the bottom of the screen was a small window. It read: “Choose Black or White.”
“Look at this.” He turned the computer so it faced Charlie.
“It’s Go,” she said.
“Which should we be?”
“Let’s be white,” she said. She typed it in and turned the computer so they could both see it.
The computer made its first move. They made their move and the game began.
“Do you want a beer?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Let’s see if we can beat this thing,” Gideon said and walked to the kitchen to grab a couple of beers.
They played until the sun came up and then fell asleep together on the couch.
*
Stephen watched. They had found the game. Could they beat it? And would Mr. Edwards be prepared for what he would find if they could beat it?
5.
After Gideon and Charlie woke up, he fixed them breakfast. When they had finished, they resumed trying to beat the computer. At noon, Charlie asked if she could take a shower. She came out of the bathroom wearing Gideon’s robe.
“Let’s see what’s next with our computer friend,” she said.
“Okay.” They sat down.
They played for the next eight hours, loosing every game.
“Let’s have a beer and try one more time,” Gideon said.
“Good idea,” said Charlie. She changed back into the outfit she was wearing when she first come over. “Two heads are better than one.”
“We can beat this thing.”
“ Yes, we can,” she added and they made their move.
*
Stephen watched. He had a good feeling about this game. This would be the one.
*
At half past eleven, Charlie and Gideon made their final move and won the game. The screen went black. Then, the following appeared: “Go Error 191888 10165.”
“What does that mean?” asked Gideon.
“It must be some sort of bug.”
“I guess so.”
“Well, it’s the first one I’ve seen and, considering we found it playing the game and not on the actual program function, I guess it is insignificant.”
“I guess so.”
“Well, that means the D & D team has finally done their job.”
“Yeah, how often does that happen?” Charlie said sarcastically.
“Right,” he said and turned to her with a smile.
“But what does it mean?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to work on that.” He stared at the screen: Go Error 191888 10165.
“Well,” she said, standing up.
“It must be some sort of code.”
“Yeah. While you’re working on that, I’ll be heading home.”
“Okay. I’ll call you.”
“Maybe we could do lunch,” she said.
“Sounds great.” Gideon was already becoming hypnotized by the screen’s message.
“Good luck. Be sure to let me know when you get it.”
“Okay,” said Gideon.
“Bye,” she said and they kissed.
6.
Stephen looked at his computer screen. It read Go Error 191888 10165. Now the back door could be closed. All he had to do was watch the newspapers.
*
At his previous job, Gideon had been a code breaker. Surely, he thought, I can solve this one. He printed a copy of the screen and went to work.
The next thing he was aware of was the rising sun. He now had two notebooks beside him on the couch. Two notebooks filled in and he still had not broken the code. When the phone rang, Gideon noticed that it was dark outside.
“Hello,” he said.
“Gideon?” The other voice said.
“Charlie?” Gideon responded.
“Yeah, you were supposed to call me,” she said.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I have been working on that code.”
“I figured.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I just lost track of time.”
“It’s okay, Gideon.” I’ll let you go, so you can get back to work.”
“Okay,” returned Gideon, “Bye bye.”
“Good night,” Charlie spoke into her headset.
Gideon lost no time in returning to the error message. In the morning, after staying up through the night again, he called into his workplace to notify them that he would be working from home this week.
Gideon was obsessed. He only ate or drank when absolutely necessary. He hadn’t showered or changed clothes in nearly a week. His hair was a mess and he couldn’t remember when was the last time he had shaved.
In the early hours on Friday, it happened. He cracked it. “8” stood for “L”, “19” stood for “K”, “16” stood for “E”, “5” stood for “R”, “18” was “I”, and “10” was “H”. The message was “Kill Her.” Then the doorbell rang.
He answered it and there stood Charlie.
“Good God, Gideon! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I..uh...come on in.”
“Do you want a beer?” he asked.
“It’s seven in the morning.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Despite Gideon’s personally shabby appearance, his home was relatively clean.
“Let me take a shower,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
Twenty minutes later, after a shower, a shave, and a change of clothes, Gideon emerged looking as good as ever, except for the bags under his eyes.
Charlie told him about the past week at work and how excited everyone was about Project Go.
“It’s all anyone can talk about,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Are you done?”
“Almost. There is only one thing left to do and then it will be finished.”
“Great! Then maybe you’ll come back to work.”
“Sure,” he said. The gears turned inside his head. That one sentence kept repeating itself inside his head: “KILL HER.”
By this time, it was late afternoon. The two of them had skipped lunch, but eaten dinner. Gideon made a fire and they sat in front of it, beer in hand. They talked about his art collection; which pieces he had purchased and which had belonged to his father or grandfather.
At ten o’clock, they went upstairs to his bedroom. They undressed between kisses and slipped under the covers. Gideon was going through the motions, but his mind was somewhere else. Shortly after making love, they both fell asleep.
7.
When Gideon awoke, it was still dark. He quietly got out of bed and went downstairs. He walked to the gun cabinet and removed the shotgun. He loaded it with three shells and stood for a moment just holding the gun. He turned and walked back upstairs to the bedroom. He cocked the gun, and pointed it at Charlie’s chest. He pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening inside the room. He fired again. And again. His ears were ringing as he set the gun beside the bed.
He walked back downstairs and out to the back porch. He walked onto the beach and stared into the ocean. He could hear the gulls and feel the breeze on his face and bare chest. He stepped toward the water as the waves approached him. When his feet touched the wet sand, a chill ran down his spine. As he walked to the water’s edge, he felt a sea shell under his left foot. He stopped and picked it up. The salt water rushed over his feet. One thought occupied his mind: How did it come to this? He could hear sirens in the background.
*
Stephen picked up the paper. He searched the headlines and found what he was looking for in the bottom right corner.“Man brutally murders coworker.”
|
In My Hands
John T. Hitchner
All I wanted was to be left alone. No single reason...
Look, I was between relationships. I felt like putting my fist through a wall, or punching out the first guy I met on the street just to watch the bleeding. Better yet, if I had a gun, I’d shoot out a couple windows just to watch the glass shatter...just to hear the screaming. I’d laugh like hell. I wanted to, but...
The JD on the rocks tasted like smooth pebbles and went down like liquid cash. I thought about tomorrow. I’d sleep in, go to work late...Maybe not go in at all. What the hell...See if they’d call. Would I answer? Hell no. What was the purpose? Keep your head down, do the job? For what? There is no purpose, not to anything. Things just happen, you have no control over them. Get used to it, for God’s sake.
Then the phone rang. I had a feeling it would be her, the last one I broke up with. I was right.
“How are you?” she asked. “Are you okay?”
I hate that. Hate it! Are you okay? Okay? How are you? What the hell could you do if I wasn’t? You have no idea...
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” I said.
“I was wondering, that’s all.”
I waited. What other profundities would she come up with?
“Do you want to come over?” she asked. “I’ll make us dinner.”
I pictured the way her face would look in my hands, the way her eyes would close and the way she’d smile when I’d lay her across the bed. I’d tell her to turn over and keep her eyes closed. “Keep your arms at your side,” I’d say when I got up to close the curtains, the only light into the room the mask of light from the hallway.
It wouldn’t take long, maybe longer than shooting out a couple windows, but not very long.
“I’ll be over in a few minutes,” I told her, and finished the JD on the rocks and then poured another.
Not very long at all.
|
“Symphony for Lies”
or “To Tell a Stranger”
Red Chatham
You once told me you’ve never been in love
that you never learned
or maybe you forgot.
You told me
because there was a man
and you felt nothing
You told me, you said,
because sometimes it’s easier
to tell a stranger.
still you would lie “no”
when he asked was something wrong
You really meant,
“I want you to be happy.”
The friction between what you’ve said
and what you do
makes you beautiful.
But happiness only goes so far
beside sadness emptied of tears.
You told me you never loved
because you didn’t have the courage
because somewhere down the line
you chose not to
and love, you said, was a choice.
I wonder, then, if I chose to love you
as you sat there talking
and I wonder if you chose to be jealous
when he left you for requited love.
Were you reaching for something you’d been?
something better, something clean?
unknowingly begging forgiveness
Did you hate yourself
when you weren’t moved by his form
retreating before the moon?
Do you still feel nothing
when you think of me?
Because all it does now
is burn.
|
Wait for the Whole Week to Begin Again
Chris G. Vaillancourt
Please don’t wake me up when I’m sleeping,
it’s easier to get by when not awake.
Leave all problems till Monday
and
let the weekend be what it is.
It’s a morning and a night,
when the skin cream
is applied with
gentle touch.
I make the batteries last
till Sunday, and then I
wait for the whole week to begin again.
A silent bird without a song
waits on the balcony
with glazing thoughts.
Pretending that it is a cat
and it prowls
the streets at
night.
Open another bottle of sherry.
Mix it with a bit of water.
Dilute the forgetting it brings.
And wait for the
whole week to begin again.
Let the fingers ignore
the scars from last
weeks’ battles.
Just enjoy the two days away,
let the feathers
grow another time.
When the heat wave strikes
our eyes, and the boiling
water spills over, that is when
the light won’t shine; and the
ringing phone will not stop.
Another week begins on Monday.
I’d just as soon pretend it never came.
Losing perspective in weekend daze,
let’s just wait for the
whole week to begin again.
An ice cream sandwich melts
on the sidewalk. I step over it as
I wander around. My dog running at
my side, and the dark glasses on
for surrender.
Another living day in life. Living
like a hermit inside. Don’t open
the door or answer the phone.
We’ll just wait for the whole
week to begin again.
|
dinner guest
Jackson Warfield
on my little wine rack
there are three bottles of wine
which must be drank tonight
so I invite over my only two friends
the sun and the moon
figuring one bottle for each of us
but neither of them show
and I sit at the dinner table alone
with a large casserole
some fresh baked bread
and a salad.
after I finish the first bottle
I hear a tapping on the roof
then on the windows
and finally at the door
I approach it cautiously
open it up and say to the rain,
“hello, there. Come in, there’s plenty of food
and if you’re like me, I imagine you’re
going hungry.”
|
|
Jackson Warfield grew up in New Hampshire and has traveled widely throughout the US and abroad. He writes for entertainment, his own and others.
|
The Headlights
Christopher Frost
Rain erupted from the overcast sky; slanting lines of perpetual liquid streamed over the streets. Enormous gusts of wind, “35 mile per hour to 50 mile per hour gusts this evening,” the meteorologist spoke over the radio between songs, screamed through the streets like a banshee, capturing leaves and discarded garbage and tossing them aimlessly around. A severe weather warning had been issued across the state. Trees were being uprooted, power-lines tumbled over onto busy streets, electricity out for the greater metropolitan area, and two deaths already reported. One of the deaths, a kayaker who drowned in the Merrimack River, another, a quicker death, struck by a falling tree branch that exploded through the driver’s windshield and splattered his head against the headrest of his Lexus. Three inches of rain had already fallen over the town of Oak Bridge. There were flood warnings in effect for most of the area, and already ponds, rivers, and streams were rising up their banks threatening to overflow.
Blakely Bax sat in the driver’s seat of a ’68 Trans Am. The heater didn’t work but she wasn’t fazed by the drop in temperature; her body temperature was reaching critical as she sat in anticipation staring out the driver’s side window. Blakely had been watching the front doors of the Municipal Building for the last forty-five minutes. People had come and gone, one guy shackled at the wrists and ankles in an orange jumpsuit surrounded by four state troopers, a few lawyers, and other common folk. Every time the heavy glass doors swung open and a figure emerged from the heated Municipal Building her heart skipped a beat and her adrenaline raced, only to be let down when a mere nobody walked through. Blakely looked in the rear view mirror and checked her appearance for the hundredth time. She applied another coat of lipstick to her already crimson lips and tugged on her eye lashes to make them appear more exuberant. Her hands stretched over her body and cupped her breasts, tugging them closer together inside her too small bra, to get the ample amount of cleavage desired. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Blakely Box was one of the most – if not the most – beautiful girl in Oak Bridge, but it came with a price.
For the last few years Blakely had worked as a stripper at the Blue Moon in Black Harbor; she had even taken a few jobs under the table that required more then taking off her clothes, but it was all for a good cause. The money that she had earned from her after school job had gotten her 34 D tits that made men salivate, and their rusty cocks rise in their khakis. Her lips were injected with collagen, and her eyes were falsely blue. Fake or not, she was still a sight that lingered in men’s minds until they were alone in the bathroom with a bottle of Lubriderm.
“How fucken long we gonna wait, Blakely?” She could see his bored, blood shot eyes from the rear view mirror, wasted from smoking a joint five minutes ago.
Deke Sanders was even poorer than her, fortunately he didn’t have to live her life to hang with those of higher class. In fact, the only reason he was in the car right now as a pseudo friend was because he was a dealer, small time, and supplied the rest of the posse with their weed, E, and coke.
“Shut up, Deke,” Blakely said with a dark, firm tone.
“I’m just saying,” Deke started in.
Blakely turned to face him, peering over her shoulder into the back seat. “I told you to shut your fucking mouth.” She didn’t have to raise her voice to get a point across, only lower her voice in a tone that suggested ‘don’t fuck with me right now’.
Deke sat back. He pulled a bag of weed from his jacket pocket and some rolling papers. He began rolling another joint.
“Is that really a good idea? I mean we are in front of the court house, cops are coming and going,” Sasha Baur gingerly said. Sasha was the girl that no one expected to hang with the foursome. She was quiet, mouse like, but when she was rolling or stoned there was a side to her that no one at school ever saw. The wild girl unleashed by the dark side of her soul, the girl who would get naked and fuck a beer bottle for everyone’s enjoyment or go down on anyone if they would get her a drink or another hit of E. Blakely had been privy more than a dozen times to Sasha’s amazing tongue.
