Theme: Darkness Before Light
Dark Side of the Moon
The moon was full, glazed, the size of the world. He watched it eye him through the transom in his living room. A lover’s moon or the dead’s marker? he pondered. The latter he was sure. What was the moon after all but a lifeless, airless place. An ancient pebble drifting down the dark void.
The living room lit a deathly blue. Ice cold breaths smoked from his mouth in ghastly white plumes. He stretched his withered legs, curled long fingers around the armrest of his recliner. He squeezed nails into it, the leather splitting under his grip. Blood iced through his veins, surging hotter as he let the dark overtake him. He stared into the moon’s disfigured face. After dark, there is hope for light, he mused. Light entertainment perhaps and chuckled at the thought. Dark and light. Life and death; his awakening to another. I am the dark of the moon, he said out loud. He almost screamed.
There was a segment of cloud crossing the moon now, a blue gray veil, moving and boiling like a spider’s nest. The cloud looked like Jesus, the face hung deathly white, a ragged beard tormented the chin. His eyes narrowed. The winds swirled. The taxi would arrive soon. There were dinner plans tonight. He would insist the cabbie join him. The jesus face changed. The beard dipped like a tornado funnel, a pointed devil’s beard. A grin cut his face.
Theme: The ‘Golden’ Rule
Golden Boy
The fields ran by, flashing on the glass screen like an old-time movie reel. Ripples of prairie wheat and corn, a two second frame of crooked farm road, a six second frame of dirt brown field… then another… and another… a zoom in of a giant silo and cows standing still… then back to the moving picture - a new theme introduced this time – sunflower yellow fields. While we watched, we took in the drone – that sound of rubber on the road humming below - a certain hum that allowed our eyes to drop heavy, pulling us down helplessly into easy sleep. The sun reflected on the windows, the ghosts of three boys and a girl revealed, propped against the doors and pillows; on the radio, a crooner’s thin hypnotic voice attempted to infiltrate our back seat reverie.
The car shuddered as passing big rigs shoved and shouldered us, like over-sized bullies pushing down school hallways, plowing weaker bodies into lockers. With light fading, dad silenced the radio and piped his mantra again, something he’d repeated every few miles or so. “Anybody see it yet?”
I didn’t want to miss it… to be the first to pick out the Golden Boy on the horizon, the sun glinting off its golden torch, signifying we were almost home. Eyes wide open, I jockeyed for position on the seat, cheek against the glass. Shit, no sibling was going to beat me out of seeing it first.
Theme: Renewal
I Have A Confession To Make
It’s that time of month again and I’ve got a confession to make. The old man’s made it clear that we’ve all gotta go today. Shit, it’s not even Sunday. He says it’s a sort of “divine intervention” moment, a time to expel guilt, renew the spirit, and wipe the deep stains from our souls. Sounds to me like we’re changing our underwear. I don’t know what he’s done to feel guilty… other than to yell and falsely accuse me!!! of punching my little brother when he, asshole!!! started it!!
Anyway, this confessing thing is quite embarrassing and trusting a complete stranger with your most intimate failings is sheer lunacy. I, for one, will opt to blatantly lie. And I’ll use my trusty routine of standards too: lied, swore, had bad thoughts. Through the grate, I see Father Farrell sitting there in the dark. He’s young and might give me a pass. Looks like he’s writing stuff down. Maybe he wants to be a novelist someday, perhaps write a ‘tell-all’ book to rival the Bible… hehe! Shit… is that blasphemy? Fuck, that’s a mortal sin I bet. God I’m doomed.
Little brother insisted I go first. Fine. He’ll get his. He’s going to say the same bullshit I’m going to lie about and Father’s going to see he’s shitting him and hopefully call him on it. Then we’ll see if there’s such a thing as “divine intervention” … or righteous punishment for telling Pop on me.
Theme: Heavy Man, Heavy
Gun Play
In the cafeteria, the shooter takes out Mr. Hollis. BAM! … BAMBAM!… a ruler smacking a table and Hollis hits the wall and disappears down, like the floor just opened under him. The guy – it’s Billy Krazik - turns and aims at Jamie Stockwell, sitting there calmly as if he’s in the play or something and he takes two to the head. He rocks a little, then sits still. The fuck moves forward, looking right at me, our eyes lock and he points the gun… I peer down the black hole, see Krazik’s chewed red fingernail twitch slightly to the left as he fires off a barrage of shots. BAM! … BAMBAMBAM!… tables splinter and scatter behind me; there are heavy thumps and screams and I blink uncontrollably, a deranged twist creasing my face.
And then there’s Colby, backpack in hand, crossing the floor. He strides in quick purposeful steps. He looks insane. Parallel to Krazik, light as a ghost, I don’t think he sees it coming.
I’m woven in a cocoon. On the soundless floor, I watch bodies twitch. Heads cover. Krazik’s moved into the hallways. My chest weighs heavy, bubbling pink. Colby has nothing to say, his eyes vacant, surprised. Earlier this morning he boasted he’d brought his old man’s Glock to school… just to show it off you understand. Colby was cool… just playing … but well… Krazik’s crazy and he decided to swipe it and play the heavy… for real. He plays it well.
Dec 5, 2011
Aug 24, 2011
The Attraction
He’d passed the same attraction three days running. Down the leafy back road, just off the golf course and up around the bend, it waited patiently for him like an old friend ready for play. The monument of snapped limbs and discarded brush stacked high, a rambling golden pyre, bone-dry, quivering like an expectant lover. He had hoped running would alleviate the burning need, create another game with less to lose. He slowed to a trot as the mind game caught hold; a glowing ember of it circled - wanted to touch with one strike of a match, one finger-flick of a clean cigarette - lightly crackling “you’re it.” Later, from his spot on the hill, he watched it run and play, quietly glowing hot and bright, pleased with what it had started.
It was faint at first, like a distant train whistle calling from somewhere along the darkening horizon, but now the sound was louder. It was not a whistle but the blare of wailing sirens and he relaxed a bit. The sirens smothered his pounding heart with a blanket of relief like of cool rain and he licked his dry lips.
