21. Bohemia - November 2013

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Bohemia

Brian Broadway: Portrait Artist Brian Broadway

to russia with love Colorful Photographs

whodunit?

Mystery Writing Historic Beauty with Ample Brains: Remembering Hedy Lamarr march 2014• bohemia • 1

2 • bohemia • march 2014

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Bohemia Cover spread is Savannah Loftin

by J.L. Cantrell

Alfred Hitchcock Magazine created by Amanda Hixson amanda@bohemia-journal.com Assistant Stephanie Rystrom

Acquisitions Gary Lee Webb

Thank you staff and contributors.

Bohemia is produced in Waco, TX. We take submissions from around the world. Bohemia is a thematic submissions-based journal and staff-produced magazine. Contributors, please follow our submission guidelines. More information can be found at www.bohemiajournal.com

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7 Psycha Fiction by April Henley

13 Beauty & Brains: Hedy Lamarr

by Gary Lee Webb

17 Fatal Ladies

Photography by J.L. Cantrell

20 The Fatal Decoy Fiction by Jennifer Swartz

26 Cicadas Fiction by Elizabeth Archer

31 Downhill Fiction by Tony Conaway

34 Artist Brian Broadway 40 To Russia With Love Photography by Cynthia Wheeler

53 A Murderous Maid Photography by J.L. Cantrell

59 Writing Tools: Whodunit?

by William Blackrose

65 Pulp Stories Photography by J.L. Cantrell

69 Contributors’ Pages

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CONTENTS

Misc Poetry 40, 54, 57

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Models Savannah Loftin & Marlena Burrows 6 • bohemia • march 2014

Psycha

by April Henley

S

o, I’ll pick you up around eight?”

Emily stood in the doorway, her fingernails nervously peeling off the red paint of the door. She looked every other way, except at Billy’s smile. He had a nice smile, she thought, the kind that is very persuasive.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “Daddy doesn’t like me going out at night.”

“Let me talk to him then. I have a way with dads.”

“No,” exclaimed Emily.

Her pretty green eyes grew wide with fear and the color faded from her cheeks. “I can’t let you do that.”

Billy took a step back and stared at her in bewilderment.

“Why not?”

Emily’s delicate fingers dug into the wooden frame of the door like claws, and then released. Her head, as well as her gaze, fell to the floor in shame. “I’m sorry. It’s just Daddy doesn’t do well around other people. He’s not the social type.”

“I see. That’s too bad. I was really hoping to get to know you better.” Billy turned on his heel and stepped off the porch. “Have a nice day, Miss,” he said over his shoulder, and started to walk away.

Emily anxiously looked after him, her nails scratching the paint away.

Halfway to his vehicle, Bil-

ly began to light a cigarette, when he heard footsteps catching up with him.

“Wait,” said Emily, grabbing Billy’s arm to pull him to a stop. “How about eight thirty?”

Emily silently peeked out the window as Billy drove away.

She smiled to herself at the recollection of how his soft blue eyes lit up when she told him to sneak her away that night.

Yes, we’ll have to sneak, or else–

“Emily,” yelled a harsh male voice, splitting the quiet air with hostility, “Who was that at the door?”

Emily promptly moved away from the window and made her way for the stairs.

“No one, Daddy. Just a nice boy who gave me a ride home. The truck broke down again.”

“Nice? What do you mean he was nice?”

“He was just nice,” Emily exclaimed with frustration.

“There’s no such thing as a nice boy, Emily. They all expect something from you. That’s why he gave you a ride home, because he expected something of you in return.”

Emily slammed her bedroom door shut. On the other side,

she shook her head violently and whispered, “No, no, no.”

He’s wrong, she thought.

Billy was a nice boy. She could see it in his eyes, in his smile.

He did not expect anything of her.

How could he?

“He just wants to get to know me better,” she reassured herself. “That’s all.”

“You look beautiful.”

Billy couldn’t take his eyes off of Emily. She was wearing a green polka-dot dress trimmed and fitted for her slender figure. Her flaxen hair fell in ringlets about her shoulders and her luscious red lips quivered for words. She was adorable the way she blushed so furiously.

“Thank you,” said Emily, feeling out of place in the diner.

She had never eaten out before. It felt so strange eating food she did not prepare herself, and giving her order to another person, instead of taking orders. Life outside the farm was a foreign concept to her and she felt uncomfortable.

“So, tell me more about yourself,” said Billy, resting his arm on the back of Emily’s chair.

Emily nudged forward in her seat. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. What do you do march 2014• bohemia • 7

for fun?”

“Fun?” Emily perked her brow at the word, and looked at Billy with a quizzical expression.

The word was unfamiliar to her.

“Yeah.”

“I have no time for fun,” said Emily in a depressing tone.

