The Bicycle Review
Issue # 14
5 January, 2012
Photography by Regina Walker
All images copyright 2012 by Walker
#14
...is brought to you by no one. That's right, N-O. Not SF General's Psych Ward (tho they tried) nor through the generous but increasingly nervous complicity of one of my old friends. It is all being done here, in the Hotel Civic Center in San Francisco, which is the main headquarters for B.R. until something (only slightly, no doubt...) more lavish presents itself. It has been over a year since I've been able to say that, and here's hoping this next one will more thoroughly promote the idea (Patently false?) that we have our extra-editorial shit together in some way or other...
...features the Photography of Regina Walker, whose blend of Still-Life and Urban Landscape creates compositions which are in their own right a kind of Abstract Art. We could not be more pleased to be sharing her work with you here.
...resumes Edward C. Wells' "the Rider", a 5 part serialization, along with new work by Rick Lupert, the one and only poet ever featured at the original "5 Bicycle Review" reading in North Hollywood, after which this pub is named. Adam Henry Carriere, John Bennett, Thirii Myint, and Ricky Garni all return with new work. Also...in case you missed it the first time around...selections from Joe Rosenblatt's "Work in Progress (Snake City)", first excerpted in our Stories Archive. And more and more more more...
Share the Road,
J de Salvo
...features the Photography of Regina Walker, whose blend of Still-Life and Urban Landscape creates compositions which are in their own right a kind of Abstract Art. We could not be more pleased to be sharing her work with you here.
...resumes Edward C. Wells' "the Rider", a 5 part serialization, along with new work by Rick Lupert, the one and only poet ever featured at the original "5 Bicycle Review" reading in North Hollywood, after which this pub is named. Adam Henry Carriere, John Bennett, Thirii Myint, and Ricky Garni all return with new work. Also...in case you missed it the first time around...selections from Joe Rosenblatt's "Work in Progress (Snake City)", first excerpted in our Stories Archive. And more and more more more...
Share the Road,
J de Salvo
_
Divine Intervention
I see a couple pray before oatmeal
in a valley diner
She couldn't find her spoon so
Maybe that's what they were praying for
The waiter points out her spoon hidden
between her bowl and serving plate
But they give the credit to God
Their lips touch briefly
The oatmeal goes
into their mouth.
Copyright 2012 by Rick Lupert
Divine Intervention
I see a couple pray before oatmeal
in a valley diner
She couldn't find her spoon so
Maybe that's what they were praying for
The waiter points out her spoon hidden
between her bowl and serving plate
But they give the credit to God
Their lips touch briefly
The oatmeal goes
into their mouth.
Copyright 2012 by Rick Lupert
Forgiveness
The over-rating of orgasm
has become a national sport
unreported by battalions
of chattering magpies,
whose tenured myopia
feeds the prerogatives of egos
too spongy to finger.
The thought thieves
neither sweat nor groan
when their pallid thighs
open and mistake complacent
satisfaction with quality sodomy,
when warm fluids teach an uncorrupted mind
how to swallow, and a good lay
passes
with much notation
for forgiveness.
Copyright 2012 by Adam Henry Carriere
Where Again?
the song of the bird
is inside the pistol.
Copyright 2012 by Ricky Garni
Beau Brummell in Snaketown
An absolute gem of an Arabic proverb declares that “If the frog frolics upon the land, can the serpent be far behind?” Now I can see an obese straddler, a deeper bice green than the felt lining on a billiard table stretching his pneumatically powered legs to the elastic limit, and with the confidence of a star athlete leaping onto a patch of dry land. Only moments before our batrachian challenger had been resting upon a stark white lotus. Arrested by its aroma, he has slipped into a hallucinogenic state, unaware that keener eyes had been following his every move.
Patterned in lateral bars like some overdressed Beau Brummell in Snaketown, a Black Mamba opens his dark blue mouth, while the yellow pupas of the reptile’s dark brown eyes are wholly focused on a noonday snack, ready to lash nine feet of measured fury at a scrumptious noonday nosh. So life is played out in this manner, as one minute you’re there on solid snake- free ground and, the very next moment, you’re being slowly sucked down Fate’s asphyxiating gullet, subject to a unique cooling system, fanned by the vibrato of this reptile’s forked tongue as you travel down the tube to oblivion.
Let us imagine that a silent witness is standing in awe at a safe distance watching the entire floor show. That observer could be you or I, or even your dog off its leash, realizing it, too, could be suctioned head first, drawn through the small mouth of an expandable head, swallowed by degrees deeper into a flexible tube to be finally turned into a protein reserve of canine jelly. I am respectful how advantaged that predator is in picking up the scent of nearby prey with an oscillating forked tongue, while absorbing the very ground vibrations of its quarry. What other predator is fortunate as to be imbued with an inborn seismic direction finder, a bodily device so vulnerable to increased amplitude, it could go awry with an abrupt seismic shift in the earth’s Tectonic plates. The overwhelming flood of intense conflictive energy would overwhelm and confuse the inner ear of that pursuing reptile, causing the creature to lose track of his prey.
The ongoing dining out experience can be viewed as a circular process, one incorporating a cycle of birth, transitory life, death and rebirth. My favourite circled snake is the Sumerian fertility god Ningizzida, "Lord of the Tree of Truth,” who at times is in possession of a human head. This fructifying deity would be the perfect understudy to that dark harvester attired in a black djellaba-like hooded cloak, a loose fitting garment allowing a pair of skeletal hands to wield a long handled scythe to cull the surplus population. I am inclined to think he uses the finest true grit whetstone to sharpen a scythe that never seems to suffer metal fatigue, and that scythe wielding lunatic couldn’t work fast enough for reverend Thomas Robert Malthus, who believed that the poor were proliferating far too much to sustain them in creature comforts, like food intake. The Reaper had his task in making whoopee with famine, plague, and a long sustaining war offering a goodly harvest, which begs the question: Why is the Reaper’s face as dark as a Black Mamba? Could it be the Reaper is made of antimatter, of shadows devoid of fully formed protoplasm—a visage?
Why does he need a pale horse and when he can ride alone saddled on a white Boa constrictor? Some snakes can make twenty miles per hour but then a horse can do forty and more miles per hour. An overachiever in shape shifting, the Grim Reaper can instantly morph into anything from a squawking black raven staring menacingly on a high branch to a Alabama pit viper hiding in some closet in the guise of a black silk tie, decoratively embossed with a triangle shaped head to match its cat-like pupils; it would be a uniquely patterned neckwear , one longing for a Windsor knot, to go with a single-breasted tuxedo jacket with three or four silver monogrammed buttons –a trendy combo favored by some high society gigolo, or a spiffy bankster.
Snakes depending on their length can serve as zany pet ties even if they are on the scaly side. I see a drawer in a dresser where ties are resting, and the danger that a drawer can turn into a nursery—consider an oviviparous tie laying some eggs and then what? As well, the territorial rivalry is as intense as it is with felines.
Danger lurks: a possible snake riot, with snakes gorging snakes--- no more neckwear, a belt perhaps once the pepsin level settles in the winner’s innards and the elasticity returns to normal longitude, 70 cm, wearable with a triple fisherman’s knot-- maybe, size matters here. So does fun, like flashing one’s tie at a social function, introducing one’s tie: “Hi, this here is Fred, he’s a San Francisco Garter Snake, a brand new baby, go ahead, he likes a cuddle.” Or “Hi, this is Francine, kind of cute, just finished nesting; I think she’s pregnant again. Damn!”
And then there are party games one can play: My snake is bigger and more challenging than yours. I can envision snake fights, a pettifogger, if there ever was one, a wealthy party animal, letting his pharaonic personality disorder take flight, daring an opponent on a bet to throw down his fighting reptile. The bets are on as to who the winner will be. It is a fight to the death, hissing and venomous bites. No guest at this exclusive party will rat out those “snakers” to the SPCA.
Only the most adventurous smart dresser would bring a patterned Madagascar boa constrictor in lieu of a feather boa to a cocktail party to show off how her pet can sip a dry martini and then turn to lick her cleavage, thereby spilling a few drops.
