The Rusty Nail, July 2012, Issue 5

Issue 5, July 2012 Editor-in-Chief Craig A. Hart Cover Design Paul Brand

Published by Sweatshoppe Publications 1

The Rusty Nail CONTENTS

Ode to My Couch

by Jean Hopkins……………………….Page 3 The Piano Man

by Jessica Hill………………………….Page 4 Maydanik, 1989

by Isaac L. Thompson……………..…Page 5 White, Black and Red Poisoned Thoughts Every Corner Is Dark

by Vishnu Rajamanickam…………...Page 6 Alien Bones Tick Tock

by Wes Rehberg……………………..Page 7 Riverside Diabolique

by Jan Wiezorek………………..……Page 8 Tyrants

by Valerie Sirr………………………Page 10 The Barber’s Hair

by B. P. Evans………………….…..Page 11 Dangerous Game

by L. M. Lawrence…………………Page 13 Back Sioux

by Anthony Desmond……………..Page 14 Worth

by Yeri Kim………………………....Page 15 Energy

by Yeri Kim……………………….…Page 16 A Voice for Your Voice Feature with February Grace…….…………Page 17 The Little Bell’s Tears

by February Grace………………...Page 21 Best Western

by Katherine Horrigan……………..Page 22 Sherri’s

by Tim Johnson………………..…..Page 23 The Legend of the Lone Ranger: a beginning

by Alastair Keen…………………...Page 26 Harry Needs a Job

by Jay Squires……………………..Page 27 coffeehouse now is the time reset

by Christine Locker……………..…Page 30 The Feeder

by Ian Boulton……………………...Page 31 A Butt of Malmsey

by Ian Boulton……………………...Page 33

Burn the Leash

by Gabriel Goodrick………….……Page 35 Business and Pleasure in the Islands

by Richard Peabody………………Page 36 Mistake

by Richard Cahill……………………Page 38

The Rusty Nail Staff Editor-in-Chief Craig A. Hart Associate Editor Dr. Kimberly Nylen Hart Graphic Design Editor Paul Brand Consulting Editor Jacob Nordby

www.rustynailmag.com rustynailmag@gmail.com The Rusty Nail magazine is based in Pocatello, ID.

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by Jean Hopkins

ODE TO MY COUCH T

I slept. Nightmares, actually. My husband once said to me, “I’d love to plug into your brain just watch your dreams.”

They’re better than most horror movies. My sleep is always disturbing, rarely restful. My body is rigid and I’m unable to move. I claw from beneath my skin, yet cannot break free of whatever drug in my body ties me down. I try to run in my dreams, but can’t. The air is thick like peanut butter, or maybe gravity has changed its force. My feet are like magnets to the ground and I cannot get them to move. I’m running a race, and If I lose, I don’t know what will happen.

I never win the race in my dreams. I always wake up before I get to the finish line, and I can never catch the runner in front.

I was inside an elevator the other night, on my way to a meeting at work. The elevator went up, then stopped. Then shimmied and swung. I tumbled to the lower corner, and grabbed onto a railing. I felt a cable snap from above. We lingered for a bit in the air, the elevator and me. It held onto one thin cable as we dangled in the air. The falling was inevitable. What if I held onto the railing? Can you die for real if you die in your dream? And what is it that they say about falling in dreams? That something bad is going to happen? The elevator fell, but didn’t careen. That last bit of cable holding tons of steel above an open elevator shaft.

My couch is sturdy beneath me when I find myself in rough, murky waters. They swirl every which way around me as I struggle to find the surface. Or I’m stuck at the top of a broken amusement park ride. It’s always a roller coaster at the top of the track. One of the wheels has come loose and the car is on edge. I slip out of the car, and flail for something to grab onto. Holding tight to cold steel, I dangle, hundreds of stories above ground. There’s nothing beneath my feet. My arms are tired, and I can’t pull myself in. My heart races, but I can’t move anything.

Inside my peacefully sleeping body that lays still on my couch, I scream, but no one hears me. Not even me. The words are always a whisper, no matter how much wind I put behind them. It’s always a horrible feeling, falling. And it takes me awhile to realize I’m alive. It’s usually enough, though, to rouse me from my darkened psyche. Often, I wake with a stiff neck and confusion. My head lolls back and forth and I have no idea what time it is. Is it morning, did I miss work? School? Shit, what was I supposed to do today?

Questions I can’t answer bounce harriedly inside my head.

I try to get them to stick but cannot seem to catch them. I’m plugged back in now, and my brain reboots. It’s on autopilot, and I have no control. Slowly my thoughts emerge. I try to focus my eyes, find coherence in my thoughts, but the sleep fog lingers. I notice that my legs have stretched out across my husband’s lap while I slept.

I’d wake up sometimes from my evening after-dinner nap to a creepy, dripping-wet little girl coming through my television. Her black hair hangs over her face, and her skin

he cushions on my couch are thick like Texas Toast and have an indent in the shape of my body.

It is modest in height, not tall-backed, but stout.

The tan fabric is creamy like café au-lait, and textured like corduroy and a little like velour, but not quite. It is the first thing I see when I open the front door.

“Come,” it says. “Sit down.” It allures me with its comfortable, soft cushions. My couch is a dangerous thing, an enabler. There is laundry to be done, dishes to put away.

I should make dinner, I think. Feed the cats, or do something productive. But its gravitational pull sucks me in, holds me down. I cannot escape the longing, the need to sit. My bones sigh in relief as the couch takes hold of my body. I kick off my shoes and curl my legs underneath. It’s dangerous, but the temptation is too great. Just for a minute, I bargain with myself, and my arm is already under my head. Always the left arm, and always on the left side. I relish the quiet moment when it is just me and my couch. The soft, textured pattern caresses my arms, legs, body. The small of my back spoons with the couch’s rear cushions. It just feels so good -- my body gets a reprieve from sitting in an office chair designed for someone who is much taller and much wider than me.

My body hates me for most of the day, every day. My lower back, neck and shoulders hold most of my stress.

On the couch, a moment passes. And another and another. The dense cushions sink just enough. The comfort enfolds me like a Venus flytrap catching its prey. Five more minutes, I promise, but I know it’s a lie. This couch is the bad friend who cajoles me into forgetting my chores, and shirking my responsibilities. There are litter boxes to be cleaned, lunches to be made, floors to be swept and mopped, phone calls and emails to return.

I stare sideways at the empty black box in front of me that hangs on the wall. With a touch of a finger to the remote control, the box comes to life. Bright colors and moving pictures flash on a flat screen. I stare more through it than at it. The background noise soothes me in a way total quiet cannot. Without white noise, I can hear my thoughts, and the high-pitched ringing in my ears. The quiet hurts my ears.

The television is my couch’s companion, and mine. They work in tandem. I pull my favorite fleece blanket over me, and cocoon my feet. They’re always cold.

This couch is my home, my respite. It comforts me like a favorite pair of pajamas. It wraps me in a mother’s hug, like a small child just after a warm bath. I lean my head on my left arm and close my eyes. The fog enters my subconscious, like a nothingness that I don’t even bother to fight. I hear the TV, but don’t. I hear cars whoosh past the house, but don’t. My eyes, head, and body are heavy and drained. Lifeless, dead weight. I’m out cold within minutes, and the sleep is solid, unadulterated. I’m told I snore.

It’s never good sleep, but it’s not really the couch’s fault.

The fantastic, garish dreams would happen no matter where 3

closing. I try to push them open, but they feel heavy like garage doors. The harder I push, the harder they push back.

And the couch, like a controlling lover, keeps me close.

is rotted. Or a man in a bathtub cuts off his foot with a hack saw because a creepy robotic clown is holding him hostage.

The grotesque images stick in my mind, but I comprehend nothing. When I’d finally shake the sleep fog from my mind, I would often say to my husband, “You know this shit gives me nightmares!” Without looking away from his movie, he’d just pat my legs. It’s barely an acknowledgement and hardly a condolence. Instead, I am comforted by the soft and soothing embrace of the couch, and drift off again. Despite the nightmares I know I will have, I know my couch will keep me safe.

Jean Hopkins is the editor of Nervous Puppy Publishing, and is an MFA student at Chatham University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She was born in Queens, New York, but has lived on both coasts and has seen much of the world. Her interests include marathon running, pursuing a career in creative nonfiction writing, and finding a decent gluten-free beer. Jean Hopkins hails from many places, but currently lives in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

• • • Sometimes, on weekends, especially after a night of binge drinking, I’ll get out of bed around noon, and come down the carpeted stairs just to take up residence on my couch. Saturday afternoon turns into Sunday evening, and I’m still there. Still in the same thing I wore to bed the night before. I get up only to pee, or to get something to drink.

I never just sit on the couch. I always take it up with my whole body. Sloth-like, and lazy. The bright, beautiful days waste away before me as I lay, sideways, head on my left arm like always. I keep the front door closed so I won’t see the beauty on the other side of it. It’s painful for me to see.

As much as I want to stay on the couch, I want to leave it, be free of it. But it holds me here, and keeps me tethered like a puppy who yearns for the outdoors. I pine for the outdoors, to run along the sun-dappled streets and cracked sidewalks. To feel the wind in my face, the blood that pumps through my veins and throbs inside my ears. But I can’t.

Sidelined by a stupid knee injury, I am unable to do much more than lay on this couch. This Godforsaken couch. I go in and out of consciousness as bad TV serenades me and lulls me to sleep.

And this couch like a doddering old aunt holds me to its breast and offers comfort. But it only suffocates me instead.

Outside, the cold and brisk January air, the kind that makes for ruddy-pink cheeks and watery eyes blows heartlessly on the other side of the door. But the bright blue sky creates crisp shadows and makes me think it’s as warm as June.

The bare branches tell me it’s not. The light of day fades to night, and I am still in the same position. The couch is still here beneath me, the quiet enabler.

As much as I love it, I hate this couch. Our relationship is complicated, ambivalent. It’s where I recline every night after I come home from work with sore eyes and tired feet.

And I am reminded that this is where my husband and I ate dinner when we were married. We sat together, yet separate.

And in front of the TV, we ate. Watching the box on the wall, we ignored each other without guilt. Neither of us said a word to the other while we shoveled forkfuls of whatever into our mouths. Can’t talk. Eating.

Now it’s just me, by myself. I don’t bother cooking anymore. A hard-boiled egg and some string cheese. A bowl of cereal or three. The empty bowl sits on the coffee table that I inherited from my grandmother. With a belly of bad food, the urge to sleep returns. I have homework to do and stories to write. And the same chores as always. I should at least put the bowl in the kitchen sink. But the couch sedates the OCD in me and I’m able to tell myself, Later, after a quick nap. It’s a bad idea, I know. But I can’t keep my eyes from

• • •

The Piano Man

by Jessica Hill I wake with the sun warming my face, the sheets warm and smooth against my bare skin. There’s a smile on my face as I stretch life into my limbs and I think this must be what true bliss feels like. If ever someone asks me to describe the feeling, this is the moment I’ll share, waking up in this place, knowing and sensing his presence is so near.

I pull the blankets up to my chin in order to keep the heat from attempting any escape. When the sheets finish rustling, I hear him. He’s playing a beautiful melody, the notes soft and soothing and inviting.

I smile again and crawl out from under the warmth of the blankets. From the pile of clothes that remain on the floor, I take his shirt, though much too large for me, and button it as I make my way down the hallway.

The hall ends and I stop, lean against the wall, and watch him play.

A bit of sunlight shines through the window above the piano, acting as spotlight. His strong fingers fly across the keys, tan blurring against black and white. Feelings flow through the body and out the fingertips. You can hear his soul flow into the melody those fingers create.

After a moment, he sees me from the corner of his eye and stops playing. He turns on the piano bench, swinging legs over. He smiles an invitation, and I go to him. I climb atop his lap, legs straddling his hips, feet dangling on the other side of the bench.

His gaze is open, loving, and as warm as the sun that caressed my face moments ago had been. How he manages to look at me thusly is a mystery to me.

He lowers his lips to mine, the piano forgotten.

Jessica Hill lives in rural Ohio, where she writes fiction and poetry. When not writing, she spends much of her time as an office worker and student. You can connect with Jessica at her blog, jessicaannhill.blogspot.com, and Twitter @jannhill

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Can you hear the train as it speeds down the track, destination, unknown?

The girl crushed between her mother’s legs.

Can you see the girl gasping for air, no room to sit?

Can you picture the arrival, the confusion, the mother desperately clinging to her frightened child. The shoes, pink and perfect, clopping over the broken bricks.

If the girl could read, she would see, “Maydanik” on the train sign.

Perhaps she is lucky she cannot read. Her mother cries when she reads that word.

The mother knows.

Maydanik, 1989

by Isaac L. Thompson

What did we expect?

We were just kids, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.

Americans, Poles, Germans Walking with new shoes on sacred ground.

Can you feel the hate in the voices as the guards separate the men, women, and children?

Can you see them go into the chambers?

There to be systematically stripped of freedom.

First the shoes, then the clothes.

The pink shoes will be casually gathered with the rest, carelessly Tossed into a pile.

Where is the girl? Lost in history perhaps.

There is hope. Maybe she survived. Perhaps right now she is tying pretty pink bows in her granddaughter’s hair, to match the shoes she lost so many years ago.

The ghosts of Maydanik Barely visible against the perfect spring sky.

History in books never matches the history of reality.

We march toward the truth, single file, not a word, Just as the prisoners marched toward death.

Our guide barely audible over the whispers of the dead.

His crushed voice, the voice of experience, desperately tries to Weave a story. We must know, he says.

What will we learn?

We are students seeking to understand.

Too many questions, no answers.

The Polish spring reveals tiny blooms even here, the slaughterhouse for hundreds of thousands.

Perhaps, once, this was farmland.

Today, it is a memorial.

The buildings, once used for torture, house the memories of the broken.

History tells us, Books report to us, Experience teaches us.

The shoes of Maydanik shame us.

Their lesson must be learned.

In one building there are shoes Black and musty with age.

Imagine the stench of a million pairs of worn out shoes, Resting in heaps of decay.

Isaac L. Thompson lives in Little Elm, Texas, where he is owned by three cats, who prefer to be left out of his poetry, thank you very much. Isaac is a graduate of West Texas A&M University and the University of North Texas.

“Look closely,” says the guide. “You can still see color in these shoes.”

“There!” I said, “a pink bow on a child’s shoe!”

“Yes. But do you really see?” the guide pleaded. “Please, you must look deeper.”

"Maydanik, 1989" spent ten years trapped in Isaac's mind, and another five held captive on an ancient PC.

The girl is there in the room, with her mother, the day the bad men came To shatter the peace of her world. They came with loud voices, spoken in a harsh, Unbearable language. It hurt the little girls ears. Why are they shouting?

She liked the little yellow star on her jacket, though it made her mother’s bright eyes cloud with tears.

“I want to wear the shoes with the pink bows,” the girl said, thinking maybe the bad men would notice how pretty they are. Mother hurries to put them on, no time, no time.

Suitcases packed.

Image(s): FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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Poems by

Vishnu Rajamanickam “And yet, inaudible cries could be heard as the piano still played A Minor.”

WHITE, BLACK AND RED

by Vishnu Rajamanickam It was the grand piano-forte that had them colour-blind keys.

He kept playing and consoling them.

The hammer leathered the strings as notes wafted thro' the manor.

Now his hands were bleeding, reeking of peeled skin and shattered nails.

The ravens were ripping the odd violet thumb as the foxes circled the algae-green moat.

And yet, inaudible cries could be heard as the piano still played A Minor.

EVERY CORNER IS DARK

by Vishnu Rajamanickam You say they are blind; poor Helpless souls who stutter across The stone pavements to heaven.

Who said they can’t see rosebushes; They can lick them blood-y flowers.

You think beyond the valley so pristine, With the green figurines and peeled scalps, There is no darkness lurking?

The typical shades which none but the eye-less see.

Black deeds, blind men and lost hope, The dominoes cover nigh the visage, But it does the facial potholes.

Blind to all that is bright and wonderful So we say.

But is it really so?

Respect (Despise) the dark.

POISONED THOUGHTS

by Vishnu Rajamanickam It was that stone hedge that intrigued me.

It was old, covered with poison ivy And down in red rubble.

I fantasised ‘bout them. I dreamt them every single day.

Every thwarted attempt made me weep, Thorns pricked my flesh, it was rose raw.

One day, it was a moat, the Other day it was blue rain.

Rain which drenched, foamed and smothered me blind.

Yesterday I found a way thro’ and I could see my four pearly shadows pristine as the two suns above.

I pushed past the ivy, now chalk white.

Ate them berries, felt subdued.

There were snakes all over, I could see their two heads spitting wine.

I chose red cocktail; felt merry.

There was this big cherry tree with a Hanging-green-creeper of nylon wool.

Thought it might be fun to try it.

And the rusted iron chair Hit the ground with finality.

Vishnu Rajamanickam's poetry and short fiction have appeared in various literary journals like Scissors and Spackle, Masque of the Red Death, Threelinepoetry, Marco Polo, Foliate Oak and numerous local magazines in India. He is presently an undergraduate student of Civil Engineering in National Institute of Technology Trichy (NIT-T) in India. He loves listening to music and enjoys cooking up poems in his spare time. The author could be contacted at vishnucr@rocketmail.com or at his facebook account http://www.facebook.com/vishnucr 6

W

g r e b h e R es

Alien Bones

Tick Tock

by Wes Rehberg

by Wes Rehberg Wasted a minute Wait a minute Give me a minute

Myth or truth The story is this She, Clementine, from Ireland Flees the famine, steerage on the sea To Prince Edward Island Labeled low class But able, able to cook woodcutters meals Toiling for lumber barons No sables for her.