“I have chores on the farm and I take care of Daddy.” Emily stared down into her glass, a frown pulling down the corners of her lips. “If he ever finds out about this, about me being out with a man, he’ll be furious.”

“You’re a grown woman.

You’re entitled to a little freedom.”

“No,” exclaimed Emily, looking at Billy again with the familiar fear-stricken eyes. “I’m supposed to do what Daddy says. He has rules.”

“And, what happens if you break these rules?”

Emily bit her bottom lip, preventing the words from spilling out. She looked away from Billy and stared off into the air.

“He does plenty.”

Billy’s brow furrowed, as a horrible idea came to mind. “Emily, does your father hurt you?”

Without looking at him, Emily answered in a monotone voice, “No. Daddy disciplines me because bad girls need discipline.”

scream sliced through the silent night air.

“Daddy, please, don’t –” Emily’s voice cried out, quickly followed by a crash.

“You slut,” hollered a deep male voice. “Thought you’d given me the slip huh? Thought you’d outsmarted me huh? Sneaking out with a man behind my back, you harlot.”

“Daddy, I didn’t do anything –”

“Shut up. You’re a bad girl, a very bad girl. I’ll discipline you.”

Emily screamed again.

There was another crash. Without a second thought about the matter, Billy reached into the truck, grabbed the tire iron, and ran up to the front door.

Kicking the door in, Billy entered the foyer. “Emily?” he yelled.

“Billy!” cried Emily’s voice from the second floor.

“Shut up, you,” ordered the male voice.

Billy rushed up the stairs.

At the top, he saw one door ajar, a light breaking through and grazing the floor. With the tire iron held high, ready for assault, Billy bravely entered.

It was a master bedroom, and Billy’s heart began to pound against his chest, as his eyes fell upon the bed. He could see a figure

“Why’s it always the pretty lying there behind the weathered girls that are nuts?” Billy asked drapes. himself, as he lit a cigarette. He “Emily’s father, I prelooked over at the old farm house, sume?” he asked, stepping forward. the lights all alight inside. In day- No answer came from the light, the place looked harmless, bed. but now, under the cover of dark, “Where is Emily, you devhe thought the place eerie, sinister il?” Billy’s eyes frantically glanced even. about the room, but Emily was no “Why does she stay?” where to be seen. “If you hurt her,

Suddenly, a blood-curdling I’ll –” He grabbed a hold of the 8 • bohemia • march 2014

drapes and pulled them back, only to find something so horrible that he dropped his only weapon of defense and let out a cry of horror.

There, sitting in an upright position, was an aged, but well-preserved, skeleton.

Billy turned to leave, when a terrible pain penetrated his chest.

A knife stuck thoroughly between his ribs, Emily wielding it by its hilt.

“No man touches my little girl,” she said, but not in her own voice. It was the male voice Billy heard from outside, the same voice that called Emily a slut and a harlot.

Billy collapsed to the floor, dead.

Emily rose, leaving the knife embedded in the body.

She left the room, and when she promptly returned, she let out an awful scream.

“Daddy,” she cried at the corpse on the bed, “What have you done? So much blood. Oh, Billy.”

She fell to her knees beside the body. She reached out to touch it, but then recoiled. Tears washed her face.

“I told you not to leave this house,” said the male voice again, passing through Emily’s lips. “I told you, no filthy boys.”

“What will we do?” asked Emily, thinking about the police who would come looking for Billy once he was missed.

A heavy silence hung in the air, and then, Daddy said, “Emily, I believe it’s time you fed the pigs. I hear them squealing. They are hungry. Go feed them, now.”

J.L. Cantrell (this page and next) shot by Marlena Burrows

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Publicity shot taken in mid-1930s

Beauty with the Brains: Hedy Lamarr

by Gary Lee Webb

M

en have been undervaluing the brains of beautiful women at least since Hypatia of Alexandria (the best engineer in the Roman Empire, 400 AD). Talk about a foolish thing to do. Let’s examine one case: a beautiful woman who went 50 years without receiving

proper credit for developing technology that affects all of us.

Hedwig Eva Maria Kiesler was born in Vienna on November 9, 1914 of Jewish ancestry, perhaps mixed. She was privately schooled for many years, and then trained in march 2014• bohemia • 13

the theater in Berlin. She then returned to Vienna, working as a script girl, and then started to act, eventually starring in 31 films from 1930 (“Geld auf der Straße”) to 1958 (“The Female Animal”), eighteen of them in the 1940s. During those films, she co-starred with some of the era’s most popular leading men, including Charles Boyer, Robert Taylor, Spencer Tracy, Clark Gable, James Stewart, Robert Young, Walter Pidgeon, Victor Mature, and Bob Hope. She also starred with notable actresses, Lana Turner and Judy Garland.