Copyright 2012 by Joe Rosenblatt
as usual morning takes on an air of metonymy.
maybe i will let the beard grow out. down there someone licks a new recording of an old song. a change. excellence. he thinks of moving into her house. attempts at a marriage of proximity. many i wash three of four times. read maybe the marginal silence. and you would. wouldn’t you. bar chord a dozen new songs. valuable. old magazines. filled with an other yet. holding a yield of undiscoverables. hold the note out past an eight count. diminish. can confusion be the modern equivalent of emotion. a motion tucked tight in a can of soup. it’s something to think about at least. better than eating a frozen pot pie. while loneliness puts another worn out song on the music exchange. gruffly. better to turn it off than play outside.
Copyright 2012 by Gary Lundy
_
Suggestions from the Candy Store on 24th St.
For a long time, people tried to avoid the candy store on 24th St. No one knew why everyone called it that. No one could remember if the plain, white building with the smoke-glass windows had ever sold a piece of candy or anything else for that matter. But that wasn’t important to the people in town. What did matter were the yellow notes taped every day without fail to the store’s front windows.
The “suggestions” as people called them, varied a good bit. Sometimes, they were helpful. Jaime Osorno, a teacher who used to live down the street, once received a note telling him to buy a lotto ticket. Jaime had always been a practical man, and he never even thought to play the lotto before, but knowing what everyone else knew about the candy store, he didn’t ignore the advice. The next week, you could hear the whooping and screaming at the Osorno home when Jaime found out he’d won the jackpot.
Other times, the results weren’t so good. Kevin Brockmeier was told to follow his wife to her Yoga class only to find out that she was cheating on him with an instructor who fancied himself a guru and who had a thing against deodorant. And Megan Cutler was told to see the doctor about her sickness, which she didn’t know she had, but which within three weeks would kill her.
Of course, mostly, the suggestions were pretty neutral—even bland at times—like the little notes one gets in fortune cookies. “Be good to your kids.” Or, “Work hard and one day, you’ll be successful”—that kind of thing. Still, most people hoped they’d never get a note, even though everyone in town knew that sooner or later, they’d wake up with that tingle and with a yellow note with their name on it taped to that blackened storefront window. Everyone got a note eventually—everyone, that is, except for John Carney.
John worked at a bar a block down from the store. And in the twenty years he worked at The Barley Mow, he never gave the store or its suggestions much thought. In his 20s, he was too busy getting drunk on the Pisco Punch whose recipe he’d perfected after much trial and error. And in his 30s, he got married and had a kid and then another, so he was too tired to think of much else other than the sleep he wasn’t getting. But then, just about the time he was to turn 40, something changed. He started wondering why he was the only person he knew who’d never received a note.
A couple days before his birthday, he walked up and stood in front of the store. He got up close to its front window but couldn’t see what was inside because of the smoked glass. He did, however, see that there was a note waiting for Joni Anderson. Joni often came into the bar, and he liked her. He hoped the message was a good one—or at least not a bad one. But there was also a part of him that was jealous. So he decided to take matters into his own hands. He wrote a note of his own and taped it to the window. He wanted to know why he was different from everyone else in town, and suggested that he too should get a note. Then he went to the bar and got drunk and forgot about what he'd done.
But the next morning, when his wife woke him up to remind him that it was his turn to make dinner, she seemed uneasy. John was a bit hazy, but once she said something about the store, he woke right up. He turned on the news and found that the morning anchorwoman seemed less sunny than usual. For the first time in as many years as anyone could remember, there was no note waiting on the candy store window. As much as people wanted to avoid the place and its little yellow notes, now the town was in an uproar. By the time John got dressed and out of the house, it seemed like everyone was out there wringing their hands.
John worried that maybe he’d caused the problem, but he didn’t tell anyone what he’d done. The next day was the same as was the day after that and the day after that. People started getting desperate as the noteless days went on. They came to believe that a void had formed in the town—a gaping hole that needed to be filled. At the bar, it was all anyone could talk about, which only made John feel more guilty.
After about a month with no notes, John couldn’t stand it anymore. He decided that maybe he just needed to apologize. So, after pouring himself a few too many Jamesons, he poured his heart out onto a piece of paper apologizing if he’d offended anyone and asking for the notes to start up again, which, as it turned out, they did the next day.
In fact, the next morning, a note with John’s name on it was taped to the store’s window—that is to say, a piece of yellow paper with just John’s name was taped there. Apart from that, where usually there would’ve been a suggestion, there was nothing. Just yellow space. No one thought much of it. They were just glad that things were returning to normal. But the next day, another blank note appeared and then another, and another after that—all addressed to John Carney.
People were curious at first and then incensed. They thought he was hogging the candy store’s attention. But after a while, they started to whisper when John passed them on the street as he made his way to pick up his note for the day. What, they wondered, did it mean? What did it mean to get a blank note? What advice could be derived from that? It had to mean something. It had to, didn’t it?
Copyright 2012 by g. martinez cabrera
Suggestions from the Candy Store on 24th St.
For a long time, people tried to avoid the candy store on 24th St. No one knew why everyone called it that. No one could remember if the plain, white building with the smoke-glass windows had ever sold a piece of candy or anything else for that matter. But that wasn’t important to the people in town. What did matter were the yellow notes taped every day without fail to the store’s front windows.
The “suggestions” as people called them, varied a good bit. Sometimes, they were helpful. Jaime Osorno, a teacher who used to live down the street, once received a note telling him to buy a lotto ticket. Jaime had always been a practical man, and he never even thought to play the lotto before, but knowing what everyone else knew about the candy store, he didn’t ignore the advice. The next week, you could hear the whooping and screaming at the Osorno home when Jaime found out he’d won the jackpot.
Other times, the results weren’t so good. Kevin Brockmeier was told to follow his wife to her Yoga class only to find out that she was cheating on him with an instructor who fancied himself a guru and who had a thing against deodorant. And Megan Cutler was told to see the doctor about her sickness, which she didn’t know she had, but which within three weeks would kill her.
Of course, mostly, the suggestions were pretty neutral—even bland at times—like the little notes one gets in fortune cookies. “Be good to your kids.” Or, “Work hard and one day, you’ll be successful”—that kind of thing. Still, most people hoped they’d never get a note, even though everyone in town knew that sooner or later, they’d wake up with that tingle and with a yellow note with their name on it taped to that blackened storefront window. Everyone got a note eventually—everyone, that is, except for John Carney.
John worked at a bar a block down from the store. And in the twenty years he worked at The Barley Mow, he never gave the store or its suggestions much thought. In his 20s, he was too busy getting drunk on the Pisco Punch whose recipe he’d perfected after much trial and error. And in his 30s, he got married and had a kid and then another, so he was too tired to think of much else other than the sleep he wasn’t getting. But then, just about the time he was to turn 40, something changed. He started wondering why he was the only person he knew who’d never received a note.
A couple days before his birthday, he walked up and stood in front of the store. He got up close to its front window but couldn’t see what was inside because of the smoked glass. He did, however, see that there was a note waiting for Joni Anderson. Joni often came into the bar, and he liked her. He hoped the message was a good one—or at least not a bad one. But there was also a part of him that was jealous. So he decided to take matters into his own hands. He wrote a note of his own and taped it to the window. He wanted to know why he was different from everyone else in town, and suggested that he too should get a note. Then he went to the bar and got drunk and forgot about what he'd done.
But the next morning, when his wife woke him up to remind him that it was his turn to make dinner, she seemed uneasy. John was a bit hazy, but once she said something about the store, he woke right up. He turned on the news and found that the morning anchorwoman seemed less sunny than usual. For the first time in as many years as anyone could remember, there was no note waiting on the candy store window. As much as people wanted to avoid the place and its little yellow notes, now the town was in an uproar. By the time John got dressed and out of the house, it seemed like everyone was out there wringing their hands.
John worried that maybe he’d caused the problem, but he didn’t tell anyone what he’d done. The next day was the same as was the day after that and the day after that. People started getting desperate as the noteless days went on. They came to believe that a void had formed in the town—a gaping hole that needed to be filled. At the bar, it was all anyone could talk about, which only made John feel more guilty.
After about a month with no notes, John couldn’t stand it anymore. He decided that maybe he just needed to apologize. So, after pouring himself a few too many Jamesons, he poured his heart out onto a piece of paper apologizing if he’d offended anyone and asking for the notes to start up again, which, as it turned out, they did the next day.
