First Hour
Rounding the high curve along the front beach access, I come upon it.
There are perhaps fifty cars, stopped dead in traffic, more on the opposite side of the double yellow disappearing east. The occupants are abandoning them, running toward the water. There, the wind blows our bodies and scatters our thoughts but we sway like dazed birds, helpless to move, our eyes on the horizon. A smudge the color of tobacco streaks along the rim of the world, blending the flat white sky mocha like a wet watercolor landscape. Then the air ‘whumpts’ and ‘chops’ all around us with giant noise and metal as military helicopters buzz overhead and dart away toward the sun.
Second Hour
We stare, uncomprehending. We wait for a signal from some authority to tell us what’s happening; that it’s a dream, a government exercise perhaps. The signal doesn’t come. Hundreds of people are arriving, drawn to the water’s edge only to collapse in the sand. My cell phone shakes; it’s my father’s voice calling my name - so far away - with long distance crackle and panic on the line. I can hear Mom in the background saying the picture is snowy - on all the news stations - and then there is a muffling sound and she is on, weeping softly “are – you - alright?” and the phone goes dead.
Third Hour
The helicopters shoot past and skim a few hundred yards off shore. They don’t venture toward the horizon anymore; the first ones that did vanished… simple as that. No explosion… no attack… just gone… as if absorbed by the air. The beach is now standing room only, the air heavy, humid and humming as we watch the spectacle. Along the horizon, long black mirrored cylinders rotate, smooth and seamless like cigar tubes, cylinders the size of aircraft carriers, hundreds of them, more. They sit silent, suspended above the water.
Fourth Hour
The man next to me is sobbing. He whispers, “this can’t… it can’t.” He stands in an open stance, his legs apart, a small pistol quivering in a two handed grip, the front of his jeans soaked in urine. Along the darkened rim, the cylinders double in size, then triple as if magnified, rising up like sudden skyscrapers, blotting out the sky. The sobbing man puts the gun to his head and I don’t stop him. Instead, I run.
Fifth Hour
The mind falters when overwhelmed. It staggers, protects… closes down. I wonder if I will ever be open again. I don’t know my own name. Some primordial instinct instructs me to burrow away… to hide in this expansive house nestled in along the dunes. Like a badger, I burrow deep in a dark downstairs closet, clawing under fallen wardrobe, unable to look past neither the drawn drapes nor the next ticking second.
Sixth Hour
They are upstairs. I can hear them ‘clicking’ across the floor. It is a sound I can’t describe. They are like music, a musty melody worming inside my head, slightly nauseating, pleasing. That could be a good thing, I whisper to no one… it can... it will. It is.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 26, 2011
Ivory Wave
When Clara Early hears her grandson Boyd is in the Itawamba County emergency room mindlessly raving about man-eating lobsters, she isn’t surprised. She is told he arrived drenched like a drowned rat and not from any immediate downpour.
“The young man’s sweatin’ buckets and his hearts racin’ like Nascar,” the resident, a Dr. Stockwell says. “Got some cuts on his face too. He’s in and out of delirium. Best we keep him overnight for observation.”
“And what exactly caused this?” Clara asks, knowing full well the answer.
“Well, we’ve seen a lot of this lately. It’s called ‘Red Dove’. It’s a bath salt kids are buying legally, then smoking and snorting. Vanilla Sky. Ivory Wave… got different names. It can cause paranoia, hallucinations… suicidal thoughts.”
“And it’s legal?”
“Yup,” Dr. Stockwell says, sighing. “At least for a while until the government clamps down… or enough people die.”
Returning home, Clara storms Boyd’s bedroom. “I may be old but I ain’t stupid,“ she hisses. In the closet, she finds the duffel bag Boyd has poorly tried to hide and begins to pull the packets out. There are over a hundred, labeled Ivory Wave. Clara’s bones crack. Her spindly fingers ache from arthritis that has set in over the years and her slowly deteriorating hip stabs and stings. “Sixty-eight and here’s what I got,” she says to Raymond, her gray Tabby who has followed her into the room.
“A no good grandson living and stealing from me. Spending it on this. No more.”