It was her fifth film which brought her world-wide attention, “Ekstase,” released January 1933, in Czechoslovakia. The film involved her running nude through a forest and skinny-dipping; frontal nudity was not the norm of the 1930s and the film was widely banned. Moreover, like Brooke Shields many years later, there were close-ups of the actress’s face in the throes of orgasm, allegedly simulated by jabbing a pin into her buttocks. Suddenly, the 18-yearold actress was “The Girl with It!” Despite, or perhaps because of, her risqué start, she was considered one of the most beautiful and sensuous actresses of her time.

Powerful men are well known for marrying beautiful women, and totally ignoring their brains. They want trophy wives. So it is not surprising that the third richest man in Austria, Fritz Mandl, married Hedwig Kiesler in 1933. He limited her to his castle, and hired maids to watch her constantly. He banned her from acting, but trotted her out for dinners and meetings. His company made weapons for Mussolini, and he hosted meetings to discuss new technology with experts. Ger14 • bohemia • march 2014

many absorbed Austria, and among his guests was the new leader of the Third Reich, Adolf Hitler. Hedwig hated being caged, but she was an actress. And when he hosted meetings, she listened.

Rumor says Hedwig talked her husband into letting her wear her most expensive jewelry for a fancy dinner they went to away from the castle. Rumor also says that while she was alone with a maid, she drugged her, and stole the maid’s clothes. Hedy only said that she escaped the Third Reich and her husband, dressed as a maid. However it happened, Hedwig fled the Third Reich and her husband to Paris in 1937, and then “Hedy” continued on to London. There she met Louis B. Mayer.

Mayer hired her for MetroGoldwyn-Mayer at $500 per week and insisted she change her name.

In hommage to the late, silent film actress Barbara La Marr, Hedvig Kiesler became Hedy Lamarr.

She debuted in the hit film Algiers in 1938 at the request of Charles Boyer. She worked for MGM for 5 years.

But World War II was on, and she wanted to help. During the war she attempted to join an inventors group, but got told that she should simply raise money selling war bonds. This she did, selling kisses at $50,000, but it was not what she wanted to do. After all, she knew munitions, and she knew technology, even if the inventors would not believe she had any brains.

And one of the problems was that radio-controlled torpedoes could be jammed. She met a musician who had automated dozens of pianos to play in synch for a movie.

And they discussed technology. In 1942, the duo filed a patent for a

system that would allow a ship and the torpedo to simultaneously hop between 88 frequencies, apparently randomly. The enemy might briefly jam the controls, but unless they could guess the next frequency, the torpedo would hit its target. And then they told the US Navy they could use it.

In the 1950s, the engineers of Sylvania corporation rediscovered frequency hopping and called it “spread spectrum.” Their work was classified “secret”; she was not told. Besides, her patent ran out in 1959. Spread spectrum was used by the US Navy for anti-jamming during the 1962 Cuban missile crisis. It is also used for our government’s 25-billion dollar Milstar system controlling ICBMs today.

It was not until 1998 that she was paid for the use of her invention by the Canadian Wi-LAN Inc., one year after the Electronic Frontier Foundation finally acknowledged her work (in 1997).

Granted that calling Hedy Lamarr the inventor of cell phones is hype. Without using spread spectrum technology, rich men could still have cell phones. Each group of cell phones would use a single frequency, obtained from the FCC at great cost. However, using spread spectrum technology, millions of customers can hop across a much smaller number of frequencies, splitting the cost and making it affordable. She may not be the inventor, but you can thank her for putting that phone into your hands at a price you can afford.

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Fatal Ladies Photography by J.L. Cantrell

Model is Sadie Rodriguez march 2014• bohemia • 17

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Model is Heather Lynn Johnson march 2014• bohemia • 19

Model is Savannah Loftin

The Fatal Decoy

I

by Jennifer Swartz

t was eerily silent that night. No crickets chirped, even the usual nightly breezes were absent, offering not a single caress past the starving ear. A muffled thump from several doors down could be easily distinguished, though whether it was simply that cat knocking cush20 • bohemia • march 2014

ions over again or a body hitting the floor could not be so casually discerned.

The dragging swoosh and short, erratic scuffles did it. Curiosity aroused, I determined to investigate.

Of course, reason came to my

rescue. Almost immediately. What on earth had I been thinking? The chances of even the tiniest bit of titillation taking place in my own sphere was about as likely as a spider bite turning me into a superhero. Nothing exciting ever happened here.

Still, I was bored and there was nothing better to do.

Knocking at each neighbor’s door produced mundane vistas of cleanup after meals enjoyed or stationary bodies entranced by the glow from their television screens.

Until, the furthest door from mine went unanswered for what seemed like minutes while the occupant called out for me to wait. I did so.