“Shut up,” Deke demanded. She did as she was told like the good little slut- mouse that she was. “This is fucken lame.”
“Shut up! Here he comes,” Blakely exclaimed, jumping up in her seat and plastering her face against the glass of the driver side window. Her hands were pressed so tightly against the glass that her knuckles had turned white. Her heart was skipping beats as she watched her man walk out of the Municipal Building, out of the courthouse, a free man. It had worked. All his money and his father’s influence had gotten him off the hook. Now they could be together again.
At the top of the stairs, leading out of the Municipal Building, Cain Dainger stepped through the glass doors and stood on the top step. He ruffled the collar of his peacoat and pulled it up so it protected his neck; the buttons were fastened on the dark jacket screening the torrential downpour. He lit a cigarette beneath the awning of the building. His eyes were a dark shade of brown, just shy of being black as coal. His face was stubbly with a five o’clock shadow, and his short cropped black hair was styled in an intentional mess. When Cain saw Blakely he gave her a half cocked smirk.
Cain ran against the wind and through the rain to the driver’s side door of the Trans Am. Blakely crawled over the shifter into the passenger seat just as Cain threw open the door and jumped into the driver’s seat escaping the rain.
“Sup biatch!” Deke exclaimed, clamping his hand on Cain’s shoulder. Blakely immediately threw herself in his arms and kissed him deeply, her hands coursing over his scruff covered face. Those perfect manicured nails scratched down his neck and over his chest with lustful want.
“Jesus, get a room,” Deke laughed as he sat back and took a lung full from his joint.
Like two lost lovers Blakely could not break away from Cain’s embrace, her hands firmly clasped to his face for fear if she let go he would dematerialize like an apparition.
“I thought I would never see you again,” she whispered with tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m out, that’s all that matters,” Cain said darkly.
“What was the sentence?” Sasha asked.
Blakely didn’t care. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that Cain hadn’t been sent off to the state penitentiary to spend his next ten to twenty years of life, if not longer. He was here; he was really here, beside her with his strong hands clasping her abdomen just below her breasts that he loved so much.
“Probation and time served for the two weeks I had to do when my asshole father didn’t post bail. He thought he was trying to teach me a lesson, but in the end he didn’t want his only heir thrown in lock up. It would give the Dainger family a bad reputation,” Cain said. “Besides, I don’t think the judge really thought the death of some trash girl was more important than someone of my high standard. Our family has done too much for this damn town to send away one of their potential benefactors.” His voice grew darker as he talked about the dead girl, no remorse in his tone. Cain revved the engine and thrust the shifter into first gear. He tore out of the parking space down the rain soaked street, running through a red light and spinning the car around a corner.
“Woooo Hoooo! Where we heading niggas?” Deke yelled with excitement while he pounded his fists against the roof of the car.
“Any thoughts?” Blakely asked.
“As far from that jail cell as possible,” Cain responded.
“The Shack?” Sasha suggested.
“Yeah, man, the fucken Shack!” Deke laughed and pounded his fists against the roof of the car.
From behind them a ’73 Camaro, black as midnight with a moonless sky, turned on its headlights and pulled out of its respective parking spot. It drove in the same lane as Cain and headed in the same direction. Traffic wasn’t heavy but the Camaro was behind a few other cars as Cain swerved through traffic.
It was only the second week of November, daylight savings time had been the last Saturday of October, and now the sun was setting earlier. The red LED clock read 4:54 pm. With the overcast and the rain the sky was already dark and soon it would be night. The Shack was on the far side of town, down back roads, at least a twenty minute drive. Most of Oak Bridge was rural suburbia, but the outskirts were farm land, long stretches of nothingness. The perfect places to go for sex when you couldn’t do it at a parents’ house. Hell, even the parking lot of The Shack, on any given night, was littered with teenagers steaming up the windows of their cars. The men’s bathroom at The Shack had a wall with knife scratches that marked the number of girls who had lost their virginity in the parking lot. Unbeknownst, there was a notch for Blakely on that wall, carved with the same knife that was under the driver’s seat of the Trans Am.
The foursome had been on the road for only five minutes and already the gloomy sky had turned to utter darkness. The cab of the car was only illuminated by the heads of cigarettes and the soft glow of the LED on the radio. Blakely leaned over to Cain, her hand swept over his body and down between his thighs. She cupped his groan and massaged it with the palm of her hand. “Wouldn’t you rather go somewhere...more private?” Her voice was husky and filled with promises of taboo passion. She began to nibble on Cain’s ear, breathing heavily as her arousal grew. She cupped his dick in her hand through his pants and squeezed.
“Soon,” he said, his eyes still focused on the road in a dark trance. “I need something first.”
“We can stop at Trembly’s Quick Stop, he doesn’t card me,” she told him.
“Later.”
Blakely settled back in her seat defeated. She couldn’t understand why Cain had dismissed her, after all it had been weeks since they had last been together, not to mention the eternal time that had passed while she had waited to know if he was going to jail or not. Pissed, she turned to look out the window, and took a cigarette from her purse. When she rolled down the window rain splattered across her face. Blakely lit the cigarette and smoked it in silence. From the backseat she could hear muffled moans and could only guess that Sasha had been smoking the “good stuff’ and paying for it in Sasha-Currency.
Everything had changed since that night almost a year ago. All because of one dead girl. Now she wasn’t even sure that Cain was the same or if he even wanted her at all. One of his friends, another rich kid from old money, had once told Cain that he was slumming with Blakely and his family would never accept him being with a trailer trash stripper, a girl that was one notch below a whore. Had he finally taken that advice to heart? Just as she thought that might be the case she felt Cain’s hand on her thigh; it crept up her soft leg until it was under her skirt and between her legs. Blakely scootched forward on the seat and casually spread her legs. She moaned as Cain pushed two fingers into her and twirled them around inside her body which caused her to openly moan. Blakely could feel her wetness seeping over her thighs, his fingers, and forming a small puddle beneath her ass on the leather seat. Within minutes she grasped the seat with her fingernails and an exhausted moan of an orgasm slipped between her lips. It was the first orgasm she had had in weeks that wasn’t perpetuated by her own doing.
Cain pulled his fingers out of Blakely and returned his right hand to the gear shift. His eyes were locked on the rear view mirror; he squinted to look behind them.
“What is it?” Blakely asked as she turned around to look out the back window. When she turned her head Deke looked back as well and Sasha lifted her head from his lap.
“What’s got everyone’s panties in a bunch?” Deke asked.
“Cop,” Cain said.
Blakely tried to focus through the rain to make out the headlights of the oncoming car that was rushing up toward them. The lights didn’t resemble any cop car she had ever seen. They were too square. One thing a teenager learned as soon as they got a license was how to spot a cop car, even in the dark, all you had to do was focus on the lights, the boxy beams that were a dead giveaway. And the vehicle that was coming up on them certainly didn’t have anything that looked like cop lights.
“I don’t think it’s a cop,” Sasha said, her eyes still fixed on the headlights behind them.
“Yeah, man, chill out, it ain’t no pig,” Deke laughed.
Cain dropped the car into a lower gear and pressed down on the accelerator. The Trans Am burst in speed, swerving in the rain down the road, the speedometer creeping up, 40, 45, 50, 55 miles per hour. Blakely was watching Cain and what she saw in his eyes was both familiar and frightening. Though she couldn’t place where she remembered seeing that look in his eyes before. If it were a cop, unlikely as that was, she could understand why Cain would like to put as much distance between the headlights behind them and the foursome. There was that concealed knife under the driver’s seat and a pistol in the glove-compartment. Not to mention that Deke had a bag of weed on him, and probably even more drugs hidden in his jacket and pants pocket.
“You’re only drawing attention to us,” Sasha said in her collected voice while she watched the speedometer climb.
Behind them, the car seemed to be gaining, almost matching their speed. Blakely squinted to try and see the car but was blinded by the headlights. Whoever it was, their high beams were on and the car was moving fast, gaining on them. She turned back to face Cain, “What’s going on, Cain?”
“Nothing.”
“Cain?”
He turned to look at her with those dark, penetrating eyes. She sat back against the passenger side window, frightened.
“I said nothing!”
Blakely looked back at Deke and Sasha. For the first time she could remember Deke was speechless, no sarcastic comeback or pointless comment. He looked as frightened as Blakely and his eyes motioned for her attention. She followed his gaze to the speedometer and saw that it had crept up over seventy miles per hour. The road was covered in a thick blanket of leaves. Mixed with the rain and the racing tires of the Trans Am those factors made for a dangerous combination.
“I think you should slow down, man,” Deke said.
Cain paid them no attention. In fact he only touched the brakes when he wound around a corner. Once around the corner, and at another straight shot, he gunned the car again.
The cab of the car filled with light. Blakely looked back to see the headlights of the car almost upon them, only ten or fifteen feet behind. How had the car caught up to them so fast?
“Cain, I think you should let him pass,” Sasha said, a hint of fear now scratching at her voice.
“We’re almost at The Shack,” he said.
“C’mon, Cain, let ‘em pass,” Deke told him.
Blakely was about to join the chorus to try and convince Cain to do as their friends were asking but as she opened her mouth to speak they were rammed from behind. The Trans Am swiveled back and fourth on the road, Cain trying to spin the wheel to keep them straight. A large maple tree came inches from striking the car and wrapping them around it, but Cain maintained control. He was forced to pump the brakes, to slow the car so it didn’t go into a full out spin, as he did the car behind them struck again. Everyone jerked forward. Blakely violently struck her head on the dashboard then slammed back into her seat. Her hands went up to cover her head and the throbbing pain. There was something wrong. She could feel wetness between her fingers. The headlights of the car behind them were still illuminating the cab and Blakely held her hands up in front of her face to see they were stained crimson.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Blakely screamed on the verge of hysterics. The blood poured over her face, running into her eyes and into her mouth, it melted over her white skin, giving her a deep red complexion.
“Shit, Blakely, you’re fucken bleeding,” Deke yelled from the backseat.
“Call the police,” Sasha screamed, “Call the police!”
Blakely sat staring at her blood soaked hands, mesmerized by the sight of the blood.
Some trash girl.
“No cops! Do you hear me!” Cain yelled.
Someone was calling her name but the voices seemed distant, so out of focus. The pain in her head was no longer evident, only the sight of the blood; her blood all over her hands.
Some trash girl.
Dead girl.
It was coming back to her now. That look she had seen in Cain’s eyes, that passive darkness when he spoke of the poor dead girl, which he referred to as trash. The blood. Her blood. Their blood. It was like that French word, what was it? Deja, dija, something. Blakely couldn’t reach into her memory and pull out the exact word. She had failed French, but somehow that shouldn’t have mattered. What the hell was the word she was looking for?
“There’s The Shack,” Cain said in the most calm voice, as though he were completely detached from the events that were transpiring. As the car came up towards the turn into The Shack’s parking lot, the car behind swerved to the right and sideswiped them at the exact moment they could have pulled into The Shack, forcing them back on the road.
“Shit!” Deke screamed in fear, his eyes darted back to the car that was beside them. Blakely was looking too. It was a Camaro, an old one. She couldn’t place the date but recognized the car from the auto shows that Cain would take her to in the summer. The driver’s side was adjacent to her and she could see the faint outline of a man behind the wheel. His head turned to her, and though his face was a mask of shadow, she knew he was looking dead into her eyes. Cain gunned the car forward and the Camaro dropped behind them. There was a grin on Cain’s face, as if he just won some prize. Blakely knew that wasn’t the case, there wasn’t going to be a prize given out because Cain had maneuvered ahead of the Camaro. The driver behind them was calculating the pursuit. Whoever the driver was wanted to fall behind. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.
A gap was widening between the two cars. Cain’s foot pressed the accelerator to the floor, hands shaking on the wheel. It took all his strength and skill to keep the car on the road. Blinding headlights still blared through the rear windshield turning night to day inside the cab. Blakely tried to peer through the light, hoping that she could see the face of the driver, though in the back of her mind she knew it to be impossible. Deke and Sasha were screaming something at Cain and he drove eerily silent. Then there was nothing. The car had disappeared. The headlights were gone, and once again they were alone on the wet, leaf covered road.
“Where the fuck did he go?” Deke screamed, his hands plastered to the rear window while his panic struck eyes searched the bleakness.
Cars don’t just disappear but that seemed to be exactly what happened.
“Stop the car, Cain,” Sasha said.
Cain said nothing and continued to drive.
“Stop the car, Cain,” she told him again. “Stop the DAMN CAR!”
Cain looked over at Blakely, then back to the road. He took his foot off the accelerator and pressed on the brake pedal just as the blistering beam of headlights ignited again. The Camaro lurched forward and slammed the car. Blakely went crashing into the dash board again. The loud crack of her ribs breaking echoed through the cabin and her scream caught in her throat stolen by fear.
The car was struck again; it swerved in the wet road, tail spinning.
One of the headlights was out on the Camaro as it raced towards them once more. BAM!
Everyone lunged forward; Cain hit his head on the steering wheel, Blakely on the dash board again, Deke and Sasha against the back of the front seats. The Camaro gave them some distance and then sped up ramming them again.
“Oh my god!” Sasha cried.