The bathroom steams tropical. Clara dips a stubby toe into the hot bath water and stirs it about. On the floor, empty packets of bath salt lay scattered like weekend sunbathers. An intoxicating aroma hangs in the thickening air.
“Ivory Wave?” she murmurs. “Pure Paradise I’d say.”
She drops her robe, averting her eyes from the aged and sagging reflection in the mirror and lowers herself into the tub. Easing back, she closes her eyes, her body; a round egg coming to a simmering boil. Her fingers gently tap and play along the surface like piano keys creating snickering splashes. She imagines little fish jumping in the now sudsy foam. She smiles and takes in a deep breath. “Now this, I deserve.”
It is then she feels a change. Opening her eyes, her breasts poke the surface like a rising archipelago. They seem firmer - feel firmer - younger, the brown areola strangely now the color of corral. Below, there is a tingling. Her bottom shifts down like a sunken ship on the ocean floor and between her thighs, a deeper stirring begins. Her mind reels in darkness, a switch turning off. Something slithers over her hip and between her thighs along the seaweed trench. The bathroom is burning a fever. Clara struggles, her mouth puckering like a dying fish. Her foot rises through the suds. It is black; the toes melded together, a curved black fin. It cuts the water, pushing an ivory wave back and forth, back and forth. She tries to scream but she has no voice. As her eyes roll white, she sees the scissors next to the tub, their silver edges serrated like shark teeth. She grabs it and begins to stab.
Boyd arrives home around two. He is dull and annoyed. He notices the open bathroom door. He notices the glistening red packets, pink fur on the floor, the bathtub crimson. He never notices her standing behind the door.
“The young man’s sweatin’ buckets and his hearts racin’ like Nascar,” the resident, a Dr. Stockwell says. “Got some cuts on his face too. He’s in and out of delirium. Best we keep him overnight for observation.”
“And what exactly caused this?” Clara asks, knowing full well the answer.
“Well, we’ve seen a lot of this lately. It’s called ‘Red Dove’. It’s a bath salt kids are buying legally, then smoking and snorting. Vanilla Sky. Ivory Wave… got different names. It can cause paranoia, hallucinations… suicidal thoughts.”
“And it’s legal?”
“Yup,” Dr. Stockwell says, sighing. “At least for a while until the government clamps down… or enough people die.”
Returning home, Clara storms Boyd’s bedroom. “I may be old but I ain’t stupid,“ she hisses. In the closet, she finds the duffel bag Boyd has poorly tried to hide and begins to pull the packets out. There are over a hundred, labeled Ivory Wave. Clara’s bones crack. Her spindly fingers ache from arthritis that has set in over the years and her slowly deteriorating hip stabs and stings. “Sixty-eight and here’s what I got,” she says to Raymond, her gray Tabby who has followed her into the room.
“A no good grandson living and stealing from me. Spending it on this. No more.”
The bathroom steams tropical. Clara dips a stubby toe into the hot bath water and stirs it about. On the floor, empty packets of bath salt lay scattered like weekend sunbathers. An intoxicating aroma hangs in the thickening air.
“Ivory Wave?” she murmurs. “Pure Paradise I’d say.”
She drops her robe, averting her eyes from the aged and sagging reflection in the mirror and lowers herself into the tub. Easing back, she closes her eyes, her body; a round egg coming to a simmering boil. Her fingers gently tap and play along the surface like piano keys creating snickering splashes. She imagines little fish jumping in the now sudsy foam. She smiles and takes in a deep breath. “Now this, I deserve.”
It is then she feels a change. Opening her eyes, her breasts poke the surface like a rising archipelago. They seem firmer - feel firmer - younger, the brown areola strangely now the color of corral. Below, there is a tingling. Her bottom shifts down like a sunken ship on the ocean floor and between her thighs, a deeper stirring begins. Her mind reels in darkness, a switch turning off. Something slithers over her hip and between her thighs along the seaweed trench. The bathroom is burning a fever. Clara struggles, her mouth puckering like a dying fish. Her foot rises through the suds. It is black; the toes melded together, a curved black fin. It cuts the water, pushing an ivory wave back and forth, back and forth. She tries to scream but she has no voice. As her eyes roll white, she sees the scissors next to the tub, their silver edges serrated like shark teeth. She grabs it and begins to stab.
