October 13 Preview - Ears Become Eyes
A trickle of seepage invades my blue jeans and I shake a little from the chill that grips and cramps my lower spine, pulls me tight to the dank stench of cold concrete, the stink of mental institution and I wonder if that’s where this sewer leads. Flat on our bellies and sweating like hot-dogs in the narrowing tunnel, my nose brushes Mitchell’s rubber heels and my flashlight falters over his thin shoulder where the beam stops against dark solid air; quietly listening, I’m beginning to have second thoughts. It’s the sound of late after midnight when the house walks and shifts and settles old cracking beams and bones, when echoing rain rumbles high on the roof and everyone you love is wrapped in warm dreams, everyone but you, alone, twisted and fitful in the dark, clutching the damp crooked sheets. And it’s there in the dead of night when you are surprisingly aware, when every sense is heightened and every sound now dons some perverted face with a slanted shape and a writhing purpose, when imagination truly gives birth and your ears become eyes and for the first time you begin to see all the possibilities. Mitchell continues to babble on, something about how this was my idea in the first place and that I should now go first and I want him to shut up and listen, listen because I hear something and it sounds like it’s oozing - - as if you can hear something oozing - - a sticky clop, a detached sound and I notice my jeans are now soaked through. Mitchell’s still talking but all I hear is something coming and I’m thinking I might just back away, inch down quietly and leave Mitchell to do what he does best and that’s to talk this out on his own because he doesn’t have much of an imagination, not like me anyway and he doesn’t see it, not the way I see it.
October’s 13/#1 - Somewhere Between Good and Evil
There are a slew of stories told by long haulers about a stretch of highway between the coasts where they say God and the Devil crossed paths while thumbing through America; it’s a stretch of bad karma, mysterious disappearances, unexplained occurrences where travelers inexplicably up and vanish into thin air leaving no answers or calls… just gone; and what happened at that crossroad, how it went down between God and the Devil… shit, one can only guess but one story went like this.
There may have been a struggle… a reckoning… an old-fashioned duel between madmen. And the exact spot of this encounter, Somewhere USA - - somewhere between fading cornfields and dirt cities, perhaps on a curve of blacktop a few miles outside of your own quaint town, a faulty bend in the road slightly past midnight. Perhaps they played a fun game of chance, rolled the dice and paved the road with the memory - - even number: let you go… odd number: eat you up.
I tend to turn up the radio when traveling, listen to upbeat music and think pleasant thoughts. Hell, I even pray a little as I travel toward the darkening horizon and bleeding sunset.
October’s 13/#2 - Dead Serious
That damn virus killed almost all of America, at least everyone I ever knew and loved, took our dreams and most of our wants. It left some alive… like those healthy slabs of red meat I see lurking behind the glass at the old butcher shop.
I’ve seen what their guns can do; they’re heavily loaded but it doesn’t really matter because there are more of us than the bullets they are running out of. Oh Lord I hunger for the days when we could embrace our old dreams, grab on tight to all this country had to offer. We are still those Americans - - even in death - - relentless and picky to the end, hungry for what we truly want and right now that would be living flesh. And seriously brother, we want you… fresh.
October’s 13/#3 - Once In A Blue Moon
On the slow days in simmering heat, Moe is content to lie in a loose heap and ponder the butterflies and bees that zigzag about, one-eye the few chickens that peck about the untended yard. The warm familiarity of the dog-eared porch is a steady comfort as he waits for the woman to return. There’s not much desire to stir things up, not much need to stretch out bony bones; those days are mostly behind him… but once in a while… once in a blue moon… something will stir…like the other night when that fox came rifling through… he’d jumped to the call, off the porch for the chase and fight, all that play stuff except, it hadn’t been a fox. Something bigger and upright on two feet had swiped at him, blurred on through and left a rake of nail that seared his hindquarter.
The woman hasn’t been around, more than likely down the road closing down the bar like she’s apt to do on a sweltering night like this. Moe’s hip is now a puffy black furrow, the scratch itching hot and personal and an even sweeter itch simmers just below the surface - - the insatiable need for flesh and blood to wet his mouth; he is pleasantly aware how his teeth ache and protrude and how - in drifting sleep - he is comforted with panting dreams that buzz through his head like annoying wasps, only the wasps now roar with the sound of a terrible ripping and he finds himself loping with purpose, faster than the wind, down the blue moonlit road toward light and laughter on the edge of town.