“It will be alright,” he whimpered, almost collapsing. He turned to leave and his eye caught a glimpse of something that did drop him to his knees: a surging wall of orange flame boiling through a row of trees that kissed along a ridge of large homes hugging the golf course. “What have you done?” it said.
The first engine arrived and a fireman heavy with gear stumbled from the side railing. He was shouting instruction to the other firemen as they scrambled from the vehicle, serpentine hoses uncoiling over the road like spilled guts from some reddened beast. On the hill he watched them play, mesmerized as flames took the first two houses. They flowered, a hushing sound like marshmallows to the flame. “It’s just a game,” he whispered, his face shiny, angelic. “We can stop anytime.”
When he was very young, it spoke to him, drew him like moth to flame. His mother had seen it in him too - this calling - had noticed how his eyes would light as they stared blankly into the blazing fireplace. In church she encouraged him to light a votive candle for lost souls and the dearly departed. She believed it was goodness he saw, some guiding light, the flame a source of warmth and comfort. She was wrong. His father, mean and drunk, saw it exactly as it was. “You’re it,” he said, flicking a flaming match toward him while playing on the floor with his older brother, Davey. “Oh you’re it alright,” he said and laughed between pulls of the bottle and drags on the hand-rolled smoke. It was a contemptuous laugh, malicious. But it was quickly silenced the first time the boy - quick as a viper - snatched the lit match as it bounced off his chest. His eyes widened as he felt the sting of the flame, then an overwhelming sadness as it quickly extinguished, the burn searing his palm. He didn’t mind; he liked it… this new game. “Fire’s a motherfucker… a beast,” his father said, holding the shaky cigarette up close to eyes. He lightly blew on the smoldering orange ember. “It’s like you. It’s tricky.” His eyes faltered, then drowsily dropped down upon him. “Unplanned,” he mumbled. “Unplanned and tricky. That’s it.” The boy didn’t understand all the things his father said but he trusted the man knew what he spoke of. He and Davey rolled and played about on the floor, dumping plastic soldiers and Tinker toys into their father’s stained fireman’s helmet. Crinkled matches lay scattered about the carpet, as black and as brittle as torched bodies.
He started setting fires when he was eleven. The attraction was a rough clearing out in the old dump near Rollins Swamp. It seemed a safe place to play, with so much ready to burn, so much smoldering there just beneath the surface of discarded trash. It was a game - “I’m it… you’re it” he’d say - and flick matches one by one from the long matchbox, each one tumbling, some flaming out, others burning bright as they landed in a scratch of bramble and oily boxes. They quickly caught on. He heard the voice in the crackle - his father’s voice - a soft whisper at first that would detonate into a terrifying roar. “YOU’RE IT!” it boomed.
He controlled the fires at first, kept them small but the day came when the winds seemed to shift out of nowhere, the world opened wide and he was confronted with the beast. It stood before him, alive, taunting and unstable. He was not afraid. He was terrified. It ran around him, leering, its fiery tongue lolling and whispering around his ears. It quickly turned and rolled toward the swamp, like some living creature eager for water to soothe it, to cool it. He followed and waited. Instead of water, it found fuel to feed. The dry bramble swamp exploded and it consumed everything, its gaping maw, red and hot.
He had run then, somehow escaped through the thicket, excited and horrified, sprawling flat in a ditch as the fire engines screamed past down the smoke-choked road. As the last truck flared by, he glanced up in time to see his father riding the top of the engine’s cab, saw the terrified look as their eyes locked. He never saw him again. Outmatched and trapped in the swamp, his father and three other firemen were consumed by the monster’s fury.
There was no other consequence; the origin of the fire blamed on conditions at the dump, on shifting weather, an unfortunate and horrible accident the papers said. After that, he ran in a futile attempt to outrun what had happened. Then in his mid-teens, he started running with the fire, hoping it might grow tired of the game and burn itself out on its own. But it circled… circled and chased him. Always.
The fireman stood frozen. The blaze towered above him, the heat an open oven wrinkling the air. It had taken hold everywhere, jumped the street to the left of the golf course, rolling like a wave toward the opposite curb. Smoke churned between the remaining houses, hugged the gravel in a low thick fog as orange spikes flickered and peeked through like demon eyes in the night. He felt his partner then - Conrad - at his side grabbing his arm; he was shouting, barely audible through his mask over the roar.
“We gotta go… go now!”
For a moment, he thought he might faint. His vision blurred and he felt disorientated as if falling down a funneling dark tunnel. He thought he heard Conrad again but the voice was different, familiar.
And he knew.
The voice was high above him, on the hill somewhere, his brother’s voice screaming, screaming. He turned to look but all he saw was Conrad’s face wet and pleading, the beast rising behind him.
“We gotta go Davey,” he shouted. “We gotta go… NOW!”
It was faint at first, like a distant train whistle calling from somewhere along the darkening horizon, but now the sound was louder. It was not a whistle but the blare of wailing sirens and he relaxed a bit. The sirens smothered his pounding heart with a blanket of relief like of cool rain and he licked his dry lips.
“It will be alright,” he whimpered, almost collapsing. He turned to leave and his eye caught a glimpse of something that did drop him to his knees: a surging wall of orange flame boiling through a row of trees that kissed along a ridge of large homes hugging the golf course. “What have you done?” it said.
The first engine arrived and a fireman heavy with gear stumbled from the side railing. He was shouting instruction to the other firemen as they scrambled from the vehicle, serpentine hoses uncoiling over the road like spilled guts from some reddened beast. On the hill he watched them play, mesmerized as flames took the first two houses. They flowered, a hushing sound like marshmallows to the flame. “It’s just a game,” he whispered, his face shiny, angelic. “We can stop anytime.”
