Eric's Hysterics

James Treadwell

2014-02-03T19:16:00.000-05:00

No Child Left Behind

By James Treadwell

School is about so much more than just teaching and learning.

It's about flicking the lights on and off while you're standing by the door waiting to go to your next class as if you've just discovered light switches. It's about making an NBA moment out of every crumpled piece of paper you throw away. It's about flicking water on the back of people's necks while making fake sneezing sounds. It's about jumping up to hit the top of every door frame as you pass beneath it. It's about giggling absurdly when a teacher uses the word "balls". It's about delighting in anything that can be stuck to the ceiling. It's about going to all six school dances and successfully not dancing at all six of them. It's about buying five big cookies at lunch and throwing away the apple, granola bar, and ham sandwich you had packed. It's about a 45 minute lesson being reduced to 10 because there's a bee in the room. It's about shielding your eyes during a test to give the illusion of deep concentration while you not-so-stealthily look at someone else's paper. It's about loudly squeaking your sneakers with every step when you discover they're wet and with a little extra effort you can make them squeak with every step. It's about needing to use the bathroom eight times over the course of seven hours, but only Mondays through Fridays. It's about applauding extra, obnoxiously long at an assembly to try to be the last one clapping. It's about screaming "IT'S SNOWING!" and madly dashing to the window like a miracle has just occurred outside. It's about peeing on the seat just because you can. It's about trying to convince every sub that the teacher usually lets you do a bunch of stuff that the teacher would never ever actually let you do. It's about sitting eight feet from a pencil sharpener and claiming you can't do the work because your pencil's broken. It's about compulsively making shadow animals and peace signs on the screen during a presentation if you're within arms reach of the projector. It's about going to the nurse for unknown, undiagnosable, and entirely undetectable ailments. It's about knowing, to the second, what time every class ends, but remaining clueless as to the start time of any of them. It's about fighting to get the sports page or comics section of the newspaper when you're putting paper down on your table in art class. It's about swearing on your Grandpappy's grave that you turned the paper in when truthfully you did no such thing, but it might buy you some time. It's about launching out of your seat to be the first to the light switch when the teacher needs them off for a movie. It's about incessantly pleading to go outside during class because "it's soooo nice out", then proceeding to go home and sit inside the rest of the day no matter how nice it is outside. It's about tipping back in your chair despite the number of near misses, times you've been told not to, or concussions you've sustained. It's about single-handedly blasting a hole in the ozone layer by deploying absurd amounts of AXE™ body spray in the locker room after P.E. It's about fashioning projectile weaponry using rubber bands and tightly folded pieces of paper. It's about mastering the art of gum concealment within one's oral cavity. It's about being a teacher and frittering away your planning period making lists of ways students fritter away the periods.

School sure is about an awful lot of things. The best we can do is try to squeeze in some teaching and learning somewhere...

Richard Zwicker

2013-06-12T08:03:00.000-04:00

Day of the Endorphin

Richard Zwicker

I was working in my low rent office on a bank embezzlement case, wading through employee files when, not surprisingly, I found myself thinking about money. I wanted it, I needed it, and there was no way I’d ever get much of it. That made me sad because in this case, two out of three was bad. If only we didn’t need money, but then we wouldn’t need banks, and I wouldn’t have a case. But I wouldn’t need a case, because I wouldn’t need money. Such were my musings when I heard an ominous click. Mayor Davidson’s pretty-boy face filled my vidscreen as he flashed his pearly whites, the dental equivalent of white picket fences. I turned off the volume, which returned automatically.

“My fellow citizens,” Davidson intoned. “We live in one of the richest countries in the world. Millions of people from every continent would sacrifice everything to change places with us. Yet, I look around, and I see harried, unhappy men and women. When you elected me, I ran on a platform of change.”

I tried to remember the last politician that hadn’t run on that. Even incumbents ran on change.

“I am a man of my word,” he continued, “but words are cheap unless accompanied by deeds. For that reason tonight and for the next three weeks I will be spraying our city with a miracle we call ENDO-B. ENDO-B will exponentially increase our bodies’ production of endorphins, making us happier and allowing us to appreciate the riches we have.”

“What the hell…” I muttered.

“Exhaustive tests have confirmed the safety of ENDO-B. Tomorrow morning you will feel its effects: increased energy, enthusiasm, and general good will. For three weeks an invisible electro-magnetic force field on the perimeter of the city, which you won’t even notice, will hold in the augmented air. I have taken this step because you demanded action. In three weeks you will vote whether or not to continue the experiment. Thank you for your support. Happy days and nights will be here again.”

I rushed into reception to talk to Kristen, my assistant. Her stylish, closely coiffed head was turned to her vidscreen.

“Did you hear that?” I asked, thinking maybe government was getting out of control.

“I think it’s wonderful,” she smiled winningly. “We wanted action, and we’re getting it.”

“The question is what ‘it’ is.”

“That’s not a question,” she said, flicking off the vidscreen. “He said we’re getting more endorphins. That might not be so bad. My boyfriend jogs five miles a day to get those.”

“What if everyone suddenly becomes so happy they stop committing crimes? What will I pay our bills with?

She shrugged. “It’ll be the same for everyone. We’ll work it out.”

I nodded. Kristen possessed a positive, bouncy personality already. A few more endorphins might make her unbearable. As I wasn’t getting anywhere with the embezzlement case, I exercised my constitutional right of sending Davidson a vidmail. I ranted about the liberties he was taking with his constituents and warned that even if this did work, his political enemies would excoriate him for subjecting everyone to a drug. Before signing it “Tom Larkin, P.I.”, I added there was more to life than being happy. I wasn’t sure that was true, but saying it made me a little less unhappy.

***

I woke up the next morning as I always did, with my alarm clock launching a flying drop kick to my head, literally. Yelping, I grabbed its sprouted booted leg, twisted it to the floor, and held it down for the mandatory ten-count. Kristen thinks I should get a less invasive wake-up method, but it’s the only thing that reliably gets me out of bed. To date, the only problem occurred one night when my back was bothering me and rather than turning over the mattress, I lay with my head at the foot of the bed. I slept like a rock, but in the morning the alarm clock kicked me in the nuts.

This morning, after replacing the alarm clock on my nightstand, I realized something was different. Though the darkness outside my window promised a gray, cloudy day, I felt the sun rising in my soul. I felt like Helios holding back the horses of the sun chariot. I leapt on top of my mattress and belted out, “I feeeeeeeel good!”

I banged my head on the ceiling. And I still felt good.

I jumped into the shower, reveling in the transforming powers of each drop. I was cleaner, purer, closer to God, yet I didn’t feel the need to confess. For the first time in years I could remember whether or not I’d used my hair conditioner.

After drying, I found myself too exhilarated to eat my shredded wheat. I did something else I normally wouldn’t have done this early in the morning: called Kristen.

“Kristen, do you feel it?”

“Oh Tom, I do,” she gushed. “I made a pot of coffee, and then I thought, what do I need this for?”

“I know exactly what you mean. I stood in the shower and the water rained down on me, and I wanted to take a shower with you. I wanted to take a shower with Mayor Davidson.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“It should be, but it isn’t!”

“Where’s it going to end?”

I sighed, visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. “Maybe it won’t.”

The before and after ENDO-B contrast continued on the subway. Normally, my commute featured all the joy of a cattle car on route to a slaughterhouse. Today, complete strangers hugged me as if I were a major character in a 19^th century Russian novel. I must have told ten people, “Let’s do dinner sometime.” I cried at the emotional depth I detected in the computer-generated voice announcing the next stops.

As I entered my office, Kristen and I beamed smiles that could have lit the darkness of the most misguided soul.

“Kristen,” I said, unbuttoning my jacket. “Today is the day I solve the Cushing Bank embezzlement case.

“Correction. Today is the day it solves itself.” She pointed to a dumpy-looking man in a damp raincoat, sitting in reception. “That’s Bob Gingrass, CEO of Lafayette Savings and Loan.”

Gingrass stood up and offered his hand, which I took heartily. “Mr. Larkin, I turned myself into the police an hour ago, but they told me to go home and just pay the money back when I could. When I learned you were on the case and it might be hours before you heard the news, I came right over.”

“Well, that’s what I call ‘going beyond the call of duty,’ Mr. Gingrass. Can I call you Bob?”

“I insist.” And we smothered each other with good vibes.

My other open case ended in a similar fashion. I’d collected enough evidence on a cheating husband to start my own skin zine, but the wife dropped the case. Her husband had confessed to everything and promised not to do it again. When it was discovered that the lover had no one else in her life, the wife suggested perhaps an arrangement could be made on alternate Thursdays.

This ritual of criminals turning themselves in and being forgiven repeated itself ad nauseam, sending the mayor’s popularity through the roof. Before the spraying, his approval rating hovered around thirty-five percent. ENDO-B forced pollsters to create different questions. Eighteen percent of the city now wanted him to marry their daughters, and five percent their sons. I was happy, but if this continued, the only thing left for me to investigate would be my navel.

Before it came to that, however, I got an unexpected call from Mayor Davidson himself. Someone had kidnapped his 19-year-old son.

***

Entering Davidson’s office I checked out the so-called ENDO-B inner circle. Davidson, dressed casually in jeans and a button shirt pushed out slightly by a round belly, sat at the head of a rectangular table. His smile added lines around his eyes, making him look older than on the vids. Lila Frobisch, the chief of staff, sat stolidly to his left. Middle-aged like myself, she imprisoned her faded blonde hair in a bun. A twinkle in her eyes contrasted with a hardened manner I’d heard could wither an off-color joke at a hundred feet. Across from her sat Tyler Kurtz, the inventor, in a gray suit and red tie. He nodded affably to me, his lower mouth and jaw jutting out, giving his face the appearance of an upside-down soup ladle.

“Detective Larkin, how are you today?” Davidson asked, standing to shake my hand.

“Right as rain,” I said, my tolerance of cliches at unprecedented levels.

“I’m sorry to throw cold water in your face, but I got a vid-call this morning demanding I transfer a million dollars into a Granada account by April 21^st or I’ll never see my son again.”

“April 21^st?” It was about two and a half weeks away. “Why does that date ring a bell?”

“It’s the day we vote on the ENDO-B experiment,” Lila said.

“Right.” I pushed images of romping puppies out of my head to make room for the mayor’s problem. “The kidnapper might think it’ll be easier to get a ransom out of you while you’re still feeling good. When did you first notice him missing?”

Davidson winced. “Not until I heard from the kidnapper. Tanner lives in a dorm at the city college. His professors told me he’s been absent all week.” Today was Thursday.

“Does he usually miss classes?”

“No, I’ve often told him how much each one costs me.”

“So he might have been kidnapped on Monday, or over the weekend.” Davidson had announced his mass spraying on Monday. “If the kidnapper was hoping to take advantage of ENDO-B, he knew about it before you announced it. Who had prior knowledge of the dates, besides you?”

“You’re looking at them.”

“I see.” I folded my arms.

“Mr. Larkin,” Lila said, “If we’d had anything to do with Tanner’s disappearance, we would have confessed by now. Surely, you’ve noticed that effect of the drug.”

I turned to the inventor, who throughout the meeting had looked as earnest as a defecating cocker spaniel. “Is it possible to conceal a major crime under the effects of ENDO-B?”

Kurtz sat up abruptly, as if wrenched from a faraway place and tossed into the center of a Roman arena. “It’s hard to say. This is the first time it’s been widely dispensed.”

“But it’s been thoroughly tested,” I said.

“Not only that,” Davidson added, “but Mr. Kurtz provided a mountain of data on the drug.”

I turned doubtfully at Kurtz. “How long have you been working in the pharmaceutical field?” He looked at me as if I’d asked him for the hypotenuse of the Bermuda Triangle. “With drugs,” I added.

“Oh, some time. I hesitate to assign an actual number.” And true to his word, he did hesitate.

“Did any of you have anything to do with the kidnapping of Tanner Davidson?” I asked pointedly.

All three denied involvement.

“OK,” I said. “Did Tanner crave attention?”

Davidson shook his head. “He liked the freedom of living away from home.”

He also lived in the city, susceptible to the drug’s truth-telling powers. Still, he wouldn’t be the first rich kid to stage his own kidnapping.

“Mayor Davidson, I’ll take the case,” I said finally. “I have to say, however, I’m surprised you chose me. I recently sent you a negative vidmail.”

Davidson leaned forward. “That’s why I chose you, Mr. Larkin. You speak your mind. ENDO-B has turned most of us into laid back weenies. I need someone who can cut through the touchy-feely haze and find my son.”

“Why don’t you just stop the ENDO-B early?”

He looked at me as if I suggested we play catch the toaster oven in the swimming pool. “And ruin my approval rating?”

After the meeting I spoke candidly with Davidson and Lila. “If Tyler Kurtz invented ENDO-B, I’m the illegitimate child of my dentist and the tooth fairy,” I said, remembering the line from my pre-ENDO-B days. “Where did you find him?

Davidson smiled weakly. “Kurtz came to me, guaranteeing he had a drug that could make everybody happy. I was worried about my approval rating, so I let him work with my scientists. There was a clumsy leak, and I was about to fire everyone, when I noticed…everyone was happy.”

“We had our doubts about Kurtz,” Lila continued. “He works as a custodian at Kennedy High School. His boss and co-workers confirmed he’s really into science, but they weren’t sure he knew what he was talking about. They also said he never lies, even without ENDO-B.”

“He seems sincere,” I said.

“And he insists he invented ENDO-B. If he didn’t, why would the real inventor let him take credit for it?” Davidson asked.

That was what I wanted to find out. I asked Davidson if he could get permission to tap Kurtz’s phone. He nodded, saying he had a judge in each pocket.

In the meantime I visited Tanner’s college roommate. He didn’t seem concerned about Tanner, and I had a tough time wresting him from his digital Ouija board. He said Tanner went to church Sunday morning and never returned, but he couldn’t imagine his captors hurting him. He also confirmed that Tanner got along with his father and would never fake a kidnapping. I let him get back to his board.

***

That night I sat in my apartment watching an old Kyle Wallicker movie, getting in touch with my feminine self, when I heard three knocks on my door. Who could that be, I wondered. I’d already given copies of my key to all my neighbors. I opened the door and saw a tall, thin man wearing an oxygen mask. He leveled a revolver at my face.

“Do what I say and you won’t get hurt,” he commanded.

I stood dumbfounded, as if someone had said to me, “Tomorrow is NOT the first day of the rest of your life.” I offered the assailant what, at the time, I thought my most precious gift, a look of pity. He didn’t place the same value on it, however, instead placing his fist into my solar plexus. I doubled over.

“You’re misguided,” I gasped.

“No, that’s where I meant to hit you.” He stared blankly at me in his oxygen mask. “Do you have anything valuable in here?”

I looked around. “Your best bet is the vidscreen. I got it on sale, but you could probably get five hundred bucks for it. It’s 130 inches, 3-D.”

He stuck his head in the living room. “It looks pretty awkward to carry.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “I’ll help you.”

We carried it out to his car, a late model blue Vivron. Out of habit I looked for the license plate, but he’d taken that off, not that I was going to report him. I had two smaller vidscreens, plus my e-reader. If I didn’t feel like reading, I could always look out my window and hum, “What a wonderful world.” That turned out hard to do, however, because before I could get to the chorus, I kept getting interrupted. The next four nights, oxygen-masked thieves robbed me. On Wednesday two thieves came at the same time. I told one to come back in an hour.

By week’s end I was pretty much cleaned out of “rob-able” items. Nobody wants second-hand furniture anymore. I told one heavy-set man I could sign over my lease, but he rightly noted that could be traced.

Sitting in my purged apartment, I felt anxiety about the possible end of ENDO-B. Though tired of getting robbed, I no longer had to worry about money. Strangers, deeming me insufficiently cheerful, pressed bills into my hand. Panhandlers stopped me on the streets and said, “Hey, I can spare some change for a cup of coffee. Why don’t you go get one?” The world was upside-down and I wasn’t sure I wanted it righted.

A talk with Davidson’s scientists revealed only that they shared my low opinion of Kurtz’s scientific ability. As for the phone tap, no one called Kurtz except telemarketers. Several times I nearly broke in and said, “I’ll buy that satellite dish!” before I remembered I was working a case.

Trying to force the issue, we told Kurtz we’d pay the ransom in full the day of the deadline. I hoped Kurtz would relay that information to someone.

He didn’t.

I next had Davidson tell Kurtz to be ready to double his production of the drug, in case the public decided to continue the experiment.

That night Kurtz left a message on a cell we traced to someone named Jock Strap. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when we found out that was a fake name. An hour later, Kurtz received a real call.

“Why did you call me?” a crusty voice asked.

“Mayor Davidson told me I may need to increase production of ENDO-B and I’m not sure I can do it by myself.”

“Let me worry about that. Any other problems?”

“No. I’m working on another drug that makes people smarter.”

“Good luck with that,” the voice said drily.

The wire got me the caller’s number and address. He lived in Four Towers, outside the city. His real name was Justin Nabors. I told Davidson I would approach him myself. The wonder drug had me believing I could make a citizen’s arrest of the sun. Along with my revolver I carried a secret weapon: a window spray gun filled with ENDO-B.

As I drove out of the city, beyond ENDO-B’s cloud of good will, I felt my natural sarcasm reasserting itself. Stuck behind a slow moving Monarch, I yelled, “Hey, what do you think you are, the king of the road or something?” A political ad about extending term limits for senators came on my radio. I clicked it off, saying, “Extend this, buddy.” I felt the urge to take a hit of my spray gun, but I figured for this job, I needed a clear head and an under-achieving pituitary gland.

Another thing wearing off was my confidence. What was I thinking, going after this guy by myself? I called Davidson and asked for backup.

My smart car led me to a quiet housing development off the main road. Nabors lived in an innocent-looking ranch house, a late model Sedna in his driveway. The flickering light of his widescreen provided the only interior light. The intelligent thing would have been to wait, but with ENDO-B controlling the city, Davidson might have trouble rousing a squad car. I walked to the door and pressed the bell. A bright light blinded me, followed by the uniform barks of a mechanical dog.

“What do you want?” a familiar crusty voice asked, not improved by electrical amplification.

“I’d like to talk to Justin Nabors.”

The mechanical dog gave it a rest and the door opened by itself. Before I could advance, Nabors appeared, a crowbar dangling from his right hand.

Wearing a bushy gray beard, long thinning hair, and an ear-to-ear scowl, Nabors looked more like the inventor of hemorrhoids than ENDO-B.

I motioned to the crowbar. “Changing a tire?”

“I was thinking about it. You’re not selling anything, are you?”

He had a couple of inches on my six-foot frame, and his wiry biceps stuck out of his short sleeves. My alarm clock wouldn’t have a chance against him. I couldn’t back down now though. “No, I’d like to ask you about Tanner Davidson.”

He stared back stone-faced. “Never heard of him.”

“Really? What about Tyler Kurtz?”

“Sorry.”

I nodded. “So am I, because a couple of hours ago he made a call we traced to this house.”

“Oh, that Tyler Kurtz,” he said, his facial muscles loosening while his grip tightened around the crowbar. Before he could raise it, however, I pulled out my ENDO-B and blasted him in the face. He dropped the crowbar and staggered. I pressed the trigger for a second blast, but he blocked it with his catcher’s mitt of a hand, then clamped onto the nozzle. We struggled, his weight pushing me against the wall. I lurched under his arms, firing the ENDO-B scattershot, sometimes nailing him, other times splattering me. Our skirmish slowly evolved from a violent clash to a deliberate tango. Eventually, we had our arms around each other like the winning participants of a dance marathon.

“I kidnapped him. He’s in the basement,” Nabors confessed, his crusty voice now lubricated with remorse.

“Why did you do it, Justin?”

Nabors thought for a moment, then said, “Because I love money!”

“Me too!” I effused.

“I took advantage of the mayor’s progressive agenda. To protect myself, I hired Tyler Kurtz and made him think he had invented ENDO-B.”

I gave him an affectionate squeeze. “It’s OK.”

Without letting go of each other, we promenaded into the house. Nabors fished a key from his pants pocket and unlocked the basement door. A weary but alive Tanner Davidson came up the stairs. Two uniformed cops rolled into the driveway, too late for the capture but useful nonetheless. With my hands locked around Nabors, I was unable to drive my car back into the city. One of the cops drove while we sat in the back seat. Nabors went into confessional mode, telling us how he’d been brought up by blissed-out hippies who’d sent him to a laid back school with no rules. He hated every minute of it. Another of his motives in developing ENDO-B was to show everyone that being loosey-goosy all the time wasn’t the answer. I vaguely remember saying, “I feel your pain,” and when I think back on that endless narrative, I still feel it.

***

The three weeks passed, and as promised, Mayor Davidson held the special referendum vote on ENDO-B. Despite his popularity, however, he decided he’d had enough of the drug, so he leaked that scientists had detected several side effects. These included loss of eyebrows, body odor replicating the scent of dirty motor oil, and erections lasting up to three years. I doubt any of these were true and he probably had to travel outside the city limits to come up with them. The scare tactics worked, as the ENDO-B experiment was voted down handily.

There remained the question of what to do about all the stolen property, as Nabors had been behind only a fraction of the robberies. The discredited Kurtz suggested we spray the entire world until everything was returned. The mayor, his patience gone, suggested Kurtz go screw himself. The loss of our material possessions ended up being the hangover of Davidson’s grand experiment. Some of us were lucky enough to get through it with hefty checks from insurance companies.

As for Nabors, he ended up getting a ten-year sentence at the city jail, no doubt wishing he’d never heard of ENDO-B, but on the other hand, wishing someone would smuggle in a decade’s supply for his cellmates.

A few days after the trial, I walked into the office and noticed a sparkle on Kristen’s finger. “Is that an engagement ring?”

“Yes!” She beamed. “In two months Tommy’s going to make an honest woman out of me.”

“Congratulations.”

Her smile faded when she noticed my face. “Is that a black eye?”

I waved my hand dismissively. “Damned alarm clock.”

“I told you to get rid of that thing. What a crazy idea, starting every day with a conflict.”

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Kristen, I don’t expect you to understand this because you’re naturally positive. It gets you results, and I admire that. But everything I am, I owe to conflict.” Not only that, but with short cuts like ENDO-B, you could end up in the arms of someone who called himself Jock Strap.

James W. Morris

2013-05-07T07:17:00.000-04:00

IRWIN AND THE MACHINE

Fiction By James W. Morris

My friend Irwin called me late one night.

"Cold fusion," he said.

"Huh?" I asked, drawing out the reply, speaking as slowly as I was able, buying time. I had been sleeping and was still half in my dream, which featured goats. Being chased by goats. Various sizes, various colors. All mad at me. They were being quite unreasonable.

"Cold fusion," Irwin repeated.

The goats vanished. "What about him?" I asked.

"Him?"

"Cole Futzman, right? That kid you and I tied to a tree in Fisher's Park. Seventh grade, I think. We were mad cause he hit puberty before we did. A twelve year-old with a hairy chest. That's just wrong. We—"

"No, you idiot. Cold fusion."

"Ah."

Irwin waited. I could tell by the quality of his silence that he knew I was unfamiliar with the term.

He sighed, then said: "It's a scientific theory--generally discredited--that nuclear energy can be produced at room temperature."

"Ah."

"Could provide cheap, safe energy for the entire world if it were true."

"Ah."

"But it's not true, which is a pity. Nonetheless, I got drunk the other night and decided to test it out. My motives were almost completely altruistic."

"Sure," I said. "But you're not an inventor; you're an unemployed—"

"I know. I'm unqualified. And I got an 'F' in high school chemistry, if you remember. But I took the casing of my mother's old VCR, designed a fuel cell, rigged some electrical components, then, suddenly, inexplicably, was struck by an interesting thought, a sharp insight—you could say I had a sort of epiphany."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I realized I didn't have any idea what the hell I was doing. So I shut the thing off—at least, I thought I did—and went to bed."

"And you're calling me now because...?"

"Come over. You'll find out."

I looked at my bed, my warm warm bed, which was calling me back. But I could do without the goats, and tomorrow was an off day from work, so what the hell. I started getting dressed to leave.

The streets were empty; the night was dark and cold. Nevertheless, as I approached Irwin's door, I noticed a slight uptick in my mood; I started to feel pretty good. Happy, almost. Which is weird, if you know me.