October’s 13/#4 - Frankly-Doctor-You-Make-Me-Crazy
i-not-think-good-for-nice-words. body-sore-from-needle-holes-and-slice-parts. doctor-say-I-truly-alive. me-grateful-for-all-parts-he-give. only-hate-blue-jolt-he-repeat-send-through-my-being-while-he-laugh-crazy-to-sky. jolt-work-first-time-and-now-annoy-with-fry-brain-and-once-he-finish-with-new-hand-sew-i-help-remove-laugh-from-crazy-him-face.
October’s 13/#5 - Six Feet Under
The Crawley kids are talking to a therapist. I’d be too if I’d found what they did. Joey White and Donald Forrester buried a blood-smeared mannequin’s hand in the kiddies’ sandbox by the park, a cool Halloween prank for sure but the kids ran home crying, got their folks and police involved.
There’s something else going on out there; camera crews are clogging the neighborhood streets and TV reporters are running haywire like it’s an OJ crime scene as the police barricade off the playground, blocking access to the park. My friend Henry’s dad is a cop and he overheard him talking with the other police officers, though I’m not sure Henry heard it right. There’s more to it, something about what those guys didn’t bury… or perhaps did… something about feet… real feet… lots of them… at least three bodies worth.
October’s 13/#6 - What Lies Beneath
October 31, 1947:
We, who live in the small hamlets along the northern territory shoreline may have seen something fall from the sky, crash into the deep bowl that was our lake; if we did see, nothing was said, only whispered.
October 31, 1960:
New housing developments overshadowed our lodgings when investors cashed in on the wilderness and wine colored lake; over the years we listened to their complaint - lack of wildlife to hunt, the poor fishing catch - and we told them it was just the way of nature.
October 31, 1973:
The mysterious disappearance of four boaters and their boats brought about an investigation by federal authorities but the cases remained unsolved as the lake - - a deep crater 2000 feet deep - - left no clues; we who knew left offerings near the water’s edge; the disappearances stopped.
October 31, 1986:
The developments went the way of ghost towns as strange sightings were reported on the lake and in the surrounding woods; several locals went missing and were dismissed as ‘runaways’ but we knew what we’d done; there were no investigations by the local authority.
October 31, 1999:
Only a few families remained on the lake and those who stayed and understood continued to leave what was necessary beside the water’s edge.
October 31, 2012:
Our skates cut the thin veil over the ice pond and we follow the blowing tornados of snow across the glass surface; something wide knifes beneath the ice and I sense the deep water below about to boil but I am not afraid.
October’s 13/#7 – Skittles
He’ll do his part this night, string up the clattering bones and frayed cobwebs, wire the crinkled spiders and worn leathered bats, and light the surgically carved pumpkin. Oh yes, he’ll put the usual work into it, hell, he believes a skull when properly painted can look quite real, almost like it could smile again. Inside the house, he’ll turn out the lights and wait in the quiet knowing that before long the heavy shout of ‘trick or treat’ will land upon his doorstep and despite the darkened windows, the doorbell will ring over and over echoing no answer and the little devils will disappear. Much later, the last of them will trundle by, usually the greedy ones eager to cash in on the last of the sweet things. Shaking the atrophy that tortures his limbs, he will skittle up from the basement, plucking clots of dirt from his swollen features. And when they see him dressed like them in full nightmare attire, they will scream - knowing it’s too late - and try to run and he’ll raise a ruined face to the whitening sky - bulging feelers encircling - and oh yes, the treat will be on him.
October’s 13/#8 - Let It Out
Okay… open your mouth, take a deep breath and let it out. Oh… no, no, no… you call that a scream? Please, try it again and this time really let it go, the louder the better. Don’t worry. No one can hear you. It’s only you… and me… and this most interesting room.