Trembling & sweaty palms must be admitted but had calmed enough by the time this face appeared behind the open door. It was a woman’s.

Hair wetly straggled from beneath a worn bath towel wrapped carelessly (or hurriedly?) around it.

The scented wisps bore witness to a recent shower. Had time elapsed sufficient to the deed (whatever it was) plus personal oblutions? I doubted it. However, I then noticed her robe had evidently been thrown on in haste, as it covered a still dew-dropped & dripping... Well, she had asked me to bide a while before coming to the entrance. Perhaps my rapping knuckles had interrupted her cleansing hands. Apparently, this hit not far the mark, judging by the annoyance rapidly gaining ground over her face’s former look of inquiry.

“Yes?” She said.

Interrum filled with my dumb assessment of her habiture.

“Well, what do you want?” She finally blurted at me, waking me from the stupor like a slap to the face.

“Um, nothing.” As an automatic response, I defensively attested false innocence to her tone’s well-grounded insinuation that I was intruding. Recovering quickly (comparitively so, considering my rapidity of wit had up to now been proven bankrupt), I stammered

something about checking on her safety due to warnings from another neighbor who thought they had heard an intruder.

Touched by my concern & assumed chivalry (or compassionate toward my idiocy), she explained the already obvious fact of having been in the shower and asserted she had noticed nothing. Feigning fear, she interrogated me as to the details given by the imaginary neighbor, asking what sort of sounds they claimed to have heard.

Gradually I became attuned to her increasingly sensual vocal inflections as my eyes remained glued upon the subtly seductive motions that her body language had acquired. Dartig my eyes back to her face in a panic, hoping she had not noticed my straying mind, I found a knowing glimmer in her

eyes. Drat! My wandering attention had been observed. Chivalrous cover blown.

To my surprise, her expression softened and in a sultry voice she spoke again, “Would you like to come in?”

I stammered.

“I have red wine... Or scotch, if you prefer.” Dancing and dangling with the offer of wine, the lilt left her voice as she mentioned the scotch matter-of-factly. It had been decided. I could choose what I wanted to drink, but my entering and joining her was no longer in question.

Like any male not yet ancient and withered, I accepted.

It was pleasant, the way she languished on the couch with her arm thrown over the back in long, languid ease. The curve of her

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equally lengthy lower limbs, as one leg dangled back and forth in pendulum fashion, mesmerized my sponge-like eyes. The alcohol must have begun to take effect because comfortable numbness pervaded what I took for my euphoria.

Her easy laughter and capable conversation captivated me and somehow convinced my beleagured ego that I was equally adept at this social dance. I began to feel grand.

At some point in the night’s progress toward morning, it dawned upon me that I was a fool. No crime had occurred in my humble apartment’s vicinity. The alarm bells of intuition must only have been the product of eating a bit of who knew what that had disagreed with me. This girl was delightful and no more prone to devious entrapments than my grandmother. In the brave light of booze, I fancied myself a courageous soul with an over-active thought process who had happily not wasted his night in fruitless search but instead stumbled unintentionally into romance.

The night’s pleasures increased.

Her own intake of the luscious liquids that swirled in our matching glasses had begun to have an effect as well. Drawing nearer on her playfully crawling knees, she placed her forefinger under my chin and drew it forward back to her chest while slurring only slightly the following words, “You want me? Come and get me.” Jumping to her feet, she raced giddily around the floor of the small living room, looking over her shoulder to see if I would follow. I would.

After romping, I lay back on the couch again, breathing a bit heavier and bathed in disbelief. This sort of thing never happened to guys like 22 • bohemia • march 2014

me. And even less frequently for me specifically. Ah, the mysteries of life! Take it while you can and to hell with caution.

I got up to join her by the window where she sat to smoke a cigarette. “No, baby, I’m all pooped out. Just rest there, will you?” I was already nearly to her in that small space, so I proceeded. All had been enticement and play so far, maybe rejection of my presence was a new game. “No! Get back! Can’t a girl get some air?” The sharpness held very real anger, desperate and driven with intensity.

My shock at the unprovoked transformation of her mood would have been greater, except for the sudden remembrance of my earlier mission prompted by a brief glimpse over her shoulder and out the window. Something was out of place in the alley.

I assumed a nonchalant dismissal of her aberrant reaction and proposed giving her some space. “Call me tomorrow, k, babe?” I remained relaxed, sauntering backwards a few steps before turning to the door. I gave her my face decked out in a smile before leaving, “Thanks for tonight--you were great.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” The Jersey accent came through more and more the longer she drank. Definite relief showed through at my final departure.

Outside her apartment, I decided to stop by mine in case anyone noticed my movements. After but a few minutes, I was on my way out of the building. I had to discover what I saw.