“Do something!” Deke exclaimed. Both Deke and Sasha sounded like a chorus from the backseat, chanting their pleas for Cain to do something, yelling over the sound of screeching tires and revving engines, the clash of metal on metal as the Camaro struck the rear bumper repeatedly, in an attempt to do...what? Drive them off the road? Kill them? Blakely was transfixed on her lover, his white knuckles clenched around the steering wheel. Those penetrating dark eyes of his flickered from the rear view mirror to the road, back and forth, as he continued to keep the Trans Am on the road.
“We’re going to die, man, we’re all gonna fucken die!” Deke whined.
Cain turned around to face his friend and screamed, “WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Deke recoiled from Cain, who at the moment, was more frightening than the driver in the other car.
“Cain?” Blakely said.
He didn’t respond. He appeared to be more determined, more attuned to his driving than previously, solely focused on pushing his car to its limits along this narrow stretch of wet, sleek road.
“Cain?” she said again. This time his head turned and the face that looked upon hers was one that she didn’t recognize. He was still human, she knew that for sure, but there was something else there as well, something that was not quite human at all. It was as though he were possessed by some maniacal demon. His gaunt eyes were sunken, grave. He didn’t speak and Blakely was thankful for that, if he had she might have opened the door and leapt out of the car. What frightened her most was his smile. His tongue was clenched between his teeth drawing a dam of blood that pooled over his lip and drooled down his chin.
The Camaro had backed off again, probably to gain momentum to strike the car once more. Just as she predicted the Camaro began picking up speed. The dim light in the cabin of the car began to grow in intensity until they were surrounded in white light. As Blakely braced for the impact the car pulled up along the driver side and matched their speed.
Cain looked over at the Camaro.
Blakely was too afraid.
One look at the shadowed figure was enough. She was too frightened to steal another glance. Cain, however, couldn’t keep his eyes off the shadowed cabin of the other car, to the point where he was no longer watching the road. He spun the wheel hurling the Trans Am at the Camaro but the other driver, who must have been expecting this, easily avoided being struck, and raced ahead of them.
“Got you,” Cain hissed through clenched teeth, splatters of blood spitting out his mouth and marking the windshield like squashed mosquitos. The car accelerated. Blakely looked to Cain who appeared more determined than ever to catch up with the Camaro. Two red blotches of light on the dark night were all that was visible of the Camaro and its dark driver.
“What are you doing?” Blakely asked.
He remained silent.
“Dammit, Cain, he’s gone. Let it fucken go!” Deke pleaded with a panic stricken voice that broke like a prepubescent teenager.
Silence.
“Cain –” Before she knew what had happened Cain’s hand flung from the steering wheel and struck her across the face. Her face ricocheted off the passenger window from the force of his violence. When she pulled away, there was a stain of blood dribbling in thick clots down the pane of glass.
Cain glared out the windshield with renewed determination.
The girl, Blakely remembered, all because of the...
The dead girl.
Stupid dead girl.
That night, so long ago it seemed, the car accident and that poor girl sprawled on the hood of a car, half her body limply strung over the dashboard, her body – no she couldn’t think about. To remember meant that it had actually happened and Blakely couldn’t bring herself to do that. An image burned into Blakely’s memory and she suddenly felt warm. No that wasn’t it, she wasn’t just warm she was hot, scalding, as if her body was burning from the inside out. A flash of –
The dead girl.
Stupid dead girl.
The poor girl that Cain had been acquitted of killing. Vehicular homicide the affidavit had said. But it wasn’t vehicular homicide, she knew that now, seeing him this way...again. Blakely had suppressed those memories, believed what Cain had wanted her to believe about that night. It was all returning to her now. The memories, his appearance, the same appearance, same gleam in his eye that was present now. And her part in it all.
“I know where he’s going,” Cain grumbled. Blakely looked at him from the corner of her eye, then back to the blacktop street. Even through the thick darkness, the oil colored road dampened by the rain with wet slippery leaves and the billowing tree limbs overhanging to create a canopy, she knew where he was going and where they were being led to.
“Turn around, Cain,” Blakely insisted. He said nothing. “Turn around!” She reached for him. Something deep down inside her extracted the courage that she was not aware of having, and she grabbed for the steering wheel. The pain was excruciating, more painful than being struck in the face. Blakely grasped her stomach and tried to inhale but could only take in short, quick breaths. She never saw his elbow go under her arm and strike her in the gut. All she had wanted to do was stop the car, even if it meant driving it into a tree. Anything to get away from where they were headed. If Deke and Sasha had put it together yet, she couldn’t be sure, but it was too late.
The canopy of trees disappeared into a large clearing as the Trans Am slid across the road sideways, careening into the open landscape. Before the car had even come to a complete stop Cain had popped open the glove box and withdrawn his revolver.
“Jesus Christ,” Sasha whispered.
“Dude, what the fuck are we doing here?” Deke was panicking now, hunched at the edge of his seat, anticipating the moment he could run away from the situation. Blakely felt the same way.
She looked around at the train depot. The tracks were just ahead of them and were blockaded with large wooden planks, a KEEP OUT sign nailed to the wood. To her right was the old wooden train station, abandoned since the last car rolled out back in the early nineteen-hundreds. Rain dropped with thunderous volume on the roof of the car. The wind whistled overhead and the darkness swept around like a cloak. There were no headlights but those of the Trans Am. The Camaro, for all intents, was gone.
“Where are you?” Cain hissed with a voice that didn’t sound like him. It was too deep, too dark. Something that didn’t come out of human vocal cords. His head turned from one direction to another in search of the nonexistent headlights. “I know you’re here. I can feel it.”
Sasha cried in the backseat, her hands firmly planted over her mouth to make as little noise as possible, but it made her sound like a whimpering, frightened dog. Blakely understood Sasha’s fear, it was all too real to her as well, and if she had broken down as Sasha had, if she could have allowed herself to weep and lose control, they could’ve comforted each other in this moment of terror, but Blakely had to be strong, not just for herself but for poor Sasha, because she knew as the car approached that warning sign, keep out it said, stay away, danger here, she knew that nothing good was coming.
“I wanna go, I wanna go, I wanna – ” Deke didn’t have time to finish his pleading before Cain whirled around in his seat and pointed the barrel of the gun at his friend. There was a deafening pop and a flash of light. Where Deke’s multi-pierced face once was, now was only a gaping, sopping hole of tissue membrane and splattered blood. Blakely could see through Deke’s face to the hole the bullet made in the rear window.
“OH MY GOD!” Sasha screamed, covered in Deke’s blood. She wiped at her eyes, at her face, doing the best she could to rub off the blood which only made it smear more into her skin. “Let me out! Let me out!” she spat in hysteria as she pushed on Blakely’s seat.
Blakely fumbled with the door lock, her bloody fingers slipping over the protrusion, while her other hand tugged on the door handle. Cain was going to kill them all and she only wanted to get out of the car, grab Sasha, and run as far away from here as possible. She was screaming as she pulled on the door and tried to free herself and her friend, but for all her will could not get a grasp on the lock as her slick, blood soaked fingers continued to slip off the metal protrusion.
Headlights blared behind them. Cain’s head whipped around. The Camaro struck them so hard from behind that the Trans Am rear end was lifted off the ground as the car was pushed forward across the gravely dirt road that led to the train tracks. Cain was pushing on the accelerator as he tried to break free, but the rear tires were off the ground. It sounded like one might have been on the wet hood of the Camaro and was spinning in a frenzy. The car pushed them, thirty miles and hour, into the old train depot.
Together, the two cars crashed through the wall of the train depot, planks of wood burying the cars. A large plank speared through the windshield between Cain and Blakely and into the backseat. The weight of the two cars inside the old train station was too much for the eroded floor and the boards let loose plunging both cars into the concrete basement.
For a span of seconds that seemed to stretch for infinity, there was silence. More debris fell around the car and dust swirled in the headlights of the Trans Am. The Camaro’s lights beamed through the rear window casting large shadows of the victims inside the Trans Am across the dashboard and then they went out. Whether this was from the driver of that car or from damage inflicted from the falling debris, Blakely couldn’t be sure.
Blakely was slow to get up, her body was hunched over the dashboard and her right leg was broken. Searing pain shot through her body just trying to move. Cain’s head was pressed against the steering wheel as heavy streams of blood spewed over the wheel to the floor mat beneath his feet, drenching his pants and shoes. One hand was curled over his head, fingers entwined in his blood matted hair. The other hand hung limply at his side, the revolver dangling from his fingertips. He looked dead, but Blakely didn’t want to touch him, not even to check and make sure that he might still be alive. Part of her, the strongest part that no longer loved him, hoped that he was dead.
“Sasha?” Blakely wheezed, “Sasha, we have to get out of here.” She pulled herself up onto the seat and turned to her friend. Sasha sat wide eyed staring at Blakely; her mouth making silent words as blood trailed over her lips down her chin. The plank of wood that had just barely missed she and Cain had struck Sasha through the abdomen, pinning her to the backseat. Her tiny, white hands, now crimson, were clasped over the plank. Her mouth formed mute words for another second before it went eternally silent.
Those beautiful brown eyes that had intoxicated so many young men were still staring blankly into death’s abyss.
“No,” Blakely cried. “No, Sasha, hold on. Hold on, Sasha.” She reached into the back seat and touched Sasha’s hand. It rolled off the plank to rest on her thigh. Blakely gingerly cupped her face and cried. They were all dead and she was alone.
The cabin ignited in light. The headlights of the Camaro came on again. He wasn’t dead either. Blakely grabbed for the door handle, pushing on it as she struggled to force it open. Forgetting that it was still locked, she pulled on the blood stained metal spike of the lock with the sleeve of her shirt until she disengaged it. Still the door wouldn’t budge; it was wedged against the fallen floor panels. Her only escape would be through the window. As quickly as possible she rolled down the window and lugged herself through it, grabbing onto the support beams around her for leverage, pulling herself from the cab of the Trans Am. She was almost out when something grabbed her foot and pulled her back inside to her waist. Cain was still alive and he was sucking her back into Hell with him. Even as fucked up as he looked, he was far stronger than her and she was slowly being dragged inch after inch back into the Trans Am. With one violent kick of her good leg she struck him on the bridge of his nose. The scream that emitted from his vocal cords filled the night with ungodly rage; his red splattered face and dark eyes made him look like a demon and he snarled at her as she wedged herself out of the car and onto a support beam. Blakely began to climb. Away from whatever the man she had loved had become, the headlights of the Camaro, and the thing that was behind those blistering lights.
There was no place to run, no place to go. With one broken leg, the best that Blakely could possibly do would be to crawl, drag herself out of the train station and into the rain, maybe she could find some shelter beneath a tree until daylight. Her fingernails dug into the wooden support beam as she tried to lift herself up. One nail after another peeled off in stabbing pain as she climbed. But she had to move beyond the pain; it was a matter of life and death.
“Blakely!” Cain screamed beneath her. “BLAKELY!”
“Stop it,” she cried, “stop it, leave me alone.” Her whispered and panicked gilded words wouldn’t reach him but the fear she felt encouraged her to go on, to push herself harder than she ever had before. This wasn’t how her life was supposed to end. She didn’t want to be remembered as a stripper that died in an old abandoned train station. There was more for her out there. More for her to do. She wasn’t a stripper. She was Blakely Bax, just a girl working through life to be something better than her mother, even if she had to compromise herself along the way. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. She was Blakely Bax. She had dreams, ambitions, a life waiting to be unwrapped.
“Blakely.” Her name whispered on the tongue of a shadow. A hand wrapped around her wrist and helped to lift her off the support beam and onto the remnants of the train station floor. She was dropped onto the dust ridden floor of the train station, the taste of decaying woodchips inhaled into her mouth coating it; a putrid taste clung to her taste-buds. Her eyes looked up at the man, the one behind the headlights. He stood over her like a messenger of death, clad in black, dark soaked jeans and a tight fitting black t-shirt that accentuated the strong muscles beneath. His hair was long and scraggly. A thick, dark beard covered the lines of scars on his face. She could see one piercing blue eye. The other was white, cataract, like that of a dead fish.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.
The man bent down, perched on the balls of his feet, his elbows resting on his knees. A finger extended toward her and brushed a strand of her hair out of her face.
“Because I was a good man once, Blakely, because once I was a husband and expectant father. Once upon a time I knew what unconditional love felt like and I was a better man for it. You and yours raped me of that. You, Blakely Bax, Cain Dainger, Deke Sanders, and Sasha Baur murdered my soul, darkened my heart, made me into what kneels before you,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want it to happen. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen.”
“Yet, you did nothing to fix it.” His thumb caressed her face, wiping away the blood around her eyes in a sensual, caring manner.
“Do you know the definition of empathy?” he asked.
Blakely shook her head, tears streaming down her clean cheeks.
“It is the ability to identify and understand another’s feelings. I’m not without empathy, Blakely Bax,” he said.
She felt assured, safe. He wasn’t going to kill her. She wasn’t the one that he was after. It was Cain. It was Cain who had done it.
Stupid dead girl.
It was Cain who had killed that girl. They had all watched, terrified. Unable to understand what he was doing until it was done. They had all been drunk and shouldn’t have been driving but they had, and the car had crashed. They had crashed into a Camaro.
Stupid dead girl.
He wasn’t here for her; he was here for Cain, and Cain was still alive, trapped beneath the floor still inside the car. All she had to do was tell him that and he would let her go. Right? After all it hadn’t been her driving that night. Cain was the one behind the wheel, the one that stood over that girl and watched with awe struck eyes as the flames danced across the hood of the car and over her white flesh.
It wasn’t her that he was after. It was Cain. It was all about Cain.