Irwin let me in. He was grinning.

"You feel it?" he asked.

"What?"

"Happy. Do you feel happy for no reason?"

I looked at Irwin's face. It was now displaying a wide lopsided smile. The rare sort of smile usually displayed when he saw someone trip down a flight of stairs or get their fingers caught in a car door. You know, on special occasions.

"Yes...as a matter of fact," I said, a little suspiciously, "I did notice that as I approached your house—"

"It's the machine. It's emanating something that makes a person feel good. Come, take a look."

We went to the doorway of the dining room. I noticed that Irwin had cleared a space in the piles of junk (his newly deceased mother was a hoarder, and Irwin hadn't much improved the place) but I could see that he had purchased a new walnut table and placed his invention in the center of it.

We stood side-by-side and looked at the machine, which was square and emitting a pleasant hum.

"Isn't this crazy? The closer you get to it the better you feel. See, I started by—"

(Here, frankly, I cannot report what was said, as I stopped listening to Irwin. Instead my consciousness was overwhelmed by an intervening vision, a startlingly powerful series of brain-filling images: a visitation. It grabbed me and wouldn't let go. In this vision, which was persuasively realistic, I found myself living in a house. It was a modest, comfortable structure, a bungalow situated on a pleasant country lane. Clear sunlight shone through the window; it was a temperate day in early spring. I heard an appealing sound outside, rose from my chair, and went to the glass. The sound was the voice of a young woman, singing softly to herself as she approached the front door of the house, unaware of being observed. I knew her: she was quite beautiful and loved me. And she was singing because she was happy and she was happy because she was coming home to me. I felt pride and immense joy; I vowed to be worthy of her love.)

"—such an unusual fuel for the fuel cell, I don't know. And I don't quite know what the machine is sending out—"

"It's love," I said.

"It's what?"

"Love," I said. "Somehow you've built a machine that emits unconditional love."

Since it was still about an hour before closing time, we went to the bar down the street to talk about things. But we didn't talk. We sat there for most of the hour, a beer in front of us, and stared at nothing.

Finally, Irwin leaned in close. He whispered, "So, did you notice the table?"

I blinked back tears. The vision I'd had an hour ago—the love, the rapture it left behind—had completely faded. I felt empty again. But I managed to ask, "So you bought a new table for it?"

Irwin gave a surprising little leap from his chair, so happy was he with this answer. "It's not new! It's that same old table. Being so close to the box has restored it somehow, has...returned it to new." He sat back down and added in a quieter tone, "No, better than that. I believe the emanations from the box have transformed the table to what might be called its—I don't know—ideal state."

We both thought about the humming box. Was such a thing possible?

"Well, what now?" I said, after a time.

"Well, if it worked for the table, maybe it will work for me," Irwin said.

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that love is supposed to bring out the best in people, yeah?"

"And the worst."

Irwin laughed. "No, it's supposed to be ennobling, right? And this machine is putting out pure love. So...I'm going to become the ideal version of myself. I'm going to sleep with the box under my pillow."

This was Irwin's plan: I would spend the night in a chair in his room, carefully monitoring my friend as he took the humming box to his bed, slipped it under his pillow, went to sleep, and woke up in the morning in an ideal state. Immediately, I sensed that there were several flaws in this proposal, not the least of which was that it seemed to me unlikely that someone as (let's face it) debased as Irwin could ever reach something that a reasonable person might call an ideal state. I mean, I'm no philosopher, but is the ideal version of a devil an angel, or just a more efficient evil-doer? Irwin seemed so pleased with his idea that I kept my doubts to myself, however.

So I settled in the chair to watch Irwin make his preparations. He carefully placed the humming box beneath his pillow, winked at me, then fell asleep quickly. Relatively soon after that—and this was another flaw in the plan—I fell into a deep sleep as well. Hey, I know I shouldn't have, but have you ever closely watched someone while they slept? It's really, really boring, even if you think there's an outside chance they might transmogrify or whatever.

It turns out I was near enough to the machine to feel its effects in my dream. In it, I was a boy, the youngest of four brothers. My brothers were big. I was small. One day I went to watch them and their friends play a game of two hand-touch street football against a group of tough kids from a nearby neighborhood. Of course, it ended up virtually being tackle football anyway: vicious two-handed shoves sent ballcarrier after ballcarrier sliding painfully along the rough asphalt surface of the street or headfirst into parked cars. I didn't play. I was too young and small. I stood forlornly on the sideline, pacing alongside the knot of neighborhood adults who had gathered to watch. Near the end of the game, which was tied, one of the boys on my brothers' team got injured. He rose from a tackle with one arm bending in a wildly unnatural way. There was no choice—my brothers had to let me play or forfeit the game. They put me in a corner of the end zone and told me to stay out of harm's way while the other team kicked off. The ball took an odd bounce over the head of one of my brothers, however, and went—miraculously—right to me. I grabbed it in full stride and, using my small size as an advantage, zipped around the grasping arms of the opposing team. My brothers, surprised at first, soon gathered themselves enough to throw some vicious blocks downfield. It was a touchdown—the game was over. But even before I crossed the chalk-drawn goal line, I received my reward: the gleeful looks of pride, the amazed, affectionate expressions on my big brothers' faces as they threw their blocks and watched me race past.

I awoke toward morning, the love from my dreamed brothers still very much with me. In real life, all I have is a much older sister who more or less pretends I don't exist, so I reveled for a few moments in the warm vestigial regard of my three imagined siblings, I'll admit it.

Then I glanced over at Irwin, at his new shape, and all good feelings fled.

There is a mathematical formula wired into man's consciousness—the proportions of the physical shape of human infants: overlarge head and undersized body, the relational size of the eyes to the head, etc. These proportions can be precisely measured mathematically, turn out to be consistent in the young of most creatures across the animal kingdom, and have clearly evolved to evoke in the observer a strong, chemically-induced protective impulse. So when I saw that Irwin's head had shrunk overnight to the size and appearance of that of a six month-old infant, I was of course incredibly surprised, but not as horrified as I was an instant later when I realized that this gurgling baby's head was still attached to Irwin's adult, two hundred and twenty-pound body.

It was the worst thing I ever saw.

I jumped to my feet, knocking the chair over, and fled to the kitchen. I sat there for a minute or two, then went into the living room and sat there. Finally, I crept back to the bedroom, peered through the doorway, and took another look to make sure I hadn't been dreaming.

I hadn't been. Babyhead Irwin was lying contentedly on his back, his big feet kicking off the blankets, his gnarled, middle-aged hands snatching at the air.

I thought about going to the bathroom to throw up; it just seemed like the thing to do. But instead I gathered myself and re-entered the bedroom.

"Irwin," I said, determined to see if I could communicate with him in his new state, "how are you feeling?"

Babyhead Irwin rolled his pale blue eyes my way. He drooled a little, then averted his face, uninterested.

I righted the chair and sat down. I began to ask myself questions: Why would the ideal age of a human being be six months old? It was true that by that age very few people have cut anyone in a knife fight or screwed old friends in real estate scam. But was there any creature needier, or more selfishly solipsistic?

And why hadn't Irwin's body come along for the ride? I reached beneath the damp pillow and extracted the machine, which seemed dead, no longer humming. One could surmise that it had been changing Irwin a bit at a time and ran out of fuel. I remembered that Irwin said he had utilized an unusual substance for this purpose, but I couldn't recall if he told me what it was.

Finally, I developed the following strategy: first, I would wait. Perhaps the machine's head-shrinking effect would prove to be as temporary as its ability to transmit love. Second, I would search Irwin's house to see if he left a record of what he used for fuel. It seemed possible that I could find a way to recharge the thing and use it to shrink his body down so that it would at least match his head. To be frank, I didn't have a third step firmed up in this strategy should the others fail to produce results, although I suppose the logical thing to have done then would be to turn Babyhead Irwin over to the scientists, see if they could figure things out. But that seemed a rotten thing to do to one's oldest and dearest friend, even if he was now a—sorry, Irwin—horrible freak.

Five days passed.

During the first day, I scoured the premises, looking for any info Irwin might have left behind detailing how he built his dreadful machine. His mother's house, as I said, was packed full of useless junk; I found six headless Barbie Dolls sewn to the outside of a purple bowling ball bag, an old videotape of the movie "Frankenhooker," and two empty cat food cans inside a dented Pope Paul VI lunch box, a water-stained green spiral notebook with no writing on any page but the last, on which was centered the neatly-printed phrase "bunions/caramelized onions." I never found any record of Irwin's plans for his invention, and after I opened a door on the top section of the hutch and a greasy plateful of ancient, gnawed, spareribs fell on my head, I gave up looking.

The second day I attempted to communicate with Irwin, asking pointed questions that would require nothing more than a yes-or-no shake of his baby head. But I never did receive any sort of real response, although he did cry once and put up his hands as if he expected me to pick him up.

On the third day I decided to take Irwin outdoors as an experiment, see if my horror at his appearance was shared by the public at large. He couldn't walk and was, of course, to big to fit in any stroller I might find, but I was able to put him in a wheelchair I rented (with his credit card). I wrapped Babyhead Irwin up warm as I could and wheeled him to the park. Well, it quickly became clear that yes, the public at large did indeed share my horror at his appearance—most people who noticed him just clamped their hands over their mouths and walked backwards, but a few ran away fast as they could. On a positive note, Irwin seemed to enjoy the outing, gurgling contentedly in his chair.

On the fourth day, as I passed by Irwin's refrigerator I noticed something jammed behind it, which proved to a big stuffed doll that undoubtedly belonged to his mother. It was a boy doll and came with a dusty porkpie hat that I decided might fit Babyhead Irwin. It occurred to me that placing a hat on his baby-sized head might make it seem bigger, and therefore less horrible. But I have to tell you that it did not; somehow it just made things worse.

That night my disturbing dreams returned. The goats chasing me had baby heads.

By the fifth day I had given up. Throughout the many years of our association, I have helped Irwin in many ways—I rushed him to the hospital when he accidentally drank drain cleaner, I defended him in bar fights, even when he was in the wrong (which he always was), I even gave him an alibi in court when he was charged with running over that crossing guard. But the current situation was different. I won't get into the practicalities of caring for a man-sized baby, but try to imagine how many little jars of pureed apricots he managed to get through. And anyone who has changed the diapers of an infant that size can tell you that there's a limit to how many days a person can face this task without having his spirit broken.

So I was doing a sort of demoralized trudge through the dining room to the kitchen on the morning of the fifth day, wending my way along the narrow hoarder's trail Irwin's mother had left between crap piles, when I came across the table Irwin had used for his invention.

It had returned to its battered state.

I walked quickly to the bedroom. There was Irwin, standing beside the bed, his head returned to normal size. He surprised me by charging forward and embracing me. (It's awkward when two men hug. You have to lean forward in a weird kind of way—otherwise your junk might touch and that would be gay.)

Irwin let me go and sat down. He was blinking a lot. He had an amazed look on his face, like someone just returned from twelve consecutive roller coaster rides.

Stunned.

Bereft.

"It's a myth," he said.

"What is?" I asked.

Irwin didn't answer at first, just laughed in a creepy way. Then he said, "Just like cold fusion," and laughed again.

I tried asking him many questions about his experience, of course. He just waved them away with his hand.

"But are you all right?" I asked. "At least tell me that. Are you all right?"

He met my gaze and nodded.

I sat beside him on the bed for a minute, then got to my feet again. I probably should have stayed, made sure everything had actually returned to normal, but to be honest I had a wild itch to get the hell out of there. And I had things to do at home. Laundry, for example. And my turtle wasn't going to feed himself.

"I'll call you later," I said, gathering my things.

I closed Irwin's front door behind me. It was bitter cold outside and a silent snow was falling. I put my head down and started walking. The only footprints were mine; the city seemed deserted.

As I approached my apartment, I remember thinking: Thank God, thank God, thank God.

Thank God love does not last.

Mike Heartz

2013-04-01T09:27:00.000-04:00

Classroom Concierge

Fiction by Mike Heartz

Most students knew they never had a chance. If anyone had any kind of history fooling around in bathrooms—that was a definite red flag—it was an immediate disqualification. That pretty much wiped out half the class.

“Mr. Thomas? How come you never let me be a messenger anymore?” Willy questioned, chewing on the nub he called a pencil. I had to be diplomatic enough early to show that the job was open to all. Some wanted a chance to prove to the new regime that they were up to the challenge, and that was perfectly fine with me.

“Willy, do you remember the last time I let you do something?”

“I really thought there was a fire in the garbage can.”

“First off, you weren’t even supposed to be in the bathroom. Second, urinating into the garbage can was not a good idea. There wasn’t even any smoke or fire!”

“Yeah, but something in there stunk real bad.”

“You were in the bathroom at the end of the day, Willy! It always stinks like that at the end of the day! And when did something stinking ‘real bad’ mean that it was on fire? You know what? Never mind. Willy—I will be picking someone else who I can trust to not pee in a garbage can when all I want them to do is deliver a note two classrooms away.”

“I didn’t pee in a garbage can and I still don’t get to do anything anymore?” a dejected Marcus whispered under his breath.

“You’re right Marcus, you didn’t pee in a garbage can. All you did was go through everyone’s lockers in the hallway trying to find…what was it?”

Burying his face in his arms, he suddenly remembered the “Lunchables” incident.

“That’s right my friend. And all I asked you to do was go next door to deliver a message. A bit of advice Marcus, never spend ten minutes when the job required should take no more than thirty seconds. That ten minutes was a big tip off that you were up to no good. Hopefully we learned a lesson on that one. If you’re gonna do something—do it quick.”

“But I never get to do anything!” cried out a despondent Terry.

“Now Terry, that’s just not true. Don’t you remember last week when I had you find Mr. Laprosio when Deonshaye threw up all over Diesha? And didn’t I let you walk both of them down to the nurse?”

“But I got throw up all over me. That wasn’t fun.”

“Well I didn’t tell you to hold both of their hands, did I? I still don’t know why you did that. They were clearly covered in vomit.”

One student may work for one teacher and not for the next. Opening the job up to all showed the class that I was fair and diplomatic and they could figure it out Lord of the Flies style and the process took care of itself. None of this could be verbalized; they must all see for themselves why this one particular person rose above them. They were appointing him or her themselves.

The job description was all-encompassing. Not only were they expected to learn my personal nuances and quirks—of which there were many—but they also had to be looked upon as a classroom liaison between them and myself. The duties were immense.

Her name was Almony Bean. I had word from her old kindergarten teacher that she was the one, but she had to prove her chops with me—nothing is given. Most of the kids knew she was the clear-cut favorite being together in kindergarten, so most didn’t even bother applying.

Almony was the best assistant I have had. She was one of the smartest girls in the class—wise beyond her years. She was required to mature faster because of her family situation. Instead of playing with her friends after school, she was holed up in a small apartment making cheese sandwiches for her and her grandmother. I never heard her complain. Always full of happiness and optimism, her relationship with her mother was almost sisterly. Her father was virtually non-existent. He would show up periodically when the time was right for him and exit just as quickly—being there long enough for Almony to know what she was missing.

Her mother was unbelievably strong and caring and made Almony her number one priority. She worked two jobs just to keep the apartment they were in, but had a lot of help from her own mother to bridge the gap between the bus dropping her off and when she finished her second job waiting tables. Her mother appreciated the encouragement and attention I gave Almony and whenever she saw me, always told me how much she talked about me. Said it was good for her to have a consistent male role model in her life. I told her I was willing to help in any way I could but to think of me as a role model was stretching it. She laughed. I was serious.

Almony had more common sense than most adults and that made things easier for me and her classmates. If I ever had a concept the kids weren’t picking up I would ask a few students to explain what I was trying to say—knowing they wouldn’t be able to assimilate it—and then call on her to describe it in a kid-friendly language they could understand. It didn’t happen every day or even every week, but when I needed it, I knew she would translate it perfectly for me. And if she couldn’t do it it was back to the drawing board for me—because I sure as shit had to attack the concept from another angle.

She knew how to read the moment and people’s moods. She knew how to react in situations that other six or seven year olds couldn’t. She was book smart and street smart and people smart. She may have been in the first grade, but she was smarter and more pleasant to be around than the vast majority of people I knew.

Every now and again if I find out a certain student really likes a book, I’ll go out and get another book by the same author and stuff it in their desk—with the understanding that we don’t bring it up so everyone won’t be expecting a book in their desk the next day.

When I bought a book for Almony, I didn’t even have to call her up to explain the procedure. Only three days later did she broach the subject of the book when she came up to my desk.

“You were right, Mr. Thomas. This was a good book.”

“I thought you’d like it. It was only like four bucks.”

“I told my mom that you bought me a book and she said you were the best teacher I ever had.”

“Well you’ve only had one other teacher so far Almony, tell her that.”

“I did.”

Almony was especially helpful to me in the day-to-day operations the classroom needed to get by. If anyone ever complained that I favored her, I could always point out the latest two or three people who were sent happily to the office to beg for more rubber bands.

Almony was saved for the prime missions. Whether covert or acting on my behalf, she was entirely trusted and consistently successful. She knew what I wanted—or would want and acted accordingly. When I needed staples and was out of them in my own personal supplies, she knew where to get them—Mr. Connell. She knew not to go to Mrs. Wymar because she was always asking me to fill her stapler and never ask Mrs. Patrick as she carried the kind that I didn’t like.

“Almony, I need staples. Pronto, please.”

Shooting out of her chair in full assistant mode—no smile with a sense of urgency—she assessed the situation instantly, “Okay, but I saw Mr. Connell walk by with his kids to go to recess.”

“Shit—sorry. Are you serious?”

“Yeah? They always go out after their lunch and they eat right after us so….”

Almony was one of the few people that I never doubted. She was honest—if she didn’t know something, she would say it, not try to bullshit.

Resigned once again to her unfailing knowledge, I gave in. “Okay okay okay, you’re right…. I guess go ask Mrs. Patrick.”

“Mrs. Patrick? But you don’t like her staples! They have that small ridge in the middle. You like the ones that are straight across.”

“I know. I know. But we’ve gotta take this Science test later and you know I like to have all the papers stapled together now or when they’re turned in it’ll be a mess. These kids can’t put their papers together in order and then I gotta spend fifteen minutes straightening them out and—”

“I know where he keeps his staples.”

“Mr. Connell?”

“He keeps them on his chalk tray so I don’t have to open his desk or anything. And he never locks his room.”

“Alright—but normally we would wait. I don’t want anyone to think we’re—you’re–stealing anything out of his room. But this is an emergency. Be quick like a ninja. And if anyone sees you by his door—”

“I’ll just keep walking to the stairs like that time Mr. Maddox saw me going into Mrs. Patrick’s room to steal her globe.”

“Borrowing…we’re borrowing her globe. And I’m not done with it yet. And I won’t be for a very long time. But we’re borrowing her globe.”

“But you said she broke yours a couple years ago and she never replaced it and that we were gonna ‘equal out the universe’ or something like that and we waited for her to leave.”

“Almony, never mind that. Here’s a note. It should cover anything that may happen. You just tell anyone—a teacher that is—that Mr. Thomas told you to get staples from Mr. Connell’s chalk tray. If a student asks you what you’re doing, just tell them it’s a secret mission, and say no more.”

“Okay. Should I go now?”

“Yes, and hurry. I want to get outside before the test. Good luck.”

She walked with purpose through the door and was back in less than two minutes with two whole rows of staples.

“Nice work, Almony! Any problems?” Hiding one row in my desk, I quickly stapled the evidence away on the test papers. It was quite a coup.

“No. They were right where he always keeps them. His room smells. But Mrs. Sandler saw me and I think she saw me coming out of his room and asked what I was stealing for you this time. But she didn’t sound mad.”

“Yes, well, Mrs. Sandler knows my operation. And didn’t we do something for her a month ago that she needed done quietly?”

“I got her three boxes of Kleenex from the nurse’s office on a day the nurse wasn’t here.”

“That’s right, and that was no small feat with the nurse’s office being right next to the office. And just when her whole class came down with the heebie jeebies at the same time. Plus, we replaced those Kleenex before the nurse came back. So we didn’t steal them, we borrowed them.”

“I know. We always replace.”

“Always. But when we need something right away, we gotta do what we gotta do.”

“Except for that globe.”

“Almony, she never replaced that globe she broke. That globe is ours.”

###

“Almony where did I put my…”

One of the worst feelings was realizing that her chair was still upside down on her desk five minutes after the bell rang.

“Who rides the bus with Almony?” I shouted in panic.

Idly sharpening a pencil at his seat, Terry raised his hand. “I do.”

“Was she on it?”

“Last night she was. I don’t know if she was on it this morning. I had to sit up front.”

“Did anyone see her at breakfast?”

Silence. I called the office as a last resort. “Kathy—is my Almony down there?”

“I don’t see her. Sorry.”

Bolting from my desk, I walked next door. “Almony’s absent today. She’s never out and she’s never late.”

Ms. Wymar looked as apologetic as if a loved one had just died. She knew what that meant. “Oh. That sucks. I’m sorry. Maybe she’ll be late,” she offered.

Her classroom’s version of Almony, DeVante, was in full concierge mode early—collecting the previous night’s homework and taking lunch count. She looked tenderly at Devante—maybe fully appreciating him for the first time. Devante was good. He was dependable and had an unbelievable amount of common sense, but was almost humorless in my book. He never really got my jokes. He knew when to laugh. But he didn’t really mean it. Almony got them, even the complex joke-within-a-joke jokes and I could always make her chuckle—real chuckles—not teacher’s pet chuckles.

Devante was no Almony.

I raised my eyebrows and half-smiled in agreement and slowly crawled back to my Almony-free room.

She showed no sign of sickness yesterday! How could she do this to me? I don’t even know the page numbers we’re on in any subject and my lesson plans on my desk are basically fake—at best mere suggestions.

I didn’t even know the passwords for the class computers anymore. Who was going to remind me when the right amount of nights had passed so I can have pizza again for dinner?

And what the hell was I going to do if I needed staples?

I turned around in my chair to watch Mr. Laprosio wipe down his mower for the third time this week and contemplated throwing in a movie after lunch and recess. What was the point? It almost seemed like there wasn’t any point in trying to make the day work. It could be done of course. But it wouldn’t feel right—me having to do everything.

The class started chuckling and snickering under its breath as I stared out the window. Turning around to ask who farted, Almony stood before me holding me a late slip.

“My god, where were you? I thought you were absent!” I whispered across the desk.

“I missed the bus and my mom’s car wouldn’t start again. We had to wait for our neighbor to wake up and ask her for a ride.”

“Did you have breakfast?”

“No. But I’m not hungry. I can wait until lunch.”

Throwing her a granola bar from the stash in my desk I admitted, “I thought you weren’t coming. You know my rule.”

“I know. I told my mom. ‘I’m not allowed to miss school unless somebody dies.’ She already knew that. She said you’d be freaking out.”

Taming my heart rate, I said, “Well, I don’t know about freaking out but I’m sure glad you could finally grace us with your presence, Ms. Bean.” I smiled. “Now go sit down and get to work.”

While unloading her book bag she reminded me, “Don’t forget it’s Picture Day so we’re scheduled to go after Reading.”

“What?! Today? Oh man…I hate Picture Day!”

I left the room once more and rushed next door. “She’s here. Just showed up.”

“Oh thank god. That would have sucked.” Ms. Wymar exhaled for both of us, knowing the burden would have been on her to handle an even bigger load of my needs and wants.

“Did you know today is Picture Day?” I asked incredulously. “Almony just told me.”

“Yes, Mr. Thomas. I thought you could have figured that one out for yourself with all the signs in the hallway and reminders in our mailboxes all week.”

“Well I didn’t.”

As I turned out of her room she stated the obvious, “Well thank god Almony decided to come in today.”

I turned right into a Picture Day poster on the opposite wall.

Thank god for Almony is right.

-oOo-

Want to read more by Mike Heartz? Check out more of his work and other cool authors in Love Hurts.

Wayne Scheer

2013-02-10T08:57:00.000-05:00

Selecting the Right Wine

Fiction by Wayne Scheer

Whenever Phyllis brought up the idea of attending a wine tasting, Ben would say, "I'd rather drink than taste." The more he resisted, the more she persisted.

But he had been married long enough to appreciate the inevitability of attending a wine tasting if Phyllis really wanted to go. He tried convincing himself he might even find it interesting.