Beyond the narrow alley lay a dimly lit form. Shrouded in the deeper coal of the neighboring building’s shadows, this unmoving figure gripped my attention and

awakened basic instinct. Glancing furtively around me for any unseen perpetrators of a yet unknown deed, I deliberated on the wisest course of action. To involve myself could bring the same mysterious trouble upon my own head. To remain unaware of the particulars left me in a dread far more terrible from complete license being thus given to my fertile imagination. I had to know.

Stepping forward, I came closer to the lump of black mostly hidden from my view by the inky lack of light.

It was a garbage bag.

Disappointed, I almost returned to my apartment but decided to snoop a little more. The bag was roughly the size of a human being.

I stooped down-Thud! A glass cylinder with a skinny neck by which the hobo held it cracked into my skull, its velocity sending stars and final black night to my inner vision. My last conscious perception was the curious odor of cheap liqour as it mixed with the irony potency of fresh blood.

Then, fading oblivion conquered all--but not before a curious illusion, no doubt part of the unconscious delirium of my defeated brain... She stood behind me and told the hobo, “Good work. He’ll join the other in the Thames. When we return, you shall be rewarded for your participation.” And, under her breath, “How I love the fatal decoy.”

Model is Stephanie Rystrom march 2014• bohemia • 23

Model is Natasha West 24 • bohemia • march 2014

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Cicadas

by Elizabeth Archer

T

he first time I saw one of those shell casings, fragile as thin brown glass in the shape of an ugly bug, I was ten years old.

It wasn’t pretty, like a butterfly. There was a horror to its hollow form. The shape without the body, filled only with imprisoned air.

“That’s a cicada shell,” my mother told me. “There was a bug inside it, under the ground sleeping.”

“How’d it get out of the shell without breaking it like an egg?”

My mother looked at the delicate thing.

“I don’t know, Nathaniel. Ask your teacher.”

I asked Mrs. Johnson. She didn’t know either. So I did my final science report on cicadas. They fascinated me. Why they appeared every 13 or 17 years. What they did underground all those years they weren’t around. How they lived in that glorious July they were adult above ground, mating and laying eggs. How they died.

Why they made that eerie buzzing sound that folks said you could tell the temperature by.

There were so many in the clump of trees down by Joe Baker’s house.

That summer they were all around his house, so loud it hurt your ears.

Mr. Baker wasn’t very friendly.

26 • bohemia • march 2014

Folks said he slept with a loaded shotgun, and my Dad told me to steer clear of his place.

But that was where all the cicadas were. I wore the camouflage clothes Dad had bought me for hunting season, and I was careful.

I collected jars and jars of cicadas before Joe saw me.

“Get your ass out of here, kid!” he shouted. He was a tall, scary looking man, probably sixty years old. His head was shiny bald, and he shook his massive fist at me. I didn’t see a shotgun.

Right then cicadas started thrumming. They drowned him out. I covered my ears. They were awfully loud—worse than a siren close up.

“See what you did!” Joe Baker thundered. “Damn bugs are screaming again. You riled ‘em up.”

When my mom found the jars, she was mad.

“You can’t keep all these bugs in your bedroom, Nathaniel” she told me. “Take them to the shed.”

The poor cicadas started screaming in their jars.

“Get rid of those bugs. Now,” said my father.

“You’re disgusting,” said my sister.

“People in some places eat ‘em,” I told her.

“I’m going to make you eat them,” said my Dad. “If you don’t get rid of them.”

I let the cicadas go. They crawled off, pathetic and weak. They only lived for month, and I had wasted too much of their short life.

“I don’t think magicicadas are from here,” I told my father at dinner that night.

“Of course they are from here.

They’ve been here as long as I can remember.”

“Not here, in the U.S.,” I repeated. “Here on earth.”

“There cicadas all over this planet,” said my father.

“But only magicicadas live underground for years and years.

Waiting.”

“Eat your fish sticks,” said my mother.

The last week in July, the magicicadas were getting quiet. Some days, when I rode my bike down the dirt road past Joe Baker’s place, I didn’t hear them at all.

Then one day, they were so loud I had to slow down. The sound was otherworldly. Scary. The cicadas were screaming. Fierce, loud, thrumming. Their battle cry.

I almost missed the body when I past Joe’s yard. I wasn’t expecting to see a body.

Joe Baker had collapsed not far from his mailbox. Mail lay scattered around him, and with it, some smashed cicadas. I hypothesized he’d been swatting them off. No one listened to me.

He was covered in them. It was as if a man was made of hundreds and hundreds of green winged bugs. Ugly, screaming bugs. He lay on his back, his face covered in cicadas.

I screamed. I think I screamed louder even than the cicadas. I didn’t need the coroner to tell me he was dead. I rode for home scarcely taking a breath.