When he was very young, it spoke to him, drew him like moth to flame. His mother had seen it in him too - this calling - had noticed how his eyes would light as they stared blankly into the blazing fireplace. In church she encouraged him to light a votive candle for lost souls and the dearly departed. She believed it was goodness he saw, some guiding light, the flame a source of warmth and comfort. She was wrong. His father, mean and drunk, saw it exactly as it was. “You’re it,” he said, flicking a flaming match toward him while playing on the floor with his older brother, Davey. “Oh you’re it alright,” he said and laughed between pulls of the bottle and drags on the hand-rolled smoke. It was a contemptuous laugh, malicious. But it was quickly silenced the first time the boy - quick as a viper - snatched the lit match as it bounced off his chest. His eyes widened as he felt the sting of the flame, then an overwhelming sadness as it quickly extinguished, the burn searing his palm. He didn’t mind; he liked it… this new game. “Fire’s a motherfucker… a beast,” his father said, holding the shaky cigarette up close to eyes. He lightly blew on the smoldering orange ember. “It’s like you. It’s tricky.” His eyes faltered, then drowsily dropped down upon him. “Unplanned,” he mumbled. “Unplanned and tricky. That’s it.” The boy didn’t understand all the things his father said but he trusted the man knew what he spoke of. He and Davey rolled and played about on the floor, dumping plastic soldiers and Tinker toys into their father’s stained fireman’s helmet. Crinkled matches lay scattered about the carpet, as black and as brittle as torched bodies.
He started setting fires when he was eleven. The attraction was a rough clearing out in the old dump near Rollins Swamp. It seemed a safe place to play, with so much ready to burn, so much smoldering there just beneath the surface of discarded trash. It was a game - “I’m it… you’re it” he’d say - and flick matches one by one from the long matchbox, each one tumbling, some flaming out, others burning bright as they landed in a scratch of bramble and oily boxes. They quickly caught on. He heard the voice in the crackle - his father’s voice - a soft whisper at first that would detonate into a terrifying roar. “YOU’RE IT!” it boomed.
He controlled the fires at first, kept them small but the day came when the winds seemed to shift out of nowhere, the world opened wide and he was confronted with the beast. It stood before him, alive, taunting and unstable. He was not afraid. He was terrified. It ran around him, leering, its fiery tongue lolling and whispering around his ears. It quickly turned and rolled toward the swamp, like some living creature eager for water to soothe it, to cool it. He followed and waited. Instead of water, it found fuel to feed. The dry bramble swamp exploded and it consumed everything, its gaping maw, red and hot.
He had run then, somehow escaped through the thicket, excited and horrified, sprawling flat in a ditch as the fire engines screamed past down the smoke-choked road. As the last truck flared by, he glanced up in time to see his father riding the top of the engine’s cab, saw the terrified look as their eyes locked. He never saw him again. Outmatched and trapped in the swamp, his father and three other firemen were consumed by the monster’s fury.
There was no other consequence; the origin of the fire blamed on conditions at the dump, on shifting weather, an unfortunate and horrible accident the papers said. After that, he ran in a futile attempt to outrun what had happened. Then in his mid-teens, he started running with the fire, hoping it might grow tired of the game and burn itself out on its own. But it circled… circled and chased him. Always.
The fireman stood frozen. The blaze towered above him, the heat an open oven wrinkling the air. It had taken hold everywhere, jumped the street to the left of the golf course, rolling like a wave toward the opposite curb. Smoke churned between the remaining houses, hugged the gravel in a low thick fog as orange spikes flickered and peeked through like demon eyes in the night. He felt his partner then - Conrad - at his side grabbing his arm; he was shouting, barely audible through his mask over the roar.
“We gotta go… go now!”
For a moment, he thought he might faint. His vision blurred and he felt disorientated as if falling down a funneling dark tunnel. He thought he heard Conrad again but the voice was different, familiar.
And he knew.
The voice was high above him, on the hill somewhere, his brother’s voice screaming, screaming. He turned to look but all he saw was Conrad’s face wet and pleading, the beast rising behind him.
“We gotta go Davey,” he shouted. “We gotta go… NOW!”
Aug 14, 2011
The Color of Warm and Cold
I exit the building onto River Avenue and flip my collar high around my ears, pulling my neck in like a turtle in his shell. The café is only half a block downstream but I’m a frozen fish when I arrive. At the counter, I order a large mocha house blend and wheat toast.
“To go please,” I tell the girl, “with extra butter and cream.”
She is shy and plump and moves like deliberate molasses. Her name is Chloe or Joni or something like that. She doesn’t wear a nametag and I can’t understand Mosca when he lays his bad English on her. Her straw-blond hair is short with a splendid slash of emerald veering across the one side. I imagine her an artist in the outside world. She wears pink glasses - ‘SW#6857 Pink Moment’ the paint chip sample book would reveal and wide rimmed. They frame beautifully warm eyes. I wonder if she knows how beautiful and warm they are or if anyone has ever told her that. ‘Burnt Sienna’, I’d say; a standard color but not standard for her by any means. She doesn’t look me directly in the eye, which tells me she may like me. Or maybe she is self-conscious about my eye, the left one that droops a bit. It’s just lazy, that’s all. I think she may find it rude to stare. She exudes a certain style, displays a confident palette; I can tell by the way she serves customers, efficient with a clean counter and orderly napkins and silverware.
Man, it’s snowing like a million angels exploded out there. The flakes are the size of downed feathers. The city plowed the streets yesterday and created huge snowdrifts along the walkways. There aren’t too many fools out in the cold. The ones that are, slip along in the narrow grooves that act as walkways. I damn near break my neck maneuvering the icy channel back to work and it’s not because I slipped. I’m laughing too hard. Up ahead, two approaching people have fallen. They stand again; the man and woman paw and grope each other for balance. They’re drunk as hell. Two steps and he is down. The woman bends and yells at him, expecting something impossible. He rises like a zombie, barely stable, and then it’s her turn. She falls straight-legged sideways like a tree in the forest. My eyes hurt. I shouldn’t laugh. I may be next. Tears freeze like clear glue on my face and I can’t see. I dab my eyes with the sleeve of my stiff overcoat. It leaves a glistening stain.
I enter the building and Claire is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s leaving for an appointment. She’s decided to have a cigarette first. The most interesting thing about Claire is her hair. It’s jet black and shrouds around a white oval face, a little egg in a nest. It cascades in a pool, splashes over her shoulders. It’s quite beautiful really, even when it’s up.
“I wish we could run away,” she says, blowing smoke against the windowpane.
I nod and look at my feet. The snow melts around my shoes, bleeding an ever- spreading puddle.