"Okay," he said, putting down the morning paper. "I see Angelo's advertising a tasting of the wines of Northern Italy this Thursday. Let's go. And afterwards we'll eat dinner there."

"You are the sweetest man," Phyllis said.

"I'll make reservations," he said.

"No need." She smiled. "I already made them."

When they arrived at the restaurant, the hostess showed them to a separate room. Eight tables were set with small plates containing crusts of bread, slivers of cheese and dollops of berries. The room was empty, except for waiters and one other couple.

"For this we paid twenty bucks," Ben whispered to his wife. The hostess smiled politely and showed them to their table. The other couple avoided any sign of polite smiles.

"Be good," Phyllis warned her husband.

Waiters arranged eight empty wine glasses and a water glass at each setting. "Maybe it won't be so bad after all," Ben said.

Within minutes, people gathered and greeted each other. Phyllis smiled. "Isn't this nice? It's like taking a class with old friends."

Soon, a balding man with a ponytail, wearing a black turtle neck sweater, a light brown sports jacket and well-pressed jeans kissed and hugged his way to the front of the room. The chatter hushed as if Moses had come down from the mount.

"Tonight, we will taste the charming wines of Northern Italy, particularly the Piedmont region and the North Eastern Provinces."

"Ahhs" and "oohs" passed through the room like the wave at a ball game.

Mr. Pony Tail began detailing the climate and soil conditions of the Piedmont region, explaining that the environment was perfect for Dolcetto, "Italy's answer to Beaujolais."

"When do we start drinking?" Ben whispered.

Phyllis shot him the look she had perfected from twenty-six years of teaching elementary school.

After more lecturing about the state of the grape, the waiters began pouring.

"Ah, that's more like it." Ben rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

But his expression changed when he saw how small a portion graced his glass. Trying to be good, he held his tongue.

He watched the couple across from him sniff and slosh the wine from cheek to cheek. Another man swirled the liquid in its glass and held it up to the light as if performing a science experiment. A woman sipped and spit the wine back into her glass, describing it as "fruity." Her companion complained the finish was a bit abrupt.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Ben said, as he tossed back the small amount of wine in a single swallow. "Not bad."

Phyllis said she preferred a dryer wine, but was glad to have tried this one. She turned to her husband and winked. "It is, after all, Italy's answer to the Beaujolais."

Ben smiled.

"You're starting to rub off on me," she said.

"I love it when you talk dirty." Ben popped berries into his mouth like they were peanuts.

After experiencing a "non-assertive but far from passive" Merlot and a couple of other wines, one of which Ben thought tasted like cough medicine, Mr. Pony Tail assured them they were now in for a special treat. "We have an excellent Borolo for your tasting pleasure."

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Ben said to Phyllis, adding, "What the hell is a Barolo? It sounds like something you wear on your head."

"Barolo and Barberesco are, of course, the most famous reds of the Piedmont region."

"Damn Commies," Ben whispered. "The Sacco and Venzetti of wines."

This time Phyllis laughed, dribbling the water she had been sipping.

The man sitting nearby increased his glare to a glower. His wife uttered a "humph."

Ben saw Phyllis's face redden. Afraid he might have embarrassed her, he took her hand.

"It's okay," she said loud enough for the couple to hear. "That was funny. Wine hasn't destroyed my sense of humor."

The crowd "cleansed their palates" in anticipation of the pouring of the Barolo. Ben had already eaten his allotment of food. A waiter filled his water glass.

But the bottles of Barolo remained unpoured as Mr. Pony Tail shared an involved history of the Nebbiolo grape. Ben watched people take notes.

"Will this be on the test?" he asked.

"Not as original as the Sacco and Venzetti line," Phyllis said. "But if we don't get some food into us soon, I'm going to eat this tablecloth."

Finally, the waiters poured the Barolo.

Ben drank it without fanfare. "Mmm, this is good."

Phyllis agreed.

"Dry but not arid," said the man across from Ben and Phyllis. "A lovely finish. Fresh and original."

"Actually, this one is dry enough to suck the spit right out of you," Ben declared, as the sippers sniffed and sloshed. "I bet this would go well with a pork chop, maybe lamb."

"You talked me into it," she said, grabbing her purse. "It's getting rather stuffy in here."

As they stood, Ben reminded her there was still more wine to be tasted.

"Wine," she said, "is like men. Once you select the right one, there's no reason to keep looking."

Ben wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they made their way out of the room and into the restaurant. He looked back at the wine tasters, imagining they were staring at him with envy. They should be, he thought.

-oOo-

Want to read more stories like this by Wayne Scheer and others? Be sure to check out the Love Hurts anthology, featuring 21 humorous stories. Click here for more information.

Love Hurts

2013-02-04T21:14:00.000-05:00

It's here!!!! Click the image or, if you like an ebook, click here!
For more information, scroll down.

The idea for the anthology came to me in early 2012 during the throes and ecstasy of planning my own wedding.

The irony of this is not lost on me.

I had just finished reading “Many Presents” by Mike Heartz, which is included in the anthology, and decided to go for a run. Somehow, running down the road at full-tilt in an endorphin-fueled state, the words “love” and “hurts” mingled, and I knew I had my idea for an anthology, a humorous look at the ups and downs of love and how it affects our lives.

I couldn’t be more pleased with the collection of stories that came together as a result. The first of line of William Klein’s “Hallelujah” is capable of stopping three conversations in your local Kinko’s, guaranteed. It grabbed me, and the delightfully erotic and comic journey thrilled me to the end.

“Doorways” by Jamie Mason is easily the most creative of the stories, and proves that love is waiting for us all, no matter how difficult the journey, if only we keep our eyes and ears open.

“I’ll Love You Forever, but…” by April Gray, is the story of how love transcends all logic and, sometimes, even death.

Carla Sarett’s “Career Girl” is a delightful story about a hardworking girl in New York just looking for a guy who doesn’t have a type. She’s a phenomenal, hard-working writer, and I expect to see great things from her in the future.

Mike Heartz really is a primary school teacher, and it shows. I’ve read a fair amount of his writing and in “Many Presents” his kindness, empathy, and compassion—traits that make him an incredible writer—show through and illuminates for the reader how early our need for love as people, as a society, is rooted in our psyche.

“Overcoming Debbie Gilroy” by Wayne Scheer, is a delightful little story about how life goes on, and how no matter where we are in our lives, there’s always the chance for love. Sometimes, we have to take that chance.

“In her Shoes” by Lizzy Huitson allows us to laugh at our own quirks, and to know that somewhere out there is a person perfect for us; someone who can even deal with the really bonkers stuff.

My mother-in-law raved about Gabrielle Hovendon’s “Morning After Monologue” when she read it, and for good reason. It truly captures our insecurity, and the profound effect worrying about love can have.

“Falling” by Stone Showers, is just freaking hilarious. Sometimes, we get what we deserve.

D.T. Kastn’s “Cabra” is another one of those stories that is just too cute for its own good. Beware of goats in dorms, and be on the lookout for love anywhere.

Michael Kimball’s excerpt from “Unselfpublished, a Memoir of Michael Kimball, by Michael Kimball” is hilarious, through and through. His control of language makes me envious.

There’s no reason for passion to ever die. Not if we’re willing to work on it, like in Jim Harrington’s “Ralph’s Ruse”.

John Moran’s “Herbert’s First Job” is simply divine—no, profane. It is excellently written and warns us to be careful what we wish for.

“I <3 Lesbians” by Gabrielle Knock, is hilarious, and sad all at the same time. Love and lust are not often the same thing, but are often confused.

“Bragging Rights” by Sharon Goldberg examines the lengths we will go to for love, and how low we can sink.

Lisa Douglass’s story, “Red Starbucks Girl” is a ridiculous story about how sometimes in love and in life we are our own worst enemies.

“Walter and Gabriella” by Catherine Austin Alexander, is a cute and funny tale of romance fixed by circumstance from across the pond.

Michael A. Tashjian’s story, “Of Women’s Wiles and Underwear,” is a coming of age story that pokes fun at courtship behavior and all the ways we attract mates.

Lastly, Payne Ratner’s “Fish Story,” is a story like no other that is by turns mischievous, poignant, beautiful, dark, and truthful in its fiction. Sometimes, something miraculous happens that shows we as human beings, and our relationships, are salvageable.

I hope you enjoy the stories and that reading them enriches your life as much as it has mine.

Cheers,

Eric M. Bosarge, Editor

Joel Williams

2013-01-26T19:42:00.000-05:00

The Monk and The Hammer

Fiction by Joel Williams

Phillip Reilly O’Hoolihan stood on his front porch, scratching his armpits and smoking a cigarette. He let out a breath of smoke and watched as his neighbor wrestled with a chimpanzee across the street. The chimp worked a lanky arm underneath the man’s neck, getting him into a headlock. Phil took a puff and wondered what kind of sauce might go well with monkey flesh.

Phil tapped the ash off of his cigarette, shaking his head as his neighbor allowed the monkey to get his back, yet again. The chimp’s name was Louie the Hammer and had been the heavyweight champion of the world for three consecutive years. His presence in pop culture had been ubiquitous until one fateful television appearance on the O’Reilly Factor, where he discussed the use of steroids in wrestling. During the discussion, Louie lost his temper and shit hit the fan. It also hit some stage lights, Bill O’Reilly’s face, and many innocent bystanders. After a great deal of legal trouble, Louie fled to Ireland.

Phil used to be a bit of a wrestler himself back in his hometown of Bozhou, China. Back then he was known as Feng Hua Song. He moved to America at the age of nineteen to pursue his dream of joining the WWE. He endured years of drunken rednecks with John Deere hats and sleeveless camouflage shirts pulling at the corners of their eyes yelling penis jokes and Chinese food orders in pronounced Asian accents. Eventually, he quit wrestling for good and earned his degree in accounting from the University of California. He graduated with honors, changed his name, and moved to Ireland.

Phil decided that a mesquite barbecue sauce might do the trick. Pig DNA and chimpanzee DNA is 82% similar, so Phil made the logical deduction that chimpanzees must be at least 82% delicious.

Louie lifted his opponent into the air and tossed him into his own garbage can like a basketball. Phil chuckled a little. He’d always admired Louie and supported him even after the scandal. As far as Phil was concerned, Bill O’Reilly had been asking for it.

Phil noticed a bird pulling up worms in his yard. He decided that if he was able to hit the bird with the cigarette butt, he would have pizza for breakfast, instead of the low-fat organic oatmeal his personal trainer had recommended. Phil flicked his cigarette and hit the bird square in the face, stunning it a little. Phil pumped his fist in success and stepped inside his little suburban home. He sat down at his computer and Googled recipes for chimpanzee. Unable to find anything, he gave up and ate a breakfast of cold pizza and hot coffee. He sat in the shadow of a papier-mâché sculpture of a banana, constructed out of mostly clippings of Louie the Hammer’s interviews, portraits, news stories, parking tickets, and a couple of cable bills.

Phil stood up, straightened his pants, and picked up his papier-mâché banana and stepped out into the sharp autumn air. He stopped for a moment, frowning at the bird picking worms out of his lawn. The bird looked at Phil for a moment, blinked and returned to its business. Phil thought for a moment and decided that if he could kill the bird with his pizza crust, he would cross the street over to Louie’s. He held his pizza crust loosely in his hand, cocked back, and released it like a throwing knife, hitting the bird hard in the head. The bird keeled over, lifeless, worm in mouth.

“I’ve still got it,” Phil said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. In his short career as a professional wrestler, Phil utilized his training as a Shaolin monk. After Phil pile-drove the neighbor’s dog, his parents dropped him off at a temple in the middle of nowhere.

Phil was famous for pulling Jackie Chan-esque stunts with the ladders and chairs. Because of the vaguely racist nature of the predominantly white trash fan base, Phil lost many of his fights; his fatal flaw being his “fancy karate shit.” Many of Phil’s stunts had been scripted to fail, giving his muscle-bound white opponents an opportunity in which to “pummel his foreign ass.”

Phil took a deep breath in and crossed the street. He walked up the driveway, sidling in between a Cadillac Escalade and a powerboat. He raised his hand and knocked on the looming oakdoor. Louie’s trainer, Ben, opened the door.

“Hey Ben, is Louie around?” Phil asked tentatively, fiddling with the banana sculpture.

“Yeah, he just came home.”

“Alright, cool. I was hoping to see him.”

“Yes come in, come in” Ben said, smiling warmly.

Phil stepped inside. The house was decorated with trophies, championship belts, African folk art, sculptures and paintings of bananas, and a few regal looking portraits of Louie strangling men with their own arms. Louie the Hammer shambled into the room wearing a smoking jacket, walking on his feet and knuckles. He climbed up onto a chair, sat down and lit a cigar.

“Hey, Louie. Remember me? Feng Hua. We met at Wrestlemania one year.” Phil extended his hand which Louie grabbed and shook vigorously. Louie grinned, revealing a lot of yellow teeth. He jumped up and down, making a great deal of excited monkey noises and moving his hands around.

“Yeah, I remember you. 2001, right?” Ben translated. “You used to be one hell of a wrestler. Sucks those assholes wouldn’t ever let you win any.”

Phil scratched his head a little. “Yeah, yeah I know. Oh well, though.”

“Yeah. I think the only reason I made it was because I reminded those hicks of themselves a bit.”

“Maybe,” Phil laughed. “Hey, I’ve been working on this sculpture for a while. Just finished it. I thought you might like it.”

Louie the Hammer puffed on his cigar and looked at the papier-mâché banana. He began to wave his arms over his head and beat on the table, signing furiously. Ben translated, “It’s cause I’m a god-damned chimpanzee! Isn’t it?! You think every chimpanzee likes bananas?!”

“No! No!” Phil sputtered, “I just… I just thought I’d be nice!”

Louie smiled and took the banana, signing to Ben.

“I’m just kidding, Feng. You know, you’re alright.” Louie climbed down from his chair, walked over to the fridge and grabbed a couple of beers. He opened them with his teeth, handed one to Phil and returned to his seat. He took a swig and then signed, “How’d you like to do an exhibition match?”

“I dunno, I mean we’re old men now,” Phil laughed.

“Come on, Feng,” Louie took a drag on his cigar and Phil watched the smoke swirling, illuminated in the light shining from the window. “It’s why you came, right?”

“Well, erm, maybe.”

Louie laughed. “Alright, I’ll talk to some people.” He grinned and extended his hand. Phil shook it.

“Alright sounds like a plan.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

Phil waved and walked home. He hadn’t really expected an exhibition match, but he was kind of hoping. Phil always made these sorts of fixed bets with himself. If he could throw his trash into the barrel without missing, he’d do his taxes that night. If he could hit bird with a cigarette butt, then he’d have pizza for breakfast. If he could spit onto the red stone in the pavement, he’d ask out the cute girl at the gym. That sort of thing. He always knew what he was ultimately going to do, so it didn’t really matter. But he liked the idea of leaving things up to “chance.” In this case, the bet was if Louie offered an exhibition match then he wouldn’t eat him. The problem was that Phil had pretty much made up his mind that he was going to eat Louie.

The next morning Phil received a phone call from Louie the Hammer. Louie told him that the exhibition match would be in two weeks. Phil took a few days off from work to train with Louie. In their sessions they shared ideas and Louie decided that Phil should emerge the victor. Phil protested saying that Louie was the champ; people back home would be infuriated. Louie argued that since it’s a small match in suburban Ireland nobody would really hear about it. Eventually, Phil agreed.

During one of Louie and Phil’s practice matches Ben had left to go pick up some food. Louie sat down next to Phil on the edge of the ring and began to speak. “You know, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in the wild.”

“Holy shit, you can talk?” Phil exclaimed.

“Yeah, Ben’s been helping me out.”

“Shit, must be a hell of a teacher. Anyways, going back to the ‘living in the wilderness’ thing…”

“Yeah. I mean, glad I’m here, but sometimes I kind of wish Ben didn’t take me out of the jungle,” Louie looked at his prehensile toes hanging over the edge of the ring. He looked up at Phil and said, “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“No, of course not. But what makes you say that?”

“I don’t know,” Louie said, twanging one of the green elastic ropes. “He’s been weird lately. He’s been reading that book. Oh, what was it… Fifty Shades of Green? Anyways, I found him one day–oh, how to put it. Auto-erotic asphyxiation.

“Whoa,” Phil said. “Noose around the neck, spanking the monkey?”

“Bad choice of words, but yeah. He’s been asking me to give him sponge baths, too. I really don’t know what to do about it.”

“I don’t know, man. That’s some heavy shit.”

The morning of the match, Phil cooked up a batch of homemade barbecue sauce. He ventured into the basement and unboxed his old paddy hat and orange monk’s robe, which hadn’t been touched since his move to Ireland. Phil arrived at the arena and was surprised to see the stands mostly empty. Louie jumped up and down and he and Ben walked over. Louie shook Phil’s hand enthusiastically and said, “See, I told you it would be a small match. Wrestling’s not too big in Ireland.”

Phil scratched his face, looking at the sparsely populated stands. “Yeah, I guess not.”

“We’re on in about 15 minutes.”

“Alright, I’ll see you out here.”

The announcer’s voice boomed over the PA, “In the blue corner, three time heavyweight champion of the world, Louie the HAMMMERRRRR!” Louie walked out, beating his chest and barking. He pounded the floor of the ring and roared.

“Annnd in the red corner, hailing all the way from Bozhou, China, Feng “The Monk” Song!” Phil walked out to the ring, bowed solemnly to Louie who snarled at him. As planned, Phil failed a backflip ‘people’s elbow,’ allowing Louie to gain a chokehold. Phil got out of it and ran to the other corner. Louie threw fake poop and hit Phil in the face, temporarily blinding him. Louie bounced off the ropes and clothes-lined Phil, who appeared to be knocked out.

Louie beat his chest and roared, celebrating his seeming victory. Phil wiped the fake poop out of his eyes, stealthily cutting his forehead with a concealed razor. Phil got up and hit Louie in the back of the head with a chair. Louie fell to the ground and Phil stumbled around the ring, raising his hands in the air, gesturing for the audience to cheer. Louie got up and swung at Phil who deflected the blow and landed sixteen swift punches on the chimp’s body. Phil finished him off with a pinwheel kick to the jaw. The paramedics ran in on cue, put Louie on a stretcher and carried the former champ out of the ring.

Backstage, Louie puffed on a cigar and said, “Great show, kid. Really good stuff. Felt good to be back in the ring, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’ve missed it.” Phil paused for a moment. He looked up and asked, “You ever think of going back?”

“I’ve thought about it, but I just don’t think they want me. I mean, Bill O’Reilly, Phil.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Say, you want to have dinner at my place?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Alright, awesome. We might be able to catch the last of the soccer match.”

Phil and Louie met at Phil’s place. Louie was sitting in a chair, drumming absently on the table. Phil opened his knife drawer, his hand hovering over a long chef’s knife when Louie said, “What do you think of starting up a league here? Why don’t we open up a gym?”

Phil closed the drawer and smiled. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Alright, great. I’ve already got a place in mind.”

Phil smiled, then began to laugh hysterically, which slowly digressed into gross sobbing. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor with his face buried in his knees. Louie watched, utterly confused. Eventually Phil was able to piece himself back together and confessed, “You know, I was going to eat you if you didn’t say that.”

Louie stared at him.

“It sounds weird, and I really don’t know why I’m telling you this, but it’s true. You see, I’ve always wanted to know what ape tastes like. I had this neighbor back in America. He’d been stationed over in Panama and he would always talk about how he would go down and get monkey on a stick from the street vendors. And he always made it sound so damned good!”

Phil wiped tears out of his eyes. “He wanted to eat you, too. It was all he talked about when we watched your matches.” Phil paused for a moment and rubbed the side of his face and sighed. “Maybe it’s like that old belief that if you eat the flesh of your enemy, you’ll gain his power, that kind of thing. Native American spiritual cannibalism, or whatever.”

“So, I’m kind of having second thoughts about that gym thing…”

“I’m not going to eat you, it’s just, I dunno. Plus, I mean chimps and pigs are 82% similar, so that must mean that chimps are 82% delicious.”

Louie’s face lit up. “You know, I’d been saying something similar. Humans and pigs are 83% similar, so...”

Phil smiled.

“What do you say we invite Ben over?”

“I think that sounds like a great idea.”

###

After their meal, Phil and Louie sat outside on the porch. Phil lit a cigarette and watched the birds hopping around his lawn. He smiled for a moment and then his face fell. “Do you think we’ll get caught?”

Louie laughed and replied, “Phil, I’m an international celebrity. Who cares?”

Eric M. Bosarge

2012-11-28T07:26:00.000-05:00

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Part 15
Part 16

The sign said Long-Haired Super Villains Need Not Apply.

Jacque cursed and crumpled the flyer in his hand with super villain strength. Why did short-haired super villains get all the love? Was it because they looked the part of the hero? He considered cutting his hair, trimming it Beaver length, but thought better of it.

The adversary is just as important as the plot to take over the world, Jacque thought. He turned, incinerated the flyer by throwing it in a proper trash receptacle, and stalked down the street. A kitty passed by and he wanted to chase it, to wring its little neck, but knew he couldn’t catch it, so he kicked at it—and missed.

“Hey, kid, pick on someone your own size,” an older boy with blonde hair and a chiseled face said. Instantly, he was Jacque’s nemesis, protecting even the smallest living creatures from the wrath of his evil.

“What’s you name?” Jacque asked.

“Kyle. Give me your money,” the boy said.

Jacque thought maybe Kyle could be his hired goon, best body guard, and the first to be subjected to his wrath when his evil plans failed.

“You will help me achieve my evil goals,” Jacque said.

Kyle stole Jacque’s cape, twirled it into a rat tail and whipped Jacque with it until, defeated and utterly certain Kyle was indeed his nemesis, Jacque ran home.

I need a death ray, Jacque thought in his room, looking from his netbook to the posters of DC and Marvel Supervillains on the walls. He tried to picture them at home in their castles of hate, researching and compiling a proper business plan for a death ray using the same template from SCORE (the something something Organization of Retired Executives). He couldn’t see it happening. Real villains had resources from word one. Jacque thought about giving up the supervillain gig. Letting it fall to the next evil genius. There was no way a bank would give him a loan for a death ray with this profit margin. If it were up to him, the first building he would destroy would be the bank, of course, thereby negating the need for a profit, but any savvy loan officer would probably realize that and deny him the loan.

There was a knock on his door. His father opened it before Jacque could call for him to enter.

“It smells like smoke in here,” Jacque’s father, Bruce, said. Until a certain blonde-haired boy name Kyle came along Jacque had been certain Bruce was his nemesis. He had big nostrils.

“It’s the cistern,” Jacque explained. In the corner was a smoldering Roman Fireplace that Bruce bought for the backyard last summer. Jacque found it in the garage searching for nails and a hammer.

“What the hell is that doing in here?” Bruce asked.

Jacque beamed at his father’s frustration. “Would you care to remove it?”

Bruce went to the cistern and almost, bloody almost, put his hands right on the hot sides of it. Thinking better of it, he used Jacque’s pillow as an oven mitt.

“Hey!” Jacque shouted.

“Oh, sleep on the floor for all I care,” Bruce said. He carried the cistern out of the room.

Jacque searched for stock quotes on companies by industry. Death was not listed. He couldn’t even find a publicly traded undertaker.

Bruce returned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, why?” Jacque asked.

“I can hardly breathe in here.”

“That’s because you’re mortal.”

Bruce sat on the bed with a sigh. “Jack, I’m worried about you.”

“Why? I have more ambitions in my pinky than most children have in a lifetime. You’ll never have to worry about what I’ll do after high school. I’ll be a productive citizen.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Bruce said. He looked at the bed where the pillow wasn’t. “Should give you one of mom’s pillows. She had twenty.”

“Hyperbole,” Jacque said, searching for Department of Defense contracts. Perhaps he could join the military and just steal a death ray.

“What are you working on?” Bruce asked.

“A business plan.”

“What for?”

“A death ray.”

“You should play baseball,” Bruce said. “Summer league is coming up. No, wait, on second thought, never mind.”

“What, why?” Jacque asked.

Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “They use bats,” he said, conspiratorially.

“Indeed,” Jacque said. “Have you ever thought about being a super villain?”

Bruce nodded. “Every day I talk to you.”