Doc Arnold said it was a heart attack. He never explained about the bugs. No one explained about the bugs. I’ve never forgotten how they looked, swarming all over Joe Baker.

“Of course he was dead, long before those bugs crawled on him,” my Dad said. “That was just a coincidence. Those bugs are getting ready to die. They get confused when it gets to the end of July, near their time.”

“They killed him,” I insisted.

No one could tell me otherwise.

For whatever reason, the bugs had been waiting for Joe Baker. Probably for thirteen years, waiting and

planning as they ate tree roots underground.

I’ve grown up, but I’m still watching cicadas. They emerge in cycles based on prime numbers.

There has to be a reason for the things they do. Where they go. Who they choose. Why they killed Joe. One July it was Mabel Krause.

She lived a mile down the road.

Coroner said she had a stroke, but someone mentioned “she was covered in cicada bugs.” Seventeen years before that, it was old Colonel Watkins, who used to own Baker’s place. Coroner said he died the third week of July, “natural causes.

Found in his garden.”

Thirteen years before that, a twenty year old woman named Cathy Thomas was found dead in the woods near Krause’s place, on

the 24th of July. No cause of death determined, but the newspaper noted, “The cicadas were singing loudly around her, as if in mourning.” Stupid young reporter, getting poetic, accidentally getting it right.

They were around the body, celebrating.

No one takes a ten year-old seriously. But now that I’m thirty, and I’ve earned my PhD in entomology, I’m hoping they will take me seriously at last. Until then, I’m building my new home at Joe Baker’s old place. Waiting. They’ll be back in six years. Maybe ten. Next time, I’ll be watching.

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The Wander Above The Sea of Fog Artist Caspar David Friedrich (pgs 29, 30, 33)

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Downhill

by Tony Conaway

A

nother beer can tumbles down the slope and comes to rest in my vegetable garden.

It is a Friday afternoon in summer. As usual, the township troglodytes celebrate the end of a workweek with a few cases of beer in the parking lot that overlooks my property.

That’s a township lot, for the depot where most of the township vehicles are stored. Once, years ago, that parking lot was small and further away. The slope between my lowland property and their hilltop lot was a gentle incline.

But as the township grew, they bought more trash trucks, trucks for recyclables, backhoes, and snow plows. They needed more space to park them.

So they extended the parking lot out over the slope. Now, it is as if I live at the bottom of a cliff. If a driver drunkenly tips his truck or backhoe over the edge, it will come crashing down. Down on my garden, perhaps down on my house.

I used to believe that the working

class encompasses persons of noble and generous spirit. But if they do, I’ve never seen it. As far as I can tell, the thugs who used to beat me up in school all grew up into the garbage collectors and snow-plow drivers who work for my township.

I know every one of their names. I keep files on each of them.

They don’t know me. No one does, not anymore.

To drown out the klank of falling beer cans, I turn up the music on my record player. These old LPs belonged to my late father. So did this tiny house, nestled in a hollow between two hills. It was the only land my father could afford.

In literature, the working class sometimes surprises you with their knowledge and erudition. Take Pasternak’s Doctor. Zhivago, for example. Towards the end of his life, Zhivago – a physician, but on the outs with the Communist government – is living in such reduced circumstances that he can only survive by manual labor. He’s bringing in wood into the home of

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a man who is engrossed in his reading. The wood delivered, Zhivago is paid by the man’s wife. Zhivago is silently furious that he is paid by a woman, and ignored by the man of the house. He thinks, “What has this pig got his nose in?” and glances over the man’s shoulder as he leaves. Of course, the man turns out to be preoccupied with reading a book written by Zhivago himself.

This never happens to real life, at least not to me. The closest I ever came was getting a ride from a female cab driver – an immigrant from Prague – who wrote a semipornographic novel.

It’s late now, but I have a few hours of sunlight left. The troglodytes atop the hill have gone home.

I put on my gloves, grab a trash bag, and go out into my garden to pick up the beer cans.

I have complained, of course.

They ignore me. This tiny suburban township, just three square miles, is run by men who fled the city. They

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were fed up with the corruption and cronyism of city Democratic politics. So they formed their own network of Republican corruption and cronyism. The mayor, the police chief, and the supervisor of the depot atop the hill are all related.

They deny that their workers throw beer cans down the hill. “Windblown trash,” they call it.

The most they agreed to do was this: twice a year, they lower a worker down the hill. The hill is now too steep to walk upon, so he needs a rope. And he picks up any trash that is caught in the brush on the hill.

Any trash at the bottom of the hill is my responsibility. Once, they gave me a citation for not separating the recyclable beer cans from the rest of the trash that falls down the hill.

You can’t fight city hall. Even if city hall is just a cinderblock township building, next to the fire department.