Can we take back that last minute When 15,000 children died In our world due to poverty That yesterday when …

Last year, when When?

He, first mate and artist Wilhelm, shipping from Hamburg Painting seascapes as part of his sailor's fate To sail the lumber to his homeland, to Deutschland No white ties for him.

Say. You got a minute?

They meet, he jumps ship They slip southward on an underground trail Or maybe by sail Who now knows, knows these aliens again No open door for them.

• • •

Wes Rehberg recently started writing fiction and poetry. He was a print journalist for 22 years in New Jersey and upstate New York. He now lives in Chattanooga, TN. He has self-published a book titled Political Grace: The Gift of Resistance, from a reworked Ph.D. dissertation, which should be on Amazon soon. He received the Ph.D. in 1995 at Binghamton University in New York. He has also made a couple of documentary films and been in three festivals: Great Lakes, First Take, and Gatlinburg. He is 75 and unapologetic about it.

From the stove of the lumber camp From the meals in the galley They enter the alleys of Hell’s Kitchen Kitchen, illegal melting pot What, no papers? Here. A price A solution for them.

Bones from Ireland Bones from Deutschland Alien bones that sailed And prevailed a little Bones now buried, Buried somewhere in Long Island Faded memories for them

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Riverside Diabolique

by Jan Wiezorek

R

Rutgers MacKenzie arrives chomping corn nuts in four-four time. The aroma of mashed kernels follows the young pianist wherever he goes.

“Nice to meet you, Rutty,” Reilly says in a father’s deep voice. Rutty curls his late-adolescent lips sideways into a caesura of nothingness.

“You’ll have the upstairs to yourself,” Reilly says. He gets a heavyset crunch for a reply. “You can use the kitchen, and the piano in the living room is part of the deal.” For that matter, Rutty can have the run of the place, Reilly thinks, so long as he keeps himself clothed and helps clean the house.

Reilly looks back on those seven years that she has been gone. Esophageal cancer. “No smoking, of course,” Reilly says, “but you can use the patio and watch the ducks mate along the river.” Reilly blurts an overexcited chuckle.

“Similar aquatic behavior, I suspect, may have inspired Debussy’s La Mer,” Rutty says, and he tromps the stairs like a ballplayer, jostling his backpack and frayed portfolio, with sheet music caught in the zipper.

“Rutgers is a sweet young man,” Audrey says, pushing down on her teased hair.

“Oh, I saw that right off,” Reilly replies.

“His last situation didn’t work out.”

“The roomie was allergic to corn nuts?”

“Dad, be charitable.”

“Am I doing this for the money?”

“You are, so help Rutgers when you can.”

“Alright, dear. Love you.”

“Love you right back.” She kisses into the holes of his beard and leaves to teach harmonic composition to pimply undergrads.

Reilly walks out back, stands against the wood railing that offers only splinters, and discovers it is fall again. The

eilly twists his orange-and-silver whiskers until they pop out and fall into his coffee. Twisting is his remedy for worry, but his patchy beard suffers, and that isn’t all. His coffee is furry, and the lapels of his blue robe sprout carroty stems among the frost. He combs the beard with the rounded nails of his left hand while checking figures with his right. Finance invades him again this Sunday morning, and twisting is his immediate recourse.

The house has trimmed my cushion and more, he thinks.

Tucked along the bank on the north branch of the city’s river, his brown-brick, two-story bungalow is an autumn retiree on a park bench. Crowding out what little comfort remains, a chilly doom waits around the corner.

Tree roots from the riverbank grow under the bungalow’s floorboards. When Reilly walks from the mementoed living room to the kitchen, it’s a downhill saunter. The entire place needs help. Brickwork and new grout would keep the back side strong against riverbank erosion. The patio still needs sprucing up, and city taxes, they say, may double this year.

When Audrey arrives with fresh stollen, Reilly picks with his groomed fingernail at the dried raisins and eats only the sugar icing on top.

“Dad,” she says, “why don’t you take in a tenant?”

A tenant. When was the last time he had a roommate? he asks himself. During college his roomie was Ronald, who sat in stained briefs and tube socks smoking marijuana. A repeat is unappealing.

“Not sure I’m up to it,” he says to her.

“It’s money; why not?”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“I’ll find you someone from the music school.”

And she does, and Reilly really has something to twist about.

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sounds like someone has stepped on a corn nut down along the riverbank. Mister kayaker pulls himself up along the steep, rocky crawl and onto the patio platform.

The kayaker says he remembers being here about twenty years ago when Audrey was in college. A fine girl, Audrey is, and so special. Reilly doesn’t remember any male visitor. Smile lines and dark hair show themselves. Reilly stands and distrusts.

“Does Audrey still fix her hair by applying pressure to it?” he asks. The kayaker takes both hands and places them down onto his balloon head, pushing.

“I’m Reilly.”

“They call me Dogwilson, Chambers Dogwilson.”

“Well, Mr. Dogwilson,” Reilly says by a candle to keep mosquitoes away.

The shape of it is in Dogwilson’s pocket. Reilly sees the shape by candlelight. The man talks, and Reilly sees a handgun in the pocket; that is the shape.

Banter from the kayaker in the evening brings a too-cold breeze for September. Everything has chilled, and Reilly wants for the life of him to close whatever he can, lock up, and escape inside, shutting the door fast before a tabby stray skulks in.

Reilly sees it. Rutty stands and swings the bat hidden at tableside. He slices the air and cracks the back-right portion of Dogwilson’s head. The intruder falls face to waist, unconscious on the wood railing.

“Did I kill him?” Rutty asks.

“Check to see; is he breathing?”

“Yes . . . no . . . maybe.”

“Let’s go inside, Rutty.”

The two men talk about what to do with a knocked-out Dogwilson. Calling police may lead to assault charges, so they use their heads and not their mouths. They wonder whether it’s a plot, maybe something from the FBI or the CIA. But Reilly sees himself, a small-time operator who needed a loan, and it escalated into this.

They drag Dogwilson down the rocky ledge and back into the kayak, push him from the bank, and watch his craft reach the river current. He travels north past the bridge and much farther than the temple or lakeside lighthouse at the mouth of the river, Reilly imagines.

The two men make their way inside again and sit on the piano bench at the butt of the evening.

“How funny. The piano tilts,” Rutty says.

“The floor is a highway of tree roots,” Reilly replies, feeling warm and separated from night.

“We could put in a new floor,” Rutty says.

“So we could.”

“We could run our own security enterprise,” Rutty says, “offering home protection and safety.”

“So we couldn’t.”

“Correct. Dum, dum, dum, dum,” Rutty says, mimicking the piano keys in leitmotif.

Audrey calls out from the front door. “Dad, Rutgers?”

She walks from the front and into the living room by the piano.

“How’s it going with you two?” she asks.

“Fine,” Reilly says.

Rutty nods and picks up a stray corn nut on the keys.

“We’ve had a busy night,” Reilly adds.

“Really, Reilly?” she asks.

days feel aglow and toasty, like a loaf pulled from the oven with quilted mitts. She is in the sun, on the porch, beside the river. It was Evelyn’s favorite season, he thinks, and the water reflects upward, with a moving shape, all gray and oily, to his right.

“Mr. Cogan?”

“You. You startled me.”

“Sorry to bother you, break you out of your—” “I don’t have it.”

“Mr. Cogan—” “I can’t give you—” “We provided in good faith, Mr. Cogan.”

The sun hides and shows itself. “You’ll have to wait. I need to talk to my daughter and see—” Reilly stops. There’s a glimmer of it in the man’s hand.

An edge, sharp and shiny, enters the lips, between the man’s teeth, a kind of overlarge toothpick that threatens to cut the kisser and impale the palate. He twists the switchblade, withdraws it, and pulls his smiling lips wide enough for Reilly to see one silver peg on the bottom row and the outline of a gold one above the first, but in the middle of the man’s otherwise discolored enamel set. The visitor moves and with him the oily shape on the river’s sludge. Reilly sees him leave the porch and hears footsteps retreating for street side.

Back to the living room Reilly walks and sits on the bench alongside the nibbling Rutty. Both men and piano slant along with the floor. A bond between the generations fails to cement itself. Rutty focuses on a time signature in full crunch. Reilly twists in haste and considers how life has gone awry, with autumn dread at home along the river. So the old man tells the younger where the baseball bat is, next to the fireplace. He explains how the neighborhood isn’t as safe as it once was. No need to worry. Just be careful. Reilly goes to his room for a late afternoon nap. His head feels heavy and sore, like a mule kicked him, or he had overdrunk.

He hears Rutty play four notes of La Mer over and into his dreams.

For a long while snoring and playing overlap. The edging sun travels low and rosy gold, and a wisp of illumination highlights the slick where the ducks waddle. A single sycamore leaf cracks on the glass-top patio table. Reilly sets out the iron pot of taco soup, bubbling in cheese, beans, and crisps. He sees Rutty adds corn nuts to his own bowl. The men say nothing. Reilly hears a burp and excuse me across the table. A smooth-paddling kayaker smiles up at the patio.

Ducks honk at the invader. The diners slurp and burb, as the kayaker continues on the north branch till his kerplunk fades the evening.

The men sit in low light along the river and undo the top button, overcome by stomach pains. Reilly sees heavy leaves, the ones that remained through the wet spring, full summer, and dry September. Pimple flesh, goose pimples are out tonight along the darkening river breezes. He still thinks he has the best view in the city on a night like this.

Mister kayaker turns around and meets the patio dwellers. He says hello and wants to know about Audrey.

He hangs around on the water’s edge, paddling, hanging around. Reilly has nothing to say.

The man makes for the shore and disembarks. Reilly feels electric, the way a body jumps from a static touch or becomes unnerved by a crackling bug zapper. Rutty says it

9

“Yes, daughter dear, some snacking, napping, and soup, followed by, in this order, combat, near death, worry, release, and snacks again,” Reilly says, lacking titter.

“What’s wrong, dad?” Audrey asks. “You look—” But Reilly signals like a traffic cop along Michigan Avenue, and her voice stops. “We’re back to the house again,” Reilly says. “Lots to do, and little to do it with.”

“I could ask my parents to help,” Rutty says.

“That’s sweet, Rutty, but we can’t accept that. You understand,” she says.

“We could host a concert series for the Reilly River Fund.

That could work,” Rutty says.

“We’d have to create the Reilly River Fund first,” Reilly says.

“Yes, we would,” Audrey and Rutty say in chordal voices.

“Helping to keep the river safe and clean. Enhance properties like ours, with small docks, stairs, and retaining walls to fight erosion and encourage riverside safety,” Reilly says.

The piano becomes the new kitchen table and the three plan their concert series: Audrey manages, Reilly promotes, and Rutty plays.

“We’ll host it on this piano, on this spot if we need to,” Reilly adds. Audrey expects her students will want to attend.

Somehow the story loses its gloss upon reflection, and the three fill the piano bench like a string of old snuggling hens.

From the sway of the bench and the lilt of the song, it’s clear piano music gets played. It’s fair to add that Reilly has had a full day, and his beard fills out in the right spots. Audrey applies pressure to her ratted hair, and her father surveys the living arrangement in the old family home until Rutty repositions everyone. It’s Rutty in the middle, his left arm gathering across Reilly’s shoulder, his right reaching for Audrey.

“Maybe you’ll teach again, dad,” Audrey says.

Pink lampshades and flying dust from the Persian carpet bring mussed evening roses to their slanting seat. Riverside washes its way outside in the dark kayak night. The family inside is an autumn retiree, settled on a park bench.

Tyrants

by Valerie Sirr

You make your father lie down on the floor. You lie flat on your tummy on your father’s back and your little sister lies flat on yours. You are the ham. They are the bread. You feel his heat and the weight of your sister. Your parents’ and sister’s laughs go inside you and join with yours until you grow so huge you fill up the room as if you were an Egyptian king.

Roaring Boy bawls and you begin to shrink. Your mother gathers him up and his mouth bites her breast. You want to play ‘sandwich’ again, but your parents are going out.

You pick your favourite story from your bible. You tell your babysitter about Pharaoh: “Pharaoh was in charge. He made the Children of Israel be his slaves.”

She ruffles your hair. You push your head into her softness. Her voice goes inside you with the beats of her heart...You wear a golden headdress and a white tunic. You grip the ankh in your hand. You allow your parents and sister to live.

“Why is Pharaoh mean?” your sister says. She knows you know everything.

Your mother steps into the room. Roaring Boy screams in her arms, red-faced and stinky. Her eyes find you where you lie against your babysitter’s breast.

You sit up straight. Your cheeks burn so you say loudly, “Pharaoh’s going to kill boy babies!”

Your mother and your babysitter roll their eyes at each other.

You don’t know why they do that, but you do know what happens next: Pharaoh’s soldiers search for the baby. The baby’s parents make a basket out of bulrushes and sticky tar. They put the baby inside it. They cover the baby with rushes then they place him in the river and they leave him there.

• • • Jan Wiezorek writes and teaches at an elementary school in Chicago. His fiction has appeared at PressboardPress.com, ShadowFictionPress.com, CommuterLit.com, CracktheSpine.com, Seeds Literary Arts Journal in Chicago, Sleepytown Press, Ozone Park Journal, TheWriteMag.com, AbsintheRevival.net, Our Day's Encounter, Blinking Cursor, RustyNailMag.com, Midwestern Gothic, Picayune Magazine, Steel Toe Review, and The April Reader. He is author of Awesome Art Projects That Spark Super Writing (New York: Scholastic, 2011). Jan holds an M.A. in Interdisciplinary Arts Education from Columbia College Chicago and a B.A. in Journalism from Iowa State University. He also has studied fiction writing at Northeastern Illinois University.

Jan enjoys biking along the backroads of Michigan's Harbor Country. Visit him at teachwrite.net.

• • • Valerie Sirr's fiction and flash fiction have been widely published. She received the Hennessy New Irish Writer Award in 2008. Other literary awards include two Arts Council of Ireland literature bursaries. She holds an M. Phil in Creative Writing from Trinity College, Dublin. She teaches creative writing and is working on collections of short fiction and flash fiction. She blogs at www.valeriesirr.wordpress.com

10

The

Hair

by B. P. Evans

T

in the colouring of all the buildings, which provided a striking, yet beautiful, contrast with the natural landscape. All of the buildings were made from light grey bricks, which seemed to gently glisten in the current burst of sunlight that was falling upon this parcel of land.

The village pub was the first building on Anthony’s right; it had a large, beige thatched roof, which looked as if it were far too big for the building it was hanging over. Nonetheless, it looked like as if the pub would be a welcoming and inviting sort of place. People were sitting on outside benches smiling and laughing; they were dressed in casual summer attire, quite a bit different from the designer this and expensive that that was usually on display in the city. Anthony parked his car and strolled into the pub.

‘Good morning, sir. What can I get for you?’ the barman said merrily as he wiped a glass.

‘Good morning, I’ll just have a coke with ice, please.’

‘Would you like a lemon or lime with that?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Coming right up,’ the barman said with a smile. Anthony looked round and thought the place was quaint and intimate, friendly and calm. It seemed from first impressions that this was the heart of the local community.

‘I take it you’re not from around here?’ the barman remarked as he made Anthony’s drink.

‘No, I’m from the city,’ ‘So what brings you to our little village?’

‘I like getting out of the city every so often. It grates on me. I’m sick of living there.’

The barman handed over Anthony’s drink then said to him, ‘that’ll be one twenty, please. Thanks. You’ve certainly picked a good place to escape to. Our little village really is quite the beauty! I’m afraid there’s not that much to do though, unless you like hanging about in a pub, going to little shops that don’t offer much or going on a country walk – that’s about all there is to do here, really.’

‘It’s more than enough for me!’

‘We’re having a little fête in two weeks’ time actually; I imagine it will be a bit livelier then. We have it every year. It is good, but it’s mainly for the kids and families really. They all have a lot of fun participating in all the events and going to all the little stalls people make. People even come from other towns and villages to see it, but it’s not worth it really.

Once you’ve been to one stall, you’ve been to them all.’

‘You don’t sound like you enjoy what the village has to offer.’

‘Oh I do, don’t get me wrong. I guess I’ve lived here for so long that I’ve learned not to expect too much. If you came back in two weeks for the fête, I’m sure you’d have a good time, but only a particular type of person can spend an entire afternoon having a good time at a fête. It wears you out, it really does.’

hose long drives through the countryside were always a source of the greatest delight for Anthony. City life just sometimes became too unbearable for him. There was something intrinsically attractive about escaping to the vast, open countryside where he could concentrate on exploring places that he didn’t usually get to see. He never knew where he’d end up or whom he’d meet, which made the visits even more alluring.

Anthony had set off especially early in the morning after quickly wolfing down a hastily made breakfast – his urge to break free from city constraints was practically overwhelming owing to the strenuous week at work he’d endured. It was barely past nine when he’d left the boundaries of the city.

Not long after, the buildings gradually started to give way to greenery. He rolled down his window and took in the fresh air. It was so good to have the countryside to escape to: there was always something new to see, some town he’d never visited before, or some village festival of some sort.

Life in the city was too monotonous and mundane. At first, Anthony had loved it, but it became stale; it was too compressing for him.

What delighted him so much in particular was observing the way of life of people in the countryside. They were a lot more laid back and relaxed about everything. There was no need to rush, nor did anyone appear to be stressed or harbouring pent-up worries. Country life was bucolic and the people anodyne and more pleasant and friendly than their city counterparts, who were too urbane and bound by social expectations, in Anthony’s opinion. His city friends were too concerned with their appearance and their ‘social standing,’ as they called it. Anthony often felt like he didn’t fit in; he didn’t feel people should be as overtly competitive with one another in such unimportant matters.