So he’s secretly my biggest supporter, Jacque thought. “I could play baseball,” Jacque said. He closed the netbook.

“Want to play pass?”

“Why would I do that?” Jacque said.

“Just grab your glove.”

“Okay,” Jacque said. “Hey, dad, should I cut my hair?”

“You wouldn’t look as evil.”

“That is a drawback. But perhaps I’m advertising it a bit too much. I think I’d have better chances getting a loan if I looked a little more clean-cut.”

“Heaven help us if you get your hands on a death ray,” Bruce said. “Heaven help us.”

###

Part 2

Jacque hefted the aluminum bat. It was a blunt instrument, obviously, and really only suited to surprise attacks. He promised to find a cat—he hated cats. Dogs were downright lovable but he was allergic to cats so it was okay to hate them—and try to sneak up on it, something he had yet to do in his seven years of life, and pretend to use the bat on it. No use going to jail or arousing a lifetime of suspicions over such a petty, senseless act—he might kick the kitty though. In any case, he couldn’t stop working on the loan application for the materials to manufacture a death ray.

“Hey, Jack, get up to the plate!” Kyle, his nemesis and the newest short stop of the Clinton Elementary Bulldogs, hollered. In the outfield, boys snickered.

“I want my cape back!” Jacque yelled at Kyle. “And my name is Jacque!”

“STRAP!” the entire outfield yelled back.

“Okay, okay,” the Coach, a man with a palatial gut, yelled. He motioned for Jacque to step up to the plate.

The first pitch went sailing by as Jacque tapped the bat on the toes of his cleats.

“That’s strike one!” the Coach yelled behind the catcher. Jacque knew he would have to dispose of the coach before long if he maintained the desire to steal the aluminum bat and brain a kitten.

“Keep your eye on the ball,” Coach said.

In the stands, Jacque’s father, Bruce, clapped. “Get up there, Jack! Keep your eyes open and swing for the fences.”

The fences, Jacque thought. I should run a current of electricity through the fence, then swing for it. He imagined Kyle’s body fricasseed on the fence, waffle iron patterns seared into his arms, hands and face as he stretched to catch the homerun ball that was out of reach anyways.

Jacque could hear the applause now. Baseball would be so much more entertaining.

“Strike three!” Coach yelled.

Jacque turned to him. “What do you mean strike three? There were only two pitches!”

“Kid, there were three. You were daydreaming.” Coach hunkered down on one knee so that he was eye-level with Jacque. “Listen, is there someplace you’d rather be? You don’t have to play baseball.”

Jacque swung the bat at Coach’s head. The Coach grabbed it, stood and ripped it out of Jacque’s hands. “Get off my field,” he growled.

On the sideline, Bruce hung his head.

“Sorry, Allen,” Bruce called to Coach as he placed a hand on Jacque’s shoulder.

“Want to tell me what that was about?” Bruce said when they were in the car. Jack watched as a cat, casually stalking a moth under a bush, passed by.

“How much does an underground generator cost?” Jacque asked.

“More than your annual salary,” Bruce said. “Baseball’s not your thing, is it?”

“It’s kind of boring. I think the coach knows Tae Kwan Do. His reflexes were positively primitive.”

“Too bad you hadn’t swung at the ball that way. You probably would have hit a home run.”

“I realized my options are infinite today,” Jacque said.

“How so?” Bruce asked. His voice had that tired, indulgent lilt to it he sometimes got at the end of the day.

“My plans aren’t entirely dependent on a death ray.”

“It’s a little clichéd anyway.”

“Do you think I’ll ever make anything of myself, really?”

Bruce sighed. “Of course. Of course you’ll make something of yourself. I’d kind of rather not have fathered the world’s first super villain, but…”

“It’s a calling I can’t help answer. Wait, did you just say I’d be the first super villain? Really?”

“Well, no, there was Hitler, Mussolini, Thomas De Torquemada—”

“Who?”

“Mass murderers, all of them,” Bruce explained.

“I never said I wanted to be a mass murderer. In fact, I’m sort of doubting I have the ability to brain a kitten. They look rather soft and cuddly.”

“That’s good,” Bruce said. “Hey,” he touched Jacque’s arm. “You know what, I’m proud of you.”

“Why?” Jacque asked.

“You tried.”

“Yeah. Wasn’t really my cup of tea though, as they say…” Jacque stared out the window, saw his reflections superimposed on the passing landscape. “If I had an idea, one of my ideas, you know, the good ones—”

“You mean the super villain ones?” Bruce asked.

“Yes, those. Could I run it by you, first?”

“I wish you would.”

Jacque smiled and looked out the window. A hot dog man pushed his cart along the side of the road. Jacque imagined sticks of dynamite smothered in ketchup, and smiled.

###

Part 3

The Financial Benefits of having a death ray gun are myriad, Jacque wrote. Virtually any item can quickly be obtained when a death ray is near. Check-out lines at grocery stores can be skipped, and jewelry can be had for the price of electricity it takes to zap a store clerk (roughly one nine volt battery per blast). Although the equipment is bulky, the sheer magnitude and imposing nature of the device should discourage those who possess valuable artifacts from risking the wrath of its user. Using the formula for cost of living per day ($1,000.00) times the number of blasts likely needed to obtain that amount (0.9) times the cost of a single nine volt battery ($4.19) results in a profit margin of $900 for every $4.19 invested, minus the initial investment, which is substantial, but certainly, as evidenced by the above equation, worth the up-front cost.

Clearly, this idea is highly profitable, Jacque concluded.

He stared at the screen of his netbook, re-reading his masterful words. Mrs. Pennywimple, his math teacher who co-taught critical thinking with teachers from the Science and English department, would love it. Jacque hit print, lay his head down on the pillow and listened to the beautiful, imaginary sounds of money practically being printed.

In the morning, Jacque found his mother’s Taser in the spot she left it—the inside pocket of her purse—and took out the nine volt battery, because he knew it would be unlawful to bring a loaded weapon to school. He put the taser, the battery, and a cardboard mock-up of his death ray in his backpack.

Jacque smiled at everyone when he got on the bus. He felt taller and the weight of each step he took felt more substantial. For once when the bus driver, Gus, winked and blew a little kiss, per his usual, Jacque didn’t let it bother him. Let a little of that lust get out of line Gus, Jacque thought, and I’ll run ten thousand volts through your nuts.

“What’s with the smile, Jack?” Allison asked when Jacque sat down.

“Watts,” Jacque laughed.

“Why did you bring a folded up box to school? And why’s it all covered in polka-hash lines like a dress pattern?” Allison asked. Her mother ran a very successful dress shop downtown. Presumably, she was being trained in the business.

“It’s a mock-up, not a dress pattern,” Jacque said.

“A mock-up of what?” Allison asked.

She smelled good. Lilacs in spring. Her hair was held in place by a hair band. Jacque tried to calm himself, cleared his throat.

“It’s a mock up of a death ray I’m going to build,” Jacque said.

“A death ray?” Allison laughed. “What do you need a death ray for?”

“Do you realize what it costs to live these days?” Jacque asked.

“I spend about three dollars on lunch. I buy a salad and a yogurt. Sometimes I’ll buy a slice of pizza if I’m really hungry. But I pick off pepperonis.”

“It costs more than that,” Jacque said.

Kyle, Jacque’s nemesis and sometimes little league teammate, stood up from the seat behind them and stole Allison’s hair elastic. He was fond of stealing clips, scrunchies and nearly anything else that held women’s hair in place.

“Uh, Kyle!” Allison groaned.

Jacque stood up and faced Kyle—Gus the bus driver’s usual threats to stop the bus be damned. “I’m tired of your quick ploys for attention,” Jacque said. “I demand that you give back her hair band this instant!”

The larger boys in the back of the bus laughed and Kyle seemed to notice this. Damn it, Jacque thought, the stakes have just been raised.

“Or what?” Kyle said. “Are you going to make me?”

Jacque cleared his throat and retrieved his bag.

“Just ignore him,” Allison said.

“No. It’s a principal thing, Allison,” Jacque explained. “Ignoring the behavior will only insure that this kind of thing will happen again in the future.”

“Sit down!” Gus the bus driver roared. Jacque ignored him and stood up holding the taser.

“What’s that?” Kyle asked.

“You’ll find out if you don’t give me the hair band. Right. Now,” Jacque demanded.

The bus’s breaks groaned.

“No,” Kyle said.

Jacque slapped the battery in the taser and pointed it at Kyle. “I’ll count to three.”

The bus slowed.

“One…Two…”

“That’s a taser,” one of the older students in the back whispered.

“Shut up, man…” Kyle said.

“Three,” Jacque said.

The bus rolled to a complete stop.

Jacque squinted. Kyle stretched the hair elastic and pointed it at the window.

“Don’t do it,” Jacque said.

Allison reached out and touched Jacque’s shoulder, causing Jacque to flinch.

The taser went off. The electrodes struck Kyle in each boob and he convulsed, sliding down in the seat.

Allison screamed.

“If you hadn’t touched me it wouldn’t have gone off,” Jacque said calmly.

Strong hands grabbed Jacque under the shoulders and hauled him off his feet. A moment later, he was outside, staring at the yellow side of the bus. A mound of students had formed over the seat where Kyle lay incapacitated by one-thousand glorious volts. Jacque fought the urge to smile and won. A super villain must never smile unless he triumphs. Although this was a victory, and it certainly gave him pleasure to see his nemesis incapacitated, pants soaked in pee, it came at a great cost.

Inside on the radio, Gus the Bus Driver requested an ambulance and police.

“Damn,” Jacque said.

One of the bus windows slid down and Allison popped her head out. “Jack, why’d you do it?”

“It was an accident,” Jacque said. “The mere threat of imminent danger should have been enough to convince him.”

Allison sighed and turned around. A moment later, she tossed the hair elastic out. It landed at his feet and he picked it up. It smelled of lilacs and maybe vanilla. Sirens rose in the distance as the children began filing out of the emergency exit at the back of the bus.

Jacque sat criss-cross applesauce on the grass and sighed. His father was going to kill him.

###

Part 4

“You’re not saying anything because you are angry at me,” Jacque said to his father, Bruce, who sat next to him in the office of Clinton Elementary School, waiting on the bench in the main office for the Principal. Students filed past, their eyes sneaking glances.

The Principal opened his door. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, obviously in decent shape. A police officer stood behind the Principal. While being transported, Jacque learned the policeman had been a policeman for seven years, and an officer in the Special Forces before that. He didn’t answer any questions about weaponry except to say that a taser was a very unreliable and exceedingly dangerous weapon. Using it constituted assault, a crime punishable by up to ten years in prison.

Bruce stood and pulled Jacque up with him.

“I’m Jack’s father,” Bruce said, extending a hand to the Principal and the police officer.

“Please, come in,” the Principal said.

Jacque found himself itching his palms and forced his hands into his pockets.

“So,” the Principal said, sitting in a big chair behind an ordinary metal desk. “Before I ask any questions, I want to make sure that we all understand the facts of what happened.” The Principal consulted a yellow note-pad. “At approximately eight-oh-seven, Jack tased, which I’m told is the correct term, another student on the bus. The bus driver removed Jack and evacuated the bus while authorities were en route.”

Bruce glanced at Jacque. His face was stone.

The Principal sighed and set down the pad of paper. “I assume that there is going to be a really good explanation of what happened—”

“He stole a—” Jacque said.

“But I don’t want to hear it,” the Principal said. “Bringing a weapon to school is a serious offense.” The Principal stretched and picked up a thin white book with the Clinton Elementary School seal emblazoned on the front. “According to the handbook, the punishment for bringing a weapon to school is automatic expulsion.”

Jacque itched his palms. Bruce’s hands rested on his knees. His knuckles were white.

“This is not a matter of negotiation. It is here, in black and white,” The Principal said.

“I understand,” Bruce said.

“It is my duty to make sure certain steps are taken to ensure an education is made available to Jack, and I intend to do so.”

“What options are there?” Bruce asked.

“Well, the district would be obliged to pay for tutoring. Fortunately, there’s not much of the school year left. He would be allowed to complete the curriculum and move on to second grade next year, so long as certain interventions are taken.”

“Such as?” Bruce asked.

“Yes, such as?” Jacque echoed.

Bruce shot Jacque a look.

The Principal sighed. “Such as one-on-one sessions with a therapist, interventions with law enforcement, which Officer Galla can fill you in on later. Now,” the Principal readjusted in his seat. “For my own understanding, I’d like to ask some questions.” He focused his attention on Jacque, who gave in and scratched his palms.

“Yes, sir?”

“Why did you bring the taser to school?”

“I left the battery out.”

“Answer the question,” Bruce said.

Jacque swallowed a dry lump. “I was going to use the basics of the machine—”

“The taser?” Officer Gala clarified.

“Yes,” Jacque said. “I was going to use it to explain to the critical thinking class how a compact death ray could be made—”

Bruce slapped a hand on his own forehead. “Jack—”

Jacque continued on, undeterred. “If one had the resources and the funds. The machine could be used for any number of reasons, most likely military, as its application is, well, death and destruction.”

“Is this a machine that you seek to make?” Officer Gala asked.

“Well, I did,” Jacque said. “But that was only before I realized that I’d actually have to use it. You see, the mere possession of a weapon isn’t a sufficient deterrent. Having power in this society is only effective if you actually use it, or so I’ve recently ascertained. By the way, I was only trying to get Allison’s hair band back—and the taser went off by accident when she intervened. I believe she was going to let him keep it. I suppose I need to learn to pick my battles. Is he okay, by the way?”

The three men stared at Jacque, speechless.

The Principal finally cleared his throat. “Did you say, death ray?”

###

Part 5

Bruce turned up the radio and tapped the wheel to a Lady Gaga song, trying his best to not be upset. Jacque waited. Sooner or later, his father was going to turn into Mount Vesuvius and wipe the world away, ground him for infinity times twelve.

Abruptly, Bruce turned off the radio. “I think an apology is in order,” Bruce said.

“I’m sorry,” Jacque said.

“No, not to me,” Bruce said. “You have to apologize to Kyle.”

“Kyle was bullying a girl. A little shock was exactly what he deserved. Besides, contacting someone I’ve just assaulted is probably not such a good thing,” Jacque said.

Bruce turned up the radio and quickly turned it back down, nearly off.

“What do you think an appropriate punishment is?”

Jacque twiddled his thumbs. They were only a few miles from home. He hoped his father would calm down once he got there.

“Well?” Bruce said.

“Besides being expelled? I think that’s enough, don’t you?”

“No,” Bruce said. His head shook quickly. “Here’s the thing, Jack, I can’t afford to send you to day care, and there is no way I’m going to let you sit home and do whatever it is you want to do.”

“That would involve nacho cheese, research, and possibly a cat,” Jacque said.

“Enough about the death ray, okay?” Bruce said.

“But…Fine. I’ll move on. I’ve already proved that the threat of force isn’t sufficient to achieve my goals.”

“Well, good. I think,” Bruce said. “So, back to my point—”

“Punishment,”

“Yes,” Bruce shot Jacque a severe look. “Punishment. You have to come to work with me. There’s no other option. And you’re going to sit, and be quiet, and do your homework. All day. Nine to five. Just like me. Is that clear?”

“So, I have to sit in your cubicle and watch you stare at a computer screen all day?”

“You get to suffer along with me. Grown up consequences,” Bruce said. Something in Bruce’s face betrayed the fact that, ultimately, he was being punished as well.

Jacque was quite aware of his own weaknesses, and he didn’t want to make his father pay for them any more than he already had. “Father, I want to be fair to you. Making me sit for eight hours a day—”

“Won’t hurt you a bit,” Bruce said. “Besides, you don’t have any other options.”

Jacque sighed. The car pulled into the driveway. “Can I bring my laptop, books, encyclopedias and Captain America figure?”

Bruce chuckled. “Yes. But Jack—you have to be quiet. I’m on a tight deadline.”

“Yes, sir!” Jacque said. “By the way, what are you designing at the moment?”

“A bridge in Toronto.”

“A bridge in Toronto,” Jacque whispered, wondering how many vehicles must pass over a busy bridge every day, how much turmoil it could inflict should something…fail. “Is your firm hiring?”

###

Part 6

Sometimes, I can’t tell who the captors are in this prison. They all function like automatons, slaving away at their computation machines, staring at blue screens, occasionally answering messages on their com devices, which rest on chains. I’d like to strangle one of them with those chains, but they keep a pretty close eye on me.

“Write.”

They want me to write a confession, some tall tale of a story I never heard of, let alone participated in. I’m assuming they’ll send it home to my folks, embarrass me. What concerns me is the real interrogation hasn’t even started yet. They haven’t asked me a single question about troop formations or supply lines. I know they’ll get to that, they just want to demoralize me first.

“I want that letter done before lunch.”

“What’s for lunch?” Jacque asked.

“Sandwiches from the cafeteria. Soda if you’re good. Now, write.”

This society is strange. They all seem dependant on various chemicals they imbibe throughout the day. The standard is a black liquid, swilled out of mugs by the entire population. Others step outside to use inhalers that smell awful and cause their teeth to yellow. Some, the bigger ones, are constantly eating sweet-smelling confections dispensed in cellophane wrappers. I wouldn’t eat anything they gave me.
“You’re still not done? Fine. I’m going to the cafeteria. I’ll bring you something back.”

My captor has made the mistake of leaving me unguarded. Now is my chance to escape. I roll across the corridor into another cell block. The guard who occupies it glances at me, but he’s too busy on his com device to stop me. I check to see if the coast is clear and dart down the hallway into a room called wash.

Inside, I stand and walk slowly into a waste disposal facility, close the door, and make water. Above me, a vent is in the ceiling. It would be perfect to escape the building. I stand on the back of the waste disposal unit and stretch, but the ceiling is impossibly high. The men on this planet are giants. The door opens.

“Jack, what are you doing?”

I play it cool, slowly step down off the waste facility, zip up my pants.

“Doug told me where you went. Listen, everyone knows you’re here. They’re all looking out for you. Please, please, don’t embarrass me.”

This must be some sort of confidence game. I accompany the giant back to the cell. They are a savvy race, even if they choose to confine themselves to small spaces and work like slaves. It appears I must outsmart them.

“Are you even listening to me? I got you a hamburger and fries. Ketchup packets are in my drawer.”

The ketchup packets are marked with a giant M—clearly for mustard. They are a paranoid race, intentionally mislabeling things they covet.

“Jack, what do you want to do tonight?”

Escape. I want to escape.

“It’s hot. I was thinking, maybe we could swing by Knight’s Pond, take a dip. I packed our bathing suits this morning.”

And there it is: water torture. Now I know my fate.

“If you finish that apology letter to Kyle, that is.”

I should just write the damn confession. When I escape and return home, everyone will know my scrawling words were written under duress.

“I even packed your water wings.”

They are a cruel, cruel race, intent on embarrassing their foe.

###

Part 7

“Jack, this is Alicia, your tutor,” Bruce said.

Hair of almond, sweetened with cardamom and brown sugar.

“My, Tutor?” Jacque said.

“Hi, Jack,” Alicia said.

Jacque felt his cheeks burn. His socks were red and blue, stylishly mismatching. He hoped she noticed. He decided to tell her in case his careful selection was lost on her.

“Blue and, uh, red.”

Her mouth hung open for a moment as both she and Bruce were shocked at how well he (mis)matched.

“Your socks. Cute,” Alicia said.

Jacque’s chin touched his sternum. She thought he was cute.

“I’ll take it from here,” Alicia said to Bruce.

Alicia took a knee. Her hair nearly touched the floor. Jacque wanted to wrap his fingers in it and suck his thumb.

“So, what’s your favorite subject?” Alicia asked.

Bruce carefully retreated from the room and motioned to the table.

Jacque understood the cue immediately. She was the type that responded to brains. Jacque casually strode by Alicia and jumped up to the table. “So, what mnemonic exercises do you have for me?”

“Well,” Alicia said, sitting down opposite Jacque. “I think we should start with spelling.”

“Well then, okay. Don’t ask me to spell Mississippi though, I only spell it with one eye.” Jacque slapped a hand over one eye and spelled the word, double consonants and all.

Alicia swallowed visibly.

“Hmm…” Jacque said. It was certainly easier to impress girls his own age.

Alicia took out a vocab book, flipped a few pages and found herself in the middle of the letter T. “Tourniquet,” she said. “Spell that.”

Jacque did, perfectly, as he pictured himself tying a tourniquet on her thigh after a spy from the evil empire—which was trying to thwart his ambitions—had infiltrated his secret organization and stabbed her before he could obliterate them with his death ray.

“Jack?” Alicia said.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Jacque said.

“I asked if you liked science,” Alicia said.

“Science…Yes. I like science. Do you know anything about lasers?”

“I know the difference between concave and convex lenses,” Alicia added, not too helpfully.

“Well, let me tell you the first thing about them—”

“Jack,” Bruce said.

Jacque looked. Bruce, his father and nemesis—George Lucas was a prophet—was carefully listening, spying, from the kitchen.

“You are shrouded in darkness, father,” Jacque said.

“That subject is taboo, Alicia,” Bruce said. “Jack, why don’t you show her what your letter looks like?”

“It’s a little bit early to be writing letters to Santa, isn’t it?” Alicia laughed awkwardly.

Jacque fell in the love with the cleft in her upper lip.

“It’s not that sort of letter,” Bruce said.

“What sort of letter is it?” Alicia asked.

“I uh, hurt someone,” Jacque said, “and father thinks it’s imperative I pay some sort of reparations.”

“Can you spell reparations?” Alicia asked.

Jacque did, perfectly.

“Wow,” Alicia said.

“Impressive, aren’t I?”

“Jack, who did you hurt?” Alicia asked.

“A boy who bullied a girl,” Jacque said.

Alicia’s heart-shaped face pulled back. Honey almond hair shivered. I could love her, but then I’d have to kill her, Jacque thought.

“Will you be my babysitter?” Jacque asked.

###

Part 8

“So, you’re a therapist?” Jacque said.

“I’m a psychiatrist,” Mrs. Malone said. She had curly gray hair that hovered like a cloud about her face, glasses, and wore a gray pants suit. “And you’re Jack.”

“I prefer Jacque,” Jacque said.

“Ah. And how are you spelling that?” Mrs. Malone said.

“J-a-c-q-u-e,” Jacque said.

“No s?” Mrs. Malone asked. If her face stayed that bunched up for long, Jacque thought, her glasses would fog up.

“No. Why would there be?”

“There usually is,” Mrs. Malone said.

“I didn’t know that,” Jacques said. He thought about it for a moment, then changed his mind.

“Nope. I like it better without the s. And it’s my name, so…”

“Of course,” Mrs. Malone said.

Jacque eyed the fish tank filled with tropical fish. According to Bruce, Jacque didn’t have a choice. If he ever wanted to get back to school, he had to see a therapist and prove his sanity. “Do you think it’s cruel to keep them in there?” Jacque said of the tank.

“Do you?” Mrs. Malone asked. Jacque could tell these sessions were going to drag.

“I’m fairly certain they would like the ocean better,” Jacque said.

“Why is that?”

“It’s bigger?”

“Why else?”

“They could clean shark’s teeth.”

“Those aren’t pilot fish…” Mrs. Malone said. “They are angel fish, most of them.”

Jacque was impressed. The woman knew her ichthyology. “I thought we were supposed to talk about my issues?”

“There’s plenty of time for that.”
“That’s right, we pay you by the hour.”

“Why else might the fish like the sea better, Jack?”

“They can blend in. Meet other fish. Have little baby fish. Are we really talking about this?” Jacque pushed hair out of his eyes, drawing attention to it, hoping she might pick up on the clue that he was evil to the core and there was no saving him.

“Is that what you would like to do, Jack? Blend in, disappear?”

“Well…” Jacque paused. “Well look at your bespectacled self. You’re good.”

“Jack—Jacque,” Mrs. Malone said, “let’s talk about why you’re here—”

“My father has big nostrils?”

Mrs. Malone could not be distracted. “Do you feel that you did anything wrong when you assaulted that boy?”
“I’m told the correct word is tased.”

Mrs. Malone smiled patiently.

“I was protecting a girl. I stood up to a bully and I’m the one in trouble. If you ask me, it’s proof the world needs a dictating overlord to keep everyone in check.”

Mrs. Malone put down her pencil. “Jacque, do you really believe you’re destined to be a super villain?”