But I have planned my revenge.

I have my own well here, and irrigation pipes all around my garden.

I built the system myself. Slowly, slowly, I have extended the pipes into the slopes.

At night, I turn on the water.

Slowly, slowly, it is undermining the slope.

One day, perhaps soon, it will all come crashing down. The trucks, the plows, the backhoes, and the men.

And if it crushes my house, if it kills me, that’s an acceptable price to pay. Collateral damage.

As long as I get them. As long as I bring them down to my level.

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Artist Brian Broadway Waco, TX brianbroadway.com

Brian Broadway – (born 16 July 1968) is an internationally renowned and award winning fine artist. Broadway is best known for his pop culture, realism, and monochrome portrait works, but has also become accomplished in abstract works. His art reflects Picasso and Gerhard Richter in that it supercedes the inclination that an artist must specialize in one specific genre.

Broadway is regarded as one of America’s most sought after artists. His works reside in the private collections of several well known actors, professional athletes and musicians. Recently, Broadway exhibited and sold work at the prestigious Wilbur Jennings Gallery/Kenekebela House in Manhattan. In 2012, his painting of legendary soccer player Bobby Rhine was placed permanently on the walls of the University of Connecticut. The artist is currently exhibiting his works in museums and galleries throughout the U.S. and Europe.

“I was told from the beginning to paint what you love.

And even though I was born and raised in Texas, I’m just not a cattle ranch/Blue Bonnet/ rodeo/ windmill type of guy. I don’t paint the landscapes, not that I don’t have a lot of respect for it.

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“I grew up watching the black and white movies.

I watched Jerry Lewis and Elvis, the late night movies on TV when everyone else was going out and watching the latest things. People didn’t get why I wanted to isten to different music, like Miles Davis.” march 2014• bohemia • 35

“The monochrome collection, people are really into it. They love Elvis or they love Lucy, and the black and white hits them from across the room. You can see the work from 20 feet away and see all the details. Or you can put your nose on the canvas.”

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“Einstein” Brian Broadway

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“The Jazz Collection” Brian Broadway 38 • bohemia • march 2014

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To Russia With Love

Photography by Cynthia Wheeler Models (this page) Brenda Flores (next) Stephanie Rystrom

Hair Shannan White Make-up Alex Williams Poetry by William Blackrose

Passing on a culture Beliefs and legends From the old world into the new A story brought by our ancestors And told to our children Something that is handed down to us Passed down within a culture Still maintained in the present With origins from the past If we don’t sustain them They will fade into the oblivion Melt into thin air Gone and forever lost We have to uphold them So they don’t vanish So the principles The beliefs and lessons Of the old world Still maintain in our life In our generation And in the next

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Axsiri Authentic Designs www.etsy.com/shop/AXSIRI

Irina Nekrasova Denver, Colorado

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A Murderous Maid Photography by J.L. Cantrell Featuring Vivian Leigh

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In The Night Temple

by Mark Mitchell

A Hitchcock blonde greases prayer wheels while you chase snakes around a blind corner.

Stairways grow everywhere.

Bald monks belt a chant.

The priestess mounts a pulpit (perfect replica of the Argo’s prow) to scat out some moral lust song.

There are no straight lines and each curve is honored by a window of major league pitching or a mirror that has the grace to surprise you.

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By Candlelight

by William Blackrose

Burning wicks Lively little flames Dancing playfully As her courage builds At last she feels safe A tongue of flame Helps to light up her life Through the long and dark Cold winter's night

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Writing Tools

by William Blackrose

A Review of The Howdunit Series by Writer’s Digest Books.

W

ith all the wonderful stories and ideas that come through this magazine, sometime one has to wonder where they get the knowledge and background for the little details that make the stories so realistic and believable. One such source is a series of books put out by “Writer’s Digest Books” under the subheading “Howdunit”. These books provide a lexicon of details on various subjects ranging from the broad topics of police procedure to the fine details for forensic processing, and even to the details of weapons and poisons and all the little things that let them be portrayed properly in writing.

As it would take half a magazine to outline all of the books, I am simply going to highlight on a few that fit inside the theme of this month’s magazine. Hitchcock loved his murder mysteries and as such, I am going to tell you a bit about “Murder One”, which focus-

es on homicide and “Deadly Doses” (recently republished with updates as “Book of Poisons”) which, as it sounds like, focuses on various poisons and their effects, availability, as well as what trace they might leave behind.

Murder One, subtitled as ‘A Writer’s Guide to Homicide’, gives not only the basic understanding of what is considered a murder, but goes into the weapons, types, motivations and styles of murdering your victims. Being from a criminal justice background, I was very happy to see them distinguish the difference in these murders. While someone not in the criminal justice field might not notice the detail, I was most appreciative of that clarification for writers in the crime genre.