Claire has a boyfriend. I’ve never met the guy. I never ask too many questions. I wonder what he doesn’t have that I possess. I wonder what she sees in me? She hasn’t said. I’m cool with that. I work in the paint department. I’m not that colorful. I’ve been there five years and I’m not even manager.
Claire’s a nice girl, smart and attractive in an ordinary way. She holds a safe managerial job - executive assistant. She’s been with the company for almost a year. We hang out a bit. Privately. She prefers it that way. We’ve never been intimate. I have seen her in a bathing suit though.
She lives in a two-story house on a decent street with shady trees. She rents the bottom floor suite. I wonder why the boyfriend of three years doesn’t live with her. The landlady, a Ukrainian woman occupies the upstairs and is particular to guests hanging about. “He’s a nice boy,” Claire says up the stairs and a door closes. She gives me a smirk.
It’s a blistering summer day, the kind where the humidity wears your skin out, squeezes your body like a wetsuit.
“I’m going to change,” she says. “Make yourself at home.”
Her apartment is ordinary with dark wood floors, a plain taupe carpet. The walls are a darker taupe and pictureless. She doesn’t entertain much of a color palette. A couch and chair look new, sleek black, straight from a CB2 catalog. The coffee table isn’t clear. It’s covered with travel magazines.
Claire exits her bedroom wearing a bikini. It is celadon green, though brighter, ‘SW#6705 High Strung’, I’d say. A saturated splash of yellow overtakes it. It shouts ‘SUMMER!’ It screams ‘you can fuck me!’ I love that color. I could give you its mixed color values. I want to paint my bedroom that exact color. I’ve never considered her like this. Her achromatic breasts sway freely inside the full halter and I see her hips dance, suggesting that I do something. She stands with her knees turned slightly inward and she bows as she wrestles her hair up into a ponytail. “God it’s hot out there, don’t you think?” She glances up sideways; a coy smile parts her lips.
“I wish we could run away. Go some place warmer, different. Away from here.”
She stares out onto the street. I wait.
“Would you go?”
I wonder if it’s a question or a request. The brown bag holding my toast is weightless. My coffee is cold mocha. Chloe is happy to give me a refill. The drunken couple has arrived and stopped in front of the door. Their arms rotate, pinwheel through the air. Stiff hands claw for purchase. They grasp at snowflakes, floating angel’s wings. Then they fall.
“To go please,” I tell the girl, “with extra butter and cream.”
She is shy and plump and moves like deliberate molasses. Her name is Chloe or Joni or something like that. She doesn’t wear a nametag and I can’t understand Mosca when he lays his bad English on her. Her straw-blond hair is short with a splendid slash of emerald veering across the one side. I imagine her an artist in the outside world. She wears pink glasses - ‘SW#6857 Pink Moment’ the paint chip sample book would reveal and wide rimmed. They frame beautifully warm eyes. I wonder if she knows how beautiful and warm they are or if anyone has ever told her that. ‘Burnt Sienna’, I’d say; a standard color but not standard for her by any means. She doesn’t look me directly in the eye, which tells me she may like me. Or maybe she is self-conscious about my eye, the left one that droops a bit. It’s just lazy, that’s all. I think she may find it rude to stare. She exudes a certain style, displays a confident palette; I can tell by the way she serves customers, efficient with a clean counter and orderly napkins and silverware.
Man, it’s snowing like a million angels exploded out there. The flakes are the size of downed feathers. The city plowed the streets yesterday and created huge snowdrifts along the walkways. There aren’t too many fools out in the cold. The ones that are, slip along in the narrow grooves that act as walkways. I damn near break my neck maneuvering the icy channel back to work and it’s not because I slipped. I’m laughing too hard. Up ahead, two approaching people have fallen. They stand again; the man and woman paw and grope each other for balance. They’re drunk as hell. Two steps and he is down. The woman bends and yells at him, expecting something impossible. He rises like a zombie, barely stable, and then it’s her turn. She falls straight-legged sideways like a tree in the forest. My eyes hurt. I shouldn’t laugh. I may be next. Tears freeze like clear glue on my face and I can’t see. I dab my eyes with the sleeve of my stiff overcoat. It leaves a glistening stain.
I enter the building and Claire is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She’s leaving for an appointment. She’s decided to have a cigarette first. The most interesting thing about Claire is her hair. It’s jet black and shrouds around a white oval face, a little egg in a nest. It cascades in a pool, splashes over her shoulders. It’s quite beautiful really, even when it’s up.
“I wish we could run away,” she says, blowing smoke against the windowpane.
I nod and look at my feet. The snow melts around my shoes, bleeding an ever- spreading puddle.
Claire has a boyfriend. I’ve never met the guy. I never ask too many questions. I wonder what he doesn’t have that I possess. I wonder what she sees in me? She hasn’t said. I’m cool with that. I work in the paint department. I’m not that colorful. I’ve been there five years and I’m not even manager.
Claire’s a nice girl, smart and attractive in an ordinary way. She holds a safe managerial job - executive assistant. She’s been with the company for almost a year. We hang out a bit. Privately. She prefers it that way. We’ve never been intimate. I have seen her in a bathing suit though.
She lives in a two-story house on a decent street with shady trees. She rents the bottom floor suite. I wonder why the boyfriend of three years doesn’t live with her. The landlady, a Ukrainian woman occupies the upstairs and is particular to guests hanging about. “He’s a nice boy,” Claire says up the stairs and a door closes. She gives me a smirk.
It’s a blistering summer day, the kind where the humidity wears your skin out, squeezes your body like a wetsuit.
“I’m going to change,” she says. “Make yourself at home.”
Her apartment is ordinary with dark wood floors, a plain taupe carpet. The walls are a darker taupe and pictureless. She doesn’t entertain much of a color palette. A couch and chair look new, sleek black, straight from a CB2 catalog. The coffee table isn’t clear. It’s covered with travel magazines.