Boyd arrives home around two. He is dull and annoyed. He notices the open bathroom door. He notices the glistening red packets, pink fur on the floor, the bathtub crimson. He never notices her standing behind the door.
Dec 25, 2010
Going To Find Out On Christmas Morning
Late Christmas morning, Nick slid from his crumpled bed. His head was afire, his cider-filled brain shouting and pounding like an aching old tooth. He sat with his feet barely touching the floor and scratched his belly. He wondered if he was going to puke, and then decided against it. “Always too much,” he thought. It was always this way. Downstairs in the kitchen, he could hear his wife frantically preparing hot pots of coffee, working up “the perfect breakfast feast” just to please him and the guests. He stood and tottered to the window. A carved coo-coo clock ticked loudly next to him on the wall, its monotonous tocking hammering a spike through his swollen brain. His eyes, thin as dimes stayed locked on the horizon as he raised one large craggy hand and with a full powerful grasp, crushed the clock to dust. “That… will be… enough… of that,” he growled.
A white fog had settled over the barren snow-covered fields, leaving them flat like white canvas awaiting lines to be drawn. Below, the trees in the yard hung heavy with snow and ice, their branches bent, about to break. “They will break,” he said softly. “Everything breaks. Eventually.’ Last night during all the festivities, he had seen many broken things: hearts, dreams, homes, bodies, promises. Yes, promises. Every year it was the same. It wore him down and there would be a steep price to pay.
As he rubbed his head, he caught his reflection in the pane. It painted him a ghost, almost transparent, his white hair exploding up, his long johns pewter gray and as thin as his thoughts. His weathered face was heavily lined with what his wife called ‘smile’ lines. “Not for long,” he scowled and turned away quickly, grabbing for his boots. “Take care of the dear ones first,” he muttered, his body aching, his back cracking as he straightened up.
On a bench in the kitchen near the cellar door, a group of elfin figures much like young boys huddled and waited nervously. Through a window, they watched Nick stomp past on his way to the shed carrying two buckets, one of fresh hot gruel, the other warm flavored milk, the way the reindeer liked it. The ground under his boots crunched loud and firm like crisp cornflakes. The missus was busy cutting up loaves of bread for her guests. She hummed a familiar Christmas jingle, “he knows when you are sleeping… he knows when you’re awake… he knows when you’ve been bad or good… lada-deeda-lada-dee!” One of the elves leaned and whispered. “I watched old Nick last night…he had that list again… longer than last years. He took his time going over it. He checked it twice.” His small voice shook and cracked. “He’ll show no mercy. He never does.”
Then the kitchen door flew open and Old Nick was upon them, flying past, bellowing:
“OHH I KNOW WHO’S BEEN NAUGHTY!… OH YES I DO!!!”
His face was a red blaze and he swung a heavy switch in his trembling hand as he roared like a fire down into the cellar.
Along the frozen basement floor, thousands of burlap sacks tied with heavy rope writhed and squirmed like boiling serpents. From within, soft moans and child-like pleading hung suspended, frozen in the frigid air. Old Nick glowered over them, his dark switch racking stiff against his knee. “So many promises broken. Now a price to pay.” He moved slowly among them tapping his switch along the bags. “Everything breaks eventually,” he said lovingly. “Everything.”
A white fog had settled over the barren snow-covered fields, leaving them flat like white canvas awaiting lines to be drawn. Below, the trees in the yard hung heavy with snow and ice, their branches bent, about to break. “They will break,” he said softly. “Everything breaks. Eventually.’ Last night during all the festivities, he had seen many broken things: hearts, dreams, homes, bodies, promises. Yes, promises. Every year it was the same. It wore him down and there would be a steep price to pay.
As he rubbed his head, he caught his reflection in the pane. It painted him a ghost, almost transparent, his white hair exploding up, his long johns pewter gray and as thin as his thoughts. His weathered face was heavily lined with what his wife called ‘smile’ lines. “Not for long,” he scowled and turned away quickly, grabbing for his boots. “Take care of the dear ones first,” he muttered, his body aching, his back cracking as he straightened up.