In fact, the next morning, a note with John’s name on it was taped to the store’s window—that is to say, a piece of yellow paper with just John’s name was taped there. Apart from that, where usually there would’ve been a suggestion, there was nothing. Just yellow space. No one thought much of it. They were just glad that things were returning to normal. But the next day, another blank note appeared and then another, and another after that—all addressed to John Carney.
People were curious at first and then incensed. They thought he was hogging the candy store’s attention. But after a while, they started to whisper when John passed them on the street as he made his way to pick up his note for the day. What, they wondered, did it mean? What did it mean to get a blank note? What advice could be derived from that? It had to mean something. It had to, didn’t it?
Copyright 2012 by g. martinez cabrera
Poem for the New Yorker
I’m tired of trying to be smart. There are too many books to read. I give up. I should’ve been thin.
I should’ve been a little fucked up. Is it too late to acquire cheekbones? I need to learn how to look
bored. Or sexy, or hungry. What should my hair smell like? I haven’t read anything but erotica
in a week. The last time I felt alright I read the New Yorker. I cheated and looked at the comics
first. Felt dirty. Didn’t give a fuck. It’s pathetic to be a fat coke addict, right? I’m not fat; I’m
just asking. My wrists are small. My fingers are long and tapered. No, I don’t play the piano. I’m
not good at texting either. The last book I read was King Lear. It was alright. Before that I read
The Idiot. Sometimes I pretend I’ve read Brothers and Notes too. Do thin girls read Dostoevsky?
Plath? Narbokov? Woolf? Surely something French. God, I hate the French. Yes, I am a racist.
Mostly I want to marry a physicist. I think it’s hot when a man talks about the universe. Mostly,
I want to sit here and deconstruct romantic love with you – neurologically, phenomenologically,
sociobiologically. Alright, I admit I looked up list of words that ended with -logy. Most of them
were boring. Look, if I pretend not to notice, will you fall in love with me? I’ll look out the
window. I’ll arch my neck just so. My stockings have many holes in them. I’ll light a cigarette.
Lung cancer is a serious thing. My black eyeliner is also serious. The sunlight makes a blue halo
around my head. My hair is black, uncombed. It smells like rosemary and beer. I squint into the
sun. My eyelashes are long. You fall in love. Done. But instead, I sit here and fidget on the end of
your bed. Instead, I am going to tell you an okay story about my childhood. Instead, we’re going
to make out with our clothes on and afterwards I’m going to say that love is a bourgeois fantasy.
You’re going to drive me home, keeping your eyes on road and before us, the road will be long and
clear, and there will be windmills rising on the hills like sentinels.
Copyright 2012 by Thirii Myint
Seven AM Hurrah
A victory parade was held in my neighborhood this morning.
It consisted of a man honking his car horn in a joyous manner.
Nearby a chainsaw did it’s thing against celebratory branches.
Congratulations I say! After a while they moved on...time is
so vague this early in the morning. Where they went, I don’t
know. The parade route was not made available to me
Copyright 2012 by Rick Lupert
The Rider (pt. 2)
Thud. Writer looked down and picked up Umbrella. He returned Umbrella to a reclining position against the seat with the bag in it. He then lowered the metallic foot rest in front of that seat and placed the tip of Umbrella in one of the slots. He smiled, then looking closer and from other angles lowered the foot rest further and withdrew the tip. Then he slid it into another slot that allowed Umbrella to rest against the seat and the outer wall of the vessel. This time Writer did not bother to smile. Instead he closed his eyes and lowered his head.
On buses sometimes, and in all places, what has once been comfortable may become less comfortable. In these moments there seems little else to do than to make changes until some semblance of the comfort once enjoyed is once again regained. Toward an end similar to that Writer began to move after departing from the stops after his original boarding and the many different points between.
He lifted his legs from the rest in front of him and moved to stretch his legs out beneath the seat to the left ahead of him. He attempted to push the metallic foot rest up. It did not yield. There was a strength in the way it resisted, a giving until a point that then offered a greater resistance and then finally a resistance that outlasted the initial effort that was applied creating a sort of pushing back against the waning advance.
Umbrella moved, stirred slightly in its resting point against the wall of the vessel and the seat; turned to the right slightly, toward Writer. Writer looked over at Umbrella and then looked down to where Umbrella's tip rested in the slot of the foot rest. He wondered if he hadn't somehow damaged Umbrella. He moved its tip up into the small slot between the seat in front and the wall. Umbrella reclined much farther now. The handled end of it nearly rested against the back of the bus seat and some section near Umbrella's middle rested against the edge of the seat of the chair.
Writer began to doze.
It was dark outside. Dark and light met at sharp contrast and in space revealed as hazy by the moisture in the air. Street lamps whizzed by casting beams in through the windows of the vessel. Umbrella laid on the seat as the world outside reflected itself in light through the window. The beams hitting Umbrella and then bouncing off in reflection of Umbrella.
Keep in mind that Umbrella was made to withstand far more than the gentle and brief light of a passing street lamp. It was made to protect against the day-long bombardment of the sun's light. The ultra-violet light that can cause lasting change in physical structures, in relatively short time. With strength like that You can imagine that Umbrella may have actually been relaxed there, riding inside the bus through the night.
Copyright 2012 by Edward C. Wells II
Don’t Bother To Knock
Saw a terrifically scary movie the other night.
Had a thought.
What about throwing a cute little bunny rabbit in there?
Marilyn Monroe hog ties a little girl in her bed.
She locks her uncle in a closet, runs down the stairs
of the hotel, buys a razor blade and holds it to her wrist.
Hippity Hippity Hop.
What’s that? Marilyn Monroe asks.
Why, it’s a bunny rabbit, Richard Widmark says.
Isn’t it the cutest thing, Marilyn Monroe says.
The bunny rabbit sniffs the razor blade and hops away.
Hippity Hop!
Aww, Marilyn Monroe sighs,
Is there anything more precious in the whole world?
Everyone smiles. The police bang on the door.
Hmmm, Marilyn wonders, now where was I?
Copyright 2012 by Ricky Garni
Fleur de Filth
The bedroom door was wide open. A tall, toothless, skeletal man was doggie-style fucking what looked to be some sort of sea manatee. There was a sinister, bearded creep lurking in the shadows next to the bed. Beardo had his hand in his pants while he stood watching the corpulent humping. The female Manatee moaned. I could hear the sound of flesh slapping against flesh. The air smelled like stale cigarettes, rotten sex and burning meat.
The words “aww, what the FUCK, I’ve got enough problems,” leapt out of my mouth.
My companion Althea, who was witnessing the same sordid spectacle, shuddered and turned away, mumbling “Oh my God,” as she covered her eyes.
On the counter to my right, just inside the kitchen door, was a George Foreman grill. Weird meat was starting to burn, choking us with black smoke. Now my coat would smell like cigarettes and venison. A wave of nausea swept over me.
Beardo took his hand out of his pants and walked into the kitchen. Toothless yelled as he dismounted the Manatee, “hold on, Althea. I’ll be right there.”
Althea and I wanted a bag of weed. Our search had become a bit desperate, and had led us to a condemned, dilapidated bungalow in the parking lot of a hillbilly bar in Anne Arundel County.
The “house” had been a garage, and later it had been cheaply converted into a two-bedroom house. The building had literally been condemned. The kitchen was a shambles of broken appliances and unhooked utilities. Only the sink and the Foreman Grill were functioning, along with a Styrofoam cooler that sat, leaking on the floor. The ceiling (which I suspected was made from asbestos) in every room had big, gaping holes. The attic and roof had become the domain of squirrels, raccoons, and birds. The human squatters in this dump were people that Althea knew through her friend Fleur.
Fleur is a world-class sucker and fucker of strange men. Fleur is a sperm bank on feet. Fleur is the Bea Gaddy of STDs in Baltimore, having given at least one simplex to dozens of homeless men. Fleur’s crabs have herpes.
Fleur ignored us for the first thirty seconds we were there. That whorish muppet hates me, and she knows I don’t like her, either. She sat in a plastic lawn chair, facing a huge computer screen, updating her FaceBook page.
Meanwhile, Toothless was giving us a frantic, Meth-fueled, whirlwind tour of his DIY palace, showing us all of the demolition “work” he had already done and earnestly describing his vision for the building. Toothless had used his superior intellect and finely-honed negotiation skills to talk the owner of the building, who also owned the bar, into letting him live there for free. All he had to do was gradually remodel the house.