Claire exits her bedroom wearing a bikini. It is celadon green, though brighter, ‘SW#6705 High Strung’, I’d say. A saturated splash of yellow overtakes it. It shouts ‘SUMMER!’ It screams ‘you can fuck me!’ I love that color. I could give you its mixed color values. I want to paint my bedroom that exact color. I’ve never considered her like this. Her achromatic breasts sway freely inside the full halter and I see her hips dance, suggesting that I do something. She stands with her knees turned slightly inward and she bows as she wrestles her hair up into a ponytail. “God it’s hot out there, don’t you think?” She glances up sideways; a coy smile parts her lips.
“I wish we could run away. Go some place warmer, different. Away from here.”
She stares out onto the street. I wait.
“Would you go?”
I wonder if it’s a question or a request. The brown bag holding my toast is weightless. My coffee is cold mocha. Chloe is happy to give me a refill. The drunken couple has arrived and stopped in front of the door. Their arms rotate, pinwheel through the air. Stiff hands claw for purchase. They grasp at snowflakes, floating angel’s wings. Then they fall.
Jul 6, 2011
Motel 6
Room 205
In between long tasty tokes on a reedy blunt, Benny Kaz allowed his thoughts to bounce down the hall to the dude in Room 203. The unshaven man - older, sixties maybe, white shirt and dress pants - had given him the ‘shifty eye’ scan as they’d passed in the hallway, a scan any hustler knew suggested one of two things: keep walking or move for the hardware. The man had carried an over-sized briefcase - heavy by the way he two-handed it – and Benny K was positive it contained something valuable like money or drugs or better still, both. Benny, now strung out and twitching for relief wondered if this man was a better score than the one he was waiting on - a hook up with the delivery maid and his much needed supply. He lit another reed, a new score orchestrating in his head, his thoughts swirling around the older man; there was something else going on here… like maybe the dude was the big cheese with all the goodies… the delivery maid just the mouse with crumbly samples and he, Benny the K… the recipient of a golden opportunity. Benny rolled off the bed, pulled on his jacket - the snub-nose weighted heavy in the pocket - and went to the door.
Room 203
“Guy wuz’ a punk,” Powell grunted as he threw the oversized briefcase on the bed and popped the side clips; he’d better watch his back. Inside the open case lay eight neat rows of crisp twenties, a family of Jackson’s staring back like a repeating Warhol pop art piece. Powell smiled a shark’s grin and stretched, feeling the coolness of the gun nestled under his shirt, snug against his lower back, then went to the window and looked out into the steady rain; the parking lot sat quiet except for a couple of young preppies quickly unloading golf bags from the back of their dripping station wagon. “Ahh… a not so relaxing getaway,” he chuckled. His own getaway from the bank he’d robbed across the line a week ago had been a rather smooth one. He pulled a flask from the case and took two long tugs, decided quickly that he needed ice, recalled an ice machine just outside his door.
Room 201
Kreskie swiped the door key and entered. He went to the window, scanned the parking lot, then pulled the drapes closed as his rookie partner Digby lugged in the golf bags and dropped them with a ‘thunk’ onto the bed. “Manager says our man’s down the hall in 203.” They’d tracked him quick after HP saw him pass, recognized the APB car description and done the smart thing and called in the FBI. Kreskie unzipped the first bag and pulled out the M4 and fed the magazine. “We’re not waiting for backup…this guy’s going down quick before any more people die,” and he turned for the door.
Room 202
Stella Beem quickly finished cleaning the bathroom, opting to skip a set of fresh towels and soap bars for the shower. She was nervous about the drug drop; there was always the chance of these things going bad. It was a sweet little deal though: Hugo supplying and setting up the connection, she making the drop and collecting the cash. A few more of these and she’d have enough put away to vanish out of this place, reappear in dreamy California somewhere and a new life. Stella went out into the hallway and stood still for a moment, glancing up and down the hallway’s tunneling emptiness. She squatted in front of her cart, parked next to the floor’s vending machine and was about to pull out a towel folded around a fat bag of crystal when a door clicked open to her right; she froze, her eyes dropping to her Colt laying beneath a set of clean towels.
Room 204
Kyra Downs stepped out the door, faltered as the baby kicked - hard this time - and she uttered a tired groan. Gently rubbing her stomach, she padded across to the ice machine, ice bucket in hand. She noticed two men at the end of the hall walking slowly toward her with what she thought were closed umbrellas. There was a click at her feet and she saw a maid kneeling by her cart, the maid’s eyes not registering on her but focused wide just beyond her shoulder. Kyra turned, sensing someone close behind, the air defined by the distinct sweet odor of weed. There was another click then - a door opened from the room opposite them - and an older man stepped into the hallway, one hand now reaching behind his back and someone yelled, “FREEZE!”
Room 206
Simon Dennis was quite pleased with the progress of his novel. His old nemesis - writer’s block - had hounded him for weeks and his wife’s idea to getaway to a private location and perspective had been the perfect remedy. His characters were finally coming to life - the cops and the robber, the girl on the run, the shady druggies…all of it. Simon stared out into the motel’s parking lot, the rain falling heavy now. The lot was empty save for his old Volvo and two passing police cars. He looked at his watch – it was time to check out - and he went to the door and stepped out into the hallway.
In between long tasty tokes on a reedy blunt, Benny Kaz allowed his thoughts to bounce down the hall to the dude in Room 203. The unshaven man - older, sixties maybe, white shirt and dress pants - had given him the ‘shifty eye’ scan as they’d passed in the hallway, a scan any hustler knew suggested one of two things: keep walking or move for the hardware. The man had carried an over-sized briefcase - heavy by the way he two-handed it – and Benny K was positive it contained something valuable like money or drugs or better still, both. Benny, now strung out and twitching for relief wondered if this man was a better score than the one he was waiting on - a hook up with the delivery maid and his much needed supply. He lit another reed, a new score orchestrating in his head, his thoughts swirling around the older man; there was something else going on here… like maybe the dude was the big cheese with all the goodies… the delivery maid just the mouse with crumbly samples and he, Benny the K… the recipient of a golden opportunity. Benny rolled off the bed, pulled on his jacket - the snub-nose weighted heavy in the pocket - and went to the door.