The driver was smiling at her now, still wiping away the blood from her face, licking his fingers to clear away the blood stained on her porcelain skin. He brushed her hair with his fingertips and touched her soft skin and it made her smile. He leaned in close to her so his lips were next to her ear.
“I’m not without empathy, Blakely...just without compassion.” Her eyes went wide as she felt his hands grip her neck and then—
Cain struggled to pull himself free from behind the wheel of his car. The large plank of wood that had crashed through the windshield and impaled Sasha had forced the steering wheel against his chest and lodged his seat in a manner that he couldn’t get it to recede. With all his might he pushed on the plank hoping to move it only a few inches so he could crawl under it and out the way that Blakely had escaped. Fucking Blakely, leaving him in the car like that. When he got out he was going to make sure that bitch paid. Damn whore. He would teach her what it was to be a whore. There were men he knew that would enjoy a young piece of ass like her. He would tie her to a bed, ball gag in mouth, and let his friend’s gang rape her for hours for her betrayal and when they were done he would cut her, disfigure her, take away her beauty and leave her a scarred hag of a whore. First things first. He had to escape the car and kill the sonofabitch that put him in this situation to begin with.
There was a loud thud on the hood of the Trans Am. More falling debris. This whole place was going to fall in on him if he didn’t get out of here soon.
“What’s the matter, Cain? Stuck?” A voice spoke.
Cain looked up from the steering wheel through the spider-webbed windshield. A man knelt on the hood, a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. He took a sip, pulled the bottle away from his lips and looked at it inquisitively.
“Never had a taste for whiskey,” he said.
“You’re fucking dead!” Cain roared.
“I died a long time ago, Dainger. I have you to thank for that.”
“Do you hear me, you fucking psycho, you’re dead. I’m going to eviscerate you!”
“You’re a whiskey fan aren’t you, Dainger?” he asked.
Cain looked at him, not understanding what he was talking about.
“It’s what you were drinking the night of the accident, the night you murdered my wife and unborn child.”
For a minute Cain just looked up at the driver, his mind racing around what this man was talking about. When it clicked he began to laugh. The man showed no emotion, no rage at the fact Cain was laughing at the death of his wife and child.
“Not guilty, asshole!” Cain yelled. “Don’t you read the paper? The accident wasn’t my fault. Jury let me off. Acquittal, look it up.”
“I read the paper, Dainger. I know what the jury said. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a murderer. You and your friends.”
“Fuck you, who cares about some white trash piece of shit. Obviously the jury didn’t, so get fucked asshole,” Cain said.
The man stood up, walked over the hood of the Trans Am until he was standing over the vents and windshield wipers, then he bent down and peered into the cabin directly into Cain’s eyes.
“We both know what you did,” he said. He rammed his hand through the windshield, glass falling on the dashboard in heavy shards, and into the cabin. He grabbed Cain by the hair dragging his head forward then slammed the mouth of the Jack Daniels bottle between Cain’s lips, smashing a few teeth in the process. The man tilted the bottle and poured the whiskey down Cain’s throat. The liquid seeped from the corners of his mouth and dribbled onto his shirt in dark circles.
“Drink up,” he said, as he poured the rest of the bottle over Cain’s head and over his body. The liquor soaked into the fabric of Cain’s clothes and welled between his thighs as though he had let his bladder go. Unable to comprehend what the driver of the black Camaro was doing, Cain felt no fear, and pissing himself was the furthest thing from his mind. This man was going to pay. As soon as he was able to get free of the car Cain was going to put his piece between this fuckhead’s eyes and gleefully pull the trigger. One squeeze of the trigger and the man’s brain would splatter out of the softball size hole in the back of his head. Cain wasn’t the one who should have been afraid, oh no, it wasn’t him.
After emptying the contents of ol’ Jack Daniels, the man haphazardly dropped the bottle into Cain’s lap. Slumping back on his ass, he withdrew a Zippo from his pocket and flung open the lid. With a swift motion, he ran his palm over the flint barrel and ignited the Zippo, then closed the cover, extinguishing the flame. Again, he ignited the Zippo and closed it. Ignited. Closed. Ignited, and looked through the gleaming flame.
“What are you doing?” Cain asked with a sudden realization. His voice was laced with fear as he put two and two together. Whatever he had thought the booze was for had been wrong. His fingers plied at the revolver on the floor, the tips only barely touching the gun, unable to grasp it.
“Justice is blind.” The driver said and paused while inching himself closer to Cain so the two were eye to eye, “So I want to see justice for myself with eyes wide open,” the man behind the headlights said, and tossed the ignited Zippo onto Cain Dainger’s lap. His clothes began to burn, the flames climbed up his body and over his face. “Scream for me.”
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Hotel room
Peycho Kanev
The body next to mine
Is pure and crispy as toast
Darkness and
Dim moonlight permeate thru
The shades
I try to thrust into her soul
But she is sleeping
And I sink into her dream
Where I was created
In the first place.
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About Peycho Kanev
Peycho Kanev loves to listen to sad music while he drinks slowly his beer. His work has been published in Welter, The Catalonian Review, Off Beat Pulp, Nerve Cowboy, Chiron Review, Tonopah Review, Mad Swirl, Southern Ocean Review, The Houston Literary Review and many others. He loves to put the word down and not talking on the cell phone for days. He is nominated for Pushcart Award and lives in Chicago. His new collaborative collection “r”, containing poetry by him and Felino Soriano, as well as photography from Duane Locke and Edward Wells II is now available at Amazon.
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Sand Castles in the Storm
Matthew Dexter
It was a frigid Monday afternoon on Martha’s Vineyard. The wind was blowing bubbles off the waves. The early October moon hung over the sea like a balloon, and I knew this was the best summer of my life.
Some people presume that Martha’s Vineyard is full of rich snobs, but most natives are not loaded. The island is exorbitant and we all rely on tourism for those four interminable summer months; but winter is when we hunker down, hold our breaths, and count our pennies. My father unloads fish and my mother pitches boat tours out of a beachfront hotel where I work as a concierge.
It was just another ordinary autumn day when I fell in love with a man the same age as my dead grandfather. The tide was rising. I walked across the blue-eyed grass onto the cool white sand and watched the waves carving their names in cursive across the shoreline. I swore I saw a ghost swimming in the riptide. That image cut through my mind like a fishing knife as the current faded back into the horizon and the clouds glided into the sinking sun, as if being pulled downward like dreams into the past by a vast celestial anchor. It was that magical time of afternoon by the ocean; every five minutes the sun would be inches closer to the horizon and the breeze was blowing and my mind was flowing with hope and anger as I left footprints in the sand behind the paw prints of Dr. Jekyll.
Henry Jameson was sitting in the sand digging a sandcastle. He had been staying in room 7 all summer and refused to leave when we closed down the hotel for the season to save on electricity and utilities. He apparently carried his two suitcases an extraordinary distance—dragging them nearly a half mile across the rising shoreline. There were no footprints remaining other than Dr. Jekyll’s meandering inscription and my more monotonous signature in the sand. Old man Jameson was sitting thousands of yards away from the hotel, but I wanted to warn him to stay off the beach.
“Mr. Jameson,” I said. He was hard of hearing and the wind was picking up. He was facing the other direction, working on his sandcastle. There were remnants of destructed sandcastles in the sand; clumpy mounds indicating where the water had taken the kingdoms. There were seven which I could see, each set about three feet apart, growing gradually larger as they proceeded farther away from the Atlantic and closer to the dunes.
Mr. Jameson was sitting between the dunes and the sea, his khakis soaked at the ankles all the way up past the knees. He was covered with sand and I knew there was some other shallow sadness hidden deep beneath the surface. I had heard that his wife died while he was on vacation here. Many locals say he has no home to go back to, others think he is simply too afraid to go back to an empty home. Either way, the castles have now become his estate, and he rests his arms on the battered suitcases like a king.
“Mr. Jameson, are you alive?” I asked. I was within a few yards of his shivering body and he raised his head at my inquest. “I know you can hear me Mr. Jameson.”
He was ignoring me and had returned to paying attention to his latest castle. As I stepped in front he finally looked at me and spoke. “I have paid my bill in full,” he said. “I just wish to sit with the sea for awhile and listen to the whispers.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “But there is a nasty storm approaching so we must be going inside before it gets too dark to prepare. You are welcome to stay at the hotel one more evening, Mr. Jameson.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” the old man answered. “I have overstayed my welcome here and the rains have not yet begun to fall. I want to feel them upon my shoulders and flood the final moat I dig. Oh yes my man. I dig castles in the sand.”
“But we most go in now, we cannot build castles in this storm,” I told him.
“It is a good storm and we can build what we want,” he said.
“Maybe so, but it’s not safe to be here so close to the water, even if the storm is not approaching till morning. The waves will pick up and the rain will be here any minute—”
“Then bring on the rain. Go inside if you wish, but leave me alone. I am building sand castles.”
It was like reasoning with a baby. Mr. Jameson was obstinate and raised the pink plastic shovel as if he was digging his own grave. He seemed to have a purpose well beyond the courageous ignorance of his actions. He carefully lifted the purple pail and a perfect tower was constructed on top of his latest castle. It had all the power in the world until a wave came crashing into us and submerged the castle beneath the surface of the sea. Coughing, Mr. Jameson smiled and spit out salt water, while I watched it drip back into the Atlantic from his hairy nostrils as he rose to his knees from the shallow grave where he was embedded in the sand and smiled to the heavens as if he had just seen a ghost.
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Gimmie Fallout Shelter
Howie Good
The night was tricked out
in sequins, and why not
the moon in a fur-trimmed hood.
Ready? she said. She had
a voice like a lighted doorbell.
We both could remember a time
when grown-ups lived in fear
of the annual Soviet grain harvest.
I uncovered my eyes.
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Howie Good bio
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of 12 poetry chapbooks, including most recently Ghosts of Breath from Bedouin Books. He has been nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize and five times for the Best of the Net anthology. His first full-length book of poetry, Lovesick, was released in 2009 by Press Americana.
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Mamma Mia
Don Pesavento
Put aside sin and forgiveness
and have spaghetti with me.
You be Lady and I’ll be Tramp,
we can even share a piece;
our ears, tickled by accordion
fingers playing a little off-key,
and in each other’s eyes,
we’ll chase butterflies that fly
like tiny, blue mandolin notes,
carried away by a summer wind,
and after we order tiramisu
I’ll tell you again, how much
I love you,
bellissima belladonna mia
with your eyes of bluebird rain
hair of almond-forest echoes
lips of red music
hips of storm-swept willows
calves of luscious pears
hands of flamenco castanets
smile of ocean lullabies;
and I’ll replace your collar
with this gold-locket corazon,
and be your Valentine
when all other hearts
are broken in two.
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Heart vs. Head
Vic Fortezza
Where was it? Tino wondered, craning his neck, plastic bag in hand. He would have sworn there was a Barnes & Noble along this stretch. Had it closed since his mother had last been in the hospital two years ago?
He decided to make a trek to downtown Brooklyn, which wasn’t far. There was no sense returning to the car. Finding a spot in Park Slope was difficult enough. He had no idea where he might find one downtown. He hoped the store was open on Sunday.
So what if it isn’t? he told himself; what else’ve you got to do?
He’d conquered his self consciousness of going out alone, which for a while had not allowed him to leave the house. He’d learned to suppress that part of him that ached each time he passed a happy couple, especially those with children.
Downtown was further than he’d assumed. He walked and walked, looking for landmarks he would recognize from his tenures on jury duty. Fortunately, the June day was near perfect, marred only by a stiff breeze. He was dressed appropriately, in tight-fitting shorts and T-shirt. He fought the feeling that he was on a fool’s errand. What would he do home – watch million dollar union militant athletes demonstrate boorishness and indifference to fundamentals? He was running out of years. Even if he sold nothing, he would at least be privy to the human parade, which was always fascinating. And there was always that chance in a million he might attract a woman who wanted children.
The store was open, which wasn’t surprising, as even banks were doing business on the Sabbath these days. He quickly found a copy of Christ in Concrete,* which he planned to make part of a mini Italian-American bookstore he would use mainly as a showcase for his own novel. He paid with the remainder on a gift card he’d used previously to purchase two copies of his own book.
That worked out, he thought, gazing at the coins he’d received as change.
If nothing else, coming here had been worth it just for this.
He set up shop just to the right of the main door. He pulled a copy of the large paperback from the plastic bag, which he deposited at his feet. He’d taped a little sign to the bottom of the cover: Brooklyn Based Fiction. Nearly everyone, even most of those entering the store, ignored him. He had the feeling many assumed he was a Jehovah’s Witness. Occasionally, someone would glance his way. He had to remind himself, upon eye contact, to smile and say “Hi.” He had extreme difficulty initiating with strangers. This day, many of the passersby were of color. He did not think any blacks but actors or students of literature would be interested in his work. In fact, if only one-percent of readers read serious novels, he knew that one of a hundred in that category on the street might stop and question him.
Although the store’s online division carried the book, he feared he was being unethical in standing here and was constantly looking over his shoulder, expecting to be asked to leave. He would be happy if people merely made a mental note of the title or took one of his fliers. He would not speak unless engaged, nor be aggressive or obnoxious.
A middle-aged black woman, four children in tow, stopped and stared at the cover.
“Hi,” he said, the word unsticking from his throat.
“Will you be out here when I come out?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll look at it then.”
“Thanks.”
His spirits slumped as he realized she was going to the movie at the corner and not into the store. He’d already been at it an hour. He didn’t think he would be able to stand two more. Besides, he doubted the woman would enjoy the book, relate to any of its characters.