I just wanted to buy the bag of weed and get out of that smelly shack directly. I did not take off my coat or shake hands or touch ANYTHING, as I did not want to get Hepatitis. I didn’t even sit down. I just nodded and kept taking the money for the weed out of my pocket, desperately trying to signal Toothless that it was time to shut the fuck up and give us our drugs.
Toothless had switched on the lights in the biggest bedroom. My suspicions that the building had been a garage were correct. The drop ceiling looked to be made from asbestos tiles from the 1930s. There were gaping holes in the ceiling, revealing big, rough rafters made from slightly irregular beams of wood. Toothless noticed that I had noticed the holes in the ceiling.
“All this shit is coming out,” Toothless explained.
Our host, the man-squirrel Meth-head, began to punch holes in his own ceiling. Asbestos dust and petrified raccoon poop filled the air. Now the room smelled of rotten sex and poison.
During his spontaneous demolition of his own poison ceiling, Toothless HAD finally exchanged money for weed with Althea. I saw no reason to kibbitz with the schmuck any longer.
Just as Toothless spoke these words: “I always plan ahead,” he smashed his fist into a tile attached directly to a beam. He broke at least one or two knuckles right in front of us.
At this point, with the thought of this freak bleeding on me, I grabbed Althea by the hand, and the weed from her other hand, and practically tried to run out the door.
I was stopped by filthy Fleur. She wanted to come with us. I said, “No.” She asked me if I had a “problem” with her. I lied and said, “No.”
Althea and I made our escape past the mold-covered big-screen TV and the long table with the big computer screen, scurrying past the burning deer flesh on the Foreman Grill and toward the back door of the shack. It was then that Toothless FINALLY shared the punch-line to the joke.
“I’ve got to hurry-up with this remodeling, dude. I’m moving my Mom in at the end of the month.”
I smiled, and tried to imagine the 60plus-year-old mother of this Toothless monster. I’m sure she’s a prize specimen.
Pushing my way through the back door and past the broken refrigerator on the back porch, I yelled over my shoulder, “She’s gonna love it, man. Good luck."
Copyright 2012 by Earl Crown
Sigmund Freud's Bad Dream
One predicament crashed into the next, and the hot sun baked his wool sweater. The means to rectify the inevitable had been lost to him.They took down his shingle and he spun off into a doomsday scenario. By now he was past the point of repentance, he knew this in his heart.You think with your dick and they call it perversion, with your heart and it's love, with your mind and they say it's intelligence. With all three you're a Renaissance Man, and isn't that what he was? Or at least had been? His life's work had been shot in the underwear. What made him shift gears? Something outside the text books. Some quirky jest from his childhood.He hit the street and began rubbing shoulders. He fell in love with the Elephant Man and they tripled his child support, three star-crossed children and not a one with his eyes. He thought of writing a Tell-All book and then thought better of it. By this time he ate his meals in the mission and slept on the grassy knoll, waiting for someone to shoot.
Copyright 2012 by John Bennett
and after we fuck. the words. dull.
engage in hide-and-seek. pretend to having eloped. the window slightly ajar. smoke pushes. the screen rattles. it may be. on air. night breeze. ocean cool. he suspects you. thinks surely you have spoken to the woman. who dances in fear. on mountaintops. their relationship so changed. you push dark air. your lips part. european cigarettes. he reads her long green summer dress. this morning my lover wrote. i’ll accept any form of being-near-you. my eyes fall. toward the ceiling. cold shuttered thought. it might yet be possible. you believe. five years from now. will you remember this. doubt supersede memory. even these. the words scramble toward a meaning. can’t take that on. she promises. but never ends up. in your bed. he rereads the card. sent from another country. dancing figures. perhaps. it is not that difficult. growing old. quite natural. i have her paint. my toenails pink. opportunities. vicariously. you sense their excitement. it is about to begin. their dream together. look at the map. where to locate our budding. when my lover enters. my room. aflame in brilliant color. acrylic blue. brown. hazel. wings desire. summer tease. outside noon sunlight. fear competes. the hearts ache. i know you must feel. one of the lucky ones. time plays among children. pianos line the garage. see shapes. forget nouns. roll along. she waves. a smile breaks. careful melodic accompaniment. my lover only wants. to live with me. anywhere. as i have. necessitated. large portions of forgetting. to pretend. safety. to pretend. a belonging. the phone sits askance. atop the piano. return home. top off the wine glass. worry about tomorrow. or tuesday. as if any of it’s. a done deal.
Copyright 2012 by Gary Lundy
_
Mongrels on the Lawn
Everything was laid out on the table. My wife had made my one of my favorites, pot roast, with some fresh cut carrots and steamed potatoes. We were about to start but she wanted to put a little music on. I was left to sit and wait on an empty stomach with the smell of all that food drifting in the air. I stared out the window to kill some time and saw our neighbor. He walked a young woman up to the house from her car. It’d been that way since he moved into the neighborhood. Women were always coming and going. I wouldn’t have minded if one of them wandered over here once in a while, even just to make small talk.
Crackling noises started echoing through the house. The brass came in and we were invited to fly away to Morocco or Acapulco or somewhere like that. Neither sounded too appealing. I preferred Nancy over Frank anyways but it certainly wasn’t something I’d admit to my wife. Vicky loved that classic tenor croon of his and I wasn’t about break her heart by admitting that it just wasn’t something I wanted to hear every night of every week.
“It’s nice to see that William has someone over,” she said, returning to the dining room.
“Yeah, it’s real nice,” I said.
“I worry about him sometimes, living alone in that house,” she said.
“He certainly seems lonely,” I said.
“Now what is that supposed to mean, Paul?” she said.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just saying he’s had a lot of visitors over lately.”
I took a bite of the pot roast. It didn’t taste the same as the last time, a little on the dry side. Still smelled good though. She hadn’t touched her plate.
“Well, I don’t think there’s any harm in that,” she said. “Probably enjoys the company once in a while.”
“If someone like me was living there and having different women over every night, you’d probably call the cops,” I said.
“A few years ago, that was you,” she said. “People our age are supposed to settle down.”
“I’m only thirty,” I said. “I didn’t know there was a cutoff age for those kinds of things.”
She rolled her eyes. I knew she’d heard it all before. It certainly hadn’t been the first time the neighbor issue had come up.
Her food had cooled down by that point. She picked up her plate and tossed it in the microwave for a few minutes. I stared out the window to see if anything was going on next door. The curtains were all drawn. I shut the shades when she returned.
We finished dinner just in time for the first side of the album to end. The phone rang in the bedroom. As she got up to answer it, I slipped out into the living room before she asked me to do the dishes. I turned on the television. A reporter on the news was rambling about some big event that was happening downtown. The whole thing seemed pretty entertaining. There were fireworks and bands playing. Apparently, it was a two night event. Vicky came into the room and sat down. She had a concerned look on her face.
“This looks like a pretty good time, huh?” I said, “It’s right down the road, too.”
“You know what Heather just told me?” she said. “She said some stray dog almost killed her pomeranian last night.”
“How does Heather know it was a dog?” I said.
“Saw it when she came out to check on that poor dog of hers,” she said. “Guess it was yelping and could barely walk afterwards.”
“Did it attack Heather?” I said.
“It tried to,” she said. “But she managed to hit it in the face with a shovel and it ran off.”
“Well, I’m sure it won’t bother her anymore,” I said. “Probably lives somewhere close to here anyway.”
“What if it bites someone next time? Or even worse, it bites someone’s child,” she said. “Filthy mongrel probably has rabies and God-knows-what other kinds of diseases.”
I shook my head and looked back at the screen. The reporter was talking about how the celebration was supposed to last until nine or ten.
“Remember what happened last time we had a problem like this?” she said. “Thing came wandering around here, trying to make it with people’s pets and what not.”
“And what happened?” I said.
“It finally left,” she said.
“Problem solved then,” I said. “Same thing’ll happen this time.”
“But here’s the thing. About three months later, Heather goes out and finds a litter of pups next to their dog,” she said. “Some of the ugliest little things she’d ever seen.”
I started laughing when Vicky recalled the description Heather had given her then. Said every last one had these sickly yellow eyes and black fur that looked like it was always wet and matted, might as well have called them sewer rats from the sound of them. Vicky went over there just to see them one day. She came back and told me that nearly every one fit the description perfectly, but there was one that looked a little more normal than the rest. It had a pair of dull blue eyes and a full coat of fur. She couldn’t remember what happened to it though, figured it probably wandered off like the rest.