Jacque looked at the fish. “I could design bridges like my father. Stay above the fish.”

“I’m sure you could.” Mrs. Malone made a note. “If you were given a fresh start, a new set of kids, what would you do?”

Jacque considered. “They won’t let me back in school.”

Mrs. Malone smiled. “There are other, opportunities, that come to mind. Places where you could meet new children. Children who don’t know what happened unless you tell them.”

“Are you encouraging me to lie?” Jacque asked. Jacque liked this woman. She was clever and honest, yet strangely evil. She wielded power in a subtle way.

“I’m encouraging you to make some friends. You’re smart. I bet most people like you.”

Jacque’s cheeks flushed. He thought he may have discovered his Achilles heel: he was susceptible to flattery.

###

Part 9

The prisoners assemble at meal time. They ply each other with platitudes and placate each other with water cooler humor to boost morale. It’s apparent they need to squeeze every bit of humor they can from each interaction.

“Hey, cool Captain America doll! You want some freedom fries?”

“I’m actually a Nazi spy with unnatural longevity.”

“Jack, be nice,” Bruce said.

“Yes, I’ll take some fries.”

Outsiders that try to buck the façade of false happiness are ostracized.

“Enjoy your lunch.”

“Thank you.”

It’s pathetic how much a smile brightens their marginal little existence.

“Jack, I have a presentation after lunch.”

A public execution.

“That means you have a choice. You can come with me—”

I don’t want to see a fellow prisoner hanged.

“Or you can wait, quietly, responsibly, here. I’ll have Cookie keep an eye on you.”

That’s no choice at all. Damn you people.

“I’ll accompany you to the presentation.”

“Good, you can be my little cheering section.”

There is no end to their need for reassurance.

The Gestapo brass wear tailored uniforms, unique in color but otherwise the same. While outside their chambers, they too take place in the exchanging of platitudes, but inside this chamber, it’s clear they are an assembly of assassins, a firing squad ready to fight over the scraps of their fellow prisoner’s bodies.

“If that bridge were to fail, approximately eight hundred people would die and nearly ten thousand would be inconvenienced,” Jacque said, doing his best to interrupt Bruce’s misery. Everyone in the room faced him.

“Yes, Jack, that’s why it’s important,” Bruce said.

“I just thought you should know that,” Jacque said.

“Cute kid. He going to be here long?”

“Just until summer camp starts.”

“Summer camp? The bridge will fail! Look at the A-frame, I implore you!”

###

Part 10

Jacque clung to the seat belt with white-knuckled fever as Bruce pulled on his legs.

“I don’t want to go I don’t want to go I don’t want to go.”

Jacque’s shoe came off and Bruce fell on his bottom.

“Jack, come on. It will be good for you. Don’t you want to water-ski again?”

“You’re going to leave me here,” Jacque said.

“I’m not going to leave you here.”

“Why can’t I destroy bridges with you?”

“I build bridges, not destroy them.”

“Still,” Jacque said.

“It’s eight hours,” Bruce said. “You can do eight hours. Anyone can do eight hours. Now, go. Have some fun, would ya?”

Jacque saw several healthy females watching by the corner of the lodge. Jacque put on his sneaker, stood, and dusted off his pants. “I’ll go with dignity, but I don’t have to like it.”

“That’s the spirit,” Bruce said. “Make me proud.”

###

“So, what are you in for?” Jacque asked Martin, a boy with hair so blond his eyebrows were invisible. He had very thin arms, even for a six year-old. Obviously he’d been doing hard labor for a while.

“I wanted to learn how to shoot a bow,” Martin said. “I can’t draw it, so they put me here.”

Figures, Jacque thought. Forced to fight in a war he doesn’t believe in, forced to work if he won’t fight.

Jacque’s stomach growled. He figured by the looks of Martin he wouldn’t get much for lunch, let alone morning snack.

Jacque pulled a splinter from his thumb nail. The wardens were watching. He had to keep working. He slathered mortar on the top of the wall and threw another log on.

“Can you pass the paste?” Martin asked.

“Sure,” Jacque said. He passed the mortar and selected another long, rectangular log.

“I wish there were popsicles on these tongue depressors,” Martin said. He sniffed the stick, dipped it in mortar, and stuck it in his mouth.

I don’t know how much more I can take of this, Jacque thought.

One of the wardens—her name was Ms. Pettigue and she was tall and fat with large udders—grabbed the stick from Martin. “Don’t eat that!” she squealed.

Can’t even eat inedibles, Jacque thought. What sort of depraved people think it’s okay to starve children and make them work like this?

“Look everyone!” a girl stood up holding a box over her head. She had freckles and cheeks so red they had obviously been recently pinched by one of the wardens. “I made a bird house!” The bird house was painted patriotic red, white, and blue.

“Okay, that’s pretty cool,” Martin said.

“She’s been brainwashed!” Jacque yelled. “Can’t you see we’re all prisoners here?!”

“Jack,” Ms. Pettigue said, “Would you like to go outside?”

“No! Don’t let them take me! I’ll never return!”

“I would like to go outside,” Martin said. “It’s warm in here.”

“No, you can’t!” Jacque whispered to Martin.

“There’s a water fountain out there. I’m thirsty,” Martin said.

“That’s because you ate the mortar,” Jacque said. “Just, please, hold out with me for another minute.”

“Why don’t you come outside with me?” Martin said.

Jacque glanced at Ms. Pettigue. She shrugged. “It’s up to you, Jack.”

“Well,” Jacque said, “I’ll go with you, I suppose. There’s strength in numbers. I’ll watch your back if you watch mine.”

Martin looked behind Jacque.

“Oh come on,” Jacque said.

At the water fountain outside on the porch, Martin took an epic drink. “Cold,” he said when he finished.

“We should make a break for it,” Jacque said.

Martin pointed to a shed beside the lodge. “We could take the bikes.”

Just inside the shed, the reflectors of a herd of bicycles glittered. “It’s the mother lode,” Jacque whispered. “Come on, run for it!”

Jacque took off running. Martin followed. Between breaths he said, “I like playing, with you. You make, everything, urgent.”

“Thanks,” Jacque said.

At the shed, Jacque selected a fast-looking bike with streamers. He looked around. They had evaded the notice of the guards, for now. Suddenly, Jacque was pushed from the bike and his head hit the ground.

“It’s mine!” a boy twice Martin’s size growled. He swung a leg over the bike and rode off down the hill.

“Who was that?” Jacque asked.

“Tony,” Martin said. “He was here last year. He hit a growth spurt.”

Jacque watched as Tony stopped, stole a bagel from a girl, took a bite and threw it on the ground cream cheese side down. He rode off, laughing as she cried.

“He’s a villain,” Jacque whispered in awe. Jacque had never seen someone so like himself before—born to be bad.

“He’s a prick,” Martin said.

“Well…maybe,” Jacque said. “But people don’t become villains to win friends.”

“You want to ride?” Martin asked.

Jacque selected another bike, sans streamers. “Yes, let’s ride.”

###

Part 11

“Do these board shorts make my legs look too skinny?” Jacque asked Martin. Water lapped at the edges of the dock. A ski boat with a giant boom on one side rocked side-to-side restlessly, like a steed awaiting its master.

“You’re a little skinny,” Martin said. Martin looked twice as big with a lifejacket on, but it still sounded funny coming from him.

“I couldn’t get away with tights,” Jacque said. “Those superheroes are all bodybuilders. Their thighs look like walnuts.”

Martin pointed at the sky. “Look, a bald eagle.”

There was, indeed, a bald eagle. Martin shielded his eyes from the sun as the majestic eagle swooped over the lake, circling.

A shadow approached. Jacque turned. Tony was behind them. He put a finger to his lips—shhh. In the next moment everything slowed down and a thousand things ran through Jacque’s mind; that Tony was going to push Martin in the water, that Martin was Jacque’s friend and that he should help Martin, that Jacque had only known Martin for an hour, that Tony was asking for Jacque’s help, and that Tony was the villain Jacque had always wanted to be.

“Look!” Martin said. The eagle tucked its wings in, its nose angled toward the water, and it began a hypersonic descent closing in on a fish.

Tony took three quick steps and launched Martin into the water. He surfaced in a fury of foaming bubbles and loosed a muted scream. Water streamed down his face. His eyes were red.

“Al-right!” Tony said. He hi-fived Jacque. “Thanks for keeping it on the DL, man. I’m Tony.”

“Jacque.”

“Jock? Like Jock-strap? Alright, tool.” Tony laughed.

“I can’t swim,” Martin mewed.

Jacque squatted, careful to keep an eye on Tony, and offered Martin a hand. Martin took it just long enough to get purchase on the dock, then punched Jacque in the mouth. It didn’t hurt at all, but it shocked him.

“What was that for?” Jacque said.

“You let him push me!” Martin yelled as he climbed onto the dock.

“Oh come on, you were going to get wet anyway!” Tony said.

“I can’t swim!” Martin said. “I told my parents I learned last year but I lied.”

“Why would you do that?” Jacque asked.

Martin shrugged. “So they wouldn’t make me learn. And I thought they would like me more.”

For reasons Jacque didn’t quite understand, those words made him automatically face Tony. “Don’t push him in again,” Jacque said.

Two Tony steps later, Jacque sailed off the dock into the water. The lake was surprisingly warm. He peed in it immediately as he paddled around on his back.

“Thanks for the help in,” Jacque said, hoping Tony would dive in after him.

Tony sneered and pushed Martin in again. Jacque splashed pee water on Tony.

Martin bobbed to the surface, his lifejacket buoying him up.

“I didn’t know you couldn’t swim,” Jacque said.

“I’m sorry I punched you,” Martin said.

“Alright little dudes, who’s going waterskiing?” a man walking down the dock said. He had long blonde hair, purple shades, and wore a shark tooth on a black string around his neck that blended in with his chest hair.

“We are,” Tony said, motioning to all three of them.

“Al-right! Already in the water! That’s the way we roll around here. Come on up, get into the boat and I’ll give you a little talk through. We’ll have you on skis, flying around the lake in no time.”

“What’s your name?” Jacque asked.

“Name’s Pete, little bro.”

“Peter. Yes, you look like a dick,” Jacque said.

“What?” Pete said.

“Nothing,” Jacque said. “Mind giving me a hand up?”

###

Part 12

“Hey, Tony,” Jacque shouted.

Tony and a few other boys played basketball. Tony did a double dribble, took three steps and tried a lay-up. It hit the rim and bounced out. Well, at least he’s not good at everything, Jacque thought.

Tony stopped playing, grabbed the extra basketball they had, and came over to Jacque. His face was covered in beads of sweat. “What’s up, Jacque strap?”

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if you wanted to steal some bikes, or something.”

“Steal some bikes?” Tony said. He dribbled the basketball a few times. “What do you think this is, Grand Theft Auto?”

Jacque laughed nervously. “No. Of course not. That’s a cool game though. Hey how old are you, anyways?” Jacque asked.

“Nine,” Tony said. “What are you like, seven?”

Jacque laughed. “Yeah, exactly.”

“Hmm…” Tony dribbled the ball between his legs. “You want to hang out with us, is that it?”

“Well, maybe,” Jacque said.

“Okay here’s the deal. We’ve all stolen something. That’s how you get into our gang.”

“You guys have a gang?”

“We are a gang. If you want to get in, you have to steal something, and it can’t be something somebody else has already stolen, got it?”

Gangs are cool, Jacque thought. “What did everyone else steal?”

Tony turned to the basketball court. “Hey Doug, what’d you steal last year?”

“A flyswatter!” Doug called back.

“Lame,” Tony said. “And Allan, what about you?”

“I stole a canoe and dragged it on top of the lodge.”

Jacque was intimidated.

“That’s the stuff of legend.” Tony dribbled the ball three times. “Usually, we have an age requirement,” Tony said.

“What’s the age requirement?” Jacque asked nervously.

“Eight. But you seem like a cool kid. Tell you what, you pull off something better than Allan’s stunt, we’ll let you in. Now,” Tony bounced the ball off Jacque’s forehead. Jacque’s eyes watered as he bent over. The blacktop was blurry.

“Get lost,” Tony said.

“No,” Jacque said. Tony’s feet approached Jacque and stood, inches away.

“What?” Tony asked.

Jacque stood. “I know what I’m going to steal.”

Tony tucked the ball loosely under his arm. “And what’s that?”

“A jet ski,” Jacque said. He punched the ball out from under Tony’s arm. It bounced into Doug’s way as he drove to the hoop, causing him to stumble and stop.

“I’m going to steal a jet ski,” Jacque said.

Doug and Allan stared. Tony swallowed and shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Alright, prove it.”

###

Part 13

“How did your day go?” Bruce asked.

Jacque pushed a finger into his skin and watched as the white spot re-filled with bright-pink sunburned skin.

“I know, I know, I’ll get some sun block right now,” Bruce said, putting on his blinker to pull into the pharmacy. He took the corner hard. Rolled-up blueprints and energy drink bottles slid around in the back seat.

“You need to clean this place,” Jacque said.

“Do you want to come in?” Bruce said when they parked.

Jacque looked at his hands. “Mom bought sunblock here. A lot, it seemed like.”

“Come on, I’ll buy you a candy bar,” Bruce said. “Just like she used to.”

Jacque opened the door. “She used to talk me into buying licorice whips, so she could eat half of them.”

“Yuck,” Bruce said. “Stuff’s like dried slime.”

Crisp air met them inside the pharmacy along with a display of summer-fun items like lawn chairs, a portable grill, water guns, kick boards, and water wings.

“I want that,” Jacque said, pointing to the kickboard.

“But you know how to swim,” Bruce said.

“It’s not for me,” Jacque said. “It’s for my friend.”

“A friend!” Bruce exclaimed. “You made a friend?”

“Yeah, and I’m going to make more friends tomorrow.”

“What’s his name?” Bruce asked. “Or is it a she?”

“It’s a he. His name is Martin,” Jacque said.

“Well good,” Bruce said. He picked up the kickboard, some sunblock, and they walked to the register. Jacque grabbed a pair of water shoes and snuck them on the counter. Bruce smiled but said nothing.

“Rocks on the bottom of the lake,” Jacque explained.

“Sure,” Bruce said. “Do they still have that dance at the end of the week?” Bruce asked.

Jacque thought Bruce’s tone dubious. He suspected Bruce knew the answer. “I haven’t heard anything about it,” Jacque said.

“Oh, well if they have a dance, you should ask one of the girls soon, before they all have dates.”

Jacque wished Allison were there. She owed him one.

That night, Jacque made a short to-do list. It read:

1. Give Martin his kickboard and teach him how to swim. Then teach him how

to water ski.

2. Steal a jetski.

3. Get a date.

4. Kiss the date.

He wasn’t terribly sure about the last one, but better to have high expectations and

not meet them than to rest on his laurels when he could be accomplishing something.

###

Part 14

“I don’t understand why you gave me the kickboard,” Martin said. On the kickboard, he was graceful like a manatee, all slow-mo and no hurry. The ears of his lifejacket framed his face. “Because you want me to help you steal the jet ski?”

“No,” Jacque said. They were out well over Martin’s head. On the dock, a lifeguard sat in a recliner working on his tan, a thick coat of white sunblock smeared on his nose. From this distance, he was pretty sure the lifeguard couldn’t hear them—and he couldn’t tell if he was even awake—but Jacque whispered just the same. “I gave you the kickboard because I like swimming and I need someone to swim with.”

“I like water,” Martin said. “I wonder how Aqua Man learned how to talk to fish.”

“Focus, Martin,” Jacque said. “I don’t want to steal it for long, just steal it for a little bit, ride it around, and bring it back.”

“That’s more like borrowing than stealing,” Martin said. He looked at his fingers. “I’m all pruney,” he said. He slipped off the kickboard a little. There was some squeaking, a flash of bubbles and, Jacque was pretty sure, a new warm spot created in the lake, then Martin was back on the kickboard, lazing quietly like a manatee again.

“Will you help me?” Jacque asked.

“We’re out here pretty deep,” Martin said.

Below, rays of lemon sunshine sliced through the black water.

“It’s not a big deal if you can’t swim. So, my question, can you help me steal it?” Jacque asked.

“I guess. Will you teach me to swim?”

Jacque nodded, fairly certain he wouldn’t finish everything on his to do list today. “Give me the kickboard,” Jacque said.

“Indian giver.”

“No,” Jacque said. “It’s yours, this is just the first step in teaching you how to—wait. No, I got it. Race me to the beach.”

“I keep the kickboard?”

“You keep the kickboard. Kick as hard as you can, from the hips, legs straight.”

Bruce taught Jacque how to swim at a young age. Apparently, he used to blow in Jacque’s face to get him to inhale, then dunk him. Jacque blamed that sinister act on why he was now on his way to becoming a super villain. The impression of being tortured, and laughing about it, had been a lasting one.

###

Water streamed off Jacque’s body. He’d been marooned, left to die, on a desert island by sundry people who would profit from his death. Several sunbathing women, startled by his Adonis body, barely contained their stares through the thin veils of sunglasses.

“Sorry for disturbing you, mademoiselles,” Jacque said, and bowed.

They giggled. Jacque liked the red-head. She would make a great villainess, all cute, fiery tangles and dimples.

The kindly porpoise that had saved him from certain starvation straggled onto the beach behind him. Though he was a creature of the water, he didn’t know how best to use his stream-lined body.

“Excuse me,” Jacque said to the mademoiselles, “I have to perform a lesson.”

They exchanged glances as Jacque bowed.

“So,” Jacque said to the porpoise, “you have found the power in your legs, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” Martin said. “But I’m still not as fast as you.”

“That’s because you have this,” Jacque tugged at Martin’s life jacket, “slowing you down. It creates resistance, drag, in proper terms, and you have not yet taken advantage of your full propulsion system.” Jacque grabbed the kickboard and drove it into the sand, intending to make it stand like a surfboard. It made a small dent and flopped over. The mademoiselles were still watching, so Jacque ignored it.

“Here, cup your hands like this,” Jacque said, demonstrating the cupping motion he’d used to escape the desert isle. “Now, kick like you did on your life raft, but this time, paddle-boat your arms, like this. Keep your chin lifted out of the water at all times. If you can do that with a life-preserver on, you’ll be fine without one. Now, into the water!” Jacque shouted.

His audience had grown. The lifeguard was sitting up, shading his eyes, and several of the older children had paused, their toes curled on the edge of the dock.

Jacque led the way into the depths of the sea.

“Hey kid,” the lifeguard waved over Jacque.

“Keep swimming,” Jacque called to Martin. “Out to beyond the dock and back!”

Jacque changed direction and headed for the lifeguard. “We need another swim instructor,” the lifeguard said, “If he learns to swim by the end of the day, I’ll put a good word in for you.”

Jacque reclined in the water, allowing himself to float on his back, and squirted water out of his mouth like a fountain. “Perhaps we could work, something, out,” Jacque said, noting how difficult it was to take someone serious when their nose was slathered in goo.

“Nice,” the lifeguard said. “You might want to turn him around.” Martin was heading for the buoys, paddling for all he was worth, his head straight up out of the water like a seal’s.

“Despite its seeming domesticity, the porpoise still has wild tendencies,” Jacque said. “Martin, turn around!”

###

Part 15

“Look,” Jacque said, bobbing in the water, “touching, not touching.” Jacque’s feet went from bouncing on soft dirt to treading water and back again as he demonstrated.

Martin’s mouth was puckered like he was sucking on an anchovy. “You’re not going to drown. You’ve got me, the lifeguard, and water that isn’t over your head like, one foot away.”

“Cannonball!”

A tsunami rolled over by and Tony surfaced beside them. Martin spit water and wiped his face.

“You’re not gonna steal a jetski, are you?” Tony said. “Cause you’re a wimp.” Tony splashed Jacque in the face and paddled off like an otter on its back.

“Just, give me a few minutes,” Jacque said. On the dock, the lifeguard turned away, clearly well aware of Tony’s antics.

“I hate that guy,” Martin said. “Why do you try to impress him?”

“Are you going to swim or not?” Jacque asked.

Martin blew his nose into his fingers and washed them in the water. A loose wad of boogers floated off into the deep. “Duck food,” Martin explained.

“Nice.” Jacque laughed. “Okay, give me the life jacket.”

Martin recoiled. “I’ll swim alongside you,” Jacque said, “ready to hand it over if you need it.”

“You can do it!” someone shouted from the beach. The red-headed girl waved at Jacque. Jacque smiled and waved back. She blushed.

“Hold on,” Jacque said to Martin. He swam up to the beach like a narwhal with a death wish and walked up to her.

“I’m…Jacque,” Jacque said.

“Lydia,” the redhead said.

“Your nose is burning. I can get you some sun block, if you need it,” Jacque said.

Lydia’s hand flew to her nose. “Oh no. I already have enough freckles.”

Jacque slowly pulled her hand away. “I like freckles.”

Lydia smiled and tucked her chin down.

“If I teach him how to swim, will you go to the dance to me?” Jacque asked.

Lydia giggled. Jacque took that as a yes and ran back into the water.

“What was that?” Martin asked when he had returned.

“You have to learn how to swim now,” Jacque said.

“Why?” Martin asked.

“So she’ll go to the dance with me.”

“Ahh!” Martin screamed. “That’s too much pressure!”

Jacque grabbed him by the lifejacket straps. “Pull yourself together. It’s just like we planned. If we can make it to the buoys and back, we can perhaps survive this ordeal and gain some semblance of a life for ourselves!”

Martin giggled.

“Are you ready?” Jacque asked.

Martin took a deep breath and un-clicked the life jacket.

###

Part 16

After teaching the king’s son how to swim, Jacque received his just reward, a ride on the Jetski with Captain half-brain Pete, the dock hand in charge of PWC’s, or personal watercraft. It was amazing they gave a nincompoop such responsibility.

The jetski jumped over boatwake with alacrity and Jack tightened his grip on Captain half-brain, who throttled back.

“You okay back there, little fella?”

“Yes,” Jacque said. “Perhaps you could just maneuver me a little closer to shore. I’d like to be a little closer to shore,” Jacque said, doing his best to sound pathetic. He didn’t imagine his performance needed to be Oscar-worthy.

“No problem, bro,” Captain Half-Brain said.

Jacque had to admit that even being a passenger on such a vessel was amazing. Water splashed before them as they rolled over the waves and with the slightest lean they changed direction. Seagulls and crows flew overhead. It almost felt like he could touch them. At the very least, he knew he could outrun them.

Captain Half-Brain pulled up beyond the swim buoys. He waved at Lydia. Tony, waiting for the diving board, nudged Doug and pointed.

“So what do you think?” Captain Half-Brain asked.

Sink or swim, Jacque thought. “So,” Jacque said, “How does one operate this thing?”

“Oh it’s real easy,” Captain Half-Brain said. “This here by my thumb is the throttle, that makes it go, and you steer.”

“No brakes?”

“Nope, gotta allow time to stop. The water slows you down pretty well, but all you can do is coast.”

“And steering is really pretty easy, huh?” Jacque asked. He hoped the quiver of nerves in his voice was adequately concealed. Jacque quietly slipped off his water shoe. It floated helplessly in the water.

“You bet,” Captain Half-Brain said.

“Damn, would you look at that,” Jacque said, and pointed at the shoe.

“Oh, here, I’ll get it,” Captain Half-Brain said, and stretched for it.

“Yes, you will,” Jacque agreed.

The jetski leaned as Captain Half-Brain stretched, and Jacque gave him a little push—okay, it was a big push, with all his might, and he had to fight to stay on the jetski and keep it upright because, for whatever reason, it seemed the Captain didn’t want to abandon ship—and he fell in with a splash.

Jacque slid forward and waved to the dock. “Look at me! I’m free!” he yelled, and hit the throttle as Captain Half-Brain muttered something.

Jacque nearly fell off as the jetski leapt forward. He let off the throttle, allowing the jetski to brake. It was quite fortuitous, actually, because it allowed him to gauge how quickly the vehicle could stop, which wasn’t very fast at all.

Captain Half-Brain yelled behind him. “Hey, like, you’re not supposed to be alone on that thing! I could get in trouble!”

Jacque waved. “You’re really an excellent teacher! I’ll be back momentarily!” he shouted, and hit the throttle. He decided that if being a super villain didn’t work out, he had a future as steam boat captain, jetboat racer, or the like. The velvety soft feel of the rolling water made him smile from ear to ear.