Soon a couple approached. The woman decided to wait outside. Her face was youngish but her hair was entirely white, dyed, it seemed. Tino did not understand why anyone would do that, especially now that he was twenty-five percent gray. He cautioned himself not to stare.
15 minutes passed before she spoke. “What’s it about?”
He smiled. “It’s a serious look at three troubled people trying to cope with the sexual revolution. It takes place over two days in July of 1978. Most of the characters are Italian-American. If it were a movie, it’d be rated NC-17.”
She stared as if puzzled.
“Are you online?”
She shook her head as if wary. Just then her companion appeared, signaled her to follow and, without turning, gave a backhand wave as if the work were to be dismissed as crap. Tino bit back anger. Although the man knew nothing about the book, Tino had determined long ago to accept criticism with grace. He wanted to be as positive in the face of negativism as Ronald Reagan had been. Besides, he had to accept the possibility that the novel was indeed bad or, at best, ordinary. He was also stung by the woman’s apparent fear that he might be a stalker. He admonished himself for not having said he had a website, which would have allowed her the option of asking for the url. His sense of futility, always near, had been brought to the surface by the slaps.
That’s enough suffering for one’s art for one day, he thought.
He set out along an entirely different route than that from which he’d come. He liked to pass through unfamiliar neighborhoods. He strolled all the way to Union Street before turning toward what he hoped would be Park Slope. He crossed a small span that traversed the Gowanus Canal. The water below was less murky than in the past and no longer reeked.
He soon encountered a girl of about ten, who was selling limeade at a sidewalk stand. In the street before her, a man, perhaps her father, was attending to a colorful pendulum-like device that seemed part of an experiment. The men exchanged nods.
Tino purchased a cup of the girl’s wares. At sixty-five cents, it was a bargain. And it was small enough so that he wouldn’t have to worry about pressure on his middle-aged bladder. He gave her the change he’d received from Barnes & Noble, seventy-five cents.
He continued on his way, sipping, eventually sucking on ice cubes. He was surprised most of the people in the area were white. He sang to himself: “What is this thing called love?”* He paused, struck by a thought. He would upload his Sinatra collection into his computer, burn CD’s, and give one as a gift to anyone who purchased the novel.
Bribes, he thought, dismayed.
It wouldn’t even cost him anything. He had a whole spindle of blanks on his desk.
As he began walking uphill, he wondered if this were why the area had been named Park Slope. It was dense with brownstones and had a dearth of alleys. He was reminded of Greenwich Village, especially in terms of population. There was a lot of interracial coupling, open homosexuality, hip hop, and body art and piercing even amongst its yuppies. It seemed everyone but he had a cell phone and a tattoo. He passed a man who was wearing a brand new Che Guevara T-shirt, and wondered if it were a joke or genuine political belief. Many had donned a “Kerry for President” button. A lesbian couple, holding hands, each had an anti-Bush slogan on her shirt front. One read: “Lick Bush,” the other: “This Bush would make a better president,” an arrow below the statement pointing south.
At least they’re witty, said Tino to himself.
One man, clipboard in hand, asked people if they’d registered to vote.
“Yes,” said Tino, smiling, thinking the man would want him dead rather than voting.
He felt he was in enemy territory. Then again, there wasn’t a place in the five boroughs a conservative could call home.
He parked himself on 7th Avenue in front of an elementary school whose courtyard, below street level, was home to a flea market this day. As he held the book aloft, he thought: This’s crazy; go home.
Within minutes a middle-aged woman of kind demeanor asked him about the book.
“It’s an intimate look....”
“Did you self-publish?”
Uh-oh, he thought. There was no sense lying. He feared bad karma. “Yes.”
“How much?”
“Ten bucks. The cheapest you can get it online is sixteen.”
“I’ll take one.”
He was beside himself. He hadn’t sold a copy personally in months.
“Thanks so much. My web site address is inside the front cover. It has links to two months worth of stories and articles.”
“I’ll check it out. I suppose I should have you sign this.”
“I’d be happy to.” He overcame his sense of foolishness. Apparently, they both knew it was a long shot that he would ever be famous. “What’s your name?”
“Katherine.”
“With a K?”
“Yes.”
He wrote: “You made my day.”
She chuckled. “Good luck.”
He stood dumbfounded.
Just like that – out of nowhere, he thought.
He was shaken to his senses by another middle-aged woman, walking with a cane, cigarette between her fingers. He was amazed so many were still smoking.
“Honey, would you mind movin’? These people paid to set up shop here.”
He immediately reached for his bag. “Not at all.”
“Thank you. Across the street’d be fine.”
He stopped outside a housewares store and bent to put down the bag. As he straightened, he found himself nose to nose with a sweet, familiar face.
“Lil’?”
She smiled. He was shocked. His heart was immediately telling him: See, it’s meant to be.
“What’re you doing here?”
He raised the book. “Exercising futility.”
Her brown eyes, hidden behind sunglasses, were questioning. 38, she did not have a line on her face. Her complexion was flawless. He looked away, as longing threatened him. Now she knew why he was so deeply tanned. He’d worried she would think he was lolling away time on a beach with a girlfriend. Then again, he wondered if the thought had ever even crossed her mind.
“Four years and a hundred thirty-five copies later I’m too dumb to quit.”
“Why should you? It’s very good.”
He’d given her a copy two years ago, and this was the first she’d said of it. He wasn’t angry any more. It’d corroborated what he’d suspected all along – that instinct would prevent her from taking her vague communications toward meaningful conversation that would lead her into the arms of a man 15 years her senior.
“Thanks,” he said shyly. He believed only those who were critical. “I just sold one.”
“You did? Why don’t you sell it on the trading floor? You just give it away, don’t you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t give any away. I have to brokers who gave me ridiculous tips at Christmas. I gave one to Roger, who gave me a hundred dollars worth of movies on videotape.”
“Oh.”
He’d given away only one copy – to her. Even his nieces had paid. He hoped she saw that now, although he was certain common sense would still not allow her to be enticed. He wondered why she was alone on such a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
“Do you live around here now?”
“No. This’s my happy place.”
He sensed she was alluding to the lost love she would never get over completely. Poor Lil’, he thought. He wondered if she’d broken with her new man, who’d seemed so happy lately, or if she were simply resigned to the belief that no other lover would approach the one she’d lost, despite the damage he’d done her. To Tino, it was a sin, manifestation of the madness of modern culture, that such a woman was childless.
“This’s a great neighborhood.”
The comment sounded empty.
A woman of 60 approached. “Are you the author?”
“Guilty.”
She smiled. “What’s it about?”
He told her, quashing his annoyance at having had his conversation with Lily interrupted.
“Does it involve death?”
No sale, he thought. “Yes, it’s not about sexually transmitted diseases, though, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“It’s very good,” said Lily quietly.
He understood the desire for escapism. There was enough tragedy in the news. He no longer scoffed at light fare. Most of the movies he watched were silly fun. He was eager to see the sequel to Spider-Man.
“Do you have any literature? A friend of mine may be interested.”
“Sure.” He handed her a flier, which was folded in half. “There’s a review inside. Contrary to popular opinion, my mom didn’t write it.”
The woman laughed and went on her way. Lily made a face.
“Is it about death,” she mocked, arms folded tightly to her gut.
It was the one thing he feared about her – that pain and disappointment had made her bitter, shrewish. He’d determined to keep his own frustrations from poisoning him. It seemed foolish to complain about the travails of day to day life in light of the war on terror. He’d come to learn that happiness was a choice, at least most of the time.
Given his ease at present, he was not sure he loved Lily any more. In fact, he was not sure he felt strongly about anything. It seemed a lot of the fight had gone out of him. For a second time in five years, he was in an “I don’t know” phase, frequently reciting the phrase to himself. The other had begun the previous time he’d come to accept that Lily was lost to him. Only one event had moved him lately – the Reagan funeral. Perhaps he was not yet dead emotionally but merely repressing. Recalling what the presence of the object of his desire had done to him in the past, he was amazed at his ease, the absence of a glaze of the eyes, pounding of the heart.
She turned away. “I have to get something for my nephew.”
He hung his head. “Bye, Lil’.”
“I’ll be back.”
She seemed to be fighting herself, confused. He stifled hope, but was unable to block the image of them seated in a café, talking, then walking hand in hand. Although he knew she’d meant no harm, it was the worst thing she could have said. He was confident he knew her, at least in terms of her feeling for him. She was attracted to the nice guy the public saw, the one so helpful at work, and afraid of the author of such troubled characters – there had to be a reason why a man his age was alone. They’d been at this point umpteenth times – common sense would keep her from crossing the line. He was certain she didn’t quite understand this herself. She found it easier to blame him, as if having given her a magazine in which he’d had a story published, and a copy of the novel hadn’t said volumes. He wasn’t even irked that he’d forgotten to pretend he was surprised she’d liked the book. He’d planned to say he’d thought she’d been afraid her dislike would hurt him. Nothing he would say would have her betray her wits.
A half-hour passed. He repeatedly gazed in the direction she’d taken. He happened to look across the street and spotted her entering a store. She did not look his way. Just then a man in a wheelchair rolled past him, reminding him that his life was a piece of cake in all respects save one, and that was his own fault, not the result of bad luck.
Another half-hour passed and suddenly he was being questioned by a middle-aged woman. He hoped the synopsis didn’t sound pat.
“Is it good?”
He smiled wistfully. “That’s for the reader to judge. I can confidently say that it’s well-written. I think people who stick with it are rewarded in the end.”
“I’ll take one.”
Lucky bastard, he thought. “Thanks. Shall I sign it?”
“Please - to Maureen.”
“Traditional spelling?”
“Yes.”
He wrote the same message he had for Katherine. She cradled the book to her chest.
“You know, my son’s a writer.”
“Really?”
“He wrote a novel. Now he’s trying to get it published.”
“That’s the hard part. And selling. A couple of mine sold at Amazon recently. Small victories like that keep you going. Feel free to pass my web address to him, in case he’d like to communicate.”
“I will. Thank you.”
It seemed life was toying with him. It’d allowed him two sales, but it would not give him Lily. He’d made that long odyssey to downtown and back, made a sale within minutes, been chased to another corner and, the moment he’d resumed, had come face to face with Lily. Had there been a few seconds delay anywhere along the route, they would have missed each other. His heart wanted him to believe such timing could not be simply a matter of the randomness that was bound to occur in life, the same that had people suddenly buying the book. Yet now an hour had passed and there was no sign of Lily. He gazed about, uncertain as to how much longer he should wait, wondering if she were testing him. Meanwhile, his head was telling him that, in the time she’d had to think, common sense had returned to her. It did not matter that he had the body of a 30-year-old – he was 54. She must have recalled she already had a good man, one her own age, albeit not the one she really wanted. He wondered if she were with child and urged himself, were it so, to be happy for her.
He waited another half-hour. Walking away, he experienced a sense of guilt, as if he were being unfaithful. He was certain she would show at that corner the moment he was out of sight, as if the fates were conspiring against him. He hung his head.
You can’t go back there again, he told himself, recalling the black hole into which he’d fallen five years ago. It lasted a year and a half.
She didn’t come back, he thought, urging himself to accept the simple logic.
He walked slowly, hoping to run into her. Finally, he turned toward Prospect Park.
Dumbbell, he thought, passing Barnes & Noble, which was parallel to the hospital, separated by the street. He’d assumed it was further along 7th, and driven right past it.
Head down, he spotted a penny and picked it up.
“Good luck,” he whispered, lest anyone be watching.
He would add it to his “found money” jar, which yielded twelve dollars last year. It’d been his mother’s final lesson. She’d left 16 dollars worth of coins in the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. Of course, he’d taken the idea a step further. He wondered if such behavior were an augur of the onset of Alzheimer’s, which had afflicted his mother and President Reagan. It was another reason Lily should keep her distance from him.
Soon his eyes were forced shut by shame, as he recalled having visited a porn site that morning. He was unable to rationalize it as loneliness. It was wrong, despicable behavior. No sex at all was preferable to it. He didn’t deserve Lily.
You have no life, he told himself, stunned. He had no children, no role in the war on terror. He had only a silly, selfish, futile literary pursuit. Were he a man, he would make use of himself by joining the service, even if it meant having to lie about his age.
She didn’t come back, he thought.
Despite his luck this day, the hope that his mini book shop would attract attention, he knew he would be miserable until his head caught up with his heart. Each time in the past several years that Lily had sent out feelers and turned to a younger man, he’d gotten over it more quickly. He simply had to avoid looking in her direction at work. That was the only way, even if it had her thinking he was psycho.
She didn’t come back.
*Pietro di Donato
* Cole Porter
|
Vic Fortezza bio
Vic Fortezza was born in Brooklyn in 1950 to Sicilian immigrants. He has had more than 40 stories published worldwide in small press magazines. He has three books in print: novels Close to the Edge, and Adjustments; and short story collection A Hitch in Twilight. He still lives in Brooklyn, where he peddles his books on street corners.
|
Blood Moon
William Doreski
A dead-end road, a wooden house.
A woman visits. I’d walk her home,
but when I point a flashlight
at the lawn a corpse responds
by grimacing at the moon. The white
smiles of the murderers cluster
by the roadside. Their politics—
Republican and Christian—warn me
pacifism need not apply.
The woman visitor withdraws.
The house groans, the brick foundations
too old to support it much longer.
The murderers stroll up the walk.
My flashlight picks out their features:
long noses, receding chins, mouths
watery and slack as gills.