Anthony found himself driving through a village he’d visited many times before. He could park his car outside the pub, pop in and have a relaxing time, or he could be adventurous and see what the next village along was like.

He decided on the latter and so he carried on driving and wondered what this new village had in store for him.

His phone was switched off, he hadn’t made any plans for the rest of the day and he had nothing on tomorrow either, so the weekend was his. He was completely cut off from everything and everyone in the city, which was what he loved. The only thing preventing him from moving to the country was his job; he worked as a waiter in one of those fancy, high-end restaurants. The ridiculously good pay was the only attraction the job had. Anthony was very lucky to have been asked to work there. He was saving up for a country move, but until that dream was realised, he had to make do with these country drives.

As Anthony approached the next village, he was instantly enamoured by its appearance: there was monotony 11

curious about him. It wouldn’t surprise me if that were the case. He’s a very shrewd man, our Tony.’

Anthony drained his glass.

‘Thanks. I think I’ll go and see Tony now.’

‘He’s two doors down. I hope to see you at the fête, though I won’t be there for long. I’m sure a city man like yourself will have a few of the village ladies here fawning over you!’

‘I can only hope!’

‘Good day to you, sir’ Anthony bade the barman farewell and set off for the barber’s. The barman’s tale had intrigued Anthony to some degree, but Anthony was more inclined to believe it all to be some marketing ploy to arouse attention, as the barman himself had speculated.

He passed two elderly ladies who each greeted him good morning with a smile. He asked them what they thought of this mysterious barber and one of them replied that she didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about, whilst the other then chirped in saying that she swore she heard Tony got his hair cut in the city once every two months.

‘That’s what I heard anyway,’ said the latter, ‘you seem very curious for a city type anyway. They never usually come here and if they do, it’s only to drive through on the way to somewhere else. Those city types never ask questions.’

‘I guess I’m a bit different then.’

‘Well good for you, my dear. It’s no fun being a sheep.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. Good day to you ladies.’

‘Cheerio! Come on, Helen, the Slender Sow is waiting for us!’

The two women waddled off towards the pub; Anthony guessed they were eager for lunch, but he could have been wrong.

People just weren’t as friendly and willing for a quick little chat now and then in the city. They were always zealously rushing to and fro, reluctant to let anything hinder them in any way.

Anthony soon found himself approaching the somewhat fabled barbershop. It was a quaint detached building with a large window on the ground floor through which one could see the little barbershop. The door, which swung outwards, was being held open by a large plant pot bursting with flowers of all sorts of different colours and sizes. It was quite a spectacle in itself.

Sure enough, there in the window was the sign. It didn’t quite live up to the hype: it was a small chalkboard with the message written in white chalk. The interior of the barber’s was quite simple: there were a few photo frames hanging here and there, the photos within being of yachts and boats out to sea. Like the pub, the barber’s was delightfully quaint and homely.

Tony was sat behind the counter perusing a magazine and there on his head was a hat with a rather large brim; there was no one else there.

‘Finally, a customer! I knew one would come eventually – it is a Saturday after all!’ Tony said with great exuberance; he came over and shook Anthony’s hand.

‘Please let me hang your coat up for you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m going to hazard a guess and say you’re from the city.’

‘That’s right. I guess the accent gives it away.’

‘I think I’ll come. I haven’t been to one in far too long,’ Anthony replied after having a bit to drink.

‘Well I hope you enjoy yourself, sir. I hope it’s worth coming all the way here from the big city!’

‘I’m sure it will be.’

‘We also have a barber here in the village. He’s called Tony and he politely asked if we would mention him to passing customers like your good self, sir. You see, he’s offering a special deal at the weekends. He’ll cut your hair for a reduced price and give you a voucher to return again for a free cut! I told him he was barmy to be doing that, but he thinks it will get more people coming back to him. I don’t think it will work, to be honest, but I support him nonetheless, god bless him.’

‘That actually sounds like a good deal. Yeah, it sounds perfect for me.’

Anthony took a sip of his drink. It would be good to have a genuine reason to visit the countryside. He decided then and there that he’d pay this barber a visit after finishing his drink.

‘Our Tony’s a very good clipper indeed. I can’t fault the man; I’ve known him for ages. He’s a bit of a local legend actually.’

‘How come?’

‘You see, Tony moved here just over ten years ago and converted his living room into a barbershop. His business took a while to get off, but within a year or so he was earning a very decent amount because he’d built up a reputation through being such a nice man. Men would come from miles away to get their hair cut by Tony. About two and a half years after he moved here, he closed the barbershop for a week to refurbish it and when it reopened, there was a sign in the front window which left us all a bit perplexed.’

‘What did the sign say?’

“I cut the hair of every male in this village who doesn’t cut his own hair.”

‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.’

‘Well, at the time he did in fact cut the hair of every man and boy in the village, and still does to this day. What left us scratching our heads a bit was what the sign meant for him.

You see, Tony always wears a hat. In all the years he’s lived here, no one has ever seen the man without a hat! So no one has seen his head.’

‘OK. I think I understand a little.’

‘If a man in this village doesn’t cut his own hair, then Tony cuts it. Like I said, it just so happens every male does have their hair cut by Tony. But what of the barber himself?

The sign states the village barber cuts the hair of all those who don’t cut their own hair. If Tony cuts his own hair, he doesn’t have it cut by the barber, but then he does because the two are one and the same. If he doesn’t cut his own hair, he has it cut by the barber - but he is the barber!’

‘Who gives Santa Claus his presents?’

‘It’s similar to that, yes.’

‘Perhaps he gets it cut by a barber in some other village?’

‘That goes against what the sign says, though.’

After a few moments spent thinking, Anthony understood.

‘But the sign is just a sign. It doesn’t follow that what’s on the sign has to be true.’

‘Believe what you will. I’m not really fussed who cuts his hair – it’s just a nice story to pass on to folk. I have a feeling he contrived this whole thing to attract people who are 12

‘Excellent! Well that will be four pounds, please.’

He went to the counter and got out his wallet and fumbled about for the correct amount of money.

As Anthony handed over the money and received the voucher, he still felt curious about the barber. Who really did cut his hair? Tony thanked him for his custom and making his day and bade him farewell.

An impulsive desire overcame Anthony; he had an idea.

Tony was looking at him expecting him to say something in return. Instead of doing that, Anthony grabbed the brim of Tony’s hat and whipped it off his head.

‘What are you doing, dear boy!?’

To Anthony’s surprise, Tony was completely bald.

‘Are you happy now?’ the dejected barber said to Anthony.

‘I’m sorry, I just had to find out.’

‘I haven’t had hair since long before I put that sign up.

Can I have my hat back, please?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry – something just came over me.’

Anthony then hastily parted. His hair looked nice and curiosity had been satisfied yet part of him felt guilty.

Tony was aghast at what happened. He put his hat on and mumbled to himself, ‘a man from a village wouldn’t have done that!’

‘Why have you come all the way here to our little village?’

‘I like going for drives in the country and I just ended up here because I’d never been here before.’

‘Well I’m very glad you’ve come to my little barbershop.

It’s been quite some time since I had anyone from the city.

You have made my day! Now what can I do for you?’

‘I heard from the barman – don’t think I got his name – that you had some sort of special offer on?’

‘Ah yes of course! I knew that would work. Yes, I will cut your hair at a reduced price and give you a voucher so you can come back and I’ll cut it for free. I do hope you accept the offer. It would be great if I were to have a regular from the city!’

‘By all means, of course!’

‘Excellent! Oh you have made me a very happy old man today!’

Anthony soon found himself being ushered into the large and comfortable barber’s chair. He told Tony the type of cut he wanted and Tony enthusiastically set about starting. They talked about mundane things for a while; every so often Tony would mention how excited he was to be now attracting a more urban clientele. He said he was flattered and overjoyed.

‘Hopefully this is the beginning of a very successful time here for the barbershop!’ he said optimistically. Anthony was surprised at how much this visit meant to the barber, yet it was humbling to see pure delight, which he didn’t see so often in the city. It warmed him to think he’d made Tony so happy.

While Tony was busy chopping away, Anthony looked in the mirror and remembered the other reason he’d come here. He didn’t know exactly how to approach the matter: should he just come out with it or eventually lead conversation to it? In the end, he settled for the former.

‘I saw the sign in your window,’ he remarked when the conversation had died down.

‘Ah yes, the sign. What do you think of it?’

‘I don’t know what I’m meant to think of it, to be perfectly honest. Why did you put it there in the first place?’

‘Well, I realised one day that I did in fact cut the hair of every male in the village. Then I remembered there used to be an elderly gentleman whose hair I offered to cut, but he politely declined my services saying he preferred cutting his hair himself. When I put the two together, I realised that every man in the village who didn’t cut his own hair got it cut by me. So I made that little sign and people like it so I’ve never had a reason to take it down.’

‘And where does that leave you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Well, who cuts your hair? If the sign is true, then it goes that you both can and can’t cut your own hair. If you, being the barber, cut your own hair, then you can’t cut your hair yourself, whereas if you do in fact cut your hair yourself, then you don’t get it cut by the barber, but you are the barber.’

‘Ah yes, that’s what quite a few folk have said to me.’

‘And?’ ‘Let’s just say I wear a hat for a reason. There we go!

That’s you all done.’

Anthony was handed a tissue and invited to see how his hair looked from behind by use of a handheld mirror; it all looked fine.

‘Thanks a lot, Tony. I’ll be sure to come here the next time I need a cut. You’ve done a very good job indeed.’

Dangerous Game

by L. M. Lawrence Iconic image splash the page.

Sunken eyes.

Violet lips.

Natural grace. Beautiful face.

Elegant and ageless.

Every boy's dream.

Gaunt and thin.

Counting ribs.

Silk and cashmere.

Skeletons on display.

Stalks down the catwalk.

Smiles wiped from their face.

What tale their private lives will tell.

Fragile wisps.

Frighteningly thin.

Blow away with the wind.

Ideal of beauty.

An industry change.

Young girls mimic, this dangerous game.

L. M. Lawrence has had several poems and short stories published in many online publications for children and young adults. Currently she is working on a young adult novel. Her first women's fiction novel is in submissions.

13

Back

by Anthony Desmond I can barely understand My own handwriting Let alone my fucked up mind Like I'm rolling around On the very same bedsheets That make my scalp itch In a cloud of cigarette smoke I can hear morning birds chirp I can see the sun rise Without a wink of sleep I wonder why they say Sleep is the cousin of death When not getting any will Kill you quicker As I dread the coming day In rush of a returning night To drink away Stayin' awake is The real motherfucker Bathed in a great deal of denial This tub is my home With every ounce of Whiskey tainted water That splashes from my dropping A bottle only makes this moment That much sweeter

Sioux

by Anthony Desmond I laid with you as an eloquent nude Accepting every hour As another eccentricity In a bath of your lemon curd A climax of euphoria From your full lips Down to the fat of your hips Counting thy blessings as One torn rib of man Creating a cannibal's cave in the sheets While two tongues wilt like dying roses In an eclipse of atmosphere reminiscent of 3 a.m.

You light a cigarette while I play the flute For this starless night as the face Of a hungry child graces the television set Actors paid to enslave beggars For a petty flashing light Encircled in smoke rings I still breathe fullness as pure As my once virgin tongue Now weaving between your teeth As you slowly capture me in your jaw For pleasures unknown Plotting revenge like a sadistic fiend I am a cross at the scene of a tragedy Overshadowed by tall blades of grass A venomous hold sharp like The structure of your face Cheek bones give me lacerations Along my spine with intentions to please Gagged and bound I have your disease

Anthony Desmond is a twenty year old Detroit born published poet/writer now residing in Center Line, Michigan. Raised and homeschooled by his single mother, he first discovered a gift for writing at the age of sixteen. He firmly believes his talent is God given and he is but a vessel for a higher power who shares this selfsame passion for the written word. Desmond describes his work as "eccentric, abstract.�

He is intrigued by pain & sadness, and he explores these emotions across a wide array of subject areas; politics, death, religion & the struggles of everyday life.

14

bite—a bite taken too rashly, pulling out the few teeth that he had left. Whimpering in pain, he left the bones to rot in to earth, and the briefcase full of the man’s years of sweaty work for someone to find. For someone to find, recognize its brilliance, and let it resound to the world for many years.

Worth

by Yeri Kim

• • • hmp. That simple thud of skin slapping onto a soft mattress of the greenest grass from a height was what attracted the four legged scavenger. Hardly bearing the appearance of a dog anymore, the gaunt animal raced to the place where the sound came from, flaring what little bits of black coat he had left on his spotted body. Even though foodless and waterless weeks had left him looking less lively than the dead, the sound of a chunk of meat dropping dead allowed his light body to float on to the deathbed of a middle aged man. The man had no extraordinary marks, color, expression, or traits to determine who he was. His carcass was dressed in a pair of rigid suits, as rigid as his lifeless chest. But of course, the visage of this man no longer mattered. Because all he was now was the meal of a man’s best friend that had been starving and wandering.

T

Author’s Note

This piece is a short story about a wild dog eating a dead man which came from one of my day dreams that I occupied myself with during a lecture. Even though the surface of the story is not very polished and may sound rather bizarre, the archetypes, literary techniques, and the structure came together to depict my belief that when a man dies, the body decays and disappears without hesitation, but the man’s work and its values stay as a legacy for people to remember.

This idea came from my background of constant arguments I still have with my parents in regards to what I should be doing in my future. In a way, this piece serves as a response to their ceaseless plea for me to choose an economically stable path, and abandon my passion for arts and film. I want my readers to understand that when a man dies, he will only be remembered by his work and creations that he had left behind, and not the materialistic belongings. With careful speculation to the description of the dog in the first paragraph, the readers will understand that the dog symbolizes the grim reaper that serves to take away the man’s body in this story.

Revealing the sharp but scantly teeth that barely clung to the dog’s gums, the beast dug its rotting cuspids deep into the meat. Penetrating the layers of clothing, the skin, and the muscle down to the fat, the animal began his feast.

Through the colorblind eyes of a dog, crimson blood that gushed out of the liver appeared to be no more gruesome than the seasoning of a canned tuna he had devoured during his domestic years. The tearing flesh tasted no better than the wild bird he had caught for dinner weeks ago, and he gobbled down the inanimate heart without any remorse.

Undercooked meat covered with iron tasting seasoning quickly slimmed down to reveal the rib case and spine that gave structure to the food. When the dog was finished with his meal, the mattress of grass around the left over was extremely damp. He could not understand why—not that he cared at all.

Majority of the story being told in the dog’s point of view, I mentioned the colors of the grass and the blood which cannot be distinguished by the dog. This was to reflect the indifference he had for the dead man, which mirrors the fact that everyone encounters death and that it is not a special event. The first two paragraphs are of equal length while the last paragraph that talks about the man’s work is made longer to show that the worth of a dead man’s body and a dog is equal, but that of a man’s work is actually much greater. This piece well reflects my style of writing which often is composed of wry and unique perception and description of ideas.

Still not completely full, the dog looked around to see if there were anymore to eat. He encountered a leather briefcase, similar in texture as the meat he had just eaten, two feet away from his finished meal. What the dog could not recognize was that the leather was just tough enough to endure the weathering and encase the numerous sheets of work the man had poured his life into. They totaled to weigh not much more than the dog, but carried the passion and effort that no animal can contain, which was why they were poured out onto the papers. Every now and then, the top left corner or the very bottom of the pages held letters of the man’s name, as if those spots were holy shrines dedicated for his identity. Each page was composed with his hopes to affect someone’s life, and aspirations he had nourished to bloom ever since his youth. This could not be destroyed by anyone or anything, but of course, the dog could not distinguish this like how he could not distinguish red from green. Without much investigation, he dared to take a big 15

Energy

16

by Yeri Kim

A VOICE VOICE FOR YOUR

An Exclusive Interview with Author February Grace

Does inspiration come easily to you and, if not, how do you summon the muse?

When did you begin writing?

My grandmother taught me to read when I was two, and it wasn’t long after that I was telling stories about my toys and their adventures before I could even write them down.

But it was in the fourth grade that I really fell in love with writing. A kind teacher knew I was left out of a lot of class projects because of the fact my family didn’t celebrate holidays, and so she went out of her way to get me permission to use the projectors at the library, and sent me down there to watch short clips of fairy tales. After that, I was supposed to rewrite the endings. I fell in love with it, and have been writing in one form or another ever since.

It all depends on how manic I am at the time…and no I am not making a joke about that. I share my life with a brain disorder called Bipolar 1, and it makes things interesting at the best times and at the others, well, everything is a struggle.

I was actually only correctly diagnosed last year (after many years with an incorrect Major Depression diagnosis) and all the things they’ve done to try to ‘fix’ my brain chemistry have drastically altered not only the way that I write but even the way that I am inspired to write. I think it’s important to talk about this, to bring it out into the open, because so many artists, not just writers but visual artists and musicians as well, battle the same thing and there is still a stigma.

Stigma is bad, not just because it’s inherently destructive but because it causes people to avoid seeking treatment to manage the condition, just as you would manage, say, diabetes…which leads to us losing too many writers, poets, musicians and artists before their time. Some stop taking treatment because they can’t live with the way it changes their creative process and I will admit that has been a struggle for me, but facing the consequences that would bring, I have just had to battle on through it to fight to keep writing.