Want to read the rest? Click on the link! Jacque! The Super Villain!
Want to read it on your nook? Click Here!

Hall Jameson

2012-08-21T16:11:00.000-04:00

The Perfect Fit
Fiction by Hall Jameson

A pair of fashionable, open-toed pumps with chunky, two-inch heels rested on the center stripe of Montana Avenue, the shoe on the right slightly ahead of the shoe on the left, as if someone stepped out of them mid-stride and left them to fend for themselves during the impending early morning rush. There were always two shoes, never a single, posed around town like players on a stage. Owen found the rampant footwear abandonment in his town puzzling.

And the numbers were increasing.

Owen, a small man with straw-colored hair, a scattered complexion, and weak chin, rescued the pumps. He traced the high arch with his index finger, brought them to his nose and inhaled, savoring the earthy smell of leather.

He'd found the first derelict pair three weeks ago—suede Mukluks trimmed in rabbit fur—cozied up to the ATM machine on Broadway. He tossed these into the bed of his Ford F-150, but not before taking a moment to stroke the soft trim.

Then he began to see shoes everywhere.

Yesterday, it had been men's loafers, a shiny penny wedged beneath the front straps, the profile of Abe Lincoln in the right shoe, the Lincoln Memorial in the left (Owen found that left shoe rebellious). He'd found them in a stall in the men's room of the courthouse, lined up in front of the john. He could picture the owner seated there, a paralegal, or maybe even a public defender, mulling over his case, trousers pooled around his ankles, Abe winking up at him: We'll win this case together, boss.

There had been many others over the past three weeks: Converse All Stars in the frozen section at the supermarket, rigid and frosty, tucked between pints of Haagen-Dazs and Ben & Jerry's. Purple flip-flops arranged beneath a pew in the cathedral next to an open hymnal. Strappy sandals dangling from a street lamp on Last Chance Gulch. Scuffed combat boots on the third story ledge of the public library, considering a jump into the shallow river below.

Thoughts of shoe hunting consumed Owen. It was a game, to see how many he could find in a day, and each pair he found was the prize for a job well done.

He pulled up to the small bungalow, where he lived alone, and retrieved the new pumps and wooden clogs he'd found earlier that morning, anxious to add them to his collection. The weekend before he pulled all his shirts, ties, and dress pants from the spacious walk-in closet in his bedroom and draped them over the treadmill and the footboard of his twin bed. Then he'd removed the rods in the closet and replaced them with custom shelves, the perfect width for shoe display. He hung mirrors behind the shelves to give a sense of depth and to promote an in-the-round experience. He installed new lighting on a dimmer switch that he could adjust according to his mood. At the far end of the closet there was a recliner, complete with cup holder, so he could sit and admire his collection for hours.

He placed his latest treasures on a high shelf and stretched out in the recliner, kicking off his boots and wiggling the toes in greeting to the shoes lining the shelves. The air was filled with the comforting aroma of leather, rubber, and canvas.

He was surrounded by friends.

###

Owen moved with a sense of urgency as he stepped into the early morning drizzle. He had his work cut out for him today. The soggy weather had the potential to condemn any shoes to an unpleasant death of mildew and discoloration if he didn't find them in time. His first stop: Memorial Park on the west side of town, Owen had a feeling there might be something special waiting there for him. He'd been getting these feelings a lot lately.

He pulled into the parking lot. The band shell, decorated with a tacky hand-painted mural of an underwater scene, loomed beyond the picnic tables. As he approached, he saw two flat objects in the center of the stage. His heart fluttered as a punch of adrenaline hit his body.

Swim fins, royal blue, sat in the center of the stage, heels together, webbed toes pointing outward. They appeared to be standing at the edge of the water.

Rain peppered the fins as he placed them in his truck. He didn't have to worry about this particular pair of shoes getting wet—they loved it.

###

He skirted around the edge of the park, his truck bumping through puddled potholes. At the stop sign, he closed his eyes.

Where do I go next?

Wal-Mart was nearby, but that didn't feel right. Maybe the elementary school? A lone, adult male wandering the school grounds might draw unwanted attention. Then it clicked. The city cemetery. Of course! There was bound to be something special there.

After two hours of navigating the narrow tracks between the plots, Owen was beginning to doubt his trusty shoe intuition when a flash of pink caught his eye. A pair of fuzzy, hot pink slippers was perched atop a high headstone, soggy but salvageable with a little work from a hair dryer and comb. Any longer in the rain, and they would have been ruined. Owen had saved them.

He decided to reward himself with a caramel latte from Java Jake's Coffee Shack. A pretty barista with black hair and cool hazel eyes greeted him at the drive-thru window.

"Good morning. What sounds good today?"

"A large caramel latte, please, with an extra shot of espresso," he said. Usually, he had difficulty ordering in such places, he would stammer and stutter, but today, confidence oozed from him. He was almost cocky.

The barista turned away from him and his eyes drifted to the small of her back, then down to the curve of her hips. When he leaned forward to see her foot attire, something white caught his eye. He gasped. A pair of baby shoes, laces tied in sweet little bows, sat on the counter next to the window. Owen took a shaky breath. They were so perfect! So cute! He snatched the shoes from the counter. He cradled them in his hand, tracing the laces with his fingertips, cooing softly.

"What are you doing?" the barista said. Owen froze, his fingers gripping the small shoes.

"Nothing," he whispered. He cleared his throat. "Someone left these here for me."

"What are you talking about? Those are my son's shoes. I'm getting them bronzed today." The barista held out her hand. "Can I have them back, please?" She frowned.

"No!" he snapped. "They're mine!" Spittle flew from his mouth.

"Give me my son's shoes back right now, you freak!" She reached for the shoes. Owen slammed on the gas pedal and his truck jumped the curb. He tore away from the coffee shack, tires spinning on the rain-slick road, the baby shoes pressed to his heart.

###

It was instinct by now—where to hunt—and the next morning Owen was drawn to Dayspring Funeral home where a pair of white figure skates hung from the doorknob by their laces. Next, he drove to the manicured football field of the local college. He climbed over the low wire fence bordering the field, the skates hung around his neck like a winter scarf. The morning was calm and quiet; six AM on a Wednesday morning was an excellent time to hunt.

When he saw the man on the field, he froze.

The man stood a few yards away. He was tall and broad across the chest, a bodybuilder, or perhaps a football player, which made perfect sense to Owen, considering the surroundings. The man stepped back, arms crossed, studying something on the field. Owen followed his gaze to the forty-yard line, where a pair of women's high-heeled thigh boots leaned against each other. A small whine escaped Owen. The man turned, his dark eyes flashing.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to startle you," Owen said.

"Are you a cop?" the man asked.

"A cop? No, I'm a collector." Owen's eyes tracked back to the boots. "So, you're the one who's been leaving the shoes all over town."

"Yeah." The man eyed the skates around Owen's neck. "Are you the one who keeps taking them?" He walked toward Owen.

"Yes. I'm Owen." Owen offered his hand, but the man snaked past him and climbed into the bleachers, taking a seat a few rows up. When he crossed his legs at the ankle, Owen exhaled through pursed lips. The man wore a pair of chocolate brown Ferrini Hornback alligator boots: the perfect foot attire.

"I see," the man said. "And how many pairs of shoes have you collected so far?" he asked.

"Over forty. Forty-three, I think," Owen said. "Forty-four with these skates." He pointed to the skates around his neck. And half-a-dozen single shoes."

"Careful, those blades are sharp," the man said. "The singles are not my work. I never leave a solo shoe. Always a pair. Always. Judging from your count, I would guess there are still several pairs you have not found. Did you find the combat boots?"

"Yes."

"The Vans skate shoes?"

"Yes, at the old drive-in theater. I had to replace the laces. They had funny spots on them," Owen said.

"The yellow Espadrilles?"

"Last week at the fire station." He chuckled. "Of all the pairs I've collected so far, my favorite has to be the swim fins, so thoughtfully composed beneath the aquatic mural!"

"Ah yes, the fins! I remember that day. San Francisco. That man was a challenge. A bit slippery." The man laughed and scratched his chin.

Owen frowned. "Slippery?"

The man ignored this. "How about the three-inch gold stilettos? Did you find those beauties?"

"Why...no! I did not run across those...yet."

"They're on the east side of town, near the old train station," he said. "They're from Vegas. What a night that was! I won't tell you anymore, you seem to enjoy the hunt. That is probably the only thing you and I have in common."

Owen laughed nervously. This man was very strange, yet interesting.

"And those shit-kickers you're wearing, are those my work?" he asked, pointing to Owen's tan work boots.

"Why, no..." Owen said, looking at his feet. "These are Kmart specials. They're great boots. Very sturdy. Not nearly as nice as yours, though." He nodded toward the man's boots.

"I didn't think so. They're similar to a pair I picked up in Seattle, but not quite right. That man had been strong. A construction worker." He paused. "I wonder what happened to those boots. I must have misplaced them..." The man sighed and shook his head. "I was really hoping you were a cop instead of some shoe-freak. After twenty years of this, I'm exhausted."

"Sorry? I don't understand," Owen said, stung. Sure, he might be a tad peculiar, but he was not a freak. He wasn't the one leaving shoes all over town. He was merely cleaning up after someone else. He was being a good citizen, a dedicated collector.

"You don't need to understand," the man said, scanning Owen from head to toe. "So what do you do with the shoes I leave around town?"

"Well, at first I just tossed them in the back of my pickup truck, because I disapprove of littering, but after a while, my collection started to grow. Overall, the shoes are in excellent shape, so I put them in my closet," Owen paused to catch his breath. His hands were trembling, so he shoved them into his pockets. It was titillating to talk about his collection.

"At first, I considered selling them, or donating them to Goodwill," he lied. He had never intended to sell them or give them away. "I redesigned my closet so I could better track my inventory, and at that point, I just decided to keep them. I never realized how beautiful shoes were. How each pair is special. The colors, the textures, the smells. Each style has a unique personality."

"I find they reflect the personality of their former owners," the man said.

"I suppose they do. I find it very relaxing to just sit in there with the colors and the smell of leather, and close my eyes." Owen stopped. "Man, I sound like kinda screwy, don't I?"

"No," the man said. "Do you wear the shoes?"

"Uh...no. That would be strange..." Owen paused. The man raised his eyebrows.

"It's okay, you know? It's natural to want to try on fancy things. Secret things. Things that don't really belong to you. I'm actually very flattered that you've been collecting my shoes."

"Really?" Owen gushed. "I guess I've tried some of them on," he paused. "The men's running shoes, the penny loafers, and the swim fins." He laughed. "I haven't found any that fit perfectly though."

"What about the Dolce & Gabbana T-strap sandals? The woman that belonged to those had the biggest feet I'd ever seen! Despite the high heels and unnatural arch, I found those quite comfortable. What did you think?" The man asked.

Owen frowned.

"Come on!" The man urged. "How could you not try on a pair of $800 shoes? You can't tell me that you didn't try them. I won't believe you! They were comfy, yes?"

Owen hesitated. "The strap cut into my ankle a little bit, so I couldn't wear them for long. I don't know how women do it!" He stopped. The man was smirking. "You didn't really try them on, did you?" Owen asked, his cheeks growing hot.

"No, of course not, that would be weird, kind of like collecting shoes scattered about town." The man's voice had suddenly grown thick and low. An uncomfortable silence followed. Owen shuffled his feet, studying the round toes of his boots. He cleared his throat.

"So, you're not from around here?" he asked nervously.

"No. I'm not from around here," the man said.

"Where are you from?"

"All over," the man said, shaking his head. "You ask too many questions." He glared at Owen, his brown eyes glimmering. "After all these years, I finally decide to leave a trail of shoes, then you come along and pick them all up. You really fucked up my plans with your strange collecting." He paused, looking over Owen's shoulder, toward the field, his eyes distant and dim. "One more. What's one more?" he muttered, his eyes shifting to Owen's boots. "I'll leave your boots on the front steps of the police station. That ought to get their attention."

He stood and took a step toward Owen.

###

The sun glinted off something in the distance and his heart raced as he followed the railroad tracks. When he reached the objects catching the sun—gold stilettos with a three-inch heel—he lifted them with care. They weren't designer, but they were still fresh, still lovely. They would make up for the skates he'd been forced to throw away, the white leather ruined by dime-sized drops the color of brick. The man had been right; the blades were sharp.

Owen hugged the gold stilettos to his chest as he navigated the tracks back to his truck, his Ferrini Hornback alligator boots tapping out a neat rhythm with every tie they struck. Stylish. Elegant.

And they fit perfectly.

Helen Peppe

2012-07-31T15:14:00.001-04:00

The Situation and Story:

Survival of the Writer

Fiction by Helen Peppe

You nod pleasantly to the other five students. You are happy, eager to be part of another writing workshop. Today you will receive comments on two of your stories, you are anxious to hear them, and make changes. Reader response, feedback, and fresh insights are valuable even when you can’t assimilate them into your text. You settle yourself to take notes and open yourself to listen.

She is cute with a big smile, petite and in constant motion. The attack is swift, takes your breath away. Nouns, verbs, adjectives, and gerunds are put into an order that is confusing to your ears. Disarming you with her cuteness, this fourth semester workshopper sinks her teeth into your story’s content and begins to shake it and growl like a predator who wants you and the rest of the class to surrender to her writing expertise. She takes your favorite parts of speech and transforms them into weapons, deviating from the usual predator prey relationship. She doesn’t hunt the weakest or the oldest. Instead, she dominates the workshop leader, her exposed cleavage tumbling toward him. You recognize her sexual power, her youthful energy and need to be right, as she works to expose how bad your stories are, how painful it was for her to read them. You don’t respond to the aggression. You don’t defend yourself because workshop policy states that “you remain silent during discussion of your work so you will learn as much as possible.”

The authors of the writing program’s handbook emphasize ethics, mandate kindness, second readings, and thoughtful comments, but just like the prescriptive you must observe the speed limit on the narrow, curvy road, you must wear your nametags, and you must not use racial slurs, this predator’s remarks are sharp like a comma that splices the heart of two sentences. You sink low in your chair hoping that if you play stoic the flinger of sharp words will tire and move on. The person next to you whispers that this student who tests your loyalty to the program is actually from a different genre. The yearning for zombies and exploding heads is in her blood. You haven’t read books about monsters and stuff of the supernatural since you were a teenager. But you don’t say this. You are silent during the assault because you follow rules. You never considered not wearing your name tag. It is your nature to drive safely and avoid crushing chipmunks. You never use the words “bitch” or “fucking” but both occur to you right now.

This predator seems emboldened by your silence. She doesn’t think you’re getting how vivid she is and how dull you are. Because this isn’t just about plot, voice, style, and tone. You must listen to me. You need fire and crackle. I barely could get through your story it was so bland. Your words fall tragically flat. Reread my story and you can see how I make the words come off the page. I’ve been published many, many times. If I picked your book off a shelf, I’d put it right back. There was this one I wrote…And then you stop listening. This has always been your survival method. You go to a special place in your head where you can’t hear anything unpleasant. You hope the workshop leader will hear your repeated plea: Speak! Something! Say anything! You exhort him to interrupt her speech of me, me, me that reminds you of the Muppet, Beaker.

This student’s declaration of personal greatness yanks grimly at your gut, not because you are worried about getting published but because there might be others like her. You assume, instead, that she is, as many predators are, skilled in the art of hyperbole, and this relaxes you briefly.

You experience a desperate need to get up and run, as all prey does when playing dead or freezing doesn’t succeed. But there are rules and you must stay. Even as you think of this irreconcilable conflict that has the word “but” in it, the predator tells you that you overuse the word. Take it out, she says. You don’t even use the word correctly. I have a writing exercise for you: Drink a pitcher of margaritas and try again. I read your story and it made me sad because it could be funny. You don’t understand humor.

You wonder if alcohol might loosen your tongue and relax your rule following ways so that you could tell this singular predator exactly what you think. You have been using your brain power like a Jedi novice, willing the workshop leader to interrupt this dark side rant. Maybe instead you should refocus on collapsing her chair. You make a note to speak with your mentor about adding fantastical elements to creative nonfiction. Control of the Force would be a good character trait for Esther, the narrator and protagonist of the story under discussion, and she is a lot like you.

Esther has three young children, three part-time jobs and a husband named Douglas who enjoys pornography, jelly doughnuts, and painting the house. In real life he’s very lazy and fat, and you do any painting that needs to be done, but you want to avoid clichés and tired adjectives, so you show jelly dripping onto Douglas’ naked, muscled pectorals as he paints the ceilings one-handed. Esther is desperate to escape from the sounds of her children fighting and from Douglas’ muscles that, and she knows this is her imagination, judge her left-over pregnancy fat each time they flex. She decides to pretend symptoms for a bladder disorder and fabricates visits to a doctor followed by a diagnosis of interstitial cystitis. This will require more time in the bathroom, alone moments with the door closed. In preparation Esther buys a flip lock for the door of her sanctuary and installs it herself. This is to guard against one of her children learning how to straighten a paper clip to disengage the knob’s built-in privacy lock. She also buys a new toilet seat. One with a special cover that doesn’t slam but slowly sinks to a close. It’s important that the telltale clunk of the lid meeting the ceramic bowl doesn’t betray her. And she’s tired of Douglas slamming the seat in an exaggerated gesture to show he’s not leaving it up.

This desperate woman stocks the bathroom with Lindt’s hazel nut dark chocolate squares and Godiva bars filled with soft caramel. She hides them in a paper bag behind the laundry detergent above the washer. When she does this she is sadly aware why this is such a good hiding place. She also brings in a small bookcase and fills the top with the Diana Gabaldon Outlander series. She will physically be in the bathroom, but she will in truth be with Claire and Jamie in Scotland at Lally Broch. No one but her daughter, age seven, wonders why there is a new bookcase in the bathroom. She asks but doesn’t listen to the lie that is told because she is busy arranging her Nancy Drew books on the bottom shelf.

Esther finds it easier to lie than she thought she would. She lies so well that even she forgets she doesn’t actually have interstitial cystitis. Her words effortlessly leave her mouth to settle on her husband like the jelly from his doughnuts, “I can’t believe I have to pee again when I just went,” and she goes into the bathroom for the second time in thirty minutes. She takes out her bag of chocolate, careful to cover up the sound of crumpling paper by setting the dryer to tumble press. She removes Douglas’ silk briefs from the end of her bookshelf, then opens her book, and begins to disappear. But before she can feel the pleasure of discovering how Claire is going to react to Jamie’s secret wife, the cat wraps its dark length around her ankles, circling tightly. He rubs his head aggressively against her calf. Esther tries to nudge the black feline away from her, but Beast is used to rough attention from kid hands and begins to purr. His purring is so loud that it mixes chaotically with the dryer and the distant noises of children and television.

Your mind returns to the workshop. The predator-like student doesn’t approve of Beast and offers cutting edge criticism for deleting him. She displays her short hair first behind her ears and then in front of one eye, grabs a mint from the almost empty basket on the table, and says in a tone that indicates a string of exclamation points, You don’t need the cat! The cat is an extra character! The cat is completely unnecessary! Leave him out! Her redundancy and her volume increase in her effort to pound into your soul how stupid you are to give Esther a pet cat. What is it doing with her in the bathroom anyway? That’s just weird! Extremely creepy! You actually were worried that someone might not understand the cat, but Douglas’s name means dark. The cat is black. Both trap Esther whose name means hidden. You had introduced Beast on the first page as lying across Esther’s face in the morning, nearly suffocating her. Esther awakes with Douglas snoring beside her, his leg heavy across her abdomen.

Another student, an older soft-spoken woman, interrupts tentatively, “But I see Beast as symbolizing Esther’s captivity. And I like his name.”

You want to reach out and hug this small beautiful woman. Instead of backing off your cat, the predator comes at you from a different angle: You should never say nearly or like you were suffocated. Say you were suffocated. Well, I think because I’m not allowed to talk, that would be a different story, wouldn’t it? Esther would be dead in the first paragraph. But you don’t defend Beast’s placement on Esther’s nose or even defend his existence. You feel bad for him because he is real. He is your cat after all, and even though he does trip you and get black hair all over your couch and your sweaters, you love him and wouldn’t cut him from your life. You are suddenly exhausted. Period. This extroverted, grinning girl has caused your brain to slowly shut down like Esther’s new toilet seat.

The first semester woman who spoke quietly gains strength. “I think you might be missing the layers of this story,” she says. “The story isn’t just about a woman who likes to pretend to pee so that she can read and eat chocolate.”

“Yes,” a second semester student agrees. “The basic premise is the need to escape. The cat symbolizes imprisonment. Esther can’t get the cat to leave even though she pushes it away.”

You begin to awaken more fully. The herd still has some life in it. They are struggling to their voices. “Do you think,” this second student says. “That you might not understand the cat because of the genre you come from?”

You can’t believe she said it. The words hang in the air for a minute like an arrow. They hold center stage before the predator slaps them to the floor. I know good writing when I see it and I know bad. You think of Leon Russell’s song, “If There was no Bad, You’d be Good.” You wish there was no bad.

“Okay,” the workshop leader says. By now you’d almost forgotten he existed. “Why don’t we take a look at the language?” He flips through pages: “She uses the same words to describe the cat as she does Douglas. But maybe that’s not enough to draw the parallel if all of you didn’t get it.”

Your last mentor advised you to cut the line: “Beast is just like Douglas.”

You sit there and wish for a piece of dark chocolate. The chairs are close together, and the rung under the table prevents you from stretching your legs. Your tailbone is tingling from sitting too long and your bladder is full. The battle of whether you should keep or cut the cat continues but you don’t listen because you no longer care about the cat. You are thinking survival thoughts only. You don’t want to fight. Instead you count the minutes until you can flee and find a flushable toilet. There aren’t enough in this old house that has been chosen for graduate workshops and presentations. Your mind is aching from the siege it wasn’t prepared for.

Finally, the subject and predicate, “Let’s take a break,” find a way into your consciousness, and you run to get in front of the other students who are stampeding out the door. You can feel the predator somewhere behind you. You zigzag around other students, swerve into the small corridor, and jog down the narrow staircase to the bathroom that is in a secluded spot off the kitchen. Hidden from the main part of the house, few students know about this small restroom. It has a privacy lock and a slide bolt, a crucial element of your situation and your story from the beginning, to the middle, to the end.

Sherri Collins

2012-06-25T15:26:00.000-04:00

Some Things Are Better Left Buried

Fiction by Sherri Collins

“Time for you to go,” I say to my new Droid-Cyborg-Whatever-it’s-called phone. I honestly tried to figure it out this time, really. But the sound effects, the apps, the screen that swishes to the side every time I touch it…why can’t I just make a freaking phone call? How can I trust something that is so much smarter than I am, it might actually develop the ability to reason and decide to kill me in my sleep? Oh, no, not on my watch.

I choose a spade from the gardening shed and take the phone out to the woods behind my house. I dig a hole next to the laptop’s grave and drop the miniature beast in, not even bothering with last rites. It sealed its fate when it asked me to choose between a wi-fi connection or Bluetooth and then wouldn’t connect to either. It knows what it did.

A few hours later, my husband arrives home with a slam of the door.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I tried to call you at least a dozen times. I needed you to look for some files I forgot. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“What phone?”

“What phone?! Your new phone. Your new, three-hundred-dollar phone. Where is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. I know I am in the right, but still, something tells me that Jack wouldn’t quite understand my clever way of dealing with things. I don’t want to upset him with silly details. “I guess I lost it.”

“Lost it! How could you lose it? Did you even leave the house today?”

“Well, no.”

He pulls out his own demon box and begins pressing on the screen. I regard this suspiciously. “What are you doing?” I ask.

“Calling your phone.”

He listens for a ring that doesn’t happen. I glance toward the back door. Nope, nothing.

He sighs and presses another button. He shakes his head and mutters, “How do you always lose everything? I don’t understand…” He continues muttering as he walks out of the room. “The phone, the laptop, the tax forms, the car…”

I smirk. Oh, yeah, the car. That took some doing, I must say.

A week later, I am relaxing on the couch, excited to watch the Academy Awards Show. I know I set up the recording properly. The little red dot appeared next to the title and everything. I’m actually kind of proud of my success; I really am trying to do better. On the edge of my seat, I inhale and hold my breath through “And for Best Picture, the award goes to…” and then, what do I see? A window flash up that says “Delete or Save?” Noooooooooooo! How could this happen? How?!?!