Three men, two women. Their weapons,
various farm implements
rusty with abuse, presume
to claim me. I reach inside
and snatch a semi-automatic
shotgun to point at their loins
to discourage reproduction.
They can’t see the weapon clearly
in the dark, so I fire one shot
to mark the location. The blast
of large pellets harvests both legs
of one of the men. His torso
speaks, but no one understands
the language it has just invented.
The other four turn and hack him
to cold cuts, their smiles so flashy
most politicians would envy them.
The night, despite the half-moon,
seems unusually dark. No neighbors
close enough to hear the shotgun fire,
so when the four murderers turn
toward me again I shoot them all;
and when my woman friends merges
to see the mess, we bay together
at the blood moon, a kiss we taste
without touching each other’s lips.
|
stuffed
John Grochalski
i take another beer out
of the refrigerator
and drink it
i shouldn’t be taking these beers
because they are for holiday guests.
the apartment is a wreck.
i do not know how to clean.
i do not know how to entertain.
i’ve already had to replace
half of the holiday wine we bought
because my wife and i drank it
sitting on the couch
complaining about how
we don’t know how to clean
about how we don’t know how
to entertain.
i get drunk and i blame her family
for making ten of us get together
for dinner on black friday
she gets drunk and blames my parents
for staying with us for three days
in our cramped apartment.
i accuse her of spending
too much money on trifles
and she accuses me of not liking
the brand new cranberry colored tablecloth.
it would be easier to just slit
our wrists now
rather than go through with any of this.
but we don’t.
my wife and i are survivors
of this holiday bullshit
suffering the good will of the many
as we get drunk on wine
suffering the laughter and the conversation
the inquiry about jobs
and people talking about
their mundane lives
as if each moment were great literature
my wife and i have this shit down pat.
we know what to do.
we keep something of ourselves buried
in the basement.
we wait on january 2nd
when the holiday lights go dim
and all the garbage bags are full of
animal carcasses and bones
when pulpy gift boxes
rest against christmas trees
that are losing their brown needles
in bulk
and the people are off the streets for good
in the malls returning everything
that they were given
or in the movies theaters watching this years
oscar crap
or in their warm homes, stuffed,
beached like whales
waiting on the sacrifice of 365 more days
we wait until that day
and we crack open a new bottle of wine
pull up the blinds
and watch the snow fall
on the desolate street
grinning like a couple of assholes
at the slaughter.
|
John Grochalski bio John Grochalski is the author of The Noose Doesn’t Get Any Looser After You Punch Out. He currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, in the area where you can still buy a pint of beer for under four bucks.
|
Womanizing
Ken Sieben
Carolyn Martin had been longing to give up her virginity ever since she was fourteen, and, two days before her seventeenth birthday, she was as certain as her straight-A average and perfect attendance record that the time had come. Four summers earlier, she had developed a strong crush on Chris Powell, her sailing instructor. But after school started she never saw him. He was a senior at Waterwitch High, the playmaker on the basketball team, a platform diver, a wrestler. She was an eighth-grader in the adjacent middle school where she had played basketball, run track and cross country, and been a cheerleader for her school’s football team. Those activities, in addition to making new friends, studying to get good grades to please her father, and asserting her independence from her mother left her no spare time to seek Chris’s attention.
Chris had graduated and gone off to college before she realized she was in love with him. Oh, well, she rationalized, he’s not the only man in the world. She made the varsity basketball team as a freshman and, since girls’ games were played in the afternoons and boys’ games at night, was also a cheerleader. It wasn’t long before she got to know all the athletes. By second semester, almost every boy in the school knew who Carolyn Martin was—the tall, gorgeous, long-legged blond who couldn’t possibly be a freshman. But none of them, in her judgment, could match Chris in personality, intelligence, looks, or determination. Even the seniors seemed either too self-centered or lacking in confidence. There wasn’t a single boy in her school with whom she could imagine having sex. The honor students were nerdy about it, and the others were dirty about it, but sex was all that any of them seemed interested in. Even Jim Hawkins and Ben Gunther, Island Watch neighbors with whom she had played since childhood, still acted like kids.
The next summer, desperate, she searched the phone book and dialed all four Powells in Waterwitch. None had a Chris in the family. He must have moved—or had an unlisted number. She called Information and was informed there was one Powell with an unlisted number. She had missed her life’s single opportunity to pursue the man of her dreams.
But, on March 1of her junior year, during the second half of the annual game between Waterwitch and its arch-rival, Riverton Regional, Carolyn spotted Phil Palmer among the fans. As a senior two years before, Phil had led Riverton to a last-second victory over Waterwitch. She had never seen him except in his basketball uniform, but that night she recognized him in jeans and a Princeton sweatshirt. She made eye contact as she executed a cheer. He grinned and gave her a thumbs-up. He pointed to her and to himself, then pointed to the front door of the gym. For the rest of the game, she caught his eye every time she leaped into the air and stretched her arms up. She jumped higher and stayed up longer than ever before because she wanted him to see how lithe and graceful her hungry body was.
Carolyn was so excited by the idea of meeting and talking with Phil Palmer that she didn’t realize her team had won the game until it was over. She raced to the front door and waited for what seemed a lifetime for Phil to climb down from the bleachers. After the first five minutes, she feared she had misinterpreted his sign. But the gym had been crowded, and lots of people were still making their way to the exit. Perhaps Phil had stopped by his team’s locker room. That was it. He hadn’t come to the game to see her; he’d come to see his coach and some old teammates. Well, she would wait another five minutes, then change and try to get a ride home. Or, better yet, a ride to Susan’s, whose father kept a keg under his bar and who always took her mother to a late movie on Saturdays. Carolyn had told her own mother she’d be late.
Carolyn kept picturing Phil’s pointing to the door and, when time was up, decided to give him five more minutes. Sure enough, when the gym was almost empty, Phil emerged from the visiting team’s locker room and quickly strode half the length of the court on his long legs, his grin broadening with every step. He appeared to be about six-five, the same height as Tim Bond, Waterwitch’s center, but twenty pounds lighter. God, he looks great! thought Carolyn. And I just know he’s much nicer than Tim.
As Phil came to a halt, he grasped Carolyn’s right hand in his and said, “I don’t know your name, but I could never forget your gorgeous face—or your perfect body. You cheered for Waterwitch the night we beat you.”
Delighting in the hand contact and aware of his physical strength and emotional power, she answered, “On your three-pointer at the buzzer. How far out were you?”
“Thirty feet. The coach had made me practice all week and told me to hold at mid-court on the last play. Our playmaker stole the ball and heaved it to me. I glanced at the clock, saw one second left, and took my shot.”
“Of course, it was a disappointment for us, but even Tim Bond called it a great shot. He said he could never have made it.”
“Tim Bond was a dirty player—still is, I noticed tonight—always jabbing with his elbows and shoving under the basket.”
“I’m not surprised because, personally, he’s a real pain in the ass. He’s crude and vulgar and can’t keep his hands to himself.”
Still grinning, now squeezing Carolyn’s shoulders with both his big hands, Phil stepped back and said, “Damn, you’ve grown, haven’t you?”
“I’m five-ten now, about two inches taller than freshman year, and I’m still growing. I’m starting center on our girls’ team. Uh, do you play for Princeton?”
“No. I tried out and probably would have made the freshman team last year but then sat on the bench for the season. It didn’t seem worth the time. So, gorgeous, what is your name?”
“Carolyn Martin. And everybody knows you’re Phil Palmer.”
“Well, Carolyn Martin, would you like Phil Palmer to drive you home?”
“Sure, but maybe we could just drive around a little first? I already told my mother not to wait up for me.”
“And you wouldn’t want to disappoint her, right?”
“Absolutely. Just give me three minutes to change. I won’t bother with a shower.” That was silly. I’ve been sweating up a storm all night. Hope he likes earthy.
They drove around town and the harbor for twenty minutes, comparing notes on families—they were both only children, though Carolyn lived with her divorced mother and unmarried aunt while Phil’s parents were still together—and career goals—Phil was in pre-law, Carolyn hoped to study computer science. Carolyn asked him to stop so she could remove her winter jacket because the car was so warm. Phil did the same, then suggested they drive up to Hudson Hill County Park to enjoy the view of New York across the bay while they got to know each other better.
It was a warm, clear, still night, the kind of night that Carolyn had always wanted to share with a thoughtful, intelligent, sexy, handsome gentleman. She didn’t say much because she didn’t want to disturb Phil’s concentration as he maneuvered his ’79 Corvette around the hairpin turns of the Scenic Drive. Instead, she wondered if—hoped that—he would soon put his arm around her, unbutton her silk blouse, caress her breasts with those big calloused hands. Phil would know how to do these things; he wouldn’t just grope and hope like Tim.
Sure enough, moments after pulling the car between a pair of white lines in the middle of the parking lot and shutting off the engine, Phil put his right arm around her and let his hand cup her right shoulder. “Your hand feels good,” she said.
After a few minutes he asked, “Can I keep going?”
“I really want you to,” she answered, releasing her seat belt and undoing the top button of her blouse, then the next.
Phil slowly slid his hand to the front of Carolyn’s shoulder, then under her blouse and onto her right breast, tweaking her erect nipple with his index finger. “No bra?” he asked.
“I took it off in the locker room—to make it easier for you. You have a gentle way of touching.”
“You have fantastic breasts—even shapelier than I had imagined. Can I use my lips and tongue.”
“If you like.”
“Do you like it?”
“I’m sure I will.”
Phil removed his seat belt and turned to face her. Using both hands, he unbuttoned the rest of her blouse and spread it wide open to expose Carolyn’s firm breasts. He bent toward her but stopped, caught his breath, and said, “Wait a minute, you’re not just a cock-teaser, are you?”
Surprised by his unpleasant tone, Carolyn answered, “No. I’m a girl who’s getting very aroused, as long as you don’t turn nasty on me.”
“You are on the pill, right?”
“No, but I carry a condom in my wallet, you know, just in case.”
“Sorry, kid, I don’t like condoms. I expect a girl to be prepared.”
“I thought I was prepared. Actually, I have two of them.”
Suddenly, Phil removed his hands from Carolyn’s breasts, sat back in the driver’s position, and said, “I need you to tell me something, Carolyn, something important.”
“What?” she asked, not at all certain she understood what Phil was thinking.
“How many times have you actually fucked?”
Carolyn hesitated and began to panic. This wasn’t working out as she had planned. Phil was not being a gentleman. She couldn’t lie, so she said nothing.
But Phil wouldn’t let it go and asked, “Have you ever fucked a guy?”
“No. I want to, but all the boys I know are too immature. But I decided I was ready tonight when I saw you.”
“How old are you?”
“I’ll turn seventeen on Monday.”
“With that face and body, you look at least twenty. I can’t believe you haven’t tried sex yet, but I’m not gonna be the one to introduce you. I want a woman with experience, who really knows how to fuck. I don’t want another fucking virgin.”
Carolyn refused to allow her disappointment and shame to show. Instead, she answered, with as much self-assurance as she could summon, “I gave two of my friends blowjobs a few months ago. Nothing romantic, just a reward for a huge favor they had done me.”
“Well, if I unzip and take my cock out, will you give me one?”
“Sure, I’ll do anything you want.”
When it was over, Phil said, “That was good, Carolyn, I appreciate it.”
All Carolyn could manage to say in response was, “It’s pretty late, could you drive me home now?”
As he pulled to the curb in front of Carolyn’s house, Phil said, “You know, you’re really a good sport and I’m sure you’ll learn to be great in bed. My advice is to get a prescription for the pill from your doctor and seduce a couple of guys to get some experience. I’ll be home for Easter break at the end of the month, and I’d really like to get together with you again. Think you’re interested?”
Carolyn hesitated a few moments as she pictured herself having sex with Tim Bond as often as they could over the next four weeks. Tim’s already fucked half the cheerleaders. At least he can teach me what Phil expects me to know. And I’ll just have to imagine it’s Phil. Maybe Chris. But not Tim. “Definitely,” she answered after steeling herself to the new reality, a talent she had always possessed. “Let me give you my number so you can call.”
|
glove down
P. A. Levy
one
lost glove
drowning in
an oily
puddle
floating
fingers
grapple for
a roadside
shore
but
can’t
hook
hold
amongst
all the mania
of
clocks
where no
one
ever
stops
to
lend a
hand
|
P. A. Levy bio
Born East London but now residing amongst the hedge mumblers of rural Suffolk, P.A.Levy has been published in many magazines, both on line and in print, from ‘A cappella Zoo’ to ‘Zygote In My Coffee’ and many stations in-between. He is also a founding member of the Clueless Collective and can be found loitering on page corners and wearing hoodies at www.cluelesscollective.co.uk.
|
Coffee Shop
Jon Say
One-thirty in the morning. Thursday. Friday, now, I guess. First cold night of the season. Can’t say first cold night of the year, it’s only 30 degrees and everyone would have been happy for that any day from January to Spring. But from summer to fall into winter, 30 is cold.
I slip from beneath the warm flannel sheets and pull on a comfortable but still cold pair of sweatpants, a familiar sweater, and choose the heavier of the two coats hanging by the door. I pull a fleece hat down over my ears and step out into the crisp, razor clear night air.
I shove my hands deep into the pockets of the coat, the warmth of my body starting to work within the layers. I walk. It feels good to move, it helps drive back the voice in my head saying I’m going to pay for this tomorrow, I should be asleep recharging my body and brain for when the relentless cycle of activity and commitments comes to life with the daylight.