You write both poetry and prose. Do you have a favorite or do they both serve different but equal functions for you?

The poetry is easiest, it either comes to me out of the blue or it doesn’t exist. I might work with it after that, tweak a word or two here and there but for the most part I have an idea, I write the poem down (often by hand, which is not the case with prose) and then I finish it within the day. Then it is done and I can move on to the next thing.

I can’t do that with prose. It haunts me, keeps me guessing. It costs me sleep and what little remains of my sanity. Still I am obsessed with it, and I can’t imagine writing one and not the other.

17

beginning. I had this idea but no strength to write more than a few scrawled lines on a notebook nearby and that was it for a while.

Then NaNaWriMo was coming up (and yes, I know people have mixed reactions about the event but this is the truth of the story and I love NaNo, personally…) and I wanted to participate but was afraid I’d fail. Friends and especially my teen daughter encouraged me to try, and I typed with my head propped up on pillows, my eyes literally closed a great deal of the time (I’m not a writer who can dictate, it just doesn’t work with my brain).

I started the story from one character’s perspective and in third person and then realized several thousand words in that it was all wrong and so I had to start from scratch. That character, Penn, and most of his story did end up being in Godspeed, he just wasn’t meant to be my narrator.

I had the framework of the book done by the time NaNo of 2010 was over despite being so sick at the time, but then I had to set it aside. I worked on it when I could, but by the time NaNo 2011 rolled around Graphic design by Paul Brand I was determined to try to finish it. So I started out as a ‘rebel’ working on the same project two years in a row, and I damn near finished it.

My goal was not only to finish writing but revise as well, sadly two weeks in I was completely sidelined by a major medication reaction and couldn’t write for a couple of months afterward, which was infinitely frustrating because I was so close to finishing and felt I was letting the characters down.

I had to tell their story, and I had to do it properly, or I wouldn’t be able to work on anything else.

In early 2012 I ended up printing out everything I had, including notes that I had written down on paper with a huge Sharpie while I was recovering from eye surgery and couldn’t see anything, and I laid them all out and I rebuilt the story piece by piece and I was surprised how much of it fit together as if written from beginning to end. I edited and edited some more, then I found myself an amazing copy editor, Jennifer Gracen, and I left the final polishing to her.

I was also very wise to go out on a limb and contact The Rusty Nail’s own cover designer, Paul Brand. Working with him was an amazing experience; he went so far out of his way to make the cover exactly what I dreamed of. Our visions were very similar and it all fell into place beautifully— both the front and back covers truly represent the spirit of the book in ways I couldn’t have imagined, and I am so grateful to Paul for his hard work and talents.

Finally, I handed the book off to my dear friend, Matthew Irvine, who did all the formatting for me, for eBook and print editions, both. Without him, Godspeed would still be a file on my computer, and so I can’t begin to express my gratitude.

My goal, aside from telling the best story I could, was to make sure that the book was a quality product as far as editing, formatting, and the all-important cover art.

It used to be that ideas would fill my head nonstop, many nights I never slept, I would just write straight on through until morning. Sometimes for days. Then eventually I would be completely exhausted and I would just crash.

Those are the kinds of times in which I wrote my first two novel manuscripts; fevered, inspired days and nights when my fingers could barely keep up with the story as it unfolded in my mind. I wrote my first novel manuscript in ten days.

The second, much longer one was complete in six weeks.

My third manuscript, the one that would become Godspeed, was different from the start in that I was so physically ill (unrelated to Bipolar) at the time I started writing it that I couldn’t work the way I’d worked in the past. I was forced to stop and rest even though the story would creep into my dreams and keep me up, still, many nights.

Try as I might I couldn’t force the process, and that’s the thing, I think, the more you try to force inspiration the more it eludes you. When I’d get stuck it was always the most unlikely thing—one time it was a hat I happened to see in a catalog— that got me writing again and back on track with the story. Inspiration used to live with me constantly, now I try to catch the flashes of it as best I can, like lightning in a jar.

Your new book, Godspeed, is garnering some great reviews and reactions from readers. Could you tell us a little about the creative process you went through while writing this book?

You are very kind to mention the reviews, thank you.

The reader reaction has surpassed my wildest hopes.

Knowing that people get attached to these characters and miss them when the book is finished makes everything I went through to tell their story worth it.

As I said before, working on novels was a quick process for me, before Godspeed. This one took nearly two years to complete, because there were months at a time when, due to ill health and failing eyesight I couldn’t write at all (I had fifteen surgeries between 2009 and 2011, and the majority of those happened during the time I was writing Godspeed.)

In fact the idea came to me one night when I was recovering from one of those procedures. My pain medication had worn off and I woke up with my heart racing, paralyzed by the pain. I tried to focus on something that could help me stay in the moment, to get my bearings so I could get some help and get some more medication. I was sleeping in my living room and there was a clock on the wall with three faces, and the sound of them ticking in unison was the only sound in the room besides the pounding of my heart in my ears. Suddenly an idea came to me—one much darker than Godspeed ended up actually being— but it was the 18

the challenge of living with Bipolar Disorder, novel writing has pushed me to the absolute limits of my endurance and sometimes beyond it.

As my life and my health are evolving I am not sure that I will be able to undertake a project of that magnitude again.

I’ve thought about novellas, fifty thousand words is a pretty happy spot for me, it seems. But honestly I get such satisfaction writing the poetry and the short fiction, recently I’ve been asking myself if it’s not better to be a happier writer and poet than tortured novelist.

I’m laughing as I say that, but it’s very much a serious question I’m pondering and one I will be giving a lot of thought to before I undertake another novel with a view to publishing it.

Independent publishing was definitely a group project in this case, and Godspeed couldn’t be the book that it is without those who helped along the way.

How did you feel after finishing Godspeed? Was it a feeling of relief, elation, anti-climax…take us through your emotional process post-novel writing It was a gigantic relief, actually. I think I slept through a night for the first time in months when it was finally finished and sent off for formatting. I was really overcome with gratitude that I had been able to pull it off when so often it looked like the book would never be finished. I had said many times along the journey that if I could only ever publish one book in my lifetime, I would want it to be this story.

Seeing that realized, holding the book in my hands, freed me in a way because now I can see what happens next. I can hold it in my heart as I have while I was writing it but my mind is open to the possibilities of what could be after Godspeed.

What major themes do you explore in Godspeed? What would you like people to take from the book?

Godspeed is at its heart a love story and love is the most important message, but another theme that kept coming back to me time and again as I was writing it (and this does come from personal experience and things I’ve seen) and that is, do we as a culture do too much to keep people alive when their quality of life is next to nothing afterward— when they are merely existing? What about procedures to alter their bodies to try to make them more ‘normal’? How much is too much before you cross the line of not truly being alive any longer but just a project for experimentation?

There are no answers to the question in the novel, really, but the question is raised and it’s one that I hope the reader would think about.

Everyone I have spoken to so far about the book takes away something different from it, though, and that makes me feel very content. Art is always subjective, and as long as the reader is moved by the characters and their story there is no greater thing that I could want them to take away from the book. To be transported from our world to another place and time for a while and be sorry to leave it when it’s over; that’s what I’d like them to feel.

I remember reading somewhere that you don’t plan to write a Godspeed sequel. Are you planning any other independent books?

That’s right, I don’t plan a sequel. I have mixed feelings about sequels in general, there are so many books and films with sequels that I didn’t feel did credit to the original story and that would be my fear with Godspeed, that not only would I risk not doing my readers and the characters justice with a sequel but that since it was meant to be a stand-alone book that to try to add on to it now would diminish the ending. As much as I miss the characters, I’ll have to be satisfied with going back to revisit them where they live instead of trying to move them to another location down the line.

As far as another novel, I am still too close to this one to know for sure.

I have given a lot of thought to a poetry collection and/or a book of short stories. I think that would likely come before another novel. I also have an existing manuscript I’d like to return to and a screen play I’d originally intended to become a novel, so there is material there to work with. If it is meant to happen, it will happen.

“Art is always subjective, and as long as the reader is moved by the characters and their story there is no greater thing…”

How often do you write? Daily? Do you have a regular schedule or word limit you stick to?

I write as often as my health allows. I try to write poetry daily, which lately hasn’t been possible since we’ve been through a long and drawn out move.

Now that I’m starting to settle in I hope to get back into some sort of pattern with writing, but I alternate between that and painting so as long as I’m creating something, I’m good with that.

There is never a limit I stick to, if the characters’ voices are there and the writing is going well it’s like the words are just dropped into my head from the heavens and I try to catch

How would you compare writing a longer work, such as a novel, to writing poetry or short prose pieces? Did you find it taxing, liberating…?

Novels are definitely the most difficult for me and not because there is more story to tell but because of the level of long-term concentration and attention to detail that they demand.

Between my limited eyesight, a host of health concerns and issues with consistency of thought that are inherent to 19

as many of them as I can…raindrops before the storm stops.

Then when they run out, I do something else until it starts all over again.

How would you describe your writing style?

It’s so difficult for me to answer that because I’m not sure I have one! Writing, for me, is the experience of meeting the characters as if they are real people that already exist, not personalities I am constructing. My social media profile says “The characters are in control, I just take dictation.”

That is really how I feel. So the style depends on the genre/character I’m writing. When I’ve written futuristic science fiction that’s one thing, contemporary romance, another. Godspeed has a voice all its own, though, and I would have to say that voice is, overall, the ‘style’ I feel is truest to my voice as a writer. How’s that for not answering the question? Sorry, I gave it a shot.

Who are your influences?

My influences are many and varied. Tennyson. Walt Disney. Charlotte Bronte. Douglas Adams. Pixar, John Keats. Gene Roddenberry. Victoria Magazine. Keane (the band) and Coldplay…music is a huge influence. I find inspiration in the most unusual places, and never know when something is going to strike me, and stay with me.

What is the greatest misconception that people have about writers?

That we are in any way like normal people. I don’t mean that as any sort of an insult to my fellow writers, but we’re just not. Our brains are wired differently and it’s not a choice, there is nothing we can do about it.

When we walk into a room, we observe people in a way that non-writers don’t, just because we are what we are. It’s not that we’re always looking to turn people into characters in our next story (at least I’m not; as I said my characters introduce themselves to me, only a few rare exceptions have had any inspiration in real life). We can read people like, well, books.

But I will tell you that the writers I know are also some of the most loving, gifted, brilliant, and caring people you will ever meet, and that is a good thing for anyone to be, whatever their art or craft.

Cover design by Paul Brand

ABOUT GODSPEED: Abigail’s young life was saved by the kindness of strangers: Schuyler Algernon, the man who found her collapsed on cold city streets, and Quinn Godspeed, the doctor who risked everything by breaking the law to keep her fragile heart beating.

As the truth about what she’s become and her feelings for her savior overtake her, Abigail is forced to ask what constitutes life, living, and what dark secrets are contained within Godspeed’s past and the walls of Schuyler’s house.

Do you have a website? How can people contact you?

I blog (www.februarywriter.blogspot.com), I am on Twitter @FebruaryGrace. I also have a Facebook page and another for Godspeed itself, if anyone wants to drop by. I’d love to hear from them, and I’m not too hard to find.

GODSPEED REVIEWS “What does one say when one reads such a profound and amazing book? GODSPEED is like nothing I have ever read before - part Frankenstein, part love story, part memoir - it is all these things and more.” ~Author Anne Gallagher

• • • Readers can find Godspeed online at Amazon.com both in print and digital formats.

“Godspeed is a beautifully written book…the characters are compelling and believable. The real jewel of this book is the language though. It is elegantly crafted, like something written far closer to the time of its setting than to today.” ~Michael Adams 20

The Little Bell’s Tears

by February Grace

21

BEST WESTERN

by Katherine Horrigan

The last time I wanted to buy something from the radio, it was a special drink that would make you taller, and Mama said no way. ”Salesmen, they’ll try to sell you anything, Punkin. And anyway, the eye doctor comes first.”

That night at the Best Western where they had pictures of Hopalong Cassidy and Lash LaRue over our beds, Mama took up the hem of a dress she had found for me in a Cedar City thrift shop. She sat on the floor holding pins in her mouth, pins she took from a red pincushion on her wrist. It looked like a tomato. I had to stand real still with my feet together and turn real slow, but only when she told me to.

“Turn a little to the left, Punkin.”

Mama pulled the hem of the skirt in the direction she wanted me to go. I could never keep up. Mama just kept on talking.

“When I found out Hollis was going to leave us, I did what I’ve found to be helpful over the years. Remember this part, Punkin. I made a list of every single one of his bad qualities. I’ll show it to you if you want.”

Because of the straight pins in Mama’s mouth I couldn’t understand all that she said. Anyway, it sounded like I wouldn’t get it all - even without the pins. And I didn’t really want to know so much about men.

“Now back to the right. You look so pretty in this dress.”

I didn’t want to look pretty, either.

“Mama, how long do I have to stand like this?”

“Shush. We’ll be through in a minute. Turn to the right.

No, that’s too much.”

She pulled me back to the left.

“There, that’s perfect.”

ama and I drove through Utah all in one day on our way back home to Texas. At least that’s where I hoped we were going.

When the car stopped all of a sudden, I woke up in the back seat. The first thing I saw out the window was Mama throwing a big green garbage bag into a dumpster just as the sun was coming up. When she got back in the car she told me that everything in the bag reminded her of Mr. Kocinyk – She called him Hollis. The night before I had watched her stuff the bag with a camouflage t-shirt and a cap that matched, a unicorn stuffed animal, and a jigger with her name on it from Badlands National Park. There were other things, too, but she said I was too young to see them.

Just then two women dressed like Mennonites walked up.

Mama whispered to me that they were Mormon women and wouldn’t they be surprised if they could see what was in the dumpster. Might change their lives forever, Mama said. She rolled down her window, smiling at them real big and pointing to the dumpster as we drove away. She slowed down, though, all the while looking through the rear view mirror trying to see what those Mormon women were doing, I guess. I squnched down lower in the back seat.

“Well, would you look at that. Like moths to a flame. And the looks on their faces. What’s in that bag is a far cry from Mormon underwear, believe you me.”

“Mama, do we have anything to eat?”

“Sure do, Punkin. Here.”

Mama handed me the Krispy Kremes over the front seat, all the while talking about Mr. Kocinyk.

“Oh, Hollis was a smooth talker, but he didn’t have one red cent. That didn’t bother me at first because I was busy concentrating on what your Grandma Odom used to call a man’s “finer points.“ It was hard for me to imagine that any of Mr. Kocinyk’s points were fine.

“I conjured up a vision of Hollis that I fell in love with, and then I thought that there was a good chance that I might could get him to love me back. “ I tried hard to pay attention to Mama but some Burma Shave signs were coming up on our side of the road. I squinted out the car window to see the signs: A peach /looks good/with lots of fuzz/But man’s no peach/and never wuz.

Burma Shave.

“You see that sign there? More truth there than you can shake a stick at. Stop that squinting, young lady.”

Mama said we couldn’t afford to go to the eye doctor yet, but there would come a day – and soon – when I could have glasses. Just then the radio music stopped and a man talked in a loud voice about Jesus. I sure wanted what he was selling - a personally autographed picture of Jesus Christ for $9.95, but I didn’t let on because I knew better.

M

• • • Katherine Horrigan grew up on a Texas dairy farm and taught as an adjunct English professor at the University of Houston after receiving her Ph.d. Her poetry and short stories have been published both in print and online in journals such as The Birmingham Arts Review and The Molotov Cocktail. She recently completed Drought, a novel set in South Texas.

22

have their, the 49ers, and he told me about a piece of information no one, and I mean no one, knew about.”

Re-crossing her legs in the opposite direction, Claire adjusted her position searching for peace. As her husband sat in front of her and lied through his teeth, rage began to boil inside her stomach with every deceiving word he spewed. Squeezing her tongue between her teeth kept her seated in her chair. The coppery taste of her own blood calmed her rage and allowed her to entertain his well rehearsed story.

With his hands wrapped around each other, he continued, “Baby, I couldn’t ignore this call from Christian. He was like a brother to me. When he talks, I listen and vice versa.

He told me that the quarterback for the 49ers had some freak injury from a kitchen mishap. Apparently he was cutting an apple or something and the knife blade sliced his thumb. The quarterback panicked and called Christian instead of going to the hospital, who went over and stitched him up. The quarterback didn’t want the team or public knowing that he had cut himself on his throwing hand, because he was scared of losing his starting spot to the young rookie backup. Do you understand what that all meant? Do you realize the opportunity Christian presented to me? To us?”

Wedged between her right hip and the arm of her chair was Claire’s .38 caliber Ruger revolver. Her father had given it to when she moved to Chicago as a means of protecting herself. Living alone in a single apartment in a new city, her father insisted she take it with her and keep it loaded at all times. Now, tucked under her hip, she could feel the butt end of the form fitting grip begging for her to wrap her soft, delicate fingers around it. She reached down and faked an itch on her leg just to make sure that the grip was easily accessible to her if her rage demanded she use it.

Jack’s excitement grew as he recounted his story. With his hands doing as much talking as his mouth, he tried to push his story’s excitement onto Claire. “So, there I was talking to Christian about what he wanted me to do with this information and I sat down to have a beer with Andrew. Next thing I know, I’m driving in Andrew’s Dodge Avenger calling ahead for the next flight to Vegas.” explained Jack. Seeing his wife fidget within her chair, and scratch her leg, he anticipated her question before she even had to ask it and responded, “I know, I should have called or texted or whatever, but baby, you’ve got to understand, this thing was huge and it happened so fast. One second I’m on the phone with Christian, the next I’m boarding a non-stop flight to Vegas with nothing more than my dying cell phone and $60 in my wallet.”