Room 203
“Guy wuz’ a punk,” Powell grunted as he threw the oversized briefcase on the bed and popped the side clips; he’d better watch his back. Inside the open case lay eight neat rows of crisp twenties, a family of Jackson’s staring back like a repeating Warhol pop art piece. Powell smiled a shark’s grin and stretched, feeling the coolness of the gun nestled under his shirt, snug against his lower back, then went to the window and looked out into the steady rain; the parking lot sat quiet except for a couple of young preppies quickly unloading golf bags from the back of their dripping station wagon. “Ahh… a not so relaxing getaway,” he chuckled. His own getaway from the bank he’d robbed across the line a week ago had been a rather smooth one. He pulled a flask from the case and took two long tugs, decided quickly that he needed ice, recalled an ice machine just outside his door.
Room 201
Kreskie swiped the door key and entered. He went to the window, scanned the parking lot, then pulled the drapes closed as his rookie partner Digby lugged in the golf bags and dropped them with a ‘thunk’ onto the bed. “Manager says our man’s down the hall in 203.” They’d tracked him quick after HP saw him pass, recognized the APB car description and done the smart thing and called in the FBI. Kreskie unzipped the first bag and pulled out the M4 and fed the magazine. “We’re not waiting for backup…this guy’s going down quick before any more people die,” and he turned for the door.
Room 202
Stella Beem quickly finished cleaning the bathroom, opting to skip a set of fresh towels and soap bars for the shower. She was nervous about the drug drop; there was always the chance of these things going bad. It was a sweet little deal though: Hugo supplying and setting up the connection, she making the drop and collecting the cash. A few more of these and she’d have enough put away to vanish out of this place, reappear in dreamy California somewhere and a new life. Stella went out into the hallway and stood still for a moment, glancing up and down the hallway’s tunneling emptiness. She squatted in front of her cart, parked next to the floor’s vending machine and was about to pull out a towel folded around a fat bag of crystal when a door clicked open to her right; she froze, her eyes dropping to her Colt laying beneath a set of clean towels.
Room 204
Kyra Downs stepped out the door, faltered as the baby kicked - hard this time - and she uttered a tired groan. Gently rubbing her stomach, she padded across to the ice machine, ice bucket in hand. She noticed two men at the end of the hall walking slowly toward her with what she thought were closed umbrellas. There was a click at her feet and she saw a maid kneeling by her cart, the maid’s eyes not registering on her but focused wide just beyond her shoulder. Kyra turned, sensing someone close behind, the air defined by the distinct sweet odor of weed. There was another click then - a door opened from the room opposite them - and an older man stepped into the hallway, one hand now reaching behind his back and someone yelled, “FREEZE!”
Room 206
Simon Dennis was quite pleased with the progress of his novel. His old nemesis - writer’s block - had hounded him for weeks and his wife’s idea to getaway to a private location and perspective had been the perfect remedy. His characters were finally coming to life - the cops and the robber, the girl on the run, the shady druggies…all of it. Simon stared out into the motel’s parking lot, the rain falling heavy now. The lot was empty save for his old Volvo and two passing police cars. He looked at his watch – it was time to check out - and he went to the door and stepped out into the hallway.
May 18, 2011
The Cold Locker
It is a place of dusty dreams. The twisted light cord hanging from the center is gallows rope, its naked light bulb, an abandoned blackening body when lit, barely gives life. The floor grades down to a centered sewer hole for plumbing that was never finished. Stagnant water encircles it, left from old rain that drips in and stays for weeks. Nobody comes down here much but when they do, it is for jars of fruit in the room buried in the far corner; the ‘cold locker’ the young boys call it. It is cold, as cold as a tomb.
A tower of boxes near the stairs seems to shift. Bundles of yellow newspapers stacked next to them huddle like crooked gnomes; they reek something grim. There are paint cans and open tins of varnish near a barren worktable. Long hooks grip it, holding it tight against the wall. Rows of cigarette burn decorate its edge. I remember them. The burns. The partially sealed room next to the worktable allows no light. It is the old coal chute.
A newspaper lays crumpled on the worktable, open to a page, damp with age, wrinkled like old skin. Cold air seals the headline news and photos of the Garrisons. There is a photo of Red Garrison being led handcuffed from the house. There is a picture of his wife Cora, slumped in the back seat of a police car. A blanket partially covers her head. In the corner, a picture of Beale, their oldest daughter, head crooked to the camera, her eyes – shark eyes – staring dead into the lens. Their faces are grainy black and white. Their faces are the same face I see reflected back on the glass jars in the cold locker. My face. No. That’s not true. My face is different. The eyes are the same. Maybe. There are no photos of me. Only reflections.
Beale Garrison moves about upstairs, pattering alone with the cats. I sense their smell. They sense me too and they don’t come down. Beale comes for the baskets of fruit stacked along the wall in the cold locker. She doesn’t venture to this side of the basement. She returned to the house after Red and Cora were sentenced to prison. She was never implicated. I know better. I know what she did. What they did to the child.
Ruth was her name. My name. Time muddles memories. The years meld and twist, bind up in a foggy dream. It feels like a dream. I don’t know if it is. There’s no one to set it right. I am happy to be her, to be Ruth, to be someone. Ruth is gone. She didn’t survive. It says so in the newspaper under the stairwell. Every moment is thick, fuzzy as if looking through a cocooned web. My thoughts come down to me, dream-like, a milky gray and then blackness.
They burn me. Tie and cut me in the coal chute where it is private. I am born different. Deformed. “God’s mistake!” echoes in my dream. “God’s mistake!” There hands are eager. Deliberate. Impatient. There is hurt and blame. I read it in the paper. I don’t know how that is possible. I don’t know how to read. It said I died when I was two. I don’t remember dying.
Red Garrison built this house. He was a craftsman, the newspaper said. He was good with his hands. He made a hobby of carving intricate wood pieces, birds and animals, innocent creatures. I was his hobby too. I remember his fingers. Long. Agile. His hands would harden. Turn dangerous. Cora knew. The doctors at the hospital rebuilt her cheekbone. She said it was an accident while working on the house. We know the truth.