“Heather said it kind of looked like one of those pups,” she said. “I doubt any of them survived this long though.”
“You want to go to this festival that’s going on?” I said. It was almost nine o’clock.
“I think I’d rather stay in tonight,” she said. “Maybe just watch it on TV.”
I’m still not sure whether it was the way she said “tonight” that sounded more like “forever,” or if it was something else entirely, but I decided there was just no way that I was staying in. There were people at festivals and mangy dogs and promiscuous neighbors having more fun than me on a Saturday night. I deserved to go grab a beer or two at the least.
“I think I’m gonna check this thing out,” I said. I barely managed to finish my thought before putting on my shoes and stepping out the front door. Walking off the porch, I noticed the new lawn ornament she had bought the day before when she was out and about. It was one of those gazing balls that always looked out-of-place and ugly-as-hell. I figured a strong wind would knock it over and that would be the end of that. The metal stand that held it up wasn’t much thinner than the trunk of the sapling that we had planted nearby. I was almost to the car when Vicky opened the front door.
“You don’t plan on driving do you?” she said. “I know you’re going to have a few drinks while you’re there.”
“I’m only gonna have one or two,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “But just so you know, I won’t be bailing you out again.” She shut the door. I searched my pockets for the keys but realized I’d left them inside. I didn’t want to deal with Vicky again so I started walking to downtown.
The festival had died out by the time I got there. I didn’t care too much though. Fireworks were still going off every so often and the bars were still open. I walked down to a local dive called The Strayhorn where I used to go and drink on the weekends when it was still just me in our house. It never seemed to be short on customers you could have a conversation or two with and never have to worry about seeing again. The place had a jukebox too, which I took advantage of every time I had some spare change burning a hole in my pocket. I stopped going when we got married. Vicky was always worried that I’d be out late doing god-knows-what with god-knows-who.
I walked inside to find the place was empty. There wasn’t any music playing either. I ordered a beer anyway and went over to the jukebox. A clock on the wall ticked along. I kept time with it by skipping my fingernail from one notch to the next on the edge of the quarter I held in my hand. The list hadn’t changed since the last time I’d been there. I flipped through the selections, put the money in, and punched 6-6-0-1. A walking bass line came through the bar speakers. Nancy started to sing about how she wasn’t the lovin’ kind. I wondered if I was much of one either anymore.
It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds later when this woman walked in with long legs and blonde curls. A scrawny looking guy followed close behind, his eyes glued to her every movement. The lights in the bar didn’t do much for her pale skin, made her look like a ghost, but she was just about the nicest thing I could’ve hoped to see that late at night. They sat a couple stools down from me. Her and I exchanged a few glances in the bar mirror. Her eyes were the kind you only saw in bedrooms. The guy didn’t seem to notice a thing. I could hear him talking to her but couldn’t make out any of the words with his back turned to me.
The woman looked over the man’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said. “It’s Michelle. How are you?”
I looked around and realized she was talking to me. We had never met before. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Fine,” I said. “You?”
“I’m great. Not a whole lot going on around here though is there?” she said. I could barely hear her over the music. I just shook my head to agree.
“Nice choice by the way, she’s one of my favorites,” she said as the song was ending. I smiled at her and took a drink.
“You’d be amazed at how many people aren’t fans of hers,” I said.
“This is my friend Robert,” she said, pointing to the pale man. I stuck out my hand. He shot me a look and gave a halfhearted wave.
“Nice to meet ya,” he said. “Maybe we’ll see ya around again sometime. We’re gonna go sit over at that table.”
“You should join us,” she said. “We’ve got plenty of catching up to do.”
I could tell he wanted me to leave but I went with them anyway. It wasn’t every day that I got the chance to talk to a good looking stranger let alone one who seemed interested in me.
They sat across from each other at the table. I sat in the middle. She continued to act like we had known each other for years. I just played along. Robert sat there quietly while the two of us talked about made up stories from our youth. We ordered another round and then another.
“Remember that one time in high school?” I said.
“How could I forget?” she said with a laugh.
Robert started getting pretty uncomfortable after a while. I could see him moving around in his chair and giving me nasty looks out of the corner of my eye.
“Then there was that time in college,” she said.
“Those were some crazy times,” I said.
Robert kept looking at the watch on his left wrist. I noticed the ring around his finger. It was gold like mine but his had plenty more scratches on it. I started to wonder how someone that old managed to even get a date with a woman like Michelle. He probably had his “World’s Best Dad” t-shirt on under his stained yellow button.
The two of them started talking. I went to pick up my glass and noticed that my own ring was out in plain sight. I slid my hand under the table and it ended up on her leg. She smiled and kept right on talking. Robert didn’t seem to notice either. I decided just to keep it under there.
The bartender yelled last call. There wasn’t any need to yell it though. It was just the three of us in there. My glass was empty so I ordered another.
“Michelle, you ready to get out of here?” Robert said.
“I think I might stay a bit longer,” she said looking over at me. At that point, I think he knew that one of us wasn’t getting lucky that night.
“Fine,” he said. “You two have a great night.” He gave me one last look and took off. The bartender started cleaning off the tables and stacking chairs.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” she said and got up from her chair. “Thanks for helping me out with that guy though. I owe you a drink sometime.”
“How about right now?” I said.
“Well, I mean it is getting kinda late,” she said.
“I think it’s only two or so,” I said.
“Guess I could stay up a little while longer,” she said. “My place is only a few blocks from here anyway.” That old feeling was starting to come back to me. Just because that neighbor of ours was younger didn’t mean a damn thing. I’d prove to myself that I still had it.
The rain started coming down as we walked. Her place was only a few blocks over but by the time we made it there, our clothes were completely drenched and dripping in the hallway. She fumbled around with her keys but managed to find the right one. The door opened and we stepped inside. It was a little one bedroom apartment. Posters hung crooked on the walls with tape. The place smelled damp and musty. I watched her walk into the kitchen and could see dishes piled up. It certainly wasn’t a place I planned on staying for long but I knew one night wasn’t going to kill me. I took a seat on the couch. She came back holding a bottle and a glass.
“You like gin?” she said. “It’s the only thing I’ve got.”
“Works for me,” I said. My head was already starting to spin but I figured one more wouldn’t hurt.
She sat down next to me and poured a glass. I drank it all in one gulp.
“You gonna have any?” I said.
“No, I think I’m good for the night,” she said.
I reached over and put my hand on her thigh. She moved it to her knee.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Let’s just take this slow,” she said.
“All right,” I said. “That’s fine with me.” I leaned in to kiss her and slid my hand up her shirt. She pushed me away.
“I’m serious,” she said. “I want to go slow.”
“Fine, fine, I understand,” I said. We started kissing again. I put my hand back up her shirt.
“What the hell’s your problem?” she said. She walked over to the door and opened it. “I think it’s time for you to get outta here.”
I put my shoes back on and walked towards the door. She stood there looking away from me.
“You sure I can’t change your mind?” I said and slipped my hand around her waist. I leaned in to kiss her again. She pushed me out of the apartment.
“I’m not into older guys anyways,” she said and slammed the door in my face.
“I’m only thirty,” I said, knowing that she wouldn’t hear a word of it.
I started walking down the stairs and back out into the sleeping town. Rain was still falling. A trash can by the entrance of the building had been tipped over. Empty food wrappers were all over the place. Ribbons and banners and burnt fireworks littered the streets, but they reminded me that the festival would start back up when night rolled around again. There’d be plenty more women out then.
After fifteen minutes of stumbling down the sidewalk, I made it back to our neighborhood. The place was quiet like usual. Everything seemed to be frozen in the same way it had been when I’d left earlier that night. I walked through our yard towards the front porch. If I walked up the driveway, the garage light would come on and wake Vicky up. Our room was right there and the brightness always bothered her. My shoes sunk into the dirt with each step.
A rustling came from the side of the house. I stopped right then and looked around. Figured it was probably just the violent wind blowing through the bushes. But when it died down, the sound kept going. I walked over to the side of the house to investigate. There was something moving behind one of the bushes. I walked closer and the sound stopped instantly.