Her jade green eyes flared with hatred towards him and his lies. She long suspected him of cheating on her with Andrew. She saw the way they looked at each other and how close they had grown. She knew. The uncertainty had long faded and all that remained were his lies.

“So, there we are, in Vegas going to the Wynn where Andrew has an account. Don’t ask me how this guy has an account at the Wynn, but he does and his limit is $100,000.”

Throwing up his hands in utter disbelief, Jack continued, “The entire flight there we were texting back and forth with Christian about how the quarterback planned on hiding his injury and how much Christian wanted us to bet against the

by Tim Johnson

Sherri’s

“

There are a few things you need to know before we start.” Jack explained to his newlywed wife.

His hands rested calmly on the perfectly pressed khaki pants she had ironed and laid out for him two days before. Seated in the overstuffed leather couch of their living room, he fidgeted to find a more comfortable position before he began recounting the past 36 hours of his life.

Concerned, but impatient for answers to where her husband had been, Claire Jones sat cross-legged in the opposing wing back chair facing her husband. Her puckered lips and squinting eyes told him all he needed to know about her mood at that exact moment. As she licked the front of her top teeth, she whispered, “Let’s hear it.” The delivery of her three words was motivation enough to organize his thoughts and start explaining.

“Claire babe, I’m sorry. I know I didn’t call. You were probably worried as all hell, but listen, I can explain all of this. First, I can honestly promise you one thing, I’ll never do anything like that again. Honestly.” Jack said in the utmost sincere tone he could fake. By looking at his wife, he knew he was in for a long discussion about his irresponsible behavior and immature friend, Andrew Longwell.

He knew this routine all too well from his previous relationships. He knew he needed to give her the truth, or at least the truth she needed to hear.

“I know I told you Andrew and I were going for a couple of beers and to watch the game after work, but things changed. While I was driving to the sports bar, I got a call from my guy.” Jack said conveying the importance of his last sentence by waving with his hands in front of him.

Listening and becoming more irritated with every syllable he spoke, Claire crossed her arms in front of her chest while simultaneously rolling her eyes. “C’mon Jack. Try the truth for once. A call from ‘your guy’? Do I look like an idiot?” flared the words from her mouth.

“This is the truth Claire. I got a tip that I couldn’t pass on.

It was a huge deal to me and for us. You don’t understand.”

Jack said trying to rationalize with his wife.

“For us? What are you talking about ‘for us’? How does this pertain to ‘us’?” blurted out Claire, allowing her anger to take control. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she regained the fragile balance of her temper and allowed her husband to continue.

“Let me explain. It’ll all make sense to you once I’ve finished.” reassured Jack. He leaned forward and put his palms towards his wife, motioning her to calm down. “So I got this call from my guy about last night’s football game.

Christian is a friend from back in St. Louis where I grew up.

He and I were tight back when we were growing up. When I moved here to Chicago, he moved to San Francisco for school. Anyways, he’s a trainer for the football team they

23

you that ugly detail, because, well, I wasn’t exactly there.

See, Andrew insisted we go to celebrate our victory, but I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay in Vegas until our flight home, which wasn’t until this morning. He gave me some song and dance about being single and lonely and wanting to venture out to a perfectly legal establishment for some fun and then…”

Interrupting him and allowing the rage burst out, Claire screamed at him, “Stop lying to me. I know the truth. I know about you and Andrew. I called the brothel and inquired about the $16,000 charge. They told me that you and Andrew purchased a ‘special service’ from a male employee at Sherri’s.

They wouldn’t go into detail any further over the phone. So, tell me Jack, did you cheat on me with a male prostitute and your best friend?”

Silent and stunned, Jack closed his eyes. He rubbed his hands in an attempt to gain control of the escalating situation. For a brief moment, Jack thought of telling Claire the truth. Flashing back to the violent temper Claire had shown him in the past, he settled on one more lie to try and cover his indiscretions. He raised his eyes to his wife’s gazed and subtly smiled before saying, “Remember when we first met?

Remember how Andrew introduced us when he was so drunk at that party? Remember after we were talking for awhile how he nagged and nagged me to go to the other party that I had to eventually give in to him?”

Her eyes burned with fury. She couldn’t speak. She could only manage a quick nod.

“Claire, babe, I didn’t have sex with a male prostitute nor did I have sex with Andrew. I know it looks bad about the unbelievably large charge on my credit card, but believe me, I didn’t cheat on you.” he said and then licked his bottom lip.

That was it. She knew he was lying. He always licked his lip after he lied to her. She couldn’t take another lie. She wouldn’t take another lie. Entangling her fingers around the Ruger’s molded grip, she pulled the pistol from its hiding spot and leveled it with Jack’s chest, just has her father had taught her to do all those years ago. She stood and tilted her head, looking around the gun’s sight. Screaming louder than she had ever before, she screeched, “You’re going to sit there and lie to me again? After I exposed your lie? You self-centered bastard, how dare you deceive me into marrying you and then go behind my back and cheat on me with two other men?”

In slow motion, Jack blinked twice before recognizing the gun in Claire’s hands. Self preservation took control of him. He blurted, “Ok. OK! You’re right I did cheat on you

49ers on this game. The quarterback planned on wearing a glove on both hands to hide his injury and have Christian tie his cleats in the trainer’s room before the game. He told us that he was certain they were going to lose, and lose bad.

He wanted to wager $10,000 of his own money on the cross town rival Oakland Raiders for the Monday night game.”

Jack held up his index finger as he walked towards their main level bathroom, “Give me one second, I got to go.”

With that, Claire stood, reached for the revolver that had its nose wedged into the cushion. She pulled out the pistol from its cushioned hiding place and opened the cylinder to reassure her anxiety that the gun was still fully loaded. Five bullets with “.38” etched around the outside of the casing stared at Claire. Hearing the toilet flush, she disengaged the safety and slid the gun back into its hiding place.

“So where was I?” continued Jack walking back from the bathroom. “Oh yeah, so Andrew and I walk into the Wynn and head directly to their sports book. This place was amazing Claire. You should have seen it. There were leather cushioned chairs all around with enough televisions so you could look in every direction and never miss a thing. It was heaven. Andrew and I agreed on going in 50/50 on the remaining $90,000 he had available in his account. That’s $45,000 each on the Oakland Raiders to beat the 49ers. Ok, so here’s how the betting worked for us.

We didn’t use the point spread, instead we took the Oakland Raiders on the money line that paid +270. What that means is that for every $100 you wager, you win $270. We laid a bet of $100,000 on the Oakland Raiders to beat the San Francisco 49ers and won $270,000 baby! My personal share was worth $121,500. Isn’t that amazing Claire? I brought back over $100,000 in cash for us.”

Unamused by Jack’s excitement and detailed lies, Claire’s face soured. Her lips and eyes wrinkled as she hissed, “Your credit card statement has a charge of $16,000 from The Resort and Spa at Sherri’s Ranch. I Googled the name and found that my newlywed husband charged more money at a brothel than he did for our wedding and honeymoon combined.” Pausing to give Jack a chance to respond, she placed her right hand on her thigh while covering her mouth with her left. Her movement was so subtle that Jack didn’t recognize that her fingers were inching towards the pistol’s butt end.

Shocked, Jack reeled for his bearing. He thought the excitement of bringing home over $100K would suffice for an explanation to his absence. Realizing Claire knew more than he expected he quickly changed his story. “Ok, baby.

Now hang on. I can explain everything. I didn’t want to tell

“Entangling her fingers around the Ruger’s molded grip, she pulled the pistol from its hiding spot and leveled it with Jack’s chest, just has her father had taught her to do all those years ago.”

24

they’ll find you. The police will never suspect foul play. They probably won’t even look for your body. Then five years after no one has ever found you, I’ll quietly stroll into the bank and start depositing your cash, $500 at a time.”

Standing in the scalding hot shower, Jack felt the cold shiver of terror run down his spine. His wife’s eyes had transformed in front of him and revealed a darkness inside her that made him believe everything she had said. As he watched the hammer of the revolver slowly being cocked back by Claire’s right thumb, Jack laid his head back and closed his eyes. His memory flashed back to the ecstasy of Vegas causing a grin to smear across his face.

Leaning over, Claire watched as her husband’s face morph from being terrified of death to smiling as his body relaxed in the bathtub. Furious, she squeezed the trigger causing the Ruger to explode within the tiny confines of their bathroom. Her husband’s head ruptured on impact from the bullet.

Standing there examining dead body of her third husband, Claire spoke to herself, “Three husbands. Three dead bodies. Maybe number four will finally treat me right.” Walking out of the bathroom and shaking her head, she remarked, “Then again, maybe not.”

with Andrew. And yes, I cheated on you at Sherri’s, but it was meaningless. I’m sorry. Truly I am. I love you and love our life together. Please, baby, lower the gun and let’s talk this out.”

“Where’s all the money you won, Jack?” asked Claire with a stone cold tone in her voice. Standing in a perfect shooting stance, she moved her head back behind the Ruger’s sightline.

“What? The money? It’s in my duffle bag. There’s over $100,000 in there, because I had to pay some tax on the winnings right away. But it’s all there for you and me. We can start fresh with this money.” commented Jack. His eyes began tearing up from the flood of adrenaline that had now made its way throughout his entire body. His mouth was instantly dry. His brain searched for a plausible strategy to deescalate this situation.

Claire’s mouth curled around the edges as she spoke, “Good. Now slowly walk your good-for-nothing-ass up stairs into the bathroom.”

“Baby, what? What do you mean go upstairs into the bathroom? Why?” asked Jack.

“Because, Jack, you’re going to take a very hot shower and wash the filth off of you. And I’m going to watch to make sure you’ve scrubbed long and hard enough to my satisfaction. Now, move it.” barked Claire.

Jack caught the tone in her voice and instantly thought that it was too rehearsed. It was as if she had practiced saying that a hundred times before. As he ascended the flight of stairs to the top level of their home, Jack began unbuttoning his plaid shirt. Following close behind, Claire never let the pistol’s sight drop lower than the small of his back. She cautiously entered the bathroom behind him and stayed more than an arm’s length from Jack as he began to lather than soap on his naked body.

“I just have one question Jack.” said Claire.

“Yeah, babe, anything. No more lies, I promise.” he responded.

“If you won all that money at the casino, why did you charge the $16,000 on your credit card? Why not just use cash?” she hissed at him still seething.

Jack stopped washing and opened the shower curtain half way. He looked at Claire straight in the eyes and answered, “Believe it or not, it was Andrew’s idea not to go in there with all the cash. He was worried someone would find out we won all that money and kill us.”

“Too bad you didn’t risk using your winnings, because you’re dead anyways.” screamed Claire whose rage resurfaced. Shrieking even louder than before at Jack, she wailed, “I’ve had enough of your lies and deception. I know what to do with a dead body, which is why you’re standing in the bathtub. After you’re dead, I’m going to bleed you out like a dead pig. The blood will run right down the drain and I’ll begin removing your body piece by piece…”

“Claire, baby. Don’t do this. Please, I’m sorry. You don’t have to…” interrupted Jack.

Stepping forward and thrusting the Ruger’s barrel closer to Jack’s face, Claire shouted, “Shut up and lie down you piece of scum. The police will search for you after I’m done with your body, but with the $100,000 that Andrew can attest that you recently won, they’ll just write you off as some deadbeat husband who up and left his wife high and dry. Of course, I’ll play the worried wife who is hopeful that

• • • Tim Johnson is a 32 year old writer who lives outside of Toronto, Ontario. He has been writing on and off for several years and had several short stories published within the past year. His recently completed first manuscript, Savannah, is a full-length thriller which follows the life of an inmate who knows he has less than a month to live before he will be killed for his unpaid debts. Tim is the proud father of twin 4 year old daughters and soon will be married to his beautiful fiancé.

25

The Legend

(According to Alastair Keen)

of the Lone Ranger: a beginning He headed out of the saloon into the noon sun and nearly ran into the back of Mick. Despite his agony Mick was laughing. John pushed him to one side and saw what he was laughing at. Two men were beating up a Potawatomi.

The two white men’s faces indicated that the warrior had given a good account of himself. But now he was taking a whipping.

John grabbed Mick’s six-shooter from its holster. He shot the first man in the foot. The second slug grazed the other man’s cheek. John cocked the gun again. The two men took it has their cue to leave.

As John helped the brave to his feet, a squaw ran up and kissed him. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn that she had squeezed his ass. John stared after her but she was gone as quick as she arrived.

John helped the warrior down the street. ‘So, what’s your name?’

‘Tonto...’

‘Tonto?’ said John. ‘What sort of name is that?’

They hobbled on further. John looked over at the saloon girls standing on the board walk. One of them winked and lifted up her dress slightly.

I reckon this hero business has its benefits.

‘Tonto, I have an idea...’

‘Well whatever it is, you are going to need some built up boots, kemo sabi.’

ust swirled around his boots as the saloon doors swung shut behind him. John swatted more dust from his denims with his black hat. He placed his hat back on, tipping the peak down over his eyes.

As he walked towards the bar, an old man started beating a piano to death with the ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas.’

John leaned on the bar. ‘Whisky.’

The barman reached for a bottle.

‘Not none of that gut rot either. Give me some of that good sippin’ whisky.’

‘Wassup big John?’ said the white aproned barman reaching for another bottle under the bar. ‘You look mighty ticked off...’

‘Got turned down for the Rangers...’

‘What ‘cos of that business on the Mexican border?’

‘Nah, ‘cos they reckon I’m too short.’

The barman stifled a smile and found the glass he was polishing extremely interesting all of a sudden.

Big John snatched up his glass and threw his drink down his neck. He poured another, turned around, placed his elbows on the bar and his boot heel on the foot rail. He looked around the saloon. The usual town’s folk and cowboys were sitting around drinking and gambling.

His eyes were drawn to three saloon girls giggling next to the far wall. Their hems were up to their calves and their bosoms were falling out of their cleavage. The giggling stopped as a man in a derby ambled up to the women, hands in his pockets. One of the girls stared down at her ankle boots. The man took his hands out of his pockets and gently lifted her chin. He smacked her in the face with back of his other hand. Her nose exploded. Broken. She collapsed on to her thighs. As the other girls rushed to her side, derby hat shaped to kick her.

‘Hey Michael!’ Big John necked his drink and closed the gap between them.

‘Well if it isn’t the wee leprechaun John. What can I do for you, ya eejit?’

‘You can leave the woman alone...’

‘Look who’s acting the big man!’ said Michael looking around at the other men in the bar. They, to a man, avoided his gaze. Michael’s eyes flicked to John’s hip. No gun.

John closed the gap further; just four yards. ‘Just leave the girl alone Michael.’

‘The names Mick.’ He flicked his coat behind his colt. His hand hovered. ‘What are you gonna...?’ Mick screeched in pain, lifted up his hand and looked at the black throwing knife sticking out of his palm.

‘The next one is in your eye,’ said John fingering the tip of a second knife. ‘Now back off.’

Mick headed for the door.

One of the girls ran to John’s side, kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear. John grinned and very nearly blushed.

D

• • • Alastair Keen is a former soldier, ex-RSPCA Inspector and was for a while Director of Operations of the Irish SPCA; amongst other things. He is now the part owner of a hardware store, Open University Student, chicken whisperer and writer.

Apart from the ongoing battle of wits to keep his rare breed bantams from destroying his vegetable patch, he loves writing and is a featured writer on flash-fiction-world.com.

Alastair also has a monthly flash fiction column in his local paper. He has written a novel, Unnecessary Suffering,’ which he is pinging around various agents, as we speak, in an attempt to get published. Alastair’s short work has been published in various web sites and publications.

His future projects include adapting a piece into a flash film to be directed by his son Michael Stokes. Alastair also aims to adapt his novel into a TV script and start writing his second book. He also has an ambition to breed an attack chicken for military and law enforcement roles; they have the cunning and stealth, if only they would pay attention for more than two seconds...

26

Harry Needs a Job

by Jay Squires Yes, yes, yes, a youngster. I’ll remember.

I will remember that. But you’re older now, aren’t you? So… And wiser, older and wiser.

Still…we have these pesky vicissitudes — your experience. It’s just not as simple as — But I am strong, sir. Years of work are still in me. Look.

Here, let me make a muscle. There must be something on the wharves for me.

No. Or sanitation? Or carpentry…building things. I'd like that.

No. And, no.

Ha! Of course! It's my nose! You can’t keep your eyes off its eastern cant and the scar the shape of California above my eye. You have me cast in the role of a troublemaker, do you not, sir? A thug?

A thug? Betty? Marshall? Would I — Not a thug, mis amigos. I bow to the three of you and beg you to listen. The scenario: A right cross flattened a very handsome nose. Then, when I dropped my guard, a left hook sent blood and cartilage spraying the corner post off which my head then rebounded. In merry old England, the venue. My take, five quid. To staunch the blood and suture the gash took six. But it wasn’t thuggery, sir. The rules of Queensbury blithely presided. Prince Charles himself was ringside, I was told — that is, before he left to change his spattered shirt while I was taking the count.

Quite an honor, though.

All three of you are smiling — that's okay, don't stop, it's fine — but to be sure it was an honor! Who would not be thrilled to be courted by royalty? To be twenty-one and flattened by a burly Brit before his Prince. Indeed an honor!

Your application says you’re twenty-four. Between then and now?

How did I occupy myself?

Your employment, specifically.

A gaucho on the Pampas — that for a start. A solitary gaucho in Argentina, I herded the fattest and laziest cattle that ever nibbled the lush grassland at the base of the Andes.