October’s 13/#9 - There’s This Place
Here in the rural outskirt, there’s a shadowed road that weaves like a long black snake through swamp and thicket marked with buckled shanties that sprout like boxwood along its roadside, and if by some mistake you’ve taken this road, found your way down round Wellman’s Bog, you will come upon a nameless trailer park - a ramshackle of disintegrating trailer homes contorted every which way like some abandoned train wreck. There are no streetlights or paved driveways here, no white picket fences or beautiful gardens, no fancy cars or big-wheeled trucks… just a pool of society that has slipped from the mainstream and exist near the bottom; some may have a thing or two to hide but most are simple folk who choose to live quietly, wish only to be left alone.
Down in nearby Mallorytown, there is rumor this place is the Meth-man’s hangout, a zippie-hippie commune, a gypsy camp… a witch’s coven. It is easy to label what is not understood, to mistake what is seen, challenge what is believed… and should one poke around here late after midnight, well, there are things to been seen that may surprise - - turned-over cans and knotted bags of garbage may lean like deformed goblins and jitter in the dark when the wind grabs and tickles them… a smoke stained curtain may move and contort, then take on the appearance of a skillfully dissected face… blackened metal drums, the ‘trash burning’ type might belch a strangely pleasant “cooked” smell.
And should a hand touch your shoulder while you’re poking about, be glad that it’s only me because I’m mostly harmless, somewhat of a discarded scarecrow you might say that’s lost a bit of its stuff. I cannot tell you how long I’ve lived here but if you come in, stay for a spell, I will gladly show you why.
October’s 13/#10 – Nightmare Girl
She calls well after midnight, tells me she’s going to be late. “Please don’t be mad,” she pouts. “It’s been so busy tonight.” Truthfully, I’m not mad, just spoiled and lazy after all these years. My girl will do anything for me; she’s a nurse down at the county hospital. She knows what I am and bless her heart… actually believes she’s saving lives by delivering what I crave.
October’s 13/#11 - Little Horrors
For Fletcher Chapman, the little horrors of Halloween night are pure joy. He eagerly answers each knock, drops handfuls of candied treats into the outstretched bags, and savors the shrieks of ‘Trick or Trick’ and ‘Thank You!’ that echo around him in the October night. He is almost brought to tears as he watches them rustle away across his lawn like tumbling leaves.
Tomorrow is only a few hours away. Fletcher knows that in the morning, the real horror will begin. In the glare of new light, he will need to endure the torture of strangling traffic on his way to work, a monster of a boss lurking over his shoulder, his mummified secretary Betty’s clawing voice, the office trolls that scurry from the elevator and flow darkly down the halls, Connie’s poisonous cooking waiting on the dinner table, the silent zombies pretending to be his children and most of all, the specter of another year trapped in life’s suffocating nightmare.
October’s 13/#12 - In Our Town
No one goes out this night. Here, the earth binds and bends, gives up its contents in oily vomit, wet worm stench and all. Building exteriors blister and boil, statues and facades exhibit carvings of sutured faces bathed in blue moonlight, avenues of blasted trees stretch like black boned fingers, their silhouettes clutching and grabbing at the maw of night. Unspeakable monstrosities loll in every corner, slither over bridges, coil and cut along the gutters and walkways. Windows burn orange in blackened sockets and bristling lawns stab and carve, the waning moon, a rolling eye. Any other night though, it’s quite pleasant for an evening stroll… really.
October’s 13/#13 - Mixed Bag
It’s a mixed bag on our street but we’ve got it sorted out. The trick is to start with the Richardsons across from my house because they’re loaded and not chintzy with the sweets and buy nothing but Ghirardelli chocolate and oh man, it’s all King Size. Then it’s next door to the Shrewburys who are professional Christians but goddamn amateurs when it comes to trust and they naively leave their bountiful offerings out on a chair next to a pumpkin where we happily load up our bags to start the evening. From then on we take our chances, for it’s a ‘grab and run’ fest as we head around the block.