Two neighborhood boys sometimes visit Beale. They are young too. They’ve heard the stories. They’ve been told to stay away from this house. Young boys don’t listen. They are curious. They come to taste the peaches that she preserves in jars. I want to play with them when they come to the cellar. They don’t want to stay. They are afraid. They lurk together, watching the darkened corners. The edges are black cement, an abyss. The minimal light never ventures far. ‘Spider-child’ I hear them say. ‘In the coal chute. Where the spider-child was kept.’
I’m drawn to the cold locker. The baskets stacked along the wall hold the fresh fruit - apples, peaches, pears. They smell sweet. Alive. The light glows on their skin. They were taken from the tree. A tree of life. I know that somehow. I sense it. The fruit did not die. It was given a second life. A new life. The light is warm. It sparks bright on the golden glass jars. I watch the boys gather them, full of the fruit I’ve never tasted. I see their faces as they open the tops and slip out the dripping wedges. ‘She won’t know,’ they whisper licking their fingers. ‘Sweet,’ they say. I wish to taste too. I wish to eat with them. I wouldn’t hurt them. I hear Beale shout for them not to dawdle if they know what’s good for them. Their eyes quickly dart about. They don’t stay long. They gather the jars, then quickly scramble up the stairs, clawing over each other, neither wanting to be the last up. They think something like a hand is reaching for their leg. It is.
My withered arms are bent at the elbow, my hands hooked down, but yesterday I managed to climb to the top of the cellar stairs for the first time. At the far end of the kitchen, the two boys sat waiting. I stood in the darkened frame of the cellar door as Beale moved past. I filled the doorway. I’ve grown some. I don’t know how. She didn’t feel my breath kiss against her neck. She was carrying a bowl of peaches. They were soured. I wanted to reach out and touch her. Tonight I will. Tonight.
Clarence Downe was waiting by his truck when Hawkes showed up. Two other men leaned against a flatbed parked behind, smoking harsh hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Moanin,” Hawkes said as he spilled out of his Suburban. A wide Panama hat covered his round bald head; a pair of blue bib-overalls did their best to stretch over his massive frame. He puffed when he spoke.
“You must be Clarence,” he said, stretching out a beefy hand.
Clarence gripped it and gave it a fair shake. He was a short stocky man with a tall shock of ‘70’s curly black hair and his skin shone black as oil in the morning heat.
“Yes sir, Mr. Hawkes, pleased to meet you,” he said, his steel blue eyes peering at the sky. “Looks like it’s ‘gonna be a blister peeler.”
It was a cloudless day, cicadas already beginning to sing. Hawkes nodded at the flatbed behind Clarence’s truck.
“Brought the bruiser I see. I think we’re going to need it.”
A large Cat bulldozer, school bus-yellow sat dirty on the flatbed. It had seen better days.
“Yep. She’s all primed and ready to do business. Brought a couple of my boys along too.”
He nodded toward the two smokers, then to the house.
“What we got here?”
Hawkes reached awkwardly through the cab window and pulled a rolled document from the cab of the Suburban and waved it at Clarence.
“It’s the old Garrison place. Got a court order here to tear her down, the whole she-bang.”
He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“I figure if we set the Cat over in the west side corner there we can get her started, get her going. Should start to collapse I hope.”
Hawkes moped his face with a rag.
“Sure as hell don’t want to go in there,” he said.
Clarence surveyed the property.
“She don’t look so bad. What’s wrong with the place?”
“You ain’t from these parts I see,” Hawkes said.
He took a long, silent look at the house.
“It belonged to the Garrisons some years back,” he said. “Place never seen anything but misery.”
He paused and spat, as if the words had been distasteful in his mouth.
“They killed their little girl in there. Ruthie.”
Clarence looked up at him, his head slightly cocked, his eyes thin.
“Got them life in prison for it. Their oldest daughter Beale got off. Couldn’t pin nothing on her.”
The other two men had stamped their cigarettes and moved closer.
“Beale came back and took up residence again,” Hawkes continued. “There was a public outcry but well,” he paused, “it’s a free country for the supposed innocent, ain’t it? Turned out to be a big mistake.”
He stepped towards the house and stopped at the fence, ran his hand along the gate.
“Where is she?” Clarence said. “This Bea person.”
“Beale,” Hawkes said. “Well she’s dead now too.”
Clarence squinted up at him.
“There were two young neighborhood boys used to visit her,” Hawkes said. “They didn’t know no better, just kids, told to keep away but they didn’t. Beale murdered them. Poisoned them. Used some tainted fruit she was luring them in with I guess.”
He paused.
“Then she hung herself in the basement.”
Hawkes shook his head.
“Cops found her swinging down there.” He paused, rubbed his slack jaw.
“Didn’t make sense though.”
“Why’s that?” Clarence said, studying him.
“Cops couldn’t figure how she did it, hanging herself I mean. There was nothing beneath her feet for her to stand on. Nothing near her at all.”
Hawkes stood unsteadily at the gate.
“It’s as if she was put there.”
A tower of boxes near the stairs seems to shift. Bundles of yellow newspapers stacked next to them huddle like crooked gnomes; they reek something grim. There are paint cans and open tins of varnish near a barren worktable. Long hooks grip it, holding it tight against the wall. Rows of cigarette burn decorate its edge. I remember them. The burns. The partially sealed room next to the worktable allows no light. It is the old coal chute.
A newspaper lays crumpled on the worktable, open to a page, damp with age, wrinkled like old skin. Cold air seals the headline news and photos of the Garrisons. There is a photo of Red Garrison being led handcuffed from the house. There is a picture of his wife Cora, slumped in the back seat of a police car. A blanket partially covers her head. In the corner, a picture of Beale, their oldest daughter, head crooked to the camera, her eyes – shark eyes – staring dead into the lens. Their faces are grainy black and white. Their faces are the same face I see reflected back on the glass jars in the cold locker. My face. No. That’s not true. My face is different. The eyes are the same. Maybe. There are no photos of me. Only reflections.
Beale Garrison moves about upstairs, pattering alone with the cats. I sense their smell. They sense me too and they don’t come down. Beale comes for the baskets of fruit stacked along the wall in the cold locker. She doesn’t venture to this side of the basement. She returned to the house after Red and Cora were sentenced to prison. She was never implicated. I know better. I know what she did. What they did to the child.