I am carrying the DVR out the back door when Jack comes in the front. I freeze and stare at him, wide-eyed. He stares back at me like he doesn’t know what’s going on.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say.

“What’s with the DVR?”

“What DVR?”

“Oh, for the love of…THAT DVR.” He points to my hands.

“It’s broken. I was just…taking a better look at it in the sunlight. That’s all.”

I can see doubt in his eyes as I motion toward the rain-drenched backyard. “I doubt that,” he says. “Where were you really taking it?”

“I don’t like your tone,” I say. “What are you suggesting?”

He crosses his arms. “Where. Were. You. Taking. It?”

That really does it. I can talk slowly, too, if that’s his game. “I. Can. Talk. Slowly. Too.”

Anger builds behind his eyes, and I know that I won’t be able to work my way out of this. “Are you really losing all these things or not?” he asks.

I glance down at the DVR, then out to the woods, where the leaves are dripping onto the ground. That soft, soft ground.

The next day, my neighbor stops by with some fresh tomatoes. “I tried to call first, but you didn’t answer,” he says.

“Oh, that’s okay. These are lovely. Thank you.”

“So, where’s your husband? I was going to show him my new lawn mower.”

I look up at him, wide-eyed. “What husband?”

Sherri Collins lives with her husband and cat in the foothills of Tennessee. Neither have confounded her enough to deserve a trip to the woods…yet.

Jon Kleinman

2012-06-02T08:49:00.001-04:00

The Spectacle of a Lifetime

Non-fiction by Jon Kleinman

The procession of chopped hogs thundering down Mayfair Road caught everyone off guard. Bob Goldberg, who’d been preparing for an Independence Day barbecue with the in-laws, dropped a twenty pound bag of charcoal briquettes on his foot. Pete McGowan spilled his margarita and nearly fell out of his hammock. Most of the neighborhood just stood frozen on their manicured lawns, staring in disbelief. Our normally placid street was overrun by customized Harley Davidsons in all their un-muffled, carbon monoxide belching glory. Motorcycles weren’t unheard of in our neighborhood – Doctor Feldman’s rebellious daughter once dated a guy who rode a 500cc Kawasaki and Lou Marino’s brother in law owned a gleaming Honda Goldwing. Those civilized bikes, however, were clearly a different species from the pack of roaring iron steeds that descended on our block one Fourth of July.

My childhood neighborhood was the usual suburban mix of doctors, lawyers and the occasional teacher. Volvos –often emblazoned with Ivy League college stickers– were the motor vehicle of choice. When a nurse and a husky, bearded supermarket manager moved into the Levinson’s old house, they seemed to fit right in. The Ford Econoline with the “Sit on a happy face!” bumper sticker raised a few eyebrows, but the new couple had easily made friends with everyone on the block. The approaching brigade of Harley riders were causing some to have second thoughts. Our new neighbor, case of Budweiser under one arm, rushed out to the yard to greet his pals.

“Hey, Boo-boo! Longtime, man!”

“Gimme a six pack, bro! Where’s the old lady?”

“When did you get that front-end chromed out?”

“As soon as I can scrape up the dough, I’m gonna get me a 1200 Shovelhead!”

Engines were killed, kickstands shoved down, and the bikers and their girlfriends all converged on our neighbor’s lawn. Beers were passed around and popped open, and the air was filled with the sound of backslaps and raucous laughter. Almost immediately, parents tried to keep their kids distracted.

“Why don’t you help your mother with the corn and potatoes?”

“I could use a hand setting up this grill!”

As it started getting dark, it became clear that our colorful guests planned to do more than just drink beer and talk shop about their Harleys. As soon as the first few skyrockets shrieked into the evening air, kids were drawn like flies to honey. No force on earth could get kids to ignore fireworks on the Fourth of July! In our neighborhood, Independence Day was traditionally honored with sparklers, smoke bombs and maybe a few bottlerockets. My neighbor and his pals, however, were gearing up for a pyrotechnical display whose depth, breadth and sheer destructive power totally outclassed anything we’d ever previously witnessed.

Groundflowers hissed in the street, throwing up showers of colored sparks. Roman candles spit fireballs into the night sky. Strings of firecrackers filled the air with thundering, skull-rattling explosions. All the neighborhood kids, including me and my pals, applauded wildly as round after round of heavy artillery lit up the night. The bikers swaggered around the dark, smoky street with practiced nonchalance – they were the stars that night, and they knew it.

As far as me and my pals were concerned, the night was shaping up to be the greatest Fourth of July in history. However, we soon found out that not everyone in the neighborhood shared our sentiments. Sometime around 10 PM, the festivities were interrupted by the telltale flashing lights of a police cruiser.

“Some schmuck called the cops!” grunted a pimply teenager in a Van Halen T-shirt. He spat into the street to emphasize his disgust. A few kids started booing as an officer stepped out of the Crown Vic. He had the squared shoulders and puffed out chest of a man who’s certain he’s on the side of law and order. The bikers – no strangers to run-ins with The Man – just rolled their eyes and took it in stride.

“Complaints about the noise….damage to property…..litter in the street….”

That was all I could make out as the cop solemnly lectured our neighbor. The two of them talked for some time. Finally, the policeman walked back to his squad car.

“I don’t want to have to come back here!” he glowered, before pulling away. My neighbor and his pals formed a huddle and pondered their next move. The kids all waited with baited breath, wondering what would happen next. Suddenly, the huddle broke and a ragged cheer went up as my neighbor headed into his garage. The hooting got louder as he emerged with a big 20 gallon metal garbage can. At first I didn’t understand what was happening, but as my neighbor placed the trash can in the middle of the street and began filling it with fireworks, delicious chills of fear and excitement ran up and down my spine.

Motorcycles, explosions, disrespect for authority – in my fourteen-year-old mind I was witnessing the spectacle of a lifetime. The grave-looking throng of adults gathered on the sidewalk seemed to feel differently. People murmured nervously, pulled cars into their garages, and some of the smaller children were dragged – kicking and screaming of course - into the safety of their homes. A sweaty, anxious man dressed in khakis and a golf shirt tried to dissuade the bikers from igniting the garbage can, but his pleas were just met with derisive jeers.

“Stand back! Move far away!” my father warned.

My pals and I took his advice and ducked behind some bushes in front of my house. More cheers went up as my neighbor dropped a lit match into the garbage pail and ran for cover. My friends and I hunkered down, ready for ecstacy, Armageddon, or whatever came next. At first, the trashcan just sputtered and gave off smoke. Then, without warning, it erupted into an orgy of explosions that strained pacemakers and gave at least one household pet a nervous breakdown. The ground actually seemed to shake as hundreds of firecrackers and bottle rockets flew in every possible direction. After about ten minutes of pyrotechnical mayhem, the barrage began to fizzle out. Thick clouds of smoke hovered over the street as all the kids gave the bikers a standing ovation.

At that point, the parents on the block decided it was time to take back the reins. My pals and I were ushered into our respective homes while our fathers made sure all the nearby lawns were free of smoking debris. Later, I could hear the sinister rumble of V-Twin engines as my neighbor’s buddies roared off into the night, never to be seen on our block again. The next day, my neighbor had morphed back into a suburban homeowner. He spent a few hours cleaning his yard and sweeping up the street. By late afternoon, all evidence of the previous night’s debauchery had been cleansed. My parents and the other adults on the street silently nodded in approval. The street was clean and the bikers had all gone back to their outlaw lairs. Peace and prosperity had returned to Mayfair Road.

Or something like that. The fallout from that spectacular Fourth was swept out of the street, but not out of my mind. For a brief moment, the hermetically sealed bubble that encased our neighborhood had been torn open. I had glimpsed a dangerous, yet exhilarating, new world. Deep down in my psyche, I knew that someday I’d return there–in search of ecstacy, Armageddon or whatever came next.

Anniversary!

2012-03-14T09:05:00.000-04:00

Today marks the One Year Anniversary of Eric's Hysterics! It's been a fun, crazy year. We've published over 36 pieces of writing and it's been an absolute pleasure reading the countless submissions that have poured in. Many thanks to our readers and contributors for making it happen!

We've got big plans in the works for the next year, including a print and ebook anthology, so stay tuned!

Cheers!

Eric M. Bosarge, Editor

Wayne Faust

2012-03-12T08:47:00.002-04:00

Components
Fiction by Wayne Faust

“They’re out to get me,” said Leonard.

“People?” asked Schneider.

“No, of course not. That would make me paranoid. Schizophrenic maybe. People are fine. It’s things.”

“What things?”

“Lots of things. Cars. TV’s. Refrigerators. Computers. Especially computers.”

Schneider chuckled and took a sip of beer. “Join the club,” he said.

“This isn’t funny. I know everyone gets mad at their computer. But there’s more to it than that. Much more.”

Schneider sighed. He’d known his friend for several years now, ever since Leonard had moved next door to him in Colorado Springs. What kind of wacky theory was he going to spew out this time? “Can we talk about this tomorrow?” he asked, knowing they would both be at work tomorrow and maybe he wouldn’t have to hear about it at all.

“There might not be a tomorrow,” sighed Leonard, who took off his glasses and wiped them down. This was surprising in itself because Schneider had never seen his neighbor wear glasses until today. Evidently the man had some kind of job where it was important to always look young. At least, that’s what he’d told him once. So he usually wore contacts.

“Well, if that’s the case, then I’m going to get another beer,” said Schneider, who got up from his chair and wandered into the kitchen. “You want one?” he called over his shoulder.

“Bring me two,” answered Leonard.

A few minutes later, when they were both settled back in and becoming sufficiently oiled, Leonard continued: “I’ve been researching this for a very long time. I’ve got volumes and volumes of notes. Written by hand. I’d never put this information on a disc. Because it would know.”

Schneider chugged the first half of his newest beer. “Who would know?” he gurgled.

“The disc.”

“The disc would know?”

“Yes. Then it would fry itself. Commit suicide if that’s the right word. And all my research would be gone.”

Schneider reached for another Fat Tire beer. “I think you’ve lost it for real this time,” he said.

“Stay with me on this,” said Leonard, and leaned forward in his chair, putting his hands on his knees. “We all get really mad at our cars when they mess up, and our toasters when they short out, and our air conditioners when they die during a heat wave like we had last week, right?”

“Yeah,” answered Schneider. “That was a doozey. My AC died too.”

“And why is that?” asked Leonard.

“Probably because it was running continuously for a whole week.”

“AC’s are designed to keep going and going no matter how long you run them. But last week a bunch of them failed because that’s when it would make the most people miserable. That’s what they wanted.”

Schneider belched. “Wanted? How can an air conditioner want something? Are you going to tell me it’s alive or something?”

“No, of course not,” answered Leonard. “That’d be crazy. Air conditioners are inanimate objects, just like TV’s or microwaves or computers. It’s the components that are alive.”

Schneider farted. “Nice try,” he said. “Is this going to be like the time we convinced that girl in a bar that beer comes out of wells in the ground?”

“I’m completely serious,” said Leonard, coughing and trying to wave away the smell. “They used to say that the Devil is in the details. Well it turns out they were right. But they should have said that the Devil is in the components.”

“Components,” muttered Schneider. “You mean like wires and transistors?”

“Much more than that,” said Leonard. He took a large swig of beer and continued: “Have you ever dropped a screw?” he asked.

“What?” asked Schneider.

“A screw. Were you ever working on a car, say, and you dropped a screw—a tiny little screw.”

“Of course.”

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t find it.”

“Aha!” said Leonard. “You dropped it on the garage floor, and no matter where you looked, you couldn’t find the damn thing. And you couldn’t finish the job because you needed that tiny screw to tighten down a gismo that was attached to a bigger gismo. So you couldn’t start the car. You borrowed your wife’s car to go to the hardware store to find a replacement screw but they didn’t have one nearly that small. Then you came back home and found the original screw on the floor in the corner, far away from where it had any right to be. It seemed impossible that it could have gone so far from where you were working. Did that ever happen to you?”

“I guess,” answered Schneider warily.

“Of course it happened to you. It happens all the time. Because that tiny screw is a component. And it rolled away on its own because it was trying to piss you off.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Schneider.

“Did you ever have cords?” asked Leonard.

“Cords?”

“Electrical cords. Speaker cables. Anything like that.”

“Sure.”

“And when you left them piled up in a drawer someplace and came back later, what happened?”

“You tell me.”

“They were tangled up, weren’t they? Hopelessly tangled. Like some kid had come along and tied them in knots. And it was all you could do to get them untangled and then when you came back later they were tangled again. Why do you think that is?”

“Static electricity?” said Schneider, blowing his nose into a cocktail napkin.

“Nice try,” said Leonard. “I thought that myself at first. Then I thought that maybe the cords were mating or something, because I always seem to come up with extra cords that I don’t know where they come from. But that was ridiculous. How could cords mate?”

“Yes, how could they? They’re made out of plastic for God’s sake.”

Schneider couldn’t believe he was actually having this conversation. “I need more beer,” he muttered and slowly wobbled into the kitchen.

“Bring one of the six packs,” shouted Leonard.

Later, when they were both settled in again, Schneider said, “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

“Okay, where was I? Oh, that’s right. Cords mating. They don’t mate of course. But thinking of mating made me think of life, and that made me think, ‘What if they’re alive?’ I mean, when you have an electrical cord hooked up to power you say, ‘Watch out! That’s a live cord!’”

Schneider clucked. “But you’re talking about a cord in a drawer that’s not hooked up to anything.” He couldn’t believe he was actually following this line of crap. It reminded him of the time in a bar when they had convinced a girl that Schneider was a famous romance novelist and Leonard was his agent.

“Precisely,” said Leonard. “A cord sitting in a drawer is not hooked up to anything. So how could it get so hopelessly entangled?”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me.”

“They tangle themselves up when you leave them in a drawer. Because they know that when you open the drawer and find them that way it will drive you bananas.”

Schneider sighed. “I think you’re going bananas right now. Or maybe you’re just drunk.”

“Okay, I’m a little drunk, but stay with me. Do you have screwdrivers?”

Schneider blinked. “Screwdrivers? You wanna start drinkin’ the hard stuff?”

“No, not that kind of screwdrivers. The kind you use to screw things into the wall.”

Schneider rolled his eyes. “Of course I have screwdrivers. Are we going to talk about little tiny screws again?”

“No. We’re going to talk about screwdrivers. What are the two main types?”

Schneider paused to screw up his face. “Philips and flat-head.”

“Exactly. When you’re working on a project and you need a Phillips, what’s in your toolbox?”

“A flat-head.”

“Yes! And when you need a flat-head, what’s in your tool box?”

“A Phillips.”

“Of course! It’s always the wrong one. Not fifty percent of the time as you’d expect, but always! It’s mathematically impossible! And you end up going out to the glove compartment of your car to get the right one. When you get back, it turns out that you had the right one at the bottom of your toolbox all the time.”

“Sounds like Murphy’s Law,” said Schneider.

“Oh, it’s much more than that,” said Leonard. “Murphy didn’t know the half of it. Through years of research, here and at work, I’ve proved that components are alive. Screwdrivers can change their shapes. Tiny screws can roll across the floor because they want to. Cords can tangle themselves up on purpose.”

“Okay, nice try,” said Schneider rather uneasily. “Where did you say you worked?”

“I didn’t say,” answered Leonard. “And I’m completely serious. Why does your cell phone cut out only during the most important calls? Why does your wireless signal stop working just when you’re almost finished with a huge download? Why does your power go off in the last five minutes of the Super Bowl?”

“Coincidence,” stated Schneider. “And where did you say you work? Does that have anything to do with this?”

“I didn’t say. It’s not coincidence. It’s components. Components are in everything. Hell, even our clothes our made of components. Okay, we call them threads, but they’re really components. Ever try to thread a needle?

“Not lately,” muttered Schneider.

“Doesn’t it seem like the thread is deliberately trying to keep out of that tiny hole? That’s because it is. And don’t get me started on threads getting tangled up. The point is that components are the problem. And their whole purpose in life is to piss us off. To make us get so angry that we make bad decisions. Maybe we throw our computer out the window. Maybe we even go completely nuts and grab a gun. Why do you think that’s happening more and more all the time?”

“Is it because they’ve been listening to lunatics like you?” asked Schneider. He took another big swallow of beer, then let out his finest belch yet.

Leonard carried on, oblivious. “I haven’t examined components on a cellular level, of course. There are no electron microscopes in my department at work. But I don’t think I’d find life that way anyhow–you know, pulsing little amoebas. Because by the rules of this world, they’re inanimate objects. But we’ve gotten the rules all wrong. Ever hear of Quantum Physics?”

Schneider’s eyes began to glaze over and not just from the beer. “Quantum what?” he mumbled.

“Quantum Physics. They’re finding out that inanimate doesn’t mean what it used to. I think that components are like cells in a very large organism, a malevolent organism, all cells different but working toward the same sinister goal.”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me what that goal is,” said Schneider.

“Of course. Their goal is to destroy us. Humanity I mean. Or maybe just

America

. I’m not exactly sure yet. Most components come from

Japan

and

China

these days, so it might be just us they’re trying to get rid of. Can you imagine the power those components would have if they were all able to work together?”

“Enlighten me.”

“Well, it would be terrible. And I think they’re getting real close. But fortunately, they don’t know I’m on to them. And because of my job, I have access to some pretty powerful stuff to fight back with.”

Schneider emptied his beer. “What is your job exactly?”

“Come and look at something,” said Leonard.

“What’s that?”

“Humor me.”

Schneider followed Leonard out to the enclosed back porch. Leonard was wobbling a bit, but still managed to march like Eisenhower inspecting the troops, while Schneider was slinking like a Chihuahua that was about to get stepped on. They both gazed out the back window.

“My God,” said Schneider. “Your lawn looks like a bad haircut.”

Leonard chuckled. “Yes it does.”

The lawn in Leonard’s back yard had been freshly-mowed. But instead of nice, neat paths of mown grass, Leonard’s lawn looked like it had been cut by a drunken sailor. The rows zigzagged in all directions and there were tufts of grass everywhere the mower had missed, which was a lot of places.

“I’m fighting back,” said Leonard triumphantly.

“What are you talking about?” asked Schneider.

Leonard answered as if scolding a kid who had just failed his math lesson. “It’s simple. I’ve got a riding mower with an automatic sensor so you can’t run into anything. It would practically mow the lawn by itself if I let it. It has lots of components. So I took it apart and deliberately mixed things up in there. Not so it wouldn’t work, just so it would be confused.”

Schneider scratched his head. “Confused?”

“Yes. You should have seen that mower. It had no idea where it was going. It even ran into the fence a few times. That’s how I’m going to defeat them. By confusing them badly enough so they forget about their plan to take over the world. And this is just the beginning. From now on, anything I find with components, I’m gonna take it apart and switch things around. It’s a matter of national security.”

Schneider sighed. “But won’t that make things worse? If every machine starts to behave erratically, we’ll all be even more pissed off than when we were just losing screws.”

“But we’ll be in control, not them. Think of it. If every machine that’s supposed to turn left turns right, if every machine that’s supposed to go forward goes backwards, if every machine that’s in standby mode turns on, than there’s no way they’ll have time to plot against us. They’ll be too busy trying to figure out what’s happening to them.”

“Sounds scary,” said Schneider. “There are a lot of dangerous machines out there.”

“No more dangerous than an army of little components pissing off the world. Yep, it’s gonna be a better place around here. No more lost screws. No more tangled up cords. No more computers thrown out the window.”

“Oh come on,” said Schneider. “Who throws computers out the window?”

“I did. Last week from my second floor office.”

“Let’s go have another beer,” suggested Schneider.

They went back inside and flopped down in their chairs. After they had polished off two more Fat Tires, Schneider decided to try one more time.

“So, where did you say you worked?” he asked, his voice slurring.

There was a long, long pause. Finally, Leonard looked straight into Schneider’s bloodshot eyes and said, “I work inside Cheyenne Mountain. You’ve lived in the Springs most of your life, you must have heard of the place.”

“Oh, yeah,” muttered Schneider. “NORAD.”

Suddenly, Schneider sat up straight. Inside Cheyenne Mountain, maybe ten minutes from his house, was a huge Air Force defense complex. It had been featured in several movies, including “War Games” with Matthew Broderick. During the Cold War they’d set up the place to manage Armageddon against the Soviets. And now that the Cold War was over, it was still there, hundreds of feet underground. No one was really sure what they did down there these days.

“And what is your job exactly?” asked Schneider softly.

“I’m a weapons tech,” answered Leonard proudly. “I work on nuclear missile guidance systems. Boy, you should see how many components those babies have.”

There was another long, long pause.

Leonard belched and Schneider farted.

“I need another beer,” declared Schneider.

Leland Neville

2012-02-13T08:15:00.000-05:00

Cave of the Winds

Fiction by Leland Neville

“Write,” he ordered. “Write everything.” He threw a yellow paper tablet and a Bic at the table in front of me. “Don’t stop until you’re done.”

Well, I’m going to write. And I’m not going to leave anything out. I need to figure this out too.

***

I didn’t love working at the Cave of the Winds Carwash in Niagara Falls, but I didn’t hate it. (I hated the Souvenir Outlet, Pizza Place, Subway, and Target.) As an assistant scrub associate, it was my job to blast the heavy duty grime off the cars before the robot soapers, sprayers, waxers, and driers did their thing. The assistant scrub associate is considered by one and all to be the déclassé carwash position. Working at the sales kiosk is better. Working in the detailing bay is better. Working in the polish and buff bay is the best, especially if you are a toned female who just happens to be wearing a too-tight Cave of the Winds T-shirt. But my lowly status did have one advantage: I could simultaneously work and be wasted. Dilated pupils? Blame the chemicals in the suds. Slurred speech? Blame the carbon dioxide.

The first time I saw a car enter but never emerge from the Cave of the Winds I assumed some bored coworker had spiked my midmorning tonic. The pick-me-up, less toxic than a 20 proof Grande Coffee, normally induces a transitory state of lucidity. (I liked to be sentient by the time my lunch break rolled around.) I closed my eyes and quickly located my force center. My focal points were stable and well within an acceptable range. I could only conclude that the red BMW had most definitely vanished. We didn’t get too many high-end cars at the Cave of the Winds so there had probably been a doomed carjacking attempt. I knew I’d probably be blamed. (That’s experience talking, not paranoia.) The police were going to grill me about the BMW.

My marginally drug addled condition had, unfortunately, prevented me from beholding the total perfection of the driver. (Yes, I began shooting suds at the BMW before my laggard brain signaled a cease and desist.) But even my all too fleeting visual encounter of her glistening beauty made me briefly consider: getting sober, returning to college, getting married, and having kids. She was a goddess bathed in radiance. Of course I needed to see her again – if only for a few seconds - but the BMW never reappeared. I tried to remember something else, anything else, about the BMW, but I couldn’t say with any certainty if it even had had a license plate. Except…the letter “S” had been etched on the windshield with a wax pen by the kiosk attendant. All the lovely lady customers, without fail, purchase the Super Detail Wash and Wax for their cars. They treat their cars, themselves, and their men to the best. I briefly wondered if computer science was still the way to go in college. Briefly.

I must interrupt my narrative in order to give a quick history of the Cave of the Winds Carwash. Because the wedge shaped lot is too small for a normal inline carwash, the Cave of the Winds is an awkward semicircle structure. The drivetrain is always disengaging; customers can sit inside their marooned cars under sputtering hoses for up to 15 minutes before repairs are made. As a result of the breakdowns, the Cave of the Winds prices are 20 percent cheaper than their rivals. But the most awesome attribute about the Cave of the Winds, what makes it worthy of landmark status, in my opinion, is the surreal artistic rendering of a magical cave shrouded by the thunderous Niagara Falls. Inside, the entire length of the carwash is a compelling mural of bold green and blue acrylic slashes, twisting and crashing. (The artist was the original owner’s daughter, a frustrated genius who either committed suicide or moved to New York City.) Rambling through the carwash on a hot day with just the right dose of Vicodin in your bloodstream is soothing and regenerating. The mural vibrates to ancient Native American rhythms; the foam cleanses your soul.