I’ll tell you, it’s hard to say if it’s a scarecrow that answers the door or just old Mr. Finn in suspenders yelling, “you damn kids get off my yard!” but we know he tends to be loose in his thoughts so we’ll wait patiently until he dribbles some candy into our bags though last year he dropped two cans of Campbell’s tomato soup in mine… then we’ll slide next door to Dr. Mullin’s house which is no problem as he is happy to dump handfuls of sugary loot into our bags being our family dentist and all… then it’s two doors down to Joey Perdomo’s place which smells like cabbage and Joey’s old man, Mr. Perdomo, will yell something like ‘those little fags again’ from his broken recliner … then we’ll drift back across the street, through the hedge, where we’ll skip the young couple at number 113 because they never answer the door though we’ll stop to take a peek because last year I swear I saw the woman standing at the living room window with her bare snacks on display… then it’s over to the Wilfords where no matter how good my disguise, Mrs. Wilford will squeal through her clown makeup, “that’s a super costume William!” while she doles out homemade bullshit like wooden cookies and teeth-breaking toffee which she’ll say are “healthy alternatives” or some crap and we’ll smile and shout, “gee, thanks Mrs. Wilford!!!” then grenade them into old man Finn’s yard on the way home…but not until we’ve hit the Docklees, Crabtrees, Neidermiers and Chans who are all pretty generous with the candy and compliments, though the year I wore my Zorro outfit and lost my moustache and hat, Mr. Chan made the mistake of thinking I was some sort of a black-caped Ninja or something and everybody laughed at me. One thing for sure, we’ll skip the houses where we know the loners live because there’s no need taking a chance on getting poisoned or ending up in Emergency with a razorblade lodged between your teeth and gums… I mean it’s no way to end the night unable to bite into all that pure sweetness.
Oct 4, 2012
Jul 28, 2012
An Uncertain Sky
Up past the forestry station along an empty stretch of highway, O.D. pushed hard against a rising headwind. He felt the resistance of the air against his body, the whoosh of wet wheels on slick pavement, the hypnotic draw of the blushing horizon. His breath wheezed in rhythm to the clink of the bike chain, the spattering rain drumming along in broken time to an old radio song that muttered in his head.
“Well, I dreamed I saw the silver… space ships flying… in the yellow haze… of the sun…
A gray ache gripped his tired bones but he forced the pedals harder, slippery feet on edge, legs wide apart to avoid knocking his knees against the intruding bag that dangled awkwardly from the handlebars. It’d been a while since he’d brought anything back that appeared useful but now was the time and he imagined they’d be pleased, especially Jemma.
“There were children crying… and colors flying… all around the chosen… ones.”
He was a piano of a man, his six foot six frame suffocating the rail-thin bike that creaked and wobbled under him. A plastic garbage bag bloomed over his wide shoulders – a poor man’s raincoat; it whipped and popped like snapping fingers against the wind. Gray beard gathered like wool along the upper ridge of his cheekbones, infringed heavily, swept down his moon face and bottomed out in a heavy hornet’s nest tangle ten inches below his jaw. His bright gray eyes - - round as saucers - - focused on the crowded rows of black trees that fenced the highway, millions of giant palings left pounded in the earth by industrious absent gods.
“All in a dream… all… in a dream…”
O.D. worked the words, wondered what was real, what was nightmare, wondered what had happened previous to this day’s passing, the time before, years of dim memories impenetrable, the future down the road like the setting sun, glowing in and out of view above an uncertain sky.
The folks at Haven House tended to step aside when O.D. wandered the aisles of the store picking through recycled goods. He seemed harmless enough, but his polished stare would send some skittering in another direction. Some of the staff huddled and whispered in conference when he passed, talked openly when he left.
I heard he went crazy when his wife and boy left him, got heavy into hallucinogens… nah, nah, word was he encountered strange flying objects one time, yoo-who, coo-coo! no, no, I heard he snapped and killed his wife and her lover, buried them somewhere…no, listen, Otis Digby was a good man, private that’s all… nope, here’s the truth, the guy’s a serial killer, I mean shit, look at him…
Few cars passed. On the slick curve, O.D. saw it, the pale blue fabric hanging from the shrub. He stopped and wiped water from his washed up face. He waited for a lone lazy truck to pass, bent to tinker with the front wheel and when the truck evaporated like a ghost in the distant mist, stepped from the bike and made his way across the long weeded burm. Overhead, rigid trees rose like thin pins poking against the lowering sky. The blue rag tucked against the dark camouflage; below it, a tangled dent hugged the ground and punched into dead limbs as if a low animal had burrowed through. O.D. scanned the empty highway once more and then knifed the bike through the wet shrub and disappeared, digested whole in one quick swallow by the waiting forest.