Still…you might guess, there is little demand for cowboys in the city.

Precisely. Still, only on the open sea is there anything approaching the profound vastness one experiences on the Pampas. The Pampas was my sea. My sea…. Father understood that. Which might have explained his choices.

Your father again! Why do I put up with this? Marshall, you and Betty would have shown him the door already. I've lost my edge. I'm getting soft.

Still, Father's understanding of it will be his legacy to me — someday, when he finds me. Or, I him. And when I paint for him the magnificent vastness of the pampas I know he will just smile because he already knows, and he will know,

piritually defective, I was born a gypsy with a limp.

Being Castilian Spanish by my mother, sir, I early longed for warm sands and siestas. My father? Father was always in the navy, somewhere.

Listen son… son… son, you'll have to help me if I'm going to help you.

And, I want to! Indeed! I read early, sir. Before attending school I had already gathered words, raw, ripe and succulent, which would prepare me for my first liberation.

I don't think you're going to let me help you.

But, why not? For you it was easier, perhaps. You were born for your chair and desk, no? You mastered numbers first, then later the alphabet. But my mother had retained, still, a fatal memory of Spain. And that was fodder for my vestigial spirit.

Your father?

Ha! Playing fodder against father… A bon mot it would take a saint to resist, sir! But, it is deserving of an answer.

Let me try. As a child I did so love my mother, but — oh! — how I venerated my father, who was always on a ship on a sea, somewhere!

Tell me? How am I to use this? Can you tell me how?

What is it all relevant to?

Why, it's relevant to the deepest level, sir! Just listen: while others waited for their Christmases and played ever toward the sunset as sheriffs pounding the badlands on persistent ponies, I — well, I was hunted down and captured by a different law.

A different law? A…different…law. Captured by a different law?

Sí, señor. As an outcast, I sat, open book in lap, on a thousand divergent hillsides daily, numbering the grasses of Marseille, Berlin, Stalingrad, Barcelona. Countless lands and odors swept beneath my feet before I grew tired of these wanderings, at last, and left home, primed and suffering for the real experience. At about twenty, you might set it. Of course, sir, at twenty, the vicissitudes of existence — Vicissitudes! Betty. Marshall. Listen to this guy. Oy! I'm supposed to help a guy with vicissitudes?

Yes, vicissitudes of — of existence brought with it a sort of capriciousness. The universe, you see, even my thin sheet of it, was too vast a promise. How I would sweat and stifle under the thought of total embrace! A short stint in each place was my victory. Certainly, a continual change of employment was imperative.

Ah ha! Now we have it. Job instability!

I suppose, sir, by your defining system…

That would be my defining system — job instability.

Would you expect anything less than that being my defining system? Would you, young man?

I suppose not. But, I was just a youngster.

S

27

was off to Spain. You understand, of course, a son’s love for his father?

I’m guessing your father wasn’t there.

So, it was off to Japan.

To follow another lead?

To seek peace. So, from sun up until the waning hours of the night, often with but three hours sleep, I swept and scraped and scrubbed the stables of the Zen Monastery near Hiraizumi until the great master deemed me humble enough to learn.

Quite a step down from rubbing elbows with the Pope!

Nothing is getting past you! You leave me no place to hide! You tapped into my hubris in an instant! It took Master Tatazuno longer. When at last he did discover how calcified the corruption was that blanketed my essential nature, he expressed in his clipped, falsetto voice that I leave his serene presence and seek out my demons in the maelstrom of a metropolis, there to face them, there to defeat them.

At last! So, after that grand tour we end up right here in New York City. Harry needs to confront his demons. But, first Harry needs to fortify himself to fight them. Harry needs food and lodging.

But, no, I have a flat, sir. I need no lodging.

So, Harry needs food. And to pay for his food and the rent on his flat, Harry needs a job. Is that a fair assessment, son?

A fine, balanced summary.

And, you will need this job until, let’s see… until next spring or summer. You’ll continue to work until then, or until your father is sighted, which, of course, would draw you like a pound of beefsteak to a shiner. Is that — ? Never mind.

Let me just review my notes. I took good notes. Let’s see, what are your job skills? Oh, here. You might be able to trudge your way through one or two tuna runs. Not much call, though, for that around here. How about making stained glass windows? Let me check my list here, but… no, I’m afraid most of the churches in the city already are outfitted with them. I previously mentioned the lack of cowboys needed in the city, so I’m afraid that skill will have to remain unused. Let’s see, what else do we have here? Oh, yes, it seems you clean a mean stable. What would I find that under? Maybe muck raking. You’re smiling, but, no, nothing there. And — and that’s about it, isn’t it? Wait! But, no, I don’t suppose you’d consider renewing your brief adventure as a prizefighter, would you?

I am a little out of shape, sir. But, yes, I — I can get in fighting trim... given a month’s time and the proper nourishment. Then, there’s the license. One needs to be licensed in New York to fight professionally.

Which all costs money, doesn’t it Harry? Money for this and money for that. It seems it all boils down to money…

Harry needs money. Harry needs a job.

Which is why I am here. I’m here to get a job. Will you help me do that, sir?

Jobs are tight, Harry, for people with your… job skills.

That and your patchy history of what, occupational longevity?

But, I’m willing to do anything. And, I’m willing to prove my staying power. I’ll agree to sign a long-term contract.

And, the employer can set the terms of it, in its own language. If I default on the contract, I’ll let them do with me what they will. They can toss me into prison. They can

then, my understanding of the sea, and we both will know that our souls will have just then touched, at last — at long last — in the wordless vastness inside each of us.

And, someday, when vastness is a tangible commodity that employers pay wages for your name will be the first to pop into my mind. Until then, though…

I absolutely understand. Onward, sirs, and madame, onward! I was a tuna fisherman for one run off the Islands of Galapagos.

And, why just…one…run?

Why, because it was payment enough for my passage to Italy. It was spring, you see.

I don’t see! No, I do not see at all!

Spring, the time of renewal, of rebirth. My soul cried for Firenze.

Firenze?

Also known as Florence. You may know it as that. In Firenze, the birthplace of the Renaissance, I apprenticed for a month in the very city where the feet of the great masters, many centuries before, had trod. You needn't leave, Betty, is it? and Marshall. Your presence doesn't distract me. I am told one of my strengths is public speaking.

I'm sure, but they have people waiting who are interested in getting work.

As am I! So, you did what there?

I apprenticed as a creator of stained glass.

Stained glass. I can't believe I'm going to ask. Why stained glass?

Has it not been your observation, sir, that the art form which most mirrors the individual artist’s soul seeks out that artist — rather than the artist seeking it — to give the art its life?

Well, well. Could it be that that insight somehow passed me by?

There is always a dimly perceived, niggling awareness of the incomplete, seeking divine wholeness. I have a hunch it's the way we're put together, yes? No. Strange.

Yet, in me it was best expressed, through the mosaic nature of stained glass. As unquenchably as the yang yens for its yin; as a hunk of beefsteak draws the swelling of a shiner into itself, or a magnet tugs inexorably its opposite pole; as Fido scrambles to a bitch in heat, his nostrils aquiver; or, as synchronicity connects everything else when nothing else will — as in all those instances, I found myself drawn across the sea to Firenze, right up to number 12 Galileo Point Place, where answering my rap, the Master Tamburo, himself, opened the door. I was there, I told him, to bring fragmentation into wholeness. He slowly nodded, with a profundity of knowing — for he knew precisely what my soul hungered for and what his genius and the spirit of the medium would yield. Are you okay, sir?

A touch of a headache. But, stained glass?

Of such singular beauty, Master Tamburo assured me, it would soon put me on a first name basis with the Pope, himself.

Impressive. And you studied there how long?

One month.

You stayed one month?

I did, sir. I would be there to this day had not mother written that Father’s ship had docked in Cadiz. Naturally, I

28

This is a joke, is it not? Ah, I understand. You are testing my gullibility, my naïveté. There are jobs, I'm sure, that require one to have a solid grounding in reality, to see instantly when one is being made a fool of. Espionage, for example. I think I would make an excellent spy.

I assure you, it is not a joke. It is not a test.

But, you can’t expect me to do that. There must be some other — There is nothing, Harry. Just that.

I couldn’t possibly — Then, I can’t help you.

You can’t expect one to beg.

Then, you’ll have to try back next week. There may be something then.

I see.

May I give you a few dollars, Harry? It might hold you over until next week.

Allow me to sweep your floors for it, sir.

Our janitor does that, Harry. It's a union thing.

Wash your windows?

No, Harry. The same thing.

Anything?

No. I see… What time next week?

The same.

Good day, then.

Goodbye, Harry.

shoot me. It won’t matter. It won’t matter because it won’t happen. And, it won’t happen because I plan on staying. I shall enroll in their pension plan, their medical, their dental, their – their 401-K! I shall attend all the company functions – the picnics, the Christmas parties. Just give me a chance.

Please. Just a chance.

There’s nothing available. Nothing.

There’s got to be something. I’ll do anything.

Nothing.

But, listen, I can buck boxes, wrestle ropes, hoist, load, unload, sweep, scrape paint, skipper, sail. I am my father’s son, after all. The one thing you would appreciate about my father. He was your model of occupational longevity! He was always on the sea — Yes, yes I know, somewhere. Dock work is always slow during this season.

Then as a waiter, let me tell of my subtler charms.

Candles lit with speed and finesse. Oh, if there were room I would race around it for you. There is no season for my brand of excellence. Setting and clearing tables, emptying ashtrays, lighting cigarettes, removing furs, putting away canes and hats, smiling, smiling, smiling, carting away refuge, waiting tables, ordering cocktails, suggesting and serving wines. Seating people with dignity and sophistication. No, that is my stomach growling. Sir, if I had a tail I swear I could wag it.

Yes, I’m sure. However…

Ohhhhh. I’ll press my trousers; I’ll patch my jacket. And, what? You’re looking at my shoes? Why, these are only my walking shoes. I have other shoes, many other pairs, polished and waiting. Give me just a — Perhaps, perhaps something will come up next week.

Come next week at the same time.

Please, sir.

I am sorry. Next week.

Will that put food on the table tonight?

Sorry.

Please.

I confess, it would be so much easier not to, but there is something about you I like, Harry. I truly do wish I could…

Wait, there is something. I do have a job, but it might be only short-term. That would depend on you.

Then it won’t be short-term. You have my assurance.

Thank you, sir!

The pay is a hundred dollars a day. But, there are conditions. You look confused, son. Let me explain. You are expected to earn a hundred dollars every day, starting from the very first day. If you ever earn less than that, you keep the amount you earned and you do not come back the next day. Your job is over. If you earn more than the hundred dollars, you keep the full amount and come back the following day under the same conditions.

That’s fair. Confusing, but fair. What do I do?

Beg. Beg? Beg. The conditions are that you can offer nothing in exchange for the money you receive. Not washed windows, not pencils, not walking their dogs, not even reciting poetry or entertaining them with your personal history. In short, you must impress on their sensibilities that you are hungry. That you are chilled to the bone, and need warm clothing. That Harry most desperately needs their money.

• • • In the icy, unforgiving, unforgetting night Harry sits in the kitchen, staring with blank wonder at the shoe he holds — somehow the root of his problems. He holds the shoe in both hands, as gently as one would hold an infant. Turning it this way and that, he studies the mystery of it from different angles. Charlie Chaplin, in an old, grainy, flickering movie, starving, tragically ate the soles of his shoes, spitting out the tacks like fishbones. But even Charlie had a gas flame by which to cook his shoes. Charlie didn’t live in New York in a mad, flesh-ripping century. In one of his stories, Jack London permitted his protagonist only one match with which to light a fire, a fire that was essential if he were to survive the frozen rapture.

Wasn’t there a dog in that story? It seems there was a dog.

• • • A writer, a salesman, an optimist, a dreamer. May the four always cohabit and produce wondrous progeny. His hope is that this story exemplifies for the reader the above credo.

Jay Squires is married and writes out of Bakersfield, California.

29

Poems by Christine Locker

coffeehouse or temporary moments of sanity

by Christine Locker a cigar hangs limply from pale fingers smoke twirling from cracked lips it’s all too much to take in she breathes onto the page and there are ashes in her wine but she doesn’t mind the taste and there are ashes falling on creamy white paper but she doesn’t wipe them away for fear of leaving grey smudges of stupidity in place of poetry or maybe prose [even though the ink-stained bruises on her fingers tell better stories than her head does these days] in one two three minutes she’ll put out that cigar and walk away leaving nothing of herself behind…

reset

by Christine Locker sometimes during those terrible dark days when gasoline smells better than coffee and all the nicotine in the world isn't strong enough to satisfy ohgodnotenoughtomakeitstopmakeitSTOP that desperate hunger

…except these 120 words and that is exactly how she likes it

that is when sheet music & skin become my perfect canvases on which to play out the 23 years of my life

now is the time

by Christine Locker

and when i can create n o more i sit by the window exhausted and wonder how i can re: new fresh start and begin again

when she begins to walk slower & listens to the same 3 songs on repeatrepeatrepeat while she begins to tear herself open & turn herself inside out waiting for dissection at the hands of the general public when she rediscovers her intrinsic hatred of modern jazz & all things lacking in regular rhythms or when her whole world can be salvaged by the steady beat / beat / beat / beat of a solid pop song when she writes too much but never says what she means (never says anything) & when she is – 30

by Ian Boulton

The Feeder plunder of that happy few weeks and in the kitchen pride of place had been handed over to the huge rough-hewn oak table that Christopher had restored himself and now used as his writing desk. He emptied the tissues into the bin under the butler sink and put in the empty bowl to soak. In his slippers, as he planned to be all day, he padded over to his open laptop and looked over what he had written ten minutes ago when he was preparing Pamela’s honey and lemon.

There may be considerable advantages in presenting yourself as a damaged little boy. This gives those with whom you come into contact two choices: patronise you or behave like a sociopath. Now, as we have seen in earlier chapters, the bully is easily exposed and defeated and it may suit you to encourage this response in certain circumstances. We’ll be coming to that shortly. But, more often, it is the first option that you will wish to pursue. Inure yourself to the condescension of others and you may be on the road to building yourself a very workable personality.

Christopher read it and sighed. He pushed the screen of the computer down so it was almost resting on the keyboard, as ineffectual a protection against the harm within as a flimsy eyeshade in the desert sun. He went to the cupboard where Pamela kept her supplies of seed, nuts and suet concoctions and picked up three hefty bags to take out into the garden.

She had erected a complicated number and variety of containers assembled around the various bushes and trees in their large garden according to a system that was a deep mystery to Christopher. He determined to go round in order, refilling the feeders with exactly what they had previously contained and replacing them, filled, in exactly the same spot chosen by Pamela for yesterday’s feeding. He hoped this was OK, worried momentarily that she might incorporate some kind of rotation into her daily routine, perhaps as an initiative test for the birds. But he rejected the idea of disturbing her to ask such a dumb question about something that he should know, that he should have observed during those endless hours he had watched her through the leaded diamonds of the kitchen window perform this very task.

Christopher, his slippers uncertain on the slick stone path that ran round their expansive lawn, set about feeding Pamela’s birds carefully and methodically, imitating as far as was possible his wife’s sure rhythm. He felt there was something mystical, elemental, in his wife’s routine, something she would see reflected in the birds’ behaviour if he failed to comply.

ot everybody would knock on their own bedroom door before entering but in the circumstances Christopher thought it was the right thing to do. Pamela was not a vain woman but nobody likes to be caught unawares when they are feeling poorly. He didn’t wait for a reply, just gave her a second to put on her brave face.

She was sitting up in bed, snuffling, an Elizabeth Jolley paperback open next to her on top of the duvet. She was smiling indeed, though how she could remain so cheerful with her lovely nose rubbed raw and red and her clear blue eyes streaming Christopher did not know. Even her hair, normally thick and gleaming, clung straggling and dirty round her neck.

Christopher placed the mug he was holding on her bedside table and kissed the space a couple of inches above her head.

‘I’ve brought you this,’ he said quietly.

‘Thanks, dear. Just what I need.’

Christopher could feel his eyes begin to prick at the feeble sound of her voice. To cover this, he went on, ‘Such a pity you can’t have tea. It seems odd for you not to be drinking tea in the morning.’

‘It’s just a cold, Chris. I’ll be over the worst of it by tomorrow.’

Just a cold. Christopher thought of the words he used to describe his own illnesses…infection, fever, migraine, disease…..and felt once again that admiration for his wife that was never far from the surface of his thoughts. Pamela only ever admitted to the occasional cold and headache.

This could be courage, understatement, good health or, more likely, an innate understanding that the household could only support one slave to hyperbole, Christopher thought. Whatever it was it made his heart swell each time he thought of this quality in his wife.

He picked up an empty bowl from the floor and filled it with the used tissue papers that had formed a small pyramid on her side of the room. As he turned to leave, Pamela called him back.

‘You won’t forget to feed the birds, dear, will you?’

‘Of course not. I’ll do it straightaway.’

Christopher closed the door lightly and made his way down to the kitchen, his favourite room in the cottage and one set up, as usual, for work.

When he and Pamela had first bought the place, largely on the proceeds fromNobody Will Know You’re A Bastard, they had driven all over the county, from auction house to house sale, picking up all manner of bits and pieces to furnish the place. The cottage was filled with the

N

31

‘And what help would that be exactly, Caroline? Which of your talents would you be bringing to this party? Your ability to bleed me dry? Your knowledge of house prices in the fucking Algarve bought with the blood, sweat and fucking tears of stupid easy-going fucking arseholes like me?