Through the branches I saw two blue eyes gleaming at me. The dog walked out from its hiding spot bearing its teeth and growling. I stepped backwards never taking my eyes off of his. The dog was filthy. Dirt and leaves seemed to be matted in every piece of what was left of its black fur. A mixture of spit and pus seeped out its mouth and dripped to the ground. The dog kept getting closer and closer. I took quick glances around and tried to find something, anything to save me. Yelling wouldn’t have done a thing except triggered an attack.
I ended up behind the gazing ball that was still standing strong near the porch. The only thing between us was an ugly lawn ornament that didn’t belong there to begin with, but there was no chance of that thing giving me enough time to open a door. I looked down at it for a second and saw my reflection on the surface. My hair was greasy and hung down on my forehead in pieces. I was soaked to the bone and the mud caked on my shoes was getting heavier each time I took a step. Vicky was sure to suspect something had happened if I dragged my filthy self into the house.
We stood there squared off. Another drop of slobber slid from its mouth and dangled in midair. From the looks of it, I guessed that it’d been some time since it had a decent meal.
Then, the front porch light came on. I knew it would attack Vicky as soon as she came outside. I saw the knob turn and the door opened.
“Vicky, shut the door,” I said in a low voice. “Go back inside.” It turned to face her. She stared dead on at the filthy dog. I could see its hind legs were ready to jump and strike.
“This is it,” I said to myself. “This is how it’s going to end.” I moved forward a little and hit the gazing ball. The orb fell off into the mud but the dog didn’t seem to notice. Vicky stood there trembling in the doorway. If I didn’t do something, we were both going to die. I looked around and saw the stand was crooked so I pulled it out of the ground. The end was pointed and sharp like a stake. I lifted it up over my shoulder to hit the dog. My shadow darkened the porch and the dog turned around.
“Vicky, shut the door,” I said again. She closed it and ran inside. I knew it would attack the second I made a move. I wouldn’t be fast enough to hit it. There was just no way.
Just then, I heard the sound of a garage door opening. The dog stood there staring over at the neighbor’s place with a curious look. I knew that was my chance. If I didn’t take it, there wasn’t going to be another. I picked the metal pole up above my head and thrust it into the dog’s neck. It pierced through one side and came out of the other sticking into the ground on the other side. I kept pushing the stake deeper and deeper down. The dog twisted its pinned head around in pain while its body stood up trying to force the pole out. A foul odor of piss and rotten blood stung my nose. Our neighbor and his girl walked out onto the lit driveway. I looked over and saw the two of them stopped and staring in horror. She had her hand over her mouth while the other clutched onto his arm. Under the lighting, I could see that her hair was all over the place in tangles and knots. If she had had any make up on, it was gone then. The dark rings under her eyes were proof of that. She certainly wasn’t someone I’d want to wake up next to, let alone walk her to her car in the middle of the night.
I looked back and watched the dog convulse every few seconds on the ground. A circle of blood had formed around the head and its tongue flopped out of its mouth. It was almost dead but not quite. I kept my hands clutched around the stake. The lights were still on inside and Vicky was waiting on me. I knew that I wasn’t going anywhere until that dog made one last little twitch. Until I knew that there was no chance of it coming back around again.
Copyright 2012 by Christopher Wolford
Mongrels on the Lawn
Everything was laid out on the table. My wife had made my one of my favorites, pot roast, with some fresh cut carrots and steamed potatoes. We were about to start but she wanted to put a little music on. I was left to sit and wait on an empty stomach with the smell of all that food drifting in the air. I stared out the window to kill some time and saw our neighbor. He walked a young woman up to the house from her car. It’d been that way since he moved into the neighborhood. Women were always coming and going. I wouldn’t have minded if one of them wandered over here once in a while, even just to make small talk.
Crackling noises started echoing through the house. The brass came in and we were invited to fly away to Morocco or Acapulco or somewhere like that. Neither sounded too appealing. I preferred Nancy over Frank anyways but it certainly wasn’t something I’d admit to my wife. Vicky loved that classic tenor croon of his and I wasn’t about break her heart by admitting that it just wasn’t something I wanted to hear every night of every week.
“It’s nice to see that William has someone over,” she said, returning to the dining room.
“Yeah, it’s real nice,” I said.
“I worry about him sometimes, living alone in that house,” she said.
“He certainly seems lonely,” I said.
“Now what is that supposed to mean, Paul?” she said.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just saying he’s had a lot of visitors over lately.”
I took a bite of the pot roast. It didn’t taste the same as the last time, a little on the dry side. Still smelled good though. She hadn’t touched her plate.
“Well, I don’t think there’s any harm in that,” she said. “Probably enjoys the company once in a while.”
“If someone like me was living there and having different women over every night, you’d probably call the cops,” I said.
“A few years ago, that was you,” she said. “People our age are supposed to settle down.”
“I’m only thirty,” I said. “I didn’t know there was a cutoff age for those kinds of things.”
She rolled her eyes. I knew she’d heard it all before. It certainly hadn’t been the first time the neighbor issue had come up.
Her food had cooled down by that point. She picked up her plate and tossed it in the microwave for a few minutes. I stared out the window to see if anything was going on next door. The curtains were all drawn. I shut the shades when she returned.
We finished dinner just in time for the first side of the album to end. The phone rang in the bedroom. As she got up to answer it, I slipped out into the living room before she asked me to do the dishes. I turned on the television. A reporter on the news was rambling about some big event that was happening downtown. The whole thing seemed pretty entertaining. There were fireworks and bands playing. Apparently, it was a two night event. Vicky came into the room and sat down. She had a concerned look on her face.
“This looks like a pretty good time, huh?” I said, “It’s right down the road, too.”
“You know what Heather just told me?” she said. “She said some stray dog almost killed her pomeranian last night.”
“How does Heather know it was a dog?” I said.
“Saw it when she came out to check on that poor dog of hers,” she said. “Guess it was yelping and could barely walk afterwards.”
“Did it attack Heather?” I said.
“It tried to,” she said. “But she managed to hit it in the face with a shovel and it ran off.”
“Well, I’m sure it won’t bother her anymore,” I said. “Probably lives somewhere close to here anyway.”
“What if it bites someone next time? Or even worse, it bites someone’s child,” she said. “Filthy mongrel probably has rabies and God-knows-what other kinds of diseases.”
I shook my head and looked back at the screen. The reporter was talking about how the celebration was supposed to last until nine or ten.
“Remember what happened last time we had a problem like this?” she said. “Thing came wandering around here, trying to make it with people’s pets and what not.”
“And what happened?” I said.
“It finally left,” she said.
“Problem solved then,” I said. “Same thing’ll happen this time.”
“But here’s the thing. About three months later, Heather goes out and finds a litter of pups next to their dog,” she said. “Some of the ugliest little things she’d ever seen.”
I started laughing when Vicky recalled the description Heather had given her then. Said every last one had these sickly yellow eyes and black fur that looked like it was always wet and matted, might as well have called them sewer rats from the sound of them. Vicky went over there just to see them one day. She came back and told me that nearly every one fit the description perfectly, but there was one that looked a little more normal than the rest. It had a pair of dull blue eyes and a full coat of fur. She couldn’t remember what happened to it though, figured it probably wandered off like the rest.
“Heather said it kind of looked like one of those pups,” she said. “I doubt any of them survived this long though.”
“You want to go to this festival that’s going on?” I said. It was almost nine o’clock.
“I think I’d rather stay in tonight,” she said. “Maybe just watch it on TV.”
I’m still not sure whether it was the way she said “tonight” that sounded more like “forever,” or if it was something else entirely, but I decided there was just no way that I was staying in. There were people at festivals and mangy dogs and promiscuous neighbors having more fun than me on a Saturday night. I deserved to go grab a beer or two at the least.
“I think I’m gonna check this thing out,” I said. I barely managed to finish my thought before putting on my shoes and stepping out the front door. Walking off the porch, I noticed the new lawn ornament she had bought the day before when she was out and about. It was one of those gazing balls that always looked out-of-place and ugly-as-hell. I figured a strong wind would knock it over and that would be the end of that. The metal stand that held it up wasn’t much thinner than the trunk of the sapling that we had planted nearby. I was almost to the car when Vicky opened the front door.
“You don’t plan on driving do you?” she said. “I know you’re going to have a few drinks while you’re there.”
“I’m only gonna have one or two,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself,” she said. “But just so you know, I won’t be bailing you out again.” She shut the door. I searched my pockets for the keys but realized I’d left them inside. I didn’t want to deal with Vicky again so I started walking to downtown.