On a bench in the kitchen near the cellar door, a group of elfin figures much like young boys huddled and waited nervously. Through a window, they watched Nick stomp past on his way to the shed carrying two buckets, one of fresh hot gruel, the other warm flavored milk, the way the reindeer liked it. The ground under his boots crunched loud and firm like crisp cornflakes. The missus was busy cutting up loaves of bread for her guests. She hummed a familiar Christmas jingle, “he knows when you are sleeping… he knows when you’re awake… he knows when you’ve been bad or good… lada-deeda-lada-dee!” One of the elves leaned and whispered. “I watched old Nick last night…he had that list again… longer than last years. He took his time going over it. He checked it twice.” His small voice shook and cracked. “He’ll show no mercy. He never does.”
Then the kitchen door flew open and Old Nick was upon them, flying past, bellowing:
“OHH I KNOW WHO’S BEEN NAUGHTY!… OH YES I DO!!!”
His face was a red blaze and he swung a heavy switch in his trembling hand as he roared like a fire down into the cellar.
Along the frozen basement floor, thousands of burlap sacks tied with heavy rope writhed and squirmed like boiling serpents. From within, soft moans and child-like pleading hung suspended, frozen in the frigid air. Old Nick glowered over them, his dark switch racking stiff against his knee. “So many promises broken. Now a price to pay.” He moved slowly among them tapping his switch along the bags. “Everything breaks eventually,” he said lovingly. “Everything.”
Nov 20, 2010
Missing The Talk
Tito ‘The Talk’ Moncuso keeps all of his secrets buried under his house, out of sight where nobody will know. That’s really funny because Tito’s never been the secretive sort. Matter of fact, he’s known as a big mouth, which in our business ain’t such a good thing.
Tito wants to move up. That’s okay, a lot of guys do. Just do it the right way I say, that’s all - - the way that don’t draw too much attention if you know what I mean. Show the right temperament and have a little patience. From what I’ve seen, Tito don’t have neither. Tommy ‘Two Tunes’ has talked to him but Tito keeps missing the point. See - - everything about Tito is loud. He’s always had a nose for seeking the limelight, dressing loud and flamboyant-like, shootin’ his mouth off about stuff he shouldn’t be shootin’. Like when we was kids, he’d steal from the till at old Marco’s market stand, then hang with Marco’s kid Frankie and spout off about it. No shame. No tack. You gotta know to keep some things under wraps. Private. Secret. Tito’s not like that.
Tito and me and Vinny ‘Van Go’ Flowers used to take care of business for friends and family if they needed it. We called it a ‘cleaning’ business… you know, tidying up messes and loose ends, getting rid of problems in a discreet manner. Unfortunately, Tito weren’t too discreet. The cops started listening in on his big talkin’ mouth, though they couldn’t quite prove nothin’. Tommy ‘Two Tunes’ thought it’d be a good idea to send Tito out to Biloxi to quiet down for a while with instructions to lay low. But guys like Tito don’t have a nickname like ‘the talk’ for nothing. He got bored and started gambling too much, then hooked up with some high roller old fuck at the tables - - a Mr. Bromley - - that really took a shine to Tito. He was a real piece of work, another big mouth conversationalist like Tito with money, rings and cigars, lots of gold and chain that dazzled the pants off Tito, if you know what I mean. I don’t condone that sort of thing but it’s none of my business. When Tito started talking about personal stuff to Bromley, well it became my business. Turns out, old Bromley there was retired FBI and Tito didn’t have a clue about it.
It’s all been taken care of though. Vinny Flowers and me have gone out to Biloxi to help Tito relocate again and do a little tidying up. It seems Mr. Bromley has gone missing. It’s okay. He’ll show up again… in the morgue… the recipient of an apparent heart attack. Tito’s missin’ too. The feds would love to talk to ‘the talk’ but that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. Like I said, Tito keeps his secrets buried under his house and the only talk he’s gonna have are with the bugs and the worms crammed down his big talkin’ mouth.