But two glasses of wine wasn’t enough to turn off the machinery in my brain, and two hours of tossing back and forth in an inviting bed wasn’t either, so I walk. In the cold. Letting my mind wander while walking down the street is easier than doing it in bed. Closed storefronts, some with their signs still lit in promising neon, give my eyes something to focus on and my brain a distraction from the worry. What do I have to worry about, really?
Yellow light spills out of the all night coffee shop and dispels the chill over at least a small semicircle. I push through the glass door, a bell ringing as the top of the door bangs into it. I sit at one of the stools around a horseshoe counter, away from the door so I won’t feel the cold draft should it open. A fat, bored waitress with her hair pulled back from her face so tightly that it hurts my head doesn’t bother to take a writing pad from the pocket of her mustard stained and colored polyester uniform dress as she stops on the other side of the counter in front of me. Her name tag is askew and reads ‘Angel’. I find that funny and almost smile.
“What’ll it be?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“That all?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t seem disappointed, pleased, or like she is going to do anything about it but bring the coffee. Thick brown mug, steaming. I lift it to my lips, blow over the surface, breath in the aroma. Put it back down without drinking.
The bell clangs again, much too excited about its job. I look over at a stooped figure in a dark blue peacoat, dirty pants of unknown origin, an unshaven face with the particular weathered look that is reserved for the homeless. He shuffles over and sits on the stool next to mine, not looking at me. The horseshoe now has two occupants, and they can’t seem to stay away from each other. His odor precedes him by two stools.
Angel tries the same opening line with him and he orders coffee, black. Angel has it down cold, and as she sets another brown mug in front of him he is pulling coins out of both pockets of the peacoat and pooling them in his left hand. With his right index finger, he counts and recounts and re-recounts the coins. There isn’t any fingernail on the finger. He puts exactly seventy five cents on the counter and only then does he pick up the mug and hold it with both hands.
He stays like that, mug held close to his face, warming his hands, inhaling the strong scent. He finally sips, doesn’t put the mug down. He turns to me, as I figured he would eventually.
“Don’t like the coffee?” he nods at the full mug in front of me.
His voice is surprisingly clear and strong. I look at his face and his eyes are alive, piercing blue and dancing with amusement.
“Don’t know yet.” I pick the mug up and sip.
“It’s fine. Good, actually,” I say.
He nods in agreement.
“Best coffee I’ve found,” he confirms.
He looks closely at my face, my coat, my sweatpants, my shoes, my hat laying on the counter next to my coffee, and back at my face.
“Car break down?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“No. I walked.”
He nods, and for a minute I’m certain he’s going to say ‘Me too’. But he doesn’t.
“What are you doing here?” he asks bluntly.
I’m not irritated by the rudeness. It’s actually a lot easier to deal with than small talk.
“Can’t sleep.”
He looks at the coffee.
“That decaf?”
“No.”
He nods. The amusement in his eyes grows.
“Might not help,” he says, a smile curling the edges of his mouth as though the steam rising from his mug was painting it there.
“Sometimes, I find that coffee actually makes me tired. Go figure.”
He sips again from his coffee, and again, and again, and when he puts the mug down its half empty.
“Why can’t you sleep?”
I look over at him. It’s a fair enough question, but you’d never ask it.
“Can’t quiet an unstill mind,” I say.
“Got the mental illness?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply.
He looks at me closely, shakes his head quickly.
“You don’t look like it,” he agrees.
He brings the mug up and when he sets it down it’s empty. I look around for Angel and see she’s bent over a glossy magazine on the other side of the horseshoe, back to us.
“What’s the reason for the disquiet?”
His question startles me.
“Worry,” I surprise myself by answering.
“Anything specific?”
I wonder why he cares. I’m glad he hasn’t spiraled off into the injustices that become the purview of the insane.
“Just vague things, I guess.” I shake my head.
“Anything vague ever happen to you?”
I look sharply at him but he’s smiling.
“Coffee!” I almost shout at Angel. She hauls herself to her feet and starts ambling towards us, grabbing the pot along the way.
“You want something to eat?” I ask him.
“Toast,” he replies gratefully, with a nod. “Rye, if you’ve got it,” he says to Angel.
“Uh-huh,” she says, and rummages under the counter. She produces a half loaf of rye bread and drops two slices into an old toaster.
“What was the best thing that happened to you today?” he asks.
I sip my fresh coffee, thinking. He sips his fresh coffee, watching me.
“Watched a parade on television with my little girl,” I reply. “Nothing that important, really.”
“Little girl knew she had a Daddy that would watch a parade with her,” he says. “How important is that?”
I concede the point with a tilt of my head and shoulders. Angel dumps a plate with the rye toast on it in front of him. Two prepackaged pats of butter and a knife join it.
“Want some?” he offers the plate to me.
I hold up a hand and shake my head.
“I’m good,” I say.
He carefully opens the butter and spreads all of it on the toast. He scrapes the inside of the plastic squares twice before licking the knife clean. He dips the edge of the toast into his coffee to soften it and raises it to his mouth.
“What’s the worst thing that happened to you today?” he asks before biting into the toast.
“This,” I say.
He chews carefully, as though it hurts.
“So was today a good day or a bad day, net?”
I chuckle.
“Net?” I ask, amused.
“You assume intelligence deserts a man when he becomes homeless?” His tone is reproving, but the humor hasn’t left his eyes.
“I apologize,” I say.
He waves a hand. But he is waiting for an answer.
“Good, net.”
“Then appreciate it,” he says.
“I do,” I say.
“Then why are you here?” he asks.
I sigh. Drink some more coffee. He waits again, patiently.
“Worry,” I repeat, knowing it’s not a sufficient answer.
“Do you love your wife?” he asks.
“Keep asking questions like that and you’re bound to lose however many teeth you’ve got left,” I say.
“Some questions need to be asked. Particularly if you aren’t asking them of yourself,” he replies.
“Yes, I love my wife.”
“Do you love your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Are you terminally ill?”
“No.”
“Is your marriage in trouble?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Then I can count on seeing you here again?”
I shake my head, mostly to myself but he sees it and smiles.
“My marriage is fine.”
“Then you aren’t appreciating the ‘good, net’ enough.”
I look out the glass storefront of the coffee shop. The street is quiet. The traffic signal is in its late-night flash pattern. Yellow for the side street. Red for the main street.
“Okay. How?” I ask.
He dips the toast in the coffee. Bites. Chews.
“Spend more time thinking about the reasons things are ‘Good, net’ and the vague things won’t be able to keep you up at night.”
I regard him sardonically.
“Yeah? How’s that working for you?” I ask, sarcasm hanging in the air like his unwashed scent.
He cocks an eye at me.
“You would be unhappy if you were homeless, so you think all the homeless are unhappy. But which one of us is doing the smiling?”
I study my coffee. His toast is gone. His cup is empty. He slides off his stool and starts to trudge towards the door. He reaches it, turns to me.
“Thanks for the toast.” He smiles warmly. I lift my hand. He turns and pulls the door open, the bell clangs. He walks into the night.
I lift my mug and empty it. My brain registers the screaming tires before my mind can identify the sound and I flinch instinctively. Empty mug in hand, mouth open, I stare as the black blur of SUV swerves and rolls, tumbling over and over through the intersection in a cacophony of breaking glass, jagged screeching metal, smoke. It bursts into flames as it comes to rest on its side, crushing the homeless man beneath.
I fumble for my cell phone, punch 9-1-1. I report the accident and location to the dispatcher. He assures me that an ambulance is being sent immediately. I hang up, knowing it is a coroner who is needed.
Angel is standing, hand over mouth. Staring at the flames. Sirens in the distance. I sit, she stands, as the fire department, police, and EMTs do their job.
The police come in. Talk to Angel. Talk to me. Thank me. Tell me I can go.
I walk home, hands again deep in my coat pockets. Retracing the route I’d come only an hour earlier.
I look in on my daughter. She sleeps the sleep of the four year old. I kiss her head. Use her pillowcase to wipe away my tears.
I climb into bed. My wife sleeps peacefully, never knowing I was gone. I hug her. She stirs. Doesn’t awaken.
I close my eyes. And sleep.
|
Carrier of Death
Victor Phan
Frantic hands swam inside of the leather bag. They removed a long black cloak and laid it on the workbench. The hands smoothed out the cloak and caressed it lovingly. The hands went into the bag again and this time they found an old sickle. The sickle blade was brown and burgundy with rust. One hand squeezed the leather hilt of the iron sickle until the knuckles turned white. The other hand ran its thumb along the edge of the blade until tainted blood was drawn. A tremor of ecstasy quaked through the bleeding hand as the blood was sucked from the dripping wound.
Once again the hands opened the bag. This time a mask was removed. It was a drama mask one would see at the theatre. Gentle fingers stroked its smooth surface then clenched into a fist. The mask was too perfect. It needed to symbolize the new face of its owner, one of sickness and death. The hands frantically rubbed clay onto the mask and molded it into the new visage, not one of comedy or tragedy, but one with the fervor of decay – a face of death.
The hands moved in rapid motions pressing and kneading the clay onto the mask. The sickle was used to create indentations and texture to the new face, the true face – the face of fallen purity. The hands came to a halt. The countenance reflected the disease and the ailment of the owner, yet something was missing.
An angry fist slammed into the workbench. Something was missing but what was it? The fist shook with fury as blood seeped from the knuckles with splinters of wood piercing them. That’s what was missing – the color red – the color of blood. Red would be such a befitting color for the mask. After all, tonight plenty of red will be shed.
**************************************************************************
There was a loud beeping when Sean opened the door for Candy. Sean ran to the far wall of the living room and entered the number sequence, disarming the alarm. Candy came into the luxurious setting and shut the door behind her.
“Oh my god. Your house is so nice!” Candy said as she scanned the living room.
“Well yeah,” Sean replied with a smirk.
The living room walls were decorated with posters from Sean’s movies. Just a year ago Sean was a small time television actor doing shows on Disney Channel and Nickelodeon. Last summer Sean starred in a special effects blockbuster about man’s last stand against an alien invasion and Sean’s career skyrocketed. He became the hottest new face in Hollywood.
Candy walked over to the crystal mantle against the wall. She looked at the pictures of Sean with other celebrities. There were pictures of him receiving his Teen’s Choice Award and with gorgeous pop stars at the VMAs. She thought about how jealous her friends were going to be when they heard about how her dream came true. Of course she would brag about this until the day she died. Why wouldn’t she?
It all happened so innocently. Her friend called the night before excited she had tickets to the opening day of Sean’s latest action adventure film. It was a movie about him being the last man in the world fighting a race of mutant lizard-people. Her other friends were invited as well. Candy passed on the invitation because she had to study for her psychology exam. She stayed up all night and crammed as much information as humanly possible. She considered taking a few bumps of speed like the rest of the girls on campus, but it was much too late to score.
The next evening she came to her psychology class with more confidence than ever. She was ready for battle with psychobabble bullshit. Within a half an hour she finished the exam and slammed it onto the professor’s desk. The startled look on his face was priceless.
With time to kill she went to the local café for an espresso. Staying up all night studying had taken its toll. She needed something rejuvenating. Candy bought a latte and sat at a table sipping it slowly. There was a little buzzing from her pocket. She removed her mobile phone to see it was a text message from her friend.
The message stated how much fun they had and how hot Sean looked in the new film. She felt a surge of jealousy. She began typing her reply when she noticed someone standing in the coffee line. There he was, Sean, just a couple feet from her table. Unconsciously she let out an excited shriek. Everyone in the café turned to look at her. Sean’s eyes met hers and a smirk drew across his face.
That was roughly twenty minutes ago. She couldn’t believe she was in his living room looking at his pictures right at this moment. She turned to him and said, “None of my friends are going to believe me when I tell them about this. I mean — I’m like your biggest fan.”
“Whatever. Follow me . . .” Sean fumbled looking for a name.
“Candy.”
“Yeah, what you said.”
Sean headed down the hallway and Candy followed. She had never been in such an extravagant home before.
They entered his bedroom. The sweet fragrance of the aroma candles was the first thing Candy sensed. Her eyes took in the room. The walls were lined with red fabric. There was a large bed in the middle of the room covered in satin sheets. Candy looked up at the ceiling and saw her reflection in the mirror above the bed. She realized a lot of girls have been in this room.
She turned to Sean to say something but suddenly he was in her face. Sean held her by the back of the head and kissed her deeply. She felt his silky tongue parting her lips. It snaked its way into her mouth and violated her tongue.
Normally when faced with this type of situation, she would break away from the kiss and slap the son of a bitch, but this was Sean motherfucking Dekker! How could she resist him? He’s been the star in her masturbatory fantasies since she was fourteen. She had nicknamed her removable showerhead after Sean. She had spent almost every night with one shaking hand on her own breast and the other one aiming the showerhead at her throbbing clitoris. She would scream Sean orgasm after orgasm imagining herself in the moment exactly where she was now, in her hero’s house with his tongue in her mouth.
She grabbed onto his collar and pulled him in tighter. She desperately wanted to feel his hard body against hers. Candy felt his hands exploring her body. Apparently Sean was a bad boy since he wasted no time at all and went for the good stuff. She felt one hand squeezing her breast and the other hand squeezing her ass as if testing fruit for ripeness.
Pulling him in closer, she felt his rock hard cock rubbing against her pelvic bone. Candy let out a yearning moan and felt herself get soaking wet. Sean grabbed her shoulders and violently threw her onto the bed. She landed flat on her back with so much force the wind was almost knocked out of her. When she looked into Sean’s eyes he was wearing the look of a predator wanting to eat her alive. She would welcome it, of course.