How would that help us right now, Caroline? Eh?’ Christopher realised he was shouting and added, softly, ‘Eh?’ Caroline’s answer came a considered three seconds later, struggling to flow through her blocked sinuses.

‘This is obviously a bad time, Chris. I’ll leave you to it.

Get back to me when you’ve got something for me to see.

Bye.’ Christopher ended the connection abruptly. He listened for any sounds coming from above, frightened that this silly conversation about nothing had woken, or even upset, Pamela.

Hearing no sound, he sat back down at the table.

Anger should never imply a threat of violence, he typed. In its most efficient form, anger is helpless. Your family and friends and colleagues will go to great lengths not to see you in a state of aggressive need…

He worked on for another hour, lost in a description of a ‘friend’ who made a point of accusing strangers of minor acts of pettiness in public places…coffee shops, cinemas… then apologising over-profusely when he realised his ‘mistake’. Adept at taking full advantage of these manufactured moments of awkwardness, his friend, Christopher wrote, had parlayed these incidents into financial opportunities, work offers and solid contacts that would come in handy in the future.

Of course there is no friend, Christopher thought. Who could be friends with anybody who behaved like that? But he knew he was fortunate to have commandeered a little corner of the self-help market where pure invention went unnoticed or was applauded as an example of practising what you preach.

Christopher thought of their real friends, gifted to him by Pamela. Cultured, considerate, fiscally conservative, socially liberal, responsibly charitable. He shuddered to think of them, any one of them, reading over his shoulder.

He knew by now that when his bitterness reached this point then it was time to take a break. He got up from the table and went to the refrigerator, took out some tomatoes, garlic, a carrot and two sticks of celery. On his way to the chopping board he plucked some basil from the pot on the windowsill. He had decided to prepare a soup for Pamela’s lunch. No cream, though. That would be far too extravagant for a lunchtime snack and Christopher felt she should avoid dairy products till she was over this awful illness.

Selecting Paul O’Dette playing Bach on a lute to accompany the food preparation, Christopher began chopping vegetables on the thick rustic board, better suited for taking an axe to meat, he realised, but perfectly suited to Pamela’s kitchen design. The timeless clarity of the music and the pleasing purity of creating a soup from scratch calmed him

Once done, he had completed a complete circuit of the garden and found himself back at the open kitchen door.

Still a long way to go before it was time to start preparing lunch, he had no excuse for not continuing his work. He placed the three bags back in their rightful place, making sure that they were securely sealed, and sat down at the table, at his computer.

He began to type in the sentences that he had honed during the feeding: There is some debate as to the extent that your manipulative mask should match your physicality or body shape. I have changed my mind about this gradually over the years till my answer to this question today is a resounding: NO! NOT AT ALL! In fact, some of the most effective/admirable Open Cowards it has been my pleasure to interview were strapping specimens that could clearly snap you in half if they had chosen a less subtle path. Remember our aim is to manipulate not intimidate…’

Restless, Christopher rose from his work and filled the kettle. While he waited for it to boil he stood by his laptop and tapped the keys with his forefinger.

If you choose to be a charmer, choose carefully. Are you a Hapless, a Hopeless or, most difficult both to explain and to pull off, a Genuine?

‘God, I’m all over the place,’ he muttered to himself and from a high cupboard he selected one of Pamela’s herbal teas at random. Surely they were all designed to fight stress? He took a bag of what looked like potpourri but which a handwritten label assured him was scullcap from Pamela’s stash, dropped it into his RSPB mug and filled it to the top with boiling water.

The phone rang just as he was about to take his first sip.

He grabbed it quickly so its ringing would not disturb Pamela. Christopher sensed his wife had, at last, been able to fall asleep.

‘Hello.’ He kept his voice quiet and curt, almost a hiss.

‘Christopher.’

The adenoidal strains of his editor made him wince.

‘Yes, Caroline. What is it?’

‘I was wondering how it was going?’

‘It’s so kind of you to enquire. She had a difficult night but I think she is resting nicely now.’

‘That’s wonderful news, Chris, but I meant do you have anything to send me?’

‘Well, I could put some dirty tissues in a jiffy bag for you if you’re that interested.’ The hiss had proved impossible to maintain. Christopher could feel the volume of his replies increasing with each sentence.

‘Haven’t you been rather disparaging of open sarcasm in the past, love? I just wanted to find out if you would be finished any time soon. Or if you needed any help?’

Before replying, Christopher counted out two beats, his slippered right foot tapping on the kitchen’s exposed floorboards.

“Of course there is no friend, Christopher thought. Who could be friends with anybody who behaved like that?”

32

On his way to the garage Christopher stopped, sensing that he had forgotten something. He almost slapped his palm against his forehead in a music hall gesture when he realised he had not saved the draft pages for Wrapped Around Your Finger: Getting Others To Do Your Bidding.

Christopher stood helplessly by the closed garage door.

Did he have time to go back to the house, go through the rigmarole with the boots (Pamela would not allow dirty footwear anywhere in the cottage but by the front door), fiddle with the computer and still get to the restaurant for the lemongrass soup before the end of their lunchtime service?

He cursed his own thoughtlessness. Inwardly, he railed against Caroline’s greed that drove him on and forced him to make stupid mistakes and at the foolish appetites of his idiotic readers who wanted to control the world around them but did not have the faintest clue how to go about it. Christopher screamed at the automatic roller door of his and Pamela’s garage for taking such a fucking age to open.

down. Funny, he thought, but I never appreciated classical music till we moved into this cottage together. Or cooking for that matter. I was, he remembered, more of an Oasis and takeaway pizza guy. He shook his head in amazement, not at his transformation, but at how he could have lived so differently, so unlike himself, for so long.

Once it was blended and heated, Christopher ladled the soup into one of the Staffordshire bowls they had bought in an incomplete set for what Pamela called ‘pennies’ and ripped up a couple more basil leafs to sprinkle on top. He placed her lunch on a tray, complete with a pretty unidentified wild flower in a tiny glass vase, and carried it upstairs.

Pamela was sitting up. She put her novel to one side and smiled at him as he appeared in the doorway, his features frozen in a mask of sympathy and concern. Pamela laughed.

‘Don’t be silly, Chris. You’ll make me feel worse. Oh, soup, lovely. I was just thinking of soup,’ she said to him as he placed the tray on her lap. She paused. ‘Actually, I was thinking about that wonderful Thai lemongrass we had in that place next door to where we bought the hall mirror. Do you remember it?’

‘Of course.’ How could I forget, Christopher thought, such a wonderful day?

‘Hmmm…’

Christopher was aware of Pamela eyeing the steaming bowl of tomato and basil with some doubt.

‘Something wrong, Pam?’ Christopher felt his slipper tap against the bedroom carpet for the familiar two beats.

‘No, dear. Nothing. This is lovely.’ The dry silver spoon hovered an inch above the hot liquid. There was a moment’s silence, broken when Christopher said: ‘I could drive to the Thai place and get you the lemongrass.’

Pamela’s laugh was light, but Christopher could hear the sickness inside it.

‘Really, Pam, it’s no trouble.’ He reached down and picked up the tray and the untouched lunch which eddied around the bowl in accusatory fashion. ‘I should have asked. Really.’

Pamela pursed her mouth, her stock gesture for thinking. Impossible not to think of her kiss when she does this, thought Christopher. She said to him, sweetly, ‘What about your work?’

‘Oh, that can wait. I need a break anyway and I can work tonight when you’re resting.’

‘Thanks, Chris,’ she said in the voice that always hastened his exit and returned her to her reading.

Downstairs, Christopher poured the untouched soup in the sink, ashamed by his choice, washed and dried the delicate blue and white bowl and placed it carefully in the place Pamela had assigned it. He checked the garden door was secure and walked into the hallway where he took the keys to the Land Rover and the front door from the antique ivory key rack fixed to the wall. He kicked off his slippers, pushing them with a toe under the hall table, and sat down on the bottom step to tie up his boots. He was trying to remember the best route to the Thai restaurant that was, he reckoned, fifteen miles away in one of the county’s many market towns. He would, he knew, have to get a move on to get there before they closed for the afternoon.

• • •

A Butt of Malmsey

by Ian Boulton

T

he day you decide to drown yourself seems as good a time as any to reflect on your relationship with water. An ambivalent one, of course, as a drinker’s must be. Impossible, really, to associate it with all those pints and shorts, no matter what your science tells you. But give it its due: it was an essential player in your highs and lows, taking much more than a walk-on part.

On good mornings you would stand under a scalding jet of the hot stuff. Of your own free will. It feels rejuvenating then, scouring away the night, the recent past, preparing you for a new day. Today, for example, you felt the pale skin of your back reddening in the en suite that reminds you of one of your stays in hospital. It is too clean, too bright in there, for your battered and bloodshot eyes.

But still you are proud of how this last day has begun.

There have been other mornings, shameful in number, you can’t hide from it, when you lay curled in on yourself in the bottom of the stall and another’s hand directed a cold spray at your squirming body. Swings and roundabouts, you say loud enough to chase away the thoughts, and walk over to the window in underpants and vest.

It’s out there now. Beyond the pelican crossing and the pebble beach you can see its gentle waves in the dawn light. If you look over to the left you’ll just be able to make out the pier and its promise of refreshment and respite.

There are swimmers and there are drinkers, you’d tell anybody who would listen, that is how the world is divided.

Let’s hope that’s true, you think, as you finish getting dressed. It would be an awful day to turn into a swimmer.

33

none of the vino today. No, thank you. It is not the drink for this occasion. But what is? A butt of malmsey?

‘Oh I have passed a miserable night,’ you declare to the wind and sea.

Your brother gave you a last chance with that. A small part but flashy, his cow of a wife playing Queen Margaret, in the pub by 8.30, drunk at curtain call.

‘You got it before it got you, then?’ This is Buckingham, nee Vanya, nee Jasper Fidget, on that first night. Smug, reformed, old queen to whom you seemed to be infernally handcuffed.

‘Eh?’ ‘You can’t drown a drunk in drink. I tried to tell your brother that but it’s clear that nepotism is his strong suit, not attention to detail.’

‘There are two types of people in this world, my man,’ you say, plunging deeply into a perilous bow from which it is by no means certain you will return. But rising, with the merest of wobbles, you hiss into Buckingham’s ear, ‘Drinkers and those, like you, that need a drink.’

The memory makes you smile. You only lasted a week but you were a good Clarence. Cowardly, hysterical, aristocratic, poetic: a portrait of lost opportunity, of wasted talents.

‘What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes! ’ You whisper to the sea.

Drowning was the furthest thing from your mind on your first visit here, wasn’t it? You brought one of your buoyant women, some fleshy manatee, down for a weekend, fancying yourself an Yves Montand to her Simone Signoret. More Donald McGill postcard, if the truth be admitted, but delusion is an integral part of your profession. The two of you sat on this beach in between her swims and your hopefully languid smoking, she in confining swimsuit, you without a jacket. When she came out of the water her skin was livid.

She asked you to dry her. You agreed and took up the towel, but before you began you pressed the flat of your hand hard against her thick wet thigh, watching the imprint turn her flesh white before it faded back. It took quite some time, you remember, much longer than with most women you’d known. It was pleasing rather than erotic to you, this habit, but one you maintained. One of the wives, the mother of the girl, particularly disliked it, wrongly suspecting it was a gauge of her multiplying fat. But nothing could be further from the truth. It was simply your way of making your mark and disappearing in almost the same instant. That was all you ever wanted really, wasn’t it, to make a deep, fleeting impression and then fade from sight leaving no evidence behind? Who would ever accuse a phantom of being an unreliable, lying cheating bastard? What anniversaries, birthdays, mortgage payments or court dates would a shadow be expected to remember?

You were meant to be an entertainment, passing through, amusing or moving to suit their fancy, vanishing aftert curtain call. Those who make a lasting impression should have more noble characteristics, you always thought, no sense in hanging around. But attachments formed and disappointments blossomed and flourished.

Now you could comfortably cast the whole of Caucasian Chalk Circle from family members who would cross the street to avoid you.

You’re relieved that you’ve treated yourself to a hotel, albeit one that is just a short walk away from the B&B you’ve been staying in for the past month. At least there will be no landlady to sneak past on your way out, no excuse to offer as you refuse yet another breakfast. There are two types of people in this world, you would declaim long after they’d stopped paying you for it. Eaters and drinkers. And we are fated never to understand each other. You remember pretending to feign disgust, though you were truly sickened by it, when The Flask began to serve food and making this little speech. Not for the first time, nor the last. Though you flatter yourself it was never the same twice, the quality and ambition of the delivery dependent on the house.

The fisherman’s smock, bought on an attempt at a family holiday in Cornwall, rather sets off the unshaven look.

Perhaps a scarf or bandana or some such would suit? In your open hold-all you find a red spotted neckerchief, presumably AWOL from some wardrobe department where they still put on G&S, and fix it in place. Splendid, if it wasn’t for the bag of a face above it, you say, feeling the daily horror at what you have become.

Once, many years ago now, you were in a production of Julius Caesar in North Wales playing, I think it was, Casca.

Remember? You were lean and strong with a voice that had not yet developed its full character. Too youthful still, ringing of health. And Caesar was some fellow who, ten or fifteen years earlier, had played a sort of teddy boy character in a sitcom for the Beeb. Nice chap who had fallen apart quite badly. You and Calpurnia used to watch him sitting in his toga, a battered text on his lap, showing his baggy underwear to all and sundry, grappling with the meaning of his lines right up until the last performance. She would whisper in your ear, ‘It’s marvellous how he keeps trying, the old sot.’

You examined the make-up of his face from a safe distance: the shadows and bruises, the ledges, ridges and valleys, the breakage, the damp and the grey. He must have been 45 or 46. He’s looking back at you now in a shabby smock and stolen scarf.

A shudder reminds you to put on your duffel coat, check the pockets for the litter of cash, avoid yesterday’s freezing fiasco. Togged-up, you leave the room and make your way down the emergency stairs and push at a barred door to emerge in the rubbish-strewn, smelly alley that runs down one side of the hotel. You can feel a reviving breeze blowing in from the sea, set your face towards it, and begin walking.

The old legs have just about reached what passes for normal working order these days by the time you get to the stony beach. You test your equilibrium, rocking from foot to foot on the pebbles, and examine the incoming tide. The wind stings your nose and ears so you pull up your hood and fasten the top toggle of your duffel, stuff your hands deep into its pockets and grasp the coins lying in one and the fag packet in the other. It reminds you of the costume you wore playing the apothecary in some ghastly travesty of an R&J up at the Everyman in the 70s. Oxbridge crap, not your cup of café crème at all.

Because you fancied yourself as quite the European when young, didn’t you? Hard to imagine it now but you were the first to take to Gauloises and wine, educating your girlfriends with midnight showings of the old New Wave.

The soft pack was there still, reassuring in your palm, but

34

The tide is almost at your feet. You wonder if there would be any pleasure in taking off your shoes and socks, rolling up your trousers, and letting the water lap around your ankles. Probably not, you decide, especially this close to the final plunge. No point making friends with the stuff at this late stage. You retreat a few yards back towards the road.

You had hoped that, with your new resolve, the waves would be inviting today. But it looks the same as always, the auld enemy. It is an antithetical element to you: refreshing, constant, efficient, predictable, essential if other lives are to thrive. It mocks you with its damned importance, like an ingénue or an award-winner.

Time for a cigarette, you think, fumbling in your pocket for the packet, aware of new anxiety. You smoke and look up and down the beach, lit dimly by a wintry sun, seeing the dog walkers to your right and left throwing sticks into the shallows. A couple sit huddled together on the pebbles sharing a single coat. You estimate that they are about a hundred yards away and figure it may be a good idea to walk to where they are, then back. Try to banish those jitters.

It’s hard going and you stop every time you need a drag on your fag. Your lungs are burning with the mingled wind and smoke. Your legs feel even older than the rest of you.

A sophisticated network of pain spreads from your ankles to calves to knees to thighs, each ache of distinct individual character.

You stop a few yards away from the couple, who remain so still that they appear to be frozen together. An indulgent tear runs down your cheek as you think of your own boy and your own girl out here in the cold. You were always an excellent crier, of course, once you’d practiced enough.

Raising a glistening eye to the overhead spots, finding just the right catch in the throat, allowing a single droplet to fall at the perfect moment: nobody could ever doubt your technique when on form. The problem, you remember, was turning off the damn tap when you were playing yourself.

The streetlights dimming draw your attention to the road.

Odd, this phenomena of your eye being attracted to an absence. You try to recall an instance of this happening on stage but cannot: either it never happens or your memory is failing.

It is darker now up there without the sodium lighting. This brings a corner shop, lights still blazing, into sharp relief.

Through misty eyes you make out its illuminated sign: Off License.

The world is almost still, the only noises the gentle rhythms of the incoming tide and some desultory traffic.

For a second you gasp in horror as it appears the shop is moving to meet you, like Birnham Wood encroaching on Dunsinane. With relief you glance down at your feet and realise that, in fact, the shop is perfectly still but you are in motion, walking towards it.

The feeling of well-being has been with you for an hour or so now and you no longer want to keep it to yourself. You need a companion.

Reaching into the duffel’s pocket you retrieve you last tenner and walk up to the bar, standing close to Dogberry and confirming that he is drinking a half of bitter. You signal with your empty glass to the overweight young barman.

‘Same again, please, and whatever my friend here is having.’

Dogberry looks up in surprise, chooses to smile and accept.

‘That’s very kind,’ he says, his voice thin, untrained.