Tito wants to move up. That’s okay, a lot of guys do. Just do it the right way I say, that’s all - - the way that don’t draw too much attention if you know what I mean. Show the right temperament and have a little patience. From what I’ve seen, Tito don’t have neither. Tommy ‘Two Tunes’ has talked to him but Tito keeps missing the point. See - - everything about Tito is loud. He’s always had a nose for seeking the limelight, dressing loud and flamboyant-like, shootin’ his mouth off about stuff he shouldn’t be shootin’. Like when we was kids, he’d steal from the till at old Marco’s market stand, then hang with Marco’s kid Frankie and spout off about it. No shame. No tack. You gotta know to keep some things under wraps. Private. Secret. Tito’s not like that.
Tito and me and Vinny ‘Van Go’ Flowers used to take care of business for friends and family if they needed it. We called it a ‘cleaning’ business… you know, tidying up messes and loose ends, getting rid of problems in a discreet manner. Unfortunately, Tito weren’t too discreet. The cops started listening in on his big talkin’ mouth, though they couldn’t quite prove nothin’. Tommy ‘Two Tunes’ thought it’d be a good idea to send Tito out to Biloxi to quiet down for a while with instructions to lay low. But guys like Tito don’t have a nickname like ‘the talk’ for nothing. He got bored and started gambling too much, then hooked up with some high roller old fuck at the tables - - a Mr. Bromley - - that really took a shine to Tito. He was a real piece of work, another big mouth conversationalist like Tito with money, rings and cigars, lots of gold and chain that dazzled the pants off Tito, if you know what I mean. I don’t condone that sort of thing but it’s none of my business. When Tito started talking about personal stuff to Bromley, well it became my business. Turns out, old Bromley there was retired FBI and Tito didn’t have a clue about it.
It’s all been taken care of though. Vinny Flowers and me have gone out to Biloxi to help Tito relocate again and do a little tidying up. It seems Mr. Bromley has gone missing. It’s okay. He’ll show up again… in the morgue… the recipient of an apparent heart attack. Tito’s missin’ too. The feds would love to talk to ‘the talk’ but that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. Like I said, Tito keeps his secrets buried under his house and the only talk he’s gonna have are with the bugs and the worms crammed down his big talkin’ mouth.
Oct 15, 2010
Black Candles
I saw the building from across the street as I was waiting in line for a bed at the shelter. It wasn’t hard to miss with its castle-like structure looming ominously over the street like a gray stone angel. The drunk in front of me said it was a holy place, a church. I knew that already. He suggested I go and take a look inside. ‘Migh’ even get somethin’ ‘spiri’ual’ out of it’, he added dreamily. And it was free to visit, warm too and nobody really bothered you, at least until closing time when they kicked you out.
I gave him a half dozen smokes to hold my place in line along with a hard stare that told him he’d best not fuck with me and still be there when I got back.
I needed to find out. I needed to know if anything had really changed.
The sun was beginning to set as I darted across the street, up the large flat steps that led to two large wooden doors. Entering the vestibule, I was overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia. The air was pungent, the smell of burning incense, candles. It brought back memories from when I was a child; back to a different church my parents took me to regularly. I hadn’t thought of that place until recently… not since I’d gone off the meds.
‘That’s all in the past,’ I told myself. But the transition had been difficult. Years of therapy had shed some light on understanding it rationally. The meds had blocked out the events that had happened there. Ending up on the street though… I wondered how far I had really progressed? They still lurked, just beneath the surface like flashing snapshots at the crime scene: the candles and dark shapes, the rituals, the black-candled underground room, the unholy sacrifices. What they made me do to that girl.
I eased along a recessed wall, passed veiled statues and carved pictures and I quickly turned away. I slipped quietly onto a bench near the center of the church. This place was different from what I had attended as a child. It was open and serene; its brightly colored glass with Madonna and child, the saintly faces gazing down, shining through in the dimming light. Long wooden benches stretched in front of a large ornate altar, crisp and white as if glowing in a hushed transcendent light. A few people sat silently in front of me and for once in a very long time, I felt at peace.