The festival had died out by the time I got there. I didn’t care too much though. Fireworks were still going off every so often and the bars were still open. I walked down to a local dive called The Strayhorn where I used to go and drink on the weekends when it was still just me in our house. It never seemed to be short on customers you could have a conversation or two with and never have to worry about seeing again. The place had a jukebox too, which I took advantage of every time I had some spare change burning a hole in my pocket. I stopped going when we got married. Vicky was always worried that I’d be out late doing god-knows-what with god-knows-who.
I walked inside to find the place was empty. There wasn’t any music playing either. I ordered a beer anyway and went over to the jukebox. A clock on the wall ticked along. I kept time with it by skipping my fingernail from one notch to the next on the edge of the quarter I held in my hand. The list hadn’t changed since the last time I’d been there. I flipped through the selections, put the money in, and punched 6-6-0-1. A walking bass line came through the bar speakers. Nancy started to sing about how she wasn’t the lovin’ kind. I wondered if I was much of one either anymore.
It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds later when this woman walked in with long legs and blonde curls. A scrawny looking guy followed close behind, his eyes glued to her every movement. The lights in the bar didn’t do much for her pale skin, made her look like a ghost, but she was just about the nicest thing I could’ve hoped to see that late at night. They sat a couple stools down from me. Her and I exchanged a few glances in the bar mirror. Her eyes were the kind you only saw in bedrooms. The guy didn’t seem to notice a thing. I could hear him talking to her but couldn’t make out any of the words with his back turned to me.
The woman looked over the man’s shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said. “It’s Michelle. How are you?”
I looked around and realized she was talking to me. We had never met before. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Fine,” I said. “You?”
“I’m great. Not a whole lot going on around here though is there?” she said. I could barely hear her over the music. I just shook my head to agree.
“Nice choice by the way, she’s one of my favorites,” she said as the song was ending. I smiled at her and took a drink.
“You’d be amazed at how many people aren’t fans of hers,” I said.
“This is my friend Robert,” she said, pointing to the pale man. I stuck out my hand. He shot me a look and gave a halfhearted wave.
“Nice to meet ya,” he said. “Maybe we’ll see ya around again sometime. We’re gonna go sit over at that table.”
“You should join us,” she said. “We’ve got plenty of catching up to do.”
I could tell he wanted me to leave but I went with them anyway. It wasn’t every day that I got the chance to talk to a good looking stranger let alone one who seemed interested in me.
They sat across from each other at the table. I sat in the middle. She continued to act like we had known each other for years. I just played along. Robert sat there quietly while the two of us talked about made up stories from our youth. We ordered another round and then another.
“Remember that one time in high school?” I said.
“How could I forget?” she said with a laugh.
Robert started getting pretty uncomfortable after a while. I could see him moving around in his chair and giving me nasty looks out of the corner of my eye.
“Then there was that time in college,” she said.
“Those were some crazy times,” I said.
Robert kept looking at the watch on his left wrist. I noticed the ring around his finger. It was gold like mine but his had plenty more scratches on it. I started to wonder how someone that old managed to even get a date with a woman like Michelle. He probably had his “World’s Best Dad” t-shirt on under his stained yellow button.
The two of them started talking. I went to pick up my glass and noticed that my own ring was out in plain sight. I slid my hand under the table and it ended up on her leg. She smiled and kept right on talking. Robert didn’t seem to notice either. I decided just to keep it under there.
The bartender yelled last call. There wasn’t any need to yell it though. It was just the three of us in there. My glass was empty so I ordered another.
“Michelle, you ready to get out of here?” Robert said.
“I think I might stay a bit longer,” she said looking over at me. At that point, I think he knew that one of us wasn’t getting lucky that night.
“Fine,” he said. “You two have a great night.” He gave me one last look and took off. The bartender started cleaning off the tables and stacking chairs.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” she said and got up from her chair. “Thanks for helping me out with that guy though. I owe you a drink sometime.”
“How about right now?” I said.
“Well, I mean it is getting kinda late,” she said.
“I think it’s only two or so,” I said.
“Guess I could stay up a little while longer,” she said. “My place is only a few blocks from here anyway.” That old feeling was starting to come back to me. Just because that neighbor of ours was younger didn’t mean a damn thing. I’d prove to myself that I still had it.
The rain started coming down as we walked. Her place was only a few blocks over but by the time we made it there, our clothes were completely drenched and dripping in the hallway. She fumbled around with her keys but managed to find the right one. The door opened and we stepped inside. It was a little one bedroom apartment. Posters hung crooked on the walls with tape. The place smelled damp and musty. I watched her walk into the kitchen and could see dishes piled up. It certainly wasn’t a place I planned on staying for long but I knew one night wasn’t going to kill me. I took a seat on the couch. She came back holding a bottle and a glass.
“You like gin?” she said. “It’s the only thing I’ve got.”
“Works for me,” I said. My head was already starting to spin but I figured one more wouldn’t hurt.
She sat down next to me and poured a glass. I drank it all in one gulp.
“You gonna have any?” I said.
“No, I think I’m good for the night,” she said.
I reached over and put my hand on her thigh. She moved it to her knee.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Let’s just take this slow,” she said.
“All right,” I said. “That’s fine with me.” I leaned in to kiss her and slid my hand up her shirt. She pushed me away.
“I’m serious,” she said. “I want to go slow.”
“Fine, fine, I understand,” I said. We started kissing again. I put my hand back up her shirt.
“What the hell’s your problem?” she said. She walked over to the door and opened it. “I think it’s time for you to get outta here.”
I put my shoes back on and walked towards the door. She stood there looking away from me.
“You sure I can’t change your mind?” I said and slipped my hand around her waist. I leaned in to kiss her again. She pushed me out of the apartment.
“I’m not into older guys anyways,” she said and slammed the door in my face.
“I’m only thirty,” I said, knowing that she wouldn’t hear a word of it.
I started walking down the stairs and back out into the sleeping town. Rain was still falling. A trash can by the entrance of the building had been tipped over. Empty food wrappers were all over the place. Ribbons and banners and burnt fireworks littered the streets, but they reminded me that the festival would start back up when night rolled around again. There’d be plenty more women out then.
After fifteen minutes of stumbling down the sidewalk, I made it back to our neighborhood. The place was quiet like usual. Everything seemed to be frozen in the same way it had been when I’d left earlier that night. I walked through our yard towards the front porch. If I walked up the driveway, the garage light would come on and wake Vicky up. Our room was right there and the brightness always bothered her. My shoes sunk into the dirt with each step.
A rustling came from the side of the house. I stopped right then and looked around. Figured it was probably just the violent wind blowing through the bushes. But when it died down, the sound kept going. I walked over to the side of the house to investigate. There was something moving behind one of the bushes. I walked closer and the sound stopped instantly.
Through the branches I saw two blue eyes gleaming at me. The dog walked out from its hiding spot bearing its teeth and growling. I stepped backwards never taking my eyes off of his. The dog was filthy. Dirt and leaves seemed to be matted in every piece of what was left of its black fur. A mixture of spit and pus seeped out its mouth and dripped to the ground. The dog kept getting closer and closer. I took quick glances around and tried to find something, anything to save me. Yelling wouldn’t have done a thing except triggered an attack.
I ended up behind the gazing ball that was still standing strong near the porch. The only thing between us was an ugly lawn ornament that didn’t belong there to begin with, but there was no chance of that thing giving me enough time to open a door. I looked down at it for a second and saw my reflection on the surface. My hair was greasy and hung down on my forehead in pieces. I was soaked to the bone and the mud caked on my shoes was getting heavier each time I took a step. Vicky was sure to suspect something had happened if I dragged my filthy self into the house.
We stood there squared off. Another drop of slobber slid from its mouth and dangled in midair. From the looks of it, I guessed that it’d been some time since it had a decent meal.
Then, the front porch light came on. I knew it would attack Vicky as soon as she came outside. I saw the knob turn and the door opened.
“Vicky, shut the door,” I said in a low voice. “Go back inside.” It turned to face her. She stared dead on at the filthy dog. I could see its hind legs were ready to jump and strike.