As I have the updated copy titled Book of Poisons, I will be discussing this text as well. Instead of just giving your murdered a generic

“poison” to use, This volume in the Howdunit collection gives you amazing levels of detail such as toxin level, the common form it is found in, symptoms and even if there is an antidote. There are also Case History excerpts scattered through the pages detailing times where these poisons were actually used in real crimes. If you want to poison your character, even if it is to delay and not kill them, then this is one resource you do not want to go without.

While I could expound on the range of other topics covered in the series, I think that leaving a bit of mystery in what you can find is more appropriate. After all, we as a species love a good mystery.

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M

Matt Needle www.mattneedle.co.uk /

att Needle has been in the world of design for about 5 years in addition to 4 years in art and design education.

He has always been inspired by movies, TV, music and general pop culture. Even as a child, he sketched movie posters for Disney films and illustrated his favorite stories. His style has developed, but he has always been intrigued by the simplicity of shape, form, and color. His leaning towards the abstract does not stem from a desire to be trendy.

His intent is encourage his audience to think about and analyze what they are viewing. “I am not happy unless I am creating,” says Needle.

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John Keaton www.johnkeatonart.com

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J

ohn Keaton is an internationally known artist, illustrator and designer. He is a master at creating atmosphere and his works convey deep emotions. His style ranges from the highly realistic to the broad abstract; each image is a highly refined and compelling entity unto itself. Keaton’s subjects include intense portraits of children, incredibly detailed exotic flowers and emotive Native American and Mexican inspired works. He utilizes a variety of mediums: pencil, ink, oil and acrylic, but is also capable of creating digital artwork and combining the traditional with the computer. march 2014• bohemia • 63

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Pulp Stories!

Photography by J.L. Cantrell

the Strangler

Models Natasha West Burrows & Sadie Rodriguez

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Nap Time

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Models Natasha West & Sadie Rodriguez

woman Scorned

Models Stephanie Rystrom & Heather Lynn Johnson

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Pscycho

Model Savannah Loftin

Contributors Photographer J.L Cantrell, 39, has been a part of the Central Texas Photographers group for two years and says he owes much of his development to Pat Jones and Blue Scarlett Photography. He is an Air Force veteran and huge Baylor fan. He is currently exploring the Noir style of photography, but appreciates all kinds and says he doesn’t ever want to stop learning. “I’m a better photographer today than I was a year ago, and as long as I don’t just put the camera down, I’ll be a better photographer a year from now... “ He is married and lives in Dripping Springs, TX. 68 • bohemia • march 2014

Contributors Elizabeth Archer is my pen name. I have published some poetry and flash, and I am working on a novel I hope to submit soon. I have a degree in English, and am working on my graduate degree William Blackrose is an Egyptian born writer and photographer that is dedicated to using unusual perspectives in all his projects. Constantly flipping gender as well as style to craft new perspectives, he is working on his novel. His current works include Twin Minds, Tears of Kharon, and his newest project Bloodfire.

Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Tony Conaway has written and ghostwritten everything from blogs to books. He has cowritten nonfiction books for such publishers as McGraw-Hill, Macmillan and Prentice Hall. His fiction has been published in anthologies and numerous publications, including Clever, Danse Macabre, Linguistic Erosion, qarrtsiluni, and the Rusty Nail.

April Henley “God set two passions in my heart: A love of horses and a love for writing. The first inspired the second, and now, everything around me adds to my treasure trove of inspiration. My desire to write led me to Baylor University, to major in Professional Writing, and now, I work as a technical writer for Pinnacle, a Halliburton service. The most wonderful thing about writing, to me, is the feeling of release, like falling down the rabbit hole into my own perfect Wonderland.”

Jennifer Swartz has been publishing with Bohemia for 3 years. She paints, writes, and models. Jen has recently relocated to Seattle, Washington with her husband, writer and orator Jesse Jefferis, with their doggie, Gracie.

Mark J. Mitchell studied writing at UC Santa Cruz. His work has appeared in many periodicals as well as the anthologies Good Poems, American Places, Hunger Enough, and Line Drives. His chapbook, Three Visitors is available from Negative Capability Pres, his novel, Knight Prisoner was just published by Vagabondage Press. He lives in San Francisco with his wife, the documentarian Joan Juster.

Gary Lee Webb is a 16-year resident of Waco. He has lived on three continents, visited four, and speaks many languages … badly. His credits include over 240 public speeches, four decades of conferences and contests, assisting the Waco Cultural Arts Fest, and over two dozen publications. He is 58, married 36 years, and has 4 daughters.

Cynthia Wheeler is a Waco native and mother of three. She writes, paints, and does graphic design. Her true love is photography. She volunteers at the Waco Center For Youth.

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