I closed my eyes and centered myself into a calm trance-like state. My mind slowly began to wander… up to the magnificent altar with its golden candles and shrouded tabernacle… up the giant wooden cross to the luminous vaulted ceiling… back across to the choir loft. Casually floating down, I entered… into a darkened corner.
There were rows of red glass along the sidewall, glowing with dots of candlelight that shook and shuddered as a slumped shadow knelt in front to offer up secret, whispered words. Oh yes, the whispered words. Secrets. I shifted in my seat and tried to refocus. The darkened corner seemed to brighten. Then it quickly slammed shut. Ink black. I froze. There was nothing, only a dark hole in the earth and I fell into the abyss. I could hear the voices now in my head and I tried to silence them but they were loud, rising up, garbled like someone turning the dial on a radio quickly, round and round, round and round, round and round. I shut my eyes tighter and my mind ran, escaping back down along the shadowed recessed walls. I stopped dead in my tracks. Hung along the wall were the carved pictures I’d seen earlier when I’d entered, a row of pictures that stirred something deep, so deep within me - - carvings with depictions of torture and agony, blood and nails, crucifixion and death, of whispered words and secrets.
* * *
The voices haven’t said anything just yet. They’re unclear and I pray sitting here silent in the gloom on this wooden bench will make them stop. Perhaps it would help if someone turned a few more lights on because it is getting darker out. And the light may be the only thing that can save me… me and that innocent girl sitting in the next row.
I gave him a half dozen smokes to hold my place in line along with a hard stare that told him he’d best not fuck with me and still be there when I got back.
I needed to find out. I needed to know if anything had really changed.
The sun was beginning to set as I darted across the street, up the large flat steps that led to two large wooden doors. Entering the vestibule, I was overwhelmed by a sense of nostalgia. The air was pungent, the smell of burning incense, candles. It brought back memories from when I was a child; back to a different church my parents took me to regularly. I hadn’t thought of that place until recently… not since I’d gone off the meds.
‘That’s all in the past,’ I told myself. But the transition had been difficult. Years of therapy had shed some light on understanding it rationally. The meds had blocked out the events that had happened there. Ending up on the street though… I wondered how far I had really progressed? They still lurked, just beneath the surface like flashing snapshots at the crime scene: the candles and dark shapes, the rituals, the black-candled underground room, the unholy sacrifices. What they made me do to that girl.
I eased along a recessed wall, passed veiled statues and carved pictures and I quickly turned away. I slipped quietly onto a bench near the center of the church. This place was different from what I had attended as a child. It was open and serene; its brightly colored glass with Madonna and child, the saintly faces gazing down, shining through in the dimming light. Long wooden benches stretched in front of a large ornate altar, crisp and white as if glowing in a hushed transcendent light. A few people sat silently in front of me and for once in a very long time, I felt at peace.
I closed my eyes and centered myself into a calm trance-like state. My mind slowly began to wander… up to the magnificent altar with its golden candles and shrouded tabernacle… up the giant wooden cross to the luminous vaulted ceiling… back across to the choir loft. Casually floating down, I entered… into a darkened corner.
There were rows of red glass along the sidewall, glowing with dots of candlelight that shook and shuddered as a slumped shadow knelt in front to offer up secret, whispered words. Oh yes, the whispered words. Secrets. I shifted in my seat and tried to refocus. The darkened corner seemed to brighten. Then it quickly slammed shut. Ink black. I froze. There was nothing, only a dark hole in the earth and I fell into the abyss. I could hear the voices now in my head and I tried to silence them but they were loud, rising up, garbled like someone turning the dial on a radio quickly, round and round, round and round, round and round. I shut my eyes tighter and my mind ran, escaping back down along the shadowed recessed walls. I stopped dead in my tracks. Hung along the wall were the carved pictures I’d seen earlier when I’d entered, a row of pictures that stirred something deep, so deep within me - - carvings with depictions of torture and agony, blood and nails, crucifixion and death, of whispered words and secrets.
* * *
The voices haven’t said anything just yet. They’re unclear and I pray sitting here silent in the gloom on this wooden bench will make them stop. Perhaps it would help if someone turned a few more lights on because it is getting darker out. And the light may be the only thing that can save me… me and that innocent girl sitting in the next row.
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