Ruth was her name. My name. Time muddles memories. The years meld and twist, bind up in a foggy dream. It feels like a dream. I don’t know if it is. There’s no one to set it right. I am happy to be her, to be Ruth, to be someone. Ruth is gone. She didn’t survive. It says so in the newspaper under the stairwell. Every moment is thick, fuzzy as if looking through a cocooned web. My thoughts come down to me, dream-like, a milky gray and then blackness.
They burn me. Tie and cut me in the coal chute where it is private. I am born different. Deformed. “God’s mistake!” echoes in my dream. “God’s mistake!” There hands are eager. Deliberate. Impatient. There is hurt and blame. I read it in the paper. I don’t know how that is possible. I don’t know how to read. It said I died when I was two. I don’t remember dying.
Red Garrison built this house. He was a craftsman, the newspaper said. He was good with his hands. He made a hobby of carving intricate wood pieces, birds and animals, innocent creatures. I was his hobby too. I remember his fingers. Long. Agile. His hands would harden. Turn dangerous. Cora knew. The doctors at the hospital rebuilt her cheekbone. She said it was an accident while working on the house. We know the truth.
Two neighborhood boys sometimes visit Beale. They are young too. They’ve heard the stories. They’ve been told to stay away from this house. Young boys don’t listen. They are curious. They come to taste the peaches that she preserves in jars. I want to play with them when they come to the cellar. They don’t want to stay. They are afraid. They lurk together, watching the darkened corners. The edges are black cement, an abyss. The minimal light never ventures far. ‘Spider-child’ I hear them say. ‘In the coal chute. Where the spider-child was kept.’
I’m drawn to the cold locker. The baskets stacked along the wall hold the fresh fruit - apples, peaches, pears. They smell sweet. Alive. The light glows on their skin. They were taken from the tree. A tree of life. I know that somehow. I sense it. The fruit did not die. It was given a second life. A new life. The light is warm. It sparks bright on the golden glass jars. I watch the boys gather them, full of the fruit I’ve never tasted. I see their faces as they open the tops and slip out the dripping wedges. ‘She won’t know,’ they whisper licking their fingers. ‘Sweet,’ they say. I wish to taste too. I wish to eat with them. I wouldn’t hurt them. I hear Beale shout for them not to dawdle if they know what’s good for them. Their eyes quickly dart about. They don’t stay long. They gather the jars, then quickly scramble up the stairs, clawing over each other, neither wanting to be the last up. They think something like a hand is reaching for their leg. It is.
My withered arms are bent at the elbow, my hands hooked down, but yesterday I managed to climb to the top of the cellar stairs for the first time. At the far end of the kitchen, the two boys sat waiting. I stood in the darkened frame of the cellar door as Beale moved past. I filled the doorway. I’ve grown some. I don’t know how. She didn’t feel my breath kiss against her neck. She was carrying a bowl of peaches. They were soured. I wanted to reach out and touch her. Tonight I will. Tonight.
Clarence Downe was waiting by his truck when Hawkes showed up. Two other men leaned against a flatbed parked behind, smoking harsh hand-rolled cigarettes.
“Moanin,” Hawkes said as he spilled out of his Suburban. A wide Panama hat covered his round bald head; a pair of blue bib-overalls did their best to stretch over his massive frame. He puffed when he spoke.
“You must be Clarence,” he said, stretching out a beefy hand.
Clarence gripped it and gave it a fair shake. He was a short stocky man with a tall shock of ‘70’s curly black hair and his skin shone black as oil in the morning heat.
“Yes sir, Mr. Hawkes, pleased to meet you,” he said, his steel blue eyes peering at the sky. “Looks like it’s ‘gonna be a blister peeler.”
It was a cloudless day, cicadas already beginning to sing. Hawkes nodded at the flatbed behind Clarence’s truck.
“Brought the bruiser I see. I think we’re going to need it.”
A large Cat bulldozer, school bus-yellow sat dirty on the flatbed. It had seen better days.
“Yep. She’s all primed and ready to do business. Brought a couple of my boys along too.”
He nodded toward the two smokers, then to the house.
“What we got here?”
Hawkes reached awkwardly through the cab window and pulled a rolled document from the cab of the Suburban and waved it at Clarence.
“It’s the old Garrison place. Got a court order here to tear her down, the whole she-bang.”
He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
“I figure if we set the Cat over in the west side corner there we can get her started, get her going. Should start to collapse I hope.”
Hawkes moped his face with a rag.
“Sure as hell don’t want to go in there,” he said.
Clarence surveyed the property.
“She don’t look so bad. What’s wrong with the place?”
“You ain’t from these parts I see,” Hawkes said.
He took a long, silent look at the house.
“It belonged to the Garrisons some years back,” he said. “Place never seen anything but misery.”
He paused and spat, as if the words had been distasteful in his mouth.
“They killed their little girl in there. Ruthie.”
Clarence looked up at him, his head slightly cocked, his eyes thin.
“Got them life in prison for it. Their oldest daughter Beale got off. Couldn’t pin nothing on her.”
The other two men had stamped their cigarettes and moved closer.
“Beale came back and took up residence again,” Hawkes continued. “There was a public outcry but well,” he paused, “it’s a free country for the supposed innocent, ain’t it? Turned out to be a big mistake.”
He stepped towards the house and stopped at the fence, ran his hand along the gate.
“Where is she?” Clarence said. “This Bea person.”
“Beale,” Hawkes said. “Well she’s dead now too.”
Clarence squinted up at him.
“There were two young neighborhood boys used to visit her,” Hawkes said. “They didn’t know no better, just kids, told to keep away but they didn’t. Beale murdered them. Poisoned them. Used some tainted fruit she was luring them in with I guess.”
He paused.
“Then she hung herself in the basement.”
Hawkes shook his head.
“Cops found her swinging down there.” He paused, rubbed his slack jaw.
“Didn’t make sense though.”
“Why’s that?” Clarence said, studying him.
“Cops couldn’t figure how she did it, hanging herself I mean. There was nothing beneath her feet for her to stand on. Nothing near her at all.”
Hawkes stood unsteadily at the gate.
“It’s as if she was put there.”
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