Sean stood up and peeled off his clothes. Candy bit her bottom lip in anticipation. Sean got on top and began peeling off her clothes as well. She was astonished at how fast he got her to only her bra and panties. He must have had a lot of practice.
They kissed more passionately and aggressively. Sean rubbed himself against Candy’s eager parts. He tilted her weight and pulled her on top of him. She straddled him and bent down for more kisses.
“Are you kinky?” Sean asked.
Candy didn’t know how to answer this. What is considered kinky or taboo to one can also be boring and tame to another. She felt the safest bet was to ask the most obvious question, “What are you into?”
Sean turned his head to look at the bedposts. He then turned back to meet Candy’s gaze.
“I want you to cuff me to the bed and ride me.”
Candy didn’t know how to respond to this. No one had ever asked her to perform bondage before. Most of the time kinky meant the usual requests from college guys who watch way too much porno. She expected him to ask to fuck her in the ass and then have her swallow his cum afterwards. She would have happily obliged, but bondage was something else entirely.
Before she could respond Sean grabbed her head by one hand and kissed her. Again she felt his silky tongue invade her mouth. She felt his warm hand slide under her panties. Candy panted as she felt his finger slip inside her pussy. Her mind relaxed as his hand worked its magic. The musk of eminent sex filled the room.
Sean let go of her head and reached for the nightstand next to the bed. His hand opened a drawer and fished inside of it. He removed a pair of shiny handcuffs. Her eyes were still looking into the drawer when she saw piles of little orange bottles – the kind you get prescription pills in.
Sean shut the drawer and handed her the cuffs. She could sense the fire come alive in him. His eyes were wild and she knew what they wanted. She leaned over and stretched out his arms to the posts. He kissed her stomach and she felt chills down her spine. She felt his body quake with anticipation. She clumsily cuffed his wrists to the posts. When the lock clicked shut she heard Sean’s gasps, like he was going to erupt just from being restrained.
She kissed his mouth a little more and arched her body on top of him. Sean looked ready for the games to begin. She slid her hand down his chest to his stomach. Those abs turned her on so much it was almost unbearable. Then something came to her mind.
“Wait. Do you have a condom?” she asked, reaching for the drawer.
Sean caught her arm and replied, “No. Fuck it.”
He closed his eyes in anticipation. Candy lifted her leg up and slid her drenched panty to one side. She took his hard cock in her other hand and felt its hot pulse. This was what she always wanted. This was the wet dream of a lifetime. She looked up at the ceiling and saw her reflection. It was the reflection of a winner.
She closed her eyes in her triumph. She was about to slide him inside of her. Neither of them noticed the shadow that entered the room from behind her. Suddenly everything went black.
Candy came to and realized she was lying on the bedroom floor. Completely dazed she could hardly control her movements. All the sounds in the room echoed and it was difficult to keep her eyes open. She felt a sharp pang in the back of her head.
Candy felt herself getting sleepy but she forced her eyes to stay open. Her vision was hazy and difficult to focus. Her eyes found the mysterious assailant standing at the foot of the bed. The figure was draped in a black hooded robe. It wore a red mask of malady and held a rusty sickle in its hand. Candy saw that the hilt of the sickle had fresh blood dripping from it and instinctively touched the back of her head. She felt the warm fluid seeping out from her and winced in pain.
Sean panicked and screamed at the sight, totally unlike the heroic characters he played in his movies. Maybe he was a good actor and not just another pretty face after all, Candy thought.
“What the fuck?! Who are you?! What do you want?!” Sean screamed.
Candy felt sheer terror inside her heart. Her legs were still too wobbly for her to run. The only thing she could do was watch. For some reason she couldn’t understand, Candy’s eyes were drawn to the mask. It looked like it was hand made and carved in clay to look like sickness or death. That’s it! Death! The mask reminded her of a story she was forced to read in junior high literature. The title was something about Red Death but she couldn’t remember what it was for the life of her.
Red Death was the name she dubbed her silent assailant. Red Death crept on top of Sean’s writhing body. His once hard member was now a wet noodle. Sean kept screaming for help but Red Death kept on creeping up towards his face. It stopped when it had him completely mounted.
“Hey! Get the fuck off me!!!” Sean screamed. He continued his shaking but Red Death pressed its weight onto his sternum making it almost impossible for him to breathe. The hollow eyes of the mask gazed down at Sean. He trembled as tears began streaking down his face. Sean has never cried in any of his roles but if this was a performance now then the man deserved a fucking Oscar, Candy thought.
Red Death’s hand stroked Sean’s face ever so gently. A finger wiped a tear from his eye. The sickle raised into the air. Sean looked up to the mirror just as the sickle began its downward arc.
“Somebody help!!!” Sean screamed.
Mercilessly the sickle fell upon Sean. The sounds that came from him were not remotely human. The sickle sliced left to right and up and down in quick motions. Sean’s flailing limbs were drenched in blood. Large gaping wounds blossomed on his chest. Candy let out a scream and tried to get up on all fours but fell face first into the carpet. All she could do was watch her hero be carved into something less than human, something more reminiscent of what hung from meat hooks in a butcher shop.
Eventually the chopping sounds stopped. Red Death dismounted Sean and returned to the foot of the bed admiring its work. Candy saw Sean’s twitching hand hanging off the bed, blood dripping from the fingertips. She wanted to hold it but was too scared. What was going to happen to her now? Was she next?
Red Death turned and faced her. She screamed and covered her face expecting the same wrath, but nothing happened. Candy looked down at the bed and saw what was left of Sean. Sean was once voted the sexiest man alive but now even a necrophiliac wouldn’t want a piece of him. Actually he was just that – pieces, she thought.
Candy thought of all of the heart broken fans. She thought of the sequels that were never going to happen. Candy cried out loud and thought, why did this happen? What did Sean ever do to deserve a fate this horrible?
Red Death walked towards the door. Candy mustered up the courage and demanded, “Why?! Why did you kill him?!”
Red Death stopped and turned to face her. Candy knew what this meant. This was the end of the road for her. She was spared if she kept quiet but now there would be no mercy. Red Death stared and Candy accepted her fate. There would be no more psychology tests, no more hot nights with the showerhead, and she would never see Sean’s last film.
Red Death slowly took off its mask. Underneath the mask was the face of a once beautiful girl. She looked pallid and dying. Lesions were all over her face.
“You should thank me. The selfish fuck gave me AIDS,” said Red Death. Red Death put her mask back on and left Candy there on the floor. Candy stared down the doorway as the realization sank in. Red Death had saved her from the carrier of death.
|
confessions of wayward reason
Derek Richards
liquor stores sell cigarettes and that sells me.
after the last valium overdose,
i decided to stop attending meetings
and focus on my lungs.
the rose garden across the street
is cursed with beauty and honey bees.
a place i want to stomp, rumble,
a pleasant haven for procrastination.
graveyards have never been quiet places for me.
there are songs i hear, love notes torn,
repeated phrases about pain, profit and purgatory.
and so i reason, i cry mercy, i wilt and stumble
all the while, pretending to hallucinate genius.
***previously published in Splash of Red
|
About Derek Richards
After performing both music and poetry around the Boston area for twenty years, Derek Richards shed his fear of rejection and began submitting his work this past August. So far his poetry has appeared in over thirty publications, including; Lung, Word Riot, Cantaraville, Soundzine, The Centrifugal Eye, Opium 2.0, Splash of Red, Calliope Nerve, Right Hand Pointing, Breadcrumb Scabs, Tinfoildresses, Poets Ink, The Foundling Review and Underground Voices. He has also been told to keep his day job by Quills and Parchment. His dog, cat and two ferrets admire his attempts to be honest, direct, brilliant and lucrative. Also, he wants you to know that he has compiled over 50 fantasy sports championships. Happily engaged, he resides in Gloucester, MA, cleaning windows for a living.
|
puppet master
Jim Carson
the din unbearable
cacophony of voices driving a million needles into my brain
every nerve throbbing in chorus trapped in the herd of sweat
overbearing smells some sweet…others
ghostly march of the dead and dying
puppets on a string twisted by the hand of evil
guilty only of trying to fly
one purpose many faces
trading drops of life for precious inches gained
shuffling clutching twisted scraps of paper and photographs of the way
they used to look waiting
gaunt wretched hand -St Peter on a plastic stool
paws my offering and I reach the next torture
barefoot deprived of all possessions we wait
supplicants to the portal leading to the concourse beyond
some unlucky soul turned away silently screaming but no one listening
my turn at last trembling approach the machine slowly
through to freedom until the next time
but somewhere in the dark bowels of the earth the puppet master smiles
the fool faces east but his prayers fall on deaf ears
a special place in hell waits his time
small solace
but still I hate him
|
Lucas
Sergio A. Ortiz
We met one last time
before his corpse was washed.
I couldn’t get past the stench
of medicine, the thin skin and bones talking
from the wheelchair stopped me cold.
The virus had spread.
Lucas? Lucas... I didn’t recognize
the proud man I once knew.
He said:Come, give me a hug.
I held on to a chair worried
I’d faint, but I couldn’t betray
the hope invested in an embrace.
He found substance
in the gathering of friends.
I know because I am acquainted
With all my sins, the many ways
my fears have killed.
|
Short Bio:
Ortiz has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University. His poems have been published, or are forthcoming in: The Acento Review, Poesia, The Driftwood Review, Words-Myth, The Taj Mahal Review, and other journals and anthologies. His chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009), was published by Flutter Press.
|
Bone
Chris Butler
My body
somehow
holds my
brokenness
together,
even though
this pelvic crest
protrudes
beyond my
creviced chest,
a body
featuring
narrowly entrenched
marrow
pits
sparingly
fractured and
severed
for tomorrow’s
afternoon
appetizer,
served
before dinner,
during which
an encaged
man
will drum
inside
my xylophone
ribs,
while strumming
the stripped
spinal chord
left on the
barren
plates.
Now out in the open,
his bare body
becomes
porous from
the process of
osteoperosis,
posturing
the unsolicited
encore of his
performance with
bowed scoliosis,
personified
as a criss-crossed
christ
crucified
obtusely
by his own
endoskeleton,
as
my body
embodies
nothing but
hollow
bone.
|
Lead Me Not
Katrina Cahall
I follow you into the room.
Silence in the city’s spring
before months of demolition.
Hands, celestial on shoulders,
you forge lost years
in the smallest minute.
This time, my mind kicks
like a bare mattress on fire.
I’m done drowning in your apartment pool.
The builders called, the term is up
the 70s ferns are your last reminder
of when we ended among wayward greens.
|
Our Guardian
Adrienne Christian
Our guardian used
to tell lies on
us children –
say we’d said
ass when we’d
said but,
say our pussies
stunk when it
was hers.
Men and women who
decided children
were for ridiculing
came to her shows
at Thanksgiving,
at Christmas
and spoke not a word
of our red noses,
our bright lights snuffed out.
Once, I brought
home cabbage
instead of lettuce
And
after making certain
her friend could hear
my guardian
said to
me
Go on,
get outta my goddamn face
wit’ yo’ little ole
fat nipples.
I was in fourth
grade then,
just nine
and my chest had
grown two grapes,
but not quite two full bunches.
Her friend, Shavonne,
had overheard her of course
and could not stop laughing
at that.
|
addict
Devin Wayne Davis
bucking fukowski ...
his goddamn publisher put out
an old manuscript as a new book.
and i got it,
even if nobody else did
—but they probably received
review copies ... how
could he have written
such ridiculous shit—?
i mean more
shit—he’s
dead. yet,
the bastard keeps coming
up with it ...
getting his
kicks
... pity, isn’t
him
that’s rich.
|
The Eighth Commandment
Ben Nardolilli
Nobody can believe
They get paid for what they do,
Because they know someone
Who can do it for free,
And they pray
That their bosses never find out.
The lawyer earns a living
By arguing, something
He knows his toddler can do,
And the bartender
Pours you a drink,
Even though both of you know
That you can do it yourself, for now,
While the cop spies
Like a voyeur in the bushes,
And the teacher scolds
In patterns resembling
The angry diction of a parent,
The doctor tells you to take a pill,
She could have been your mother.
A bum on a corner,
Is paid for sitting
And holding out a cup
Like a child who wants
More to drink and eat,
And an executive
Drops a gift for them, knowing
A man in a furniture store
Can put his feet on a desk
And give himself a title,
The street sweeper sweeps,
His broom like everyone’s foot,
Kicking the cigarettes and crusts
Off the ground, to the trash can,
From there to the dump far away.
Something for nothing,
The utopia we seek
In our daily lives,
This city is in one search for it,
Leading into a circle,
A hole, a zero
Always looking back at us,
We steal and our robbed,
The Dutch thought
They were stealing Manhattan,
The Natives thought
They were fools trying to buy
Land that no one could own.
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A little bit about Ben Nardolilli
Ben Nardolilli is a twenty four year old writer currently living in Arlington, Virginia. His work has appeared in Houston Literary Review, Perigee Magazine, Canopic Jar, Lachryma: Modern Songs of Lament, Baker’s Dozen, Children, Churches, and Daddies, Thieves Jargon, Farmhouse Magazine, Elimae, Poems Niederngasse, Gold Dust, The Delmarva Review, Underground Voices Magazine, SoMa Literary Review, Heroin Love Songs, Shakespeare’s Monkey Revue, Cantaraville, and Perspectives Magazine. In addition he was the poetry editor for West 10th Magazine at NYU and maintains a blog at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.
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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
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