“This is it,” I said to myself. “This is how it’s going to end.” I moved forward a little and hit the gazing ball. The orb fell off into the mud but the dog didn’t seem to notice. Vicky stood there trembling in the doorway. If I didn’t do something, we were both going to die. I looked around and saw the stand was crooked so I pulled it out of the ground. The end was pointed and sharp like a stake. I lifted it up over my shoulder to hit the dog. My shadow darkened the porch and the dog turned around.
“Vicky, shut the door,” I said again. She closed it and ran inside. I knew it would attack the second I made a move. I wouldn’t be fast enough to hit it. There was just no way.
Just then, I heard the sound of a garage door opening. The dog stood there staring over at the neighbor’s place with a curious look. I knew that was my chance. If I didn’t take it, there wasn’t going to be another. I picked the metal pole up above my head and thrust it into the dog’s neck. It pierced through one side and came out of the other sticking into the ground on the other side. I kept pushing the stake deeper and deeper down. The dog twisted its pinned head around in pain while its body stood up trying to force the pole out. A foul odor of piss and rotten blood stung my nose. Our neighbor and his girl walked out onto the lit driveway. I looked over and saw the two of them stopped and staring in horror. She had her hand over her mouth while the other clutched onto his arm. Under the lighting, I could see that her hair was all over the place in tangles and knots. If she had had any make up on, it was gone then. The dark rings under her eyes were proof of that. She certainly wasn’t someone I’d want to wake up next to, let alone walk her to her car in the middle of the night.
I looked back and watched the dog convulse every few seconds on the ground. A circle of blood had formed around the head and its tongue flopped out of its mouth. It was almost dead but not quite. I kept my hands clutched around the stake. The lights were still on inside and Vicky was waiting on me. I knew that I wasn’t going anywhere until that dog made one last little twitch. Until I knew that there was no chance of it coming back around again.
Copyright 2012 by Christopher Wolford
The Neon Boy Trilogy: News of the World, Part I
Neon Boy carries the weight of human folly on a red Schwinn gelding. Three speeds and a banana seat his only weapons against the snowbound wilderness of imprisoned awareness. Twin wire baskets contain the press of knowledge in paper fists of ciphered proclamations. The king is dead. The war is over. Markets collapse. Oceans rise. He navigates the Euclidian grid with canvas thrust and a Teflon cape where scissored beasts of dominion guard narrow paths to glass bunkers. Through hedgerows and trenches and fractured mortar, thirty-six thousand repeat absolutions, at sunrise each day he delivers the Daily Banner.
Copyright 2012 by Richard Osgood
Death as a Snaky Necktie Hanging in the Closet
Hanging from a chrome hanger, I see the snaky tie stir, and fill out as though some spirit is flowing evenly into its digestive tract, and soon I find myself staring into its Stygian mouth and see a vibratory forked tongue oscillating in my direction. It is plainly picking up my scent while all the while its lidless eyes receded like two stars aglow sinking slowly into an inkwell of the night sky.
A masterpiece of cryptozoology is trying its best to articulate its feelings for me. There’s something darkly suspicious with this serpent tie’s song and dance performance, one so experientially uplifting, as to invoke a suspicion that it had a life outside this closet; its telltale movement in sync with a spiraling rhythm suggests the hipless virtuoso served some flutist snake charmer in a crowded Jaipur-like market place whorling skyward out of a thatched basket, twisting and undulating to the vibes of snake jazz, its triangular head in the lead pulling a long black elasticized train while transfixing the snake charmer with the pupils of its sparkling eyes, and soon both their heads weave and bob in time to a synchronized hissing breath meditation in sync with a life force that only snakes and their charmers are in intimate with in a collaborative performance, a fulfilled conjoinment of heart and mind, which in turn poses a question of fetishistic gratification by way of unadulterated voyeurism: Can I be a snake charmer to this tie craving the perfection in a double Windsor tie knot, and in tying that knot with my collar up, will it respond to my whistling a minuetto—one to soothe the saturnine heart, or would the snake in the tie, being a true audiophile, makes an attempt to strangle me?
I was lacking a musical education, recalling I once had the temerity to ask my grade ten high school music teacher what was the easiest instrument to play and his fatally derisive reply: “a radio.” Deprived of a musical education, I can neither whistle a tune, or a play a lute enticing a viper to rock and roll. As an object of affection at rest, my luxuriant tie wanted only to be admired, and adored to pulchritudinous bits by a worshipful voyeur who had a few problems dealing with the very nature of fetishes, how they barnacled via the super glue of faith, and cohered to his restive psyche taking up residency in his noggin: I envision them moving on a cat walk, my tie is in the lead, slithering along like any true side winding caenophidian model, and following it, as though on cue, are other inanimate objects of veneration made fluidly animate by the powers of divination. If I could fancy myself as a snake charmer of different stripe I would then arrange a number of ties in a goatskin basket. The ties would be varied in colours, some deep green black, other orange and still others a bone black with red and purple blemishes on their elasticized scaly skin for contrast’s sake to direct the eye away from the symmetry of basic colours. Maybe I will go for the mottled effect?
After I had stopped whirling first in one direction and then the other, I would plunge my hand into the basket and grip the entwined ties drawing them out of the basket and should the ties suddenly hiss at me I wouldn’t be intimidated, knowing that the ties are essentially benign neckwear existing in the habitat of this writer’s imagination, itself a peripheral zoo inhabited by endangered species, that some might argue should be snuffed. What if the ties summoned me from the snake basket?
Instead, I decide to fold the ties together and place them neatly in the basket allowing each tie a few centimeters of space, as not to create a claustrophobic panic among them, knowing that they have incurred a totemistic attachment to me, inheriting many of my phobias such as fear of abandonment and fear of touching and fear of encroaching asphyxiating intimacy and, of course, a dread of being buried alive in a closet serving as a hibernaculum for hibernating ties posing as vipers.
But first I stroke them calming them down into a lethargic state and then as they become placid and pliable to my fondest petting, I lull them further into serenity by crooning an on- the- spot soporific tune. Soon to my absolute delight, even the decorous pigmentation on the ties vanish, as though they never existed there in the first place-- yet I know they are contentedly asleep. I arrange the ties on special chrome hangers in order of preferred colours, so that as natural light enhances them, the ties stir, become momentarily alive -- to purr aloud as cats often do entranced by moonlight in the early morning hours when insomniacs and vampires go freely about in their dwellings, one sipping a high octane martini and another, a blood enriched potation to suit a dedicated mixologist frantically mixing drinks at a brass home bar before the onslaught of shattering morning light.
Copyright 2012 by Joe Rosenblatt
_
First Funeral
I went to my first funeral today
people say I’m lucky when they hear that
to have been shielded from the shock of
our impermanence for so long
I walked in with a woman who said
My husband’s entire family is buried here
“Apparently Not” I thought
This is how I deal with the tragedy
Songs are sung
The Rabbi speaks
Children tell the stories
of the life gone by
We caravan from chapel to grave
It is so Los Angeles to take
so many cars
so short a distance
The casket
a simple pine box
a Jewish star on it
is put into the ground
The holy words are said
shovels are lifted
The widow, fifty seven years with him
is inconsolable
The cemetery employee
announces the conclusion
collects the prayers in
prearranged black paper bags
Some go to the meal
some back to work
we miss the man
are grateful for our breath
Copyright 2012 by Rick Lupert
First Funeral
I went to my first funeral today
people say I’m lucky when they hear that
to have been shielded from the shock of
our impermanence for so long
I walked in with a woman who said
My husband’s entire family is buried here
“Apparently Not” I thought
This is how I deal with the tragedy
Songs are sung
The Rabbi speaks
Children tell the stories
of the life gone by
We caravan from chapel to grave
It is so Los Angeles to take
so many cars
so short a distance
The casket
a simple pine box
a Jewish star on it
is put into the ground
The holy words are said
shovels are lifted
The widow, fifty seven years with him
is inconsolable
The cemetery employee
announces the conclusion
collects the prayers in
prearranged black paper bags
Some go to the meal
some back to work
we miss the man
are grateful for our breath
Copyright 2012 by Rick Lupert
In Conclusion
Even though she was dead, she thought it would be a good idea
for us to have sex on the shrink couch. He would be so proud of us,
she smiled. But you are going to have to help me a little, OK?
Because I am dead.
I would love to, I really want to, but I just can’t. Let’s sit here
for a while, a little while, just you and me. Baby, I’m dead
Copyright 2012 by Ricky Garni
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