He came to the clearing two hundred yards in, a conclusion of trees uprooted from the earth. It formed a secluded backdrop against the surrounding forest. In the center, a worn card table with bent knees listed precariously. It was covered with a red and white banner from a big-box discount store, the Target logo prominently bulls-eyed on top. Dull rain tapped along the surface, overfilled a white vase containing wilted sunflowers. Propped next to it, a framed picture of a smiling young couple.
Two bodies - - one male and one female - - reclined, roped to yellowed kitchen chairs in front of the table. They tilted in the mud, a magician’s trick gone badly. The young male was crudely tied - - a diagonal plank - - his neck secured to the back of one chair by thin ribbon, ankles below the mud, a battered suitcase sinking in the mud beside him. The naked woman was seated, her breasts glossy smooth and featureless, a rag of wet plastered hair atop her head. The rain ran in rivulets down their bodies, pooled around them in wide puddles.
“Brought something Jemma,” O.D. said and advanced on the female.
He emptied the bag he’d been carrying. It contained a few items of fabric - assorted clothing, long sleeve shirts, a couple of suit coats, pants and one yellow dress.
“I’d hoped to have found a new wig, something nice for the journey. No such luck.”
He studied the confounding sky.
“It’s time don’t you think?” he said, gently laying out the dress.
“All in a dream… all… in a dream…”
The rain fell harder, pattering to a soft hush. Distant thunder boomed like war cannon. A few birds flew. The mannequins, bleached and lifeless, said nothing, only stared into a sunless world.
They waited.
“Well, I dreamed I saw the silver… space ships flying… in the yellow haze… of the sun…
A gray ache gripped his tired bones but he forced the pedals harder, slippery feet on edge, legs wide apart to avoid knocking his knees against the intruding bag that dangled awkwardly from the handlebars. It’d been a while since he’d brought anything back that appeared useful but now was the time and he imagined they’d be pleased, especially Jemma.
“There were children crying… and colors flying… all around the chosen… ones.”
He was a piano of a man, his six foot six frame suffocating the rail-thin bike that creaked and wobbled under him. A plastic garbage bag bloomed over his wide shoulders – a poor man’s raincoat; it whipped and popped like snapping fingers against the wind. Gray beard gathered like wool along the upper ridge of his cheekbones, infringed heavily, swept down his moon face and bottomed out in a heavy hornet’s nest tangle ten inches below his jaw. His bright gray eyes - - round as saucers - - focused on the crowded rows of black trees that fenced the highway, millions of giant palings left pounded in the earth by industrious absent gods.
“All in a dream… all… in a dream…”
O.D. worked the words, wondered what was real, what was nightmare, wondered what had happened previous to this day’s passing, the time before, years of dim memories impenetrable, the future down the road like the setting sun, glowing in and out of view above an uncertain sky.
The folks at Haven House tended to step aside when O.D. wandered the aisles of the store picking through recycled goods. He seemed harmless enough, but his polished stare would send some skittering in another direction. Some of the staff huddled and whispered in conference when he passed, talked openly when he left.
I heard he went crazy when his wife and boy left him, got heavy into hallucinogens… nah, nah, word was he encountered strange flying objects one time, yoo-who, coo-coo! no, no, I heard he snapped and killed his wife and her lover, buried them somewhere…no, listen, Otis Digby was a good man, private that’s all… nope, here’s the truth, the guy’s a serial killer, I mean shit, look at him…
Few cars passed. On the slick curve, O.D. saw it, the pale blue fabric hanging from the shrub. He stopped and wiped water from his washed up face. He waited for a lone lazy truck to pass, bent to tinker with the front wheel and when the truck evaporated like a ghost in the distant mist, stepped from the bike and made his way across the long weeded burm. Overhead, rigid trees rose like thin pins poking against the lowering sky. The blue rag tucked against the dark camouflage; below it, a tangled dent hugged the ground and punched into dead limbs as if a low animal had burrowed through. O.D. scanned the empty highway once more and then knifed the bike through the wet shrub and disappeared, digested whole in one quick swallow by the waiting forest.