‘Ah, it’s nothing. You’re most welcome.’ You lean in closer to him as the barman places your drinks in front of you and, in your best conspiratorial whisper, say, ‘There are two types of people in this world. Drinkers and suicides.’

Dogberry laughs. Says, ‘Too true, mate’ Your change lies in front of you. You weigh up your options. Your new friend here should be good for at least one more drink and you feel justified in spending what remains on a large brandy.

The day you decide not to drown yourself seems as good a time as any for a little celebration.

• • •

From old thought processes flee Perception is reality Burn the leash be set free

• • • About Ian Boulton: Amongst other works of published non-fiction I am one of the authors and editors of Writing For A Change (Jossey Bass 2006). Recently my fiction has appeared in Literary Juice, WrtingRaw, and The Sentinel Literary Quarterly.

_________________________

Burn the Leash

by Gabriel Goodrick Running in the park my dog and me Taking time to explore life’s mystery Burn the leash be set free You are more than what you see Rid yourself of negativity Burn the leash be set free Fill your heart, your soul with glee Don’t take yourself so seriously Burn the leash be set free

At 11.30 there are only two of you in the pub. The other is a short man in a yellow checked jacket and a harsh moustache. He would, you decide, make an excellent Dogberry.

Fear whispers what you can’t be Your spirit answers with positivity Burn the leash be set free 35

by Richard Peabody

Business and Pleasure in the Islands “Do it yourself kind of stuff?”

“I help people make problems go away. No problem too large, no problem too small.”

At which point a pair of children rounded the flagstones and the lawn chairs, with a yapping Collie on their heels.

One of the girls buried her face in the woman’s skirt.

“Hi sweetie. What’s going on?”

“We’re going to run through the sprinkler.”

“Oh honey, I didn’t bring your suit. Some other time maybe.”

“Stacey says she can lend me one.”

“No, some other time. We have to go soon.”

The little girls sped off, followed by the dog.

“What happened to daddy?”

“Hmm? Oh, that’s my sister’s kid. I’m taking care of her while my sis is in the hospital for a couple days. Her no good husband died in a car crash a few years ago.”

“Oh god I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Well, I hope your sis is okay.”

“That’s sweet, thanks. She’s just having a little procedure.

Nothing life threatening.” Island girl smiled, “So, nice to meet you,” she hesitated a moment before heading back through the screen door.

“The same.”

Ramsey turned to search for his wife and noticed that she was no longer with Stephanie, who’d moved to the side deck to be with her daughter. And now the guy who’d been hassling island girl, the problem solver, was hovering around Pam. Ramsey was just digesting the curious smile on her face when island girl poked her head out the screen door and handed him a card.

“Uhh thanks, what’s this?”

She gave a bitter little laugh, “Trust me, no problem is too large, no problem too small.”

amsey thought she looked semi-aloof, like some sort of tan island girl in her orange batik dress and ropey espadrilles, alone on the patio nursing an ice tea. Stephanie’s divorce party was in full swing. The paperwork had come through, though Duane, Stephanie’s abusive spouse, had disappeared.

Nobody had heard from him in more than a year. As Ramsey’s wife Pam was giggling with Stephanie in the kitchen, and since they were best gal pals, Ramsey grabbed a Kingfisher from the ice cooler and moseyed the other direction. Some guy was now hitting on island girl but she said something and he vanished.

“What did you say to him?” Ramsey said, as he slid the screen door shut behind him.

“Oh, that I’d cut him up into little pieces and feed him to my pet piranha if he didn’t go away quick like a good little boy.”

“You must be divorced.”

That earned a small laugh and a crinkly nose. She eyed him for a sec and then sipped her drink before answering.

“Well, if I’d been married to Duane I’d be divorced by now.

But in point of fact, I’m not married.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a problem solver.”

“Like math? Accounting?”

She smiled again. Most women show their teeth when they smile. Island girl didn’t. “I solve problems for people.

Fix things.”

R

Sonia Raizis.

Let Me Take Care of Problems for You And a cell phone number.

• • •

36

“Yeah, I mean I never expected that we’d be here in bed—“ “I’m not talking about sex.”

“Oh, yeah, my wife’s definitely with the louse who hit on you at the party and I thought well, a little revenge would be sweet.”

“A little revenge? That’s what you think?”

“I guess that sounds pretty harsh?” He searched her eyes.

“Why don’t you just walk away? Let her go?”

Ramsey pondered this for a minute.

“You can’t can you?” Sonia said with a sigh, and handed him the glass.

“Who was your first?” Ramsey was in the bed alert, watching Sonia’s face for a reaction.

“My first what?”

“Whatever you call it? Problem?”

“One of those bicycle Nazis.”

“Huh?” “The kind of macho guys who race the bike path at 100mph in their lycra racing suits. Stacey was only a few weeks old and every time I’d walk the path by my sister’s we’d get swooped on. Some were worse than others. No warnings. No bells. And some even shout at you.”

“Well it’s a bike path, right?”

“No, it’s not. The path is for pedestrians, the elderly, lots of mothers with strollers.

“So?” “So, I sat on a bench and when this asshole who’d been fucking with me for a week or so went by I stuck a collapsible metal pole through his spokes. He went flying, flipped all over the place, landed in a mess. That was it initially, I was just going to walk away, but there’s a large algae choked pond beside the trail and he was out cold. Nobody was coming. I just kind of eased him down into the muck. And then the bike. Lucky really. There’s a lot of traffic on weekends but on a Monday morning things slow down quite a bit.”

Well, Ramsey had asked. His eyes betrayed a little shock, a little fear. What kind of woman had he just slept with? “And what happened after that?”

“I haven’t asked you about your job.”

“Believe me, my life is boring compared to yours.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“So after bike Nazis you moved on to what? Phone solicitors?”

“Boy, now that would be a big contract. I’d have a steady paycheck for years and years.” Sonia moved to get out of bed and Ramsey took hold of her arm to bring her back. “I have to pee. You want a drink?”

“Sure,” he said, letting her go, watching her move with feline grace. He’d heard that phrase many times but until this minute he’d never known what it actually meant. Sonia’s muscles were well defined, rippling under her skin, just waiting to pounce.

“Here, try this,” Sonia said, offering him a glass of Chardonnay.

“Umm, good,” he said.

She pulled the glass away. “Ramsey, are you sure you want to go through with this?” She studied him, waiting patiently for his answer.

• • • Ramsey felt pretty groggy in the afterglow. They’d done it standing up against the wall, but now he was bone tired and his eyes were folding up in his head. He curled up on the bed and just wanted to sleep. And then he realized why Duane had gone missing.

“Duane, too?” he asked.

Sonia nodded. Ramsey noticed she was pulling a plastic bag out of her purse.

“Sorry about this,” she said.

“What?”

“I gave you my card. I had an inkling your wife was going to fall for the louse. She just beat you to the punch.”

“But—“ “I know I know. We were meeting just now to arrange my taking care of your little problem. And I like you Ramsey, I do. But your wife hired me just after the party. It sucks I know, what can I say? It’s just business.”

And with that she lifted Ramsey’s head off the bed and slipped the bag in place, cinching it with a green rubber band wrapped tightly around his neck. Ramsey couldn’t lift a finger. Couldn’t keep his eyes open. He could feel Sonia straddle him. Feel her naked body, the one he’d just made love to again, weigh him down as the air disappeared.

It’s not fair, he kept thinking. This was my idea. I was going to win this time. I really was. I really was.

• • • Richard Peabody is a French toast addict and native Washingtonian. He has two new books due out this fall--a book of poetry Speed Enforced by Aircraft (Broadkill River Press), and a book of short stories Blue Suburban Skies (Main Street Rag Press).

37

MISTAKE

Have you noticed S 's wardrobe transformation as well?

Dockers and Timberland? Really! Cheap Chinese clothes instead of a nice cape and breastplate? I guess it says you're just a regular fallen angel, but it's nothing I would wear, no matter where I was planning to slouch towards. Just sayin.'

So I gave them names, and a nice place to live, dominion over the beasts of the earth and the fish of the sea as kind of an afterthought and thought the matter settled. It was S himself who disturbed that equilibrium. Consider that when you hear the constant harping and negativism I endure from him, on whatever talk shows he can wangle an invitation to appear on in these waning days of his celebrity.

It was S who gave them the "apple" or "sex" or "the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil," according to the usual distorted accounts in the popular press, and thus earned them My anger and got them evicted from "paradise."

There are so many misapprehensions here I don't know where to begin. First off, there were already "apples" and "sex" (particularly sex, otherwise how could "evolution" have happened in the first place?). And the real estate involved was a nice spread indeed but it was hardly paradise.

What happened was that S, with his usual penchant for self-promotion, whispered that he would act as their "agent" and negotiate a better "deal" with Me. We all know how I hate labor unrest. I suppose I may have overreacted. There were plagues, I admit, and pestilences and famines, but there's nothing like a nice long famine to get somebody's attention. The flood business was misinterpreted. I was trying to give the place a nice little scrub-down, was all, after a particularly nasty pestilence, and who comes out the bad guy?

It did have the desired effect, once again, of getting their attention, and that's when they started worshipping Me, which I admit I kind of liked. I didn't particularly care how it was done; searing a virgin in a volcano was all the same as a nice big idol in My eyes. It's the thought that counts. Once again it was S that bollixed things up; he intimated that he could be worshipped as well. That got My competitive juices flowing. This led to a series of cataclysms that in My view, I was provoked into causing.

The whole project threatened to come to a dispirited standstill. I decided to chose a people, let them worship Me, and the rest of them could go hang. I picked a clean little clan in the Middle East, laid down a few easily understandable regulations, set them up with some property and was looking forward to giving the whole business a little benign neglect. I'm sure you know what I mean. The whole of the firmament cried out for supervision, and I was wasting My time on the equivalent of a wet spill.

Could be I chose the wrong people, because they turned out to have few talents, annoying their neighbors and complaining to Me being chief among them. Attractive women, though. Now comes the snickering, but who among you hasn't had time for a dalliance or two down there? Didn't think I knew about it, huh? Remember, I KNOW EVERYTHING. I tolerated it, sure. What's eternity without some fun? You guys want to appear in a flaming chariot to some poor teenage Greek girl, or feature yourself as a well-endowed, elephant-headed individual hanging by the banks of the Brahmaputra, you know you're going to get laid.

So when I spotted My little Hebrew maid from afar, and said to Myself, "oh, yeah," I was merely succumbing to the

by Richard Cahill

T

he whole thing started with a bit of neglect on My part. I'll admit that. Some of My more enthusiastic supporters say I'm "perfect," but I prefer "allknowing" and frankly "all knowing" does not mean the same thing as "always paying attention," despite My attention being constantly sought. If people would beseech Me less, maybe I wouldn't be so distracted. I'm not making excuses, just an observation.

I'm getting a little ahead of Myself. The entire episode began when I left a project unfinished with the intention of working over some of the rough spots in it later. It was a very busy time for Me, not domestically, of course – work kept Me too busy for a home life, and would for eons to come, but career-wise.

The universe is a big place, and eternity is a long time.

Stuff occurs. I don't accept the criticism that the situation developed because I "left a pot on the stove," or "should have cleaned out the fridge." "Mr S," as he calls himself nowadays, as part of his new "image transformation" campaign (thinking everybody's going to forget his embarrassing "Prince of Darkness" phase, or those endless "Beelzebub" years, I suppose) recently spewed forth the accusation that I "left a hoagie in the beer cooler overnight," on his blog, metaphorically implying that the location in question became soaked and rancid through My inadvertence. Also implying that I have a drinking problem, which I do not.

I say in My defense it was merely an outline, a rough draft. I seeded it with mindless toothy beasts with spectacular talents for hunting and eating each other, intending it as just a future entertainment for My workers. An eternal being gets tired of sitcoms and soap operas, and a nature show with superior production values will always draw an audience. Let a show sit in pre-production for sixty-five million years, though, and it's going to lose buzz. I knew that.

It didn't take eternity for Me to figure that out, as the S-dude (won't be long before he wants us to call him that. My prediction) likes to say.

So it turned out nobody was watching when things evolved. Yes, I said evolved; ordinarily I don't support evolution, and I don't expect any of My followers to support it, either. Occasionally it happens, however, and when I returned to that particular project, a return that nothing to do with Me "clearing out the garage" as S claimed in another one of his wearying, pointless criticisms, they were already looking up at Me with their soft, moist eyes. "Save us," they cried.

I thought they were cute. That eventually some of them turned out to be not so cute, especially as they over-ate and discovered body-piercing, was something I could have anticipated, had I not been overwhelmed by the problem of keeping a majority of you working in jobs that befitted your talents. Underemployment had led to the S situation in the first place, and I wasn't about to let it creep back into the celestial economy.

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Eventually I let them set up their own section, where they could indulge their tastes in chanting, wretched starving peasants and gay men who like wearing nice robes. And that worked out fine for another half-millennia or so. You guys snickered. I even heard some cracks about "palimony" when I had their streets repaved with gold, but it kept them over there, right?

All right, so after awhile even I got sick of the castrati lurking everywhere, just waiting to spring forth and belt out an aria at any eternal being innocently passing by. So I gave the thumbs up to Mohammed, and Martin Luther and, I admit, even L. Ron Hubbard. S claims I went from stained glass to spaceships, and he may have a point, which shouldn't surprise anyone, since he has an infinite amount of time that he and only he chooses to spend finding fault with Me, but it didn't happen overnight, like he implies.

So they're here, and they're staying here. 'Nuff said.

Some of them are even likable, and they all work hard and are easily impressed. And everybody agrees that their food is a nice break from manna, manna, manna every day.

We are not "sending them back where they came from."

Been there lately? It's a big enough mess without a lot of dead people showing up again, and given their tastes in zombie movies and apocalyptic literature, it's a move that they could easily misinterpret. "Amnesty" sounds like a nice idea, but basically it means keeping the ones we've got and slamming the gates shut to the rest of them. S will be all over Me like paparazzi on a Hollywood rehab, I make that move.

So adjust. And quit whining about the language barrier!

Would it kill you guys to take a day off from golf or kicking asteroids into black holes just to watch them spark up to pick up a few phrases in their patois? Look how they beam when you speak to them in their own language! And that sign I saw the other day---"You're in Heaven--Please Speak Angel"--that's just plain rude. I'm the one that tore it down. And it better not be going up again.

I guess the point I'm trying to make is the use of the word "mistake" regarding My doings. I've heard it. Some of you have apparently forgotten it doesn't apply to Me. I don't want to hear any grumbling about overcrowding, or any euphemisms about your neighborhoods "changing character." It's all good. Remember who said that first, and I mean in Genesis, people, chapter and verse. There's room here for everybody. It's an expanding universe. Don't forget that. And don't forget who made it that way. Me.

example of all of you guys that can never keep it in your robes.

The Kid was a disappointment, as kids can be. Scruffy and whiny, and given to rash promises. The "believe in Me, and you'll never die" deal was His idea, I assure you, but according to the negotiating framework I had to agree to in order to get S off my back, I had to follow through. That's when they started showing up here.

That's when S made his big mistake. He spread word that people could spend eternity at his place, as well. That should have been fine with Me. The Kid had pretty well goofed up His salvation project, spreading His gospel strictly among the lowlifes and then getting Himself strung up for pissing off the local Italians. How smart was that, given that it was centuries before Hoboken even existed? The salvation deal looked like it would wither on the vine, with only a couple crazy tax collectors and rummy old fishermen collecting on it. I admit that might have been a better outcome.

Ok, so at first the S announcement stirred up My competitive nature. If it were possible for Me to have a flaw, it would be that. I should be satisfied with being the Alpha and the Omega. It's not necessary for Me to win every little bar bet that gets thrown down, but that kind of rationality totally deserts Me when the game is on.

So I sent the Kid back. You have to admit, that was a showstopper. Within a couple centuries My boy's followers had a place in Rome, complete dominance over the Western world and whole batches of centurions converting people at sword point. So, okay, some of the older sections were getting filled up with the deceased souls of the abovementioned converts, but they did nice gardening work and marble-polishing, and nobody was complaining about never having to pick their own grapes again.

I put a guy out front to make sure any of them that arrived had at least some documentation, but maybe I shouldn't have selected old Pedro, because all of a sudden all of his buddies are here. Not the least problematic of which was that Hebrew maid. You all remember that. Breezed through the pearlies with that lady-of-the-manor 'tude and started making "adjustments" without so much as leaving Me a memo. I lost a couple of critical centuries before I made her understand that she was the Mother of God, not the Wife of God. I dislike legal entanglements. I've always been a free spirit. None freer, I might add. One night of lust slaked in a stable does not a commitment make.

Of course the Kid takes her side…what son doesn't take the side of His mother? And He's in a "committed relationship" himself, which I suspect He maintains just to make me look misogynistic. She's named Mary, just like his mom, but there the resemblance ends. Former barmaid, or so she claims, but I've heard the same rumors as everybody else.

I just let it be. I personally would not want to spend eternity with someone who ends every sentence with her catchphrase "and shit," but your kids make their own choices, don't they?

“The Kid was a disappointment, as kids can be. Scruffy and whiny, and given to rash promises.”

• • • Richard Cahill has been a wanderer for most of his life and a writer of fiction and humor for the last fifteen years of it.

His first novel, in the crime genre, Truth Or Bare, was published in the fall of 2007, by Kunati Books. He currently lives on the California coast with his son, Drake. Other works

by Richard Cahill have been published in the Pebble Lake Review, Starry Night Review and Firstwriter.com Magazine.

His website, on which he publishes topical humor on a regular basis, is www.richardcahill.net.

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