He came to the clearing two hundred yards in, a conclusion of trees uprooted from the earth. It formed a secluded backdrop against the surrounding forest. In the center, a worn card table with bent knees listed precariously. It was covered with a red and white banner from a big-box discount store, the Target logo prominently bulls-eyed on top. Dull rain tapped along the surface, overfilled a white vase containing wilted sunflowers. Propped next to it, a framed picture of a smiling young couple.
Two bodies - - one male and one female - - reclined, roped to yellowed kitchen chairs in front of the table. They tilted in the mud, a magician’s trick gone badly. The young male was crudely tied - - a diagonal plank - - his neck secured to the back of one chair by thin ribbon, ankles below the mud, a battered suitcase sinking in the mud beside him. The naked woman was seated, her breasts glossy smooth and featureless, a rag of wet plastered hair atop her head. The rain ran in rivulets down their bodies, pooled around them in wide puddles.
“Brought something Jemma,” O.D. said and advanced on the female.
He emptied the bag he’d been carrying. It contained a few items of fabric - assorted clothing, long sleeve shirts, a couple of suit coats, pants and one yellow dress.
“I’d hoped to have found a new wig, something nice for the journey. No such luck.”
He studied the confounding sky.
“It’s time don’t you think?” he said, gently laying out the dress.
“All in a dream… all… in a dream…”
The rain fell harder, pattering to a soft hush. Distant thunder boomed like war cannon. A few birds flew. The mannequins, bleached and lifeless, said nothing, only stared into a sunless world.
They waited.
May 2, 2012
Las Cruces
Smith sat quietly inside the stagecoach, thumbing the rotating cylinder. Bullets had been flying. When the coach stopped, the guard riding shotgun had dropped to the ground, heavy like a sack of barley seed, a hole through his throat.
“Everybody out,” one of the riders had shouted.
Smith was thinking about a simple premise his Pa had taught back on the farm.
“Size up the situation. Figure out the possibilities. Take your best shot.”
Smith and his wife Millie had worked hard, scraped the land bare for the meager return the parched ground had been willing to release. It was never enough. His Millie deserved better. Now, after losing the farm and his Pa, they were headed south.
“I said, everybody out.”
Smith gave Millie a nod, then calmly stepped from the stage. Without hesitation, he flashed the gun and fired four shots, his steady hand as sure as the truth. The three riders tumbled from their vaulting horses.
The stagecoach driver, Hank Barrett sat gravely wounded on the carriage deck.
“You saved us son,” he whispered. “The bank too.” He rubbed a slow hand along the silver strong box. “Over ten thousand dollars worth I’d say.”
Smith rotated the cylinder; there were two cartridges left. He thought about his Pa’s words as he put one through Barrett’s left eye. He turned to Millie who looked out at him through the coach window, a beatific smile crossing her face.
“Darlin’,” he asked. “Would you like to see Mexico?”
“Everybody out,” one of the riders had shouted.
Smith was thinking about a simple premise his Pa had taught back on the farm.
“Size up the situation. Figure out the possibilities. Take your best shot.”
Smith and his wife Millie had worked hard, scraped the land bare for the meager return the parched ground had been willing to release. It was never enough. His Millie deserved better. Now, after losing the farm and his Pa, they were headed south.
“I said, everybody out.”
Smith gave Millie a nod, then calmly stepped from the stage. Without hesitation, he flashed the gun and fired four shots, his steady hand as sure as the truth. The three riders tumbled from their vaulting horses.
The stagecoach driver, Hank Barrett sat gravely wounded on the carriage deck.
“You saved us son,” he whispered. “The bank too.” He rubbed a slow hand along the silver strong box. “Over ten thousand dollars worth I’d say.”
Smith rotated the cylinder; there were two cartridges left. He thought about his Pa’s words as he put one through Barrett’s left eye. He turned to Millie who looked out at him through the coach window, a beatific smile crossing her face.
“Darlin’,” he asked. “Would you like to see Mexico?”
Dec 5, 2011
Themes
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.
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.
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!”
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