Back to business. When the red BMW never exited from the carwash (the view from my assistant scrub associate station was unobstructed) and I had convinced myself that I was not experiencing an episode of lost time, I very possibly overreacted. I screamed at Scott, the senior scrub associate—whose added responsibilities included snarling Car in neutral! Foot off brake!—“Something is wrong! There’s been a breakdown!”

Scott shook his head in disgust. How could there have been a malfunction since the drivetrain was obviously operating? Scott’s goal was to someday become a Navy SEAL. He was ever vigilant.

“Didn’t you see that the red BMW that never came out of the carwash?”

“Negative,” answered Scott. That’s the exact word he used. Negative.

“Did you even see the BMW?”

“You’re totally wasted,” Scott yelled back at me. “You’re seeing things. You’re delirious. Certifiably insane. You do know that – don’t you?”

“Affirmative,” I replied. What would have been the point in arguing? “Stay away from me you giant spider,” I shouted just before blasting him with my spray gun.

“I’m going to report you,” he barked.

But think about it – who has ever hallucinated a BMW and a beautiful woman? People hallucinate foul stuff like giant spiders or zombies. I know I do. Otherwise everyone, not just the chemically adventuresome, would scarf down drugs and mushrooms. I had not hallucinated. No way. That’s a negative. Although I later explained to the assistant manager that I was just having some fun and boosting morale, I still had to sit through a video on carwash safety during my lunch hour, a clear violation of the New York State Labor Code.

Anyway, a day or two later a green Corvette all prepped for the Super Detail Wash and Wax caught the attention of my dilated eyes. The lone occupant, a blonde who could have been the better looking sister of the goddess in the missing red BMW, never gave me a sideways glance. Scott issued his verbal commands. “Car in neutral! Foot off brake!” The Cave of the Winds churned steam and swallowed the Corvette. I observed the exit. An uninterrupted trip through the carwash takes about 90 seconds. I waited. Cars emerged, but not the green Corvette. When I saw a yellow VW that most definitely had entered the carwash after the Corvette, the Adderall kicked in. I located the red emergency cutoff switch, lunged past Scott, and pulled the lever.

“There’s a trapped car,” I shrieked.

That’s all Scott needed to hear. He rushed past me, visions of heroism dancing in his head. I followed, but quickly lost sight of him in the steamy mist. I stopped once to catch my breath and coincidentally admire an awe-inspiring soapy stalactite. There were also cars with annoyed passengers, but no green Corvette. The car and the goddess had vanished without a trace. I leisurely completed my expedition through the carwash, admiring the mural’s intricate flourishes that are impossible to appreciate from inside a car. The artist was (is?) a genius.

Scott, his dream of valor dashed, clenched and unclenched his hands to the rhythm of Anchors Aweigh.

A half dozen employees had meanwhile gathered around the hot and wet assistant manager. Cell phone videos were surreptitiously anticipating his reaction. He was just one reckless rant away from becoming a YouTube celebrity. He continued to gulp air until his red face reverted to its natural pink. “Was that supposed to be another morale booster?” he asked through gritted teeth.

I obviously should have been fired, but let’s just say that I’ve been known to share party supplies with the assistant manager’s younger brother. Under normal circumstances I would have welcomed my termination. (I was ready for, as Scott would say, a little R&R.) But times were not normal and I had a mystery to solve.

Sex and money. Isn’t that always good place to start? Maybe, I surmised, sexy women were “borrowing” wealthy men’s overpriced cars and then driving them into the Cave of the Winds where they were temporarily stored in a secret underground parking lot…a chop shop. The wealthy men were of course reluctant to report the crimes. Was the assistant manager privy to the scheme? Maybe that’s why I wasn’t fired? Sure, they needed to keep an eye on me. All right, not too plausible. And really, how worried would anyone be about some half-baked assistant scrub associate? So I kept my mouth shut, watched and waited. I even cut back on the drugs. I was engaged with life.

The answer came a week later in the form of a silver Mercedes Benz. I knew that on the other side of the tinted windows sat a woman, even more beautiful than the Corvette and BMW goddesses, who would solve the mystery, maybe over coffee, maybe at her place.

“Car in neutral! Foot off brake!” Scott bellowed. A full-frontal attack from my soap gun brought the wannabe SEAL to his knees.

“I think I’m blind,” he moaned.

I ran to the Mercedes and grabbed the handle, expecting the door to be locked, preparing to sound the alarm about the car being on fire and thereby provoking a hasty exit and, later, her confession to me over coffee. (Yeah, that was the gist of my plan.) Only after the unlocked door swung open and I was drawn into the plush beige leather seat did the underused rational part of my brain begin to comprehend the potential consequences of my ill-conceived and insane action. The driver, maybe some geezer with bad knees and a badder attitude, was probably packing pepper spray, mace, or an unlicensed .38 Smith & Wesson Special.

“Hi,” I whispered.

I could not avert my gaze from her azure (yes – azure) eyes. They were like an ecstasy enriched cloudless sky, shimmering, infinite. Time stopped. The universe was azure. I wish I could describe this goddess, but all I saw were her mesmerizing eyes. But that was enough.

“Do you like Bach?” she asked. I detected a Southern Drawl, a welcome antidote to the harsh nasal accent that assails you in Western New York.

Music flooded the Mercedes. There was no sensation of movement; we were in the vortex of a dazzling light show, a real LSD flashback scene plucked right out of the 1960s. I had no idea I loved Bach. I wanted to ask her who she was or where we were going, but I’d been rendered mute. And anyway, her name didn’t matter. Neither did the destination. I just wanted the trip to last forever. But it didn’t. I wanted to have indelible memories of every second inside the Mercedes, listening to Bach, lost in her azure eyes, but I don’t. I only have a secondhand memory. A memory of a memory. Sorry.

When the officer picked me up inside the 7-Eleven, desperate for a Bach CD and a Twizzler Slurpee, I thought we had stopped for gas somewhere just south of Buffalo. I couldn’t believe I was in North Carolina. I think I flew over North Carolina on the way to Disney World when I was a kid, but I don’t know much about it. Mayberry. The Wright brothers. Tobacco.

***

Well, that’s about it. You can see why I don’t need a lawyer. I understand and can appreciate why the police are required to investigate all possible leads, but you are wasting your time on me. The real carjacker is still at large. And don’t I have to be charged with a crime within 24-hours? Or is it different in North Carolina? Maybe I do need a lawyer. But the missing woman is not my azure-eyed honey. Not even close. The police have shown me the victim’s Facebook page a hundred times. Half the pictures show her chugging beer. I’m thinking there is a pretty good chance that someone will soon spot a crashed 1988 Dodge Omni in a ditch in upstate New York. I pray I’m wrong, but I do have a working knowledge of substance abuse. And no one, no matter how wasted, has ever confused a silver Mercedes with a green Omni. Also, the missing woman’s eyes are brown.

When I’m released from jail I will need to find a job since I have zero money and my parents have long ago given up on me. When I mentioned this to the fingerprint clerk he told me not to worry because there are plenty of jobs for anyone willing to work. He also told me that there are lots of people from the Buffalo area who have relocated to Charlotte (Thomas Jefferson’s old stomping grounds?) and maybe one of them will help me out. “Soon there’ll be more Buffalonians than rednecks,” he laughed. “More and more show up every day.”

Davy Carren

2012-02-01T13:45:00.002-05:00

A Phone Call

Fiction by Davy Carren

--Suicide hotline.

--Um…Hi. This is Geronimo. I want to die.

--I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that. You…

--I want to throw myself out of a high window.

--Oh. No. I got that. Your name was unclear. You mumbled or something.

--Um. Is that really important?

--Well, you see, we try to establish a good connection, a contact point with our clients, and that always starts with a name. You see, once you give a name to…

--Your clients?

--Well. I mean. Sorry. It was just a manner of speaking…

--Geronimo. My name is Geronimo.

--Well. That sounds made up. But that’s okay. A lot of our clients…I mean, well, suicide contemplators, well, they use made-up names a lot. That’s okay. We are very used to that.

--Why do you keep saying we? Am I on speakerphone?

--Oh no. We…I mean I’m just using a synecdoche.

--A what?

--It’s not important.

--Thank God.

--Oh. So are you a religious person? Do you pray?

--I’ve been known to on occasion, but my heart’s not really in it. I don’t see how any of this is relevant to my…

--To your situation? Well, Geronimo…you just let me worry about that, okay? Don’t start in telling me my business. I know what I’m doing here, okay?

--Jesus. This is some rigmarole. You do remember that I am right now contemplating hurling myself onto concrete from a very high place, right?

--Well, we just like to get the lay of the land, so to speak, you know? It’s just procedural stuff. Need to kind of fill in the blanks, you know?

--No. I don’t.

--Well, anyway, let’s get this getting-to-know-you chitchat out of the way and then we’ll move on, alright Geronimo?

--Um…

--Okay. So, do you self medicate?

--Do I what?

--Are there any, let us say illicit substances, that you partake in to give credence to your moods?

--Are you talking about CCR?

--No. Um. Well, let’s just skip over that one, and I’ll assume that you’re a straight shooter as far as all that goes.

--Fine with me.

--Okay, okay…um…okay. Here we go. So, would you consider yourself to be curious?

--I guess.

--So you have a curious nature. Good. That helps. What sort of things are you curious about?

--I’m a bit curious why I’m still on the phone with you.

--Ha. A joke. You’re being humorous. That’s a good sign. See, we’re already getting you on the right track.

--Not so sure about…

--Now. So. Let me just get down to brass tacks here.

--Not going to stop you.

--Good. So now I’ve got to kind of…what is it? Oh yeah, get to the meat and potatoes of your mental state. Would you consider yourself to be in a torpid frame of mind?

--A torp what?

--Um. Wait. Hold on a sec. Oh yeah. So, is your mind kind of shrouded in fog? Do you feel unclear, fuzzy, lint-headed? When you think about things does it all seem a kind of jumbled blur? That kind of thing.

--Right now while I’m talking to you? Definitely.

--Okay. Good. Now we’re getting somewhere.

--We are?

--So. Now that I’ve got your state of mind pegged, let’s start in on some more emotional type stuff, if we may.

--At this point…

--Are you experiencing any pangs of conscience? Any stabs into the drowsy world of your confusion? Any churning of thoughts that don’t seem to go anywhere except back and forth? Do you find it difficult to urinate standing up?

--Sometimes.

--What’s the frequency?

--More often than not.

--Hmm. I might need a specific there. You got any specifics, Geronimo?

--I get scared at night. The sound of the house creaking makes me shiver. My hands shake. Sometimes I wonder about golf balls.

--Interesting. So, which one of these sentences would you say best describes your fear: #1: “I am not hungry for new beginnings.” #2: “Loafing has become my most salient feature.” #3: “Lord, lord, lord, I am so miserably tired, and I can’t ever for the goddamn life of me ever, ever get a good night’s sleep.” #4: “Somebody else is holding the keys to my happiness, and I want to change the locks but I’m too scared to scram.” #5: “I am not as lucky as a fire hydrant.” #6: “My choices always come down to the lesser of evils.” #7: “I’ll have a steak sandwich and a steak sandwich.” #8: “I swat at flies but I never hit them.” Or, lastly but not leastly, #9: “I am a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas, sort of.”

--Is there a none of the above option?

--Um. No. I’m not seeing that here. Let me check…um, hold on a sec.

--I’m holding.

--No. I think you can choose more than one, but you’ve got to choose at least one.

--Can I say all of the above?

--That should be fine. Yeah. That seems suitable. Good. Now we’ve got that out of the way. Wow. We’re really making tracks, huh? Oh, and also, shit…I forgot. I was supposed to say this to you: You’re doing great (say patient’s name here)! You are really hanging in there buddy! Good job. I am so proud of you (say patient’s name)!

--I thought I was a client.

--Well, well. What a memory you’ve got on you, Geronimo. Sorry. That was my gaffe. I think I’m supposed to be calling you buddy. I don’t think it’s too important though. I can call you whatever you’d like. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.

--Some people call me Ger. Sometimes I get Mo, too.

--Ha. That’s good. Nicknames are supposed to work well when dealing with you types.

--You types?

--Yeah. Well, I mean potential suicides. You are still contemplating that action, right?

--That is one thing that hasn’t changed during this conversation.

--Good. Then we can move right along, Gerry boy.

--Thank God.

--Ah. See? There it is. That God thing again. You must be a very spiritual person Ger-Ger. You must believe in a divine purpose for your existence, isn’t that right Ger Bear?

--Are you asking me if I want to be God?

--Depends. Do you?

--Sometimes. Maybe early in the morning when the sun’s licking my toes and the sweat’s still wet on my sheets and the wind is doing its best standup routine.

--So now I’ve got some more questions for you. Here goes. Please be as honest as possible, and answer quickly. Time is supposed to be of the essence.

--Will do.

--Good. Now. The gears of your mind, would you consider them to be rusty?

--More like clogged. Like the drain of my mind is clogged.

--Do you have to watch TV while you eat?

--I believe so.

--Are there any personal grooming idiosyncrasies that I should know about?

--Not that you should know about.

--How often do you brush your teeth?

--Pass.

--Okay. Then we’ll try this backup question. That’s what I’m supposed to do in these instances. How often do you masturbate?

--Damn. Can we go back to the tooth-brushing question?

--Wow. It worked. Alright. That’s exactly what you were supposed to say. Okay. How often?

--Twice daily. Morning and night. Sometimes in the afternoon, but that’s rarer.

--Does that seem like too much to you?

--We’re talking about tooth brushing, right?

--I think so.

--My dentist likes my teeth.

--Does he?

--She. Yeah. She always tells me how great my teeth look. She’s very proud of me, and she kind of seems to dote on me.

--Is her affection not requited?

--What?

--Is this a one-sided infatuation?

--There is no…hold on…what the hell are you saying? You think she likes me?

--Why not, Mo? You deserve to be liked. You are worth liking.

--I am?

--Of course. That’s what the manual says to tell you. And I just fit it in there. Pretty smooth, huh? Damn I’m good.

--Maybe you should ask for a raise.

--You know what? I think I will. That’s a damn good idea you’ve got there Gerry. Can I actually give you my boss’s phone number? I’d really appreciate it if you called him up and told him what a good job I’m doing. I’m new here, and I want to make a good impression, you know? Start off on the right foot. Get in good with the head honcho.

--Okay. I guess.

--Aw, thanks man! That’s so super cool of you.

--No prob.

--So. Now. Let’s get back on track here. What we need to do now is…wait. Hold on there. Um…okay. So, what we need to do is deconstruct your inhibitions and try to map out your worries. There is a systematic way of doing this. Let’s give it a shot, if you’re still game.

--I’m still here.

--Good. So first I am going to ask you a series of rapid-fire questions. I’m going to be peppering you. And you’ve got to respond quickly with the first thing that comes into your head. Ready?

--As I’m going to get.

--Okay. What is one thing in your life that deflates your spirits on a daily basis?

--Is it bigger than a breadbox?

--Not sure. Don’t have time to explain. Okay. Where was the last place you masturbated?

--My car.

--Was it pleasurable?

--Not really.

--When did this event occur?

--This morning.

--What kind of thoughts occurred to you during orgasm, if it was reached?

--Planes, trains, boats, and buses.

--Are you kind to strangers?

--Most of the time.

--If you were a shoe, what kind of shoe would you be?

--Converse All Star.

--Have you ever broken into someone’s home to steal a candy bar you saw in the window as you were passing by?

--Yes.

--Would you do it again?

--Probably not.

--Where do the stars go during the day?

--In the vest pocket of God’s smoking jacket.

--If time began, does that mean it’s going to one day end?

--No. It’ll end at night.

--What is your most common nightmare?

--I am running, and something or somebody is chasing me, and I’m late for something, and I need to catch a plane too, and I’m worried that my pants have a hole in the crotch and that everybody is looking at me, and then my teeth start falling out one by one, and I keep trying to catch them but I can’t because they disintegrate and turn to dust as soon as I touch them, and I’m sweating a lot, and this fat lady with a tiny purse keeps looking at me with this look of mischief on her face, and soon there is this giant crowd all around me and then it’s an army, all these soldiers in fatigues with their guns drawn, and I can’t get away because they’re circled all around me, and I want to sink into the ground and disappear.

--Who named you?

--My father.

--Who gave you your first taste of popcorn?

--A woman named Sally who was a friend of my mother.

--Was it movie popcorn?

--Yes.

--Salted?

--Yes. But not too much.

--How old were you when this event occurred?

--Nineteen.

--If you could pick anyone in the world to be your best friend, who would it be?

--You.

--Have you ever drove on a driveway or parked on a parkway or paid a toll to use a freeway?

--Yes.

--If thoughts were food, what item of food would most of your thoughts be?

--Red licorice.

--What instrument would be most suitable to deciphering your feelings?

--A scytale.

--Yesterday a man came up to me and told me to take a flying fuck. Was that man you?

--…

--Please answer. Now.

--Um. Kind of.

--That’s no kind of answer. It is not applicable to the question.

--Well. I don’t believe we are ever the same people from day to day. All is transient. All things pass. Every day we are born again. Every night we pass away in our sleep. Consciousness tries to hold us together, but we’re only this mass of chemicals firing around in a ball of dirty tangled cloth, and our thoughts are just lint gathering on top of it all, along with our experience and memories and emotions and jokes. Sometimes that lint gets to be too much, and we can’t see our way out of it, and our heads become like pea soup, all foggy and dreary. I need a lint scraper for my brain.

--You still want to take that dive out of the window, Geronimo?

--Nah. I’m going to stick around for a bit. Who knows? Things could get interesting.

Mike Heartz

2011-12-19T16:50:00.000-05:00

A Very Brief History of Time
Fiction by Mike Heartz

If one were to actually take the time to pay attention, they would see that most adults engage in a tremendous amount of fake conversation that starts with the standard greeting that either leaves both of them, or at least one of them, immediately wishing that the run-in never took place. But conditioned as we are, we robotically go through the motions, answer the inane questions and try to throw in a witty remark to end the uncomfortable repartee. A conversational pulling of the plug, if you will. Unfortunately we’re programmed to greet; a horribly archaic tradition.

Fortunately, there are no fake conversations with a six-year old. If little Johnny really doesn’t care how you’re doing that day, he’s not going to ask.

It was soon to be Mother’s Day and my first graders were going to surprise their mothers with solitary marigolds in little clay pots magnificently painted with scores of bright colors, clearly and accurately portraying their blessed mothers cooking them dinner, taking them to Burger King, or just taking the time to read with them. At times like these, I truly feel like one of the lucky ones; I’m getting paid to play with dirt, I paint better than anyone in the room (I know my painting is poor, but still, they are six) and I can have some good old-fashioned conversation with someone I can really relate to.

Our normal buddy system had been thrown for a loop due to Ronald nursing a broken arm suffered during a horrendous accident on the gargantuan, curvy metal slide-o-death at the local city park the week before, compounded with Tasha’s recent bout with the croup. Since Terry didn’t have anyone to pair up with in the project corner, I was happy to eschew my teaching duties and take up the brush myself.

What would at first be an earnest attempt to create works of art worthy of time at any small, backwards towns’ local gallery, the bright colors inevitably mixed together, turning the little terra cotta pots into grey-black flower caskets for the doomed marigolds, which were already wilting under the stress of overeager little fingers.

So there I was on the floor, well aware of the decades old carpet lurking below me and trying to keep him from vigilantly (and I do believe it was a pre-emptive attack) coating the nasty carpet with paint like butter on a piece of toast. Terry must have misinterpreted my lowered, side-by-side seating as relinquishing my power, as he didn’t think twice about giving the carpet a healthy second coat right in front of me. My firm, but brief reprimand was bolstered by my argument that the provided old newspapers covered a space that made his act of first grade guerilla graffiti anything less than accidental.

Terry and I quickly forgot the last five semi-confrontational seconds, and we focused again on our respective duties, sharing the paints judiciously, although he did think I was hoarding the red tempera a little too much, a charge I denied vehemently. After the obligatory, always entertaining inquiries of what we both had for dinner the previous evening were over, we worked in silence, watching our first stick person emerge from our photographic minds onto our stubborn pots.

Terry was settling nicely into his ninth month of first grade, as the transition from the virtual bachelorhood of Kindergarten is always rough at the onset. It had been months and months since the introduction of the individual desk. Gone were the loose days of long, rectangular tables—the Play-Doh Bar where he and his friends would gather around at happy hour, downing shots of apple juice from Dixie cups with pretzels while waxing nostalgic over the previous day’s unfortunate glue incident before passing out on their cots for their mid-morning siesta.

He’d learned to read heroically, being partial to anything having to do with spiders or sharks. We’d had our laughs. He’d had his cries. We had our problem days, needing the surprise visit from his mom to show him I wasn’t playing around. And he took it like a man. Standing there rigid—at attention to the ass-reaming he was receiving, looking dead red into the eye of his mother who let him have it in front of the whole class.

He had tested me and he lost. Although I will freely admit to feeling more than a little bit sorry for him when, catching his brief attention from his mother’s hypnotic scolding, I gave him my most sympathetic, “It didn’t have to come to this!” look. With others, I may have used those precious few moments to give him my, “Did you think I was playing!” look, but I knew this would suffice for Terry. He was already getting two earfuls from his mother. I was trying to look like the rational one.

He was a good kid whom everyone liked and got along with. Everyone except “Crazy Carl,” a decision I secretly commended him for. A good listener, he followed directions at least ten times a day—anything more and it was a crapshoot. I was aware of his limits and respected them when I could.

We continued to work diligently, lightly congratulating each other on our depictions of the sun. He chose an orange sun sans rays—a large Florida orange floating mysteriously near the bottom of the pot—while I went with the classic tried and true yellow orb radiating its life-giving rays near the top of the pot. With each of our stolen glances, I got the feeling we were secretly envious of the design and sun-making abilities of the other.

In time, he became distracted, as he is accustomed to doing after three minutes of focusing on just one thing, and was again kneading the planting soil between his stubby fingers. I started to refocus him, but never got the chance.

“Mr. Thomas?” he questioned while trying to jam more dirt under his fingernails.

“What, Terry?”

“Where does dirt come from?” he asked earnestly.

“From the ground.” I was more than willing to go the easy route on a Friday afternoon. “It comes from the ground, Terry. Underneath the rocks and grass and stuff.”

Wondering if this answer would be enough to quench the sponge-like mind of a suddenly curious six-year old, I asked if I could, perchance, procure the blue paint from him for my cloud landscape. He obliged, unenthusiastically, apparently remembering the accusation he placed upon me regarding the red paint not two minutes before.

“Dirt sure is dirty,” he summarized as only a first grader can. “The dirt makes it dirty.” Its truth is in its simplicity, never had a Zen master uttered a more true statement.

“Yes, Terry,” I concurred, smiling from ear to ear, satisfied with his astute observation, “it sure is.”

The silence enveloped us again, each of us content with our oversized paint brushes and egg carton-filled paints that never seemed to hold the paint, merely kept it in the general vicinity of where it was needed. Terry was once again focused on his pot, actually slowing his stroke speed down to capture the detail and quality of a true artisan.

This piqued my interest. I wanted to know what depiction of his mother was making him work so intently, what saintly act he was recreating for the entire world to see.

“Whatcha painting there, T?” We were on nickname basis. Or at least I was.

“Me playing my video game.”

I wasn’t sure if he remembered the basic tenets of the holiday and, more importantly, the project, so I reminded him. “You know you’re supposed to be painting a picture of something your mom does for you, remember?”

“But I like video games.”

Well-played, young man. I couldn’t, nor wanted, to pursue the matter any farther. I hid behind the thin veil of it being the thought that counts. She was getting a flower. And he was engrossed in his work. We all won.

As he cradled his paint-dirt terra cotta vessel, I complimented him on bringing texture to his work. Fingering the soil once again, I believed that even he knew his work would not end up as promising as he had hoped.

“But Mr. Thomas, where does the dirt come from in the ground?”

Realizing I wouldn’t be able to shrug this one off, I decided to answer his question with the answer as far as I knew.

“It actually comes from a star, T.”

“A star?”

“Yeah, a star.”

“You mean like up in the nighttime?”

“Yup. Just like the ones at night.”

Eyeing me suspiciously, as if I just told him that Santa Claus did not exist, he asked, “How’s it get down here?”

“It blows up,” I replied, realizing I had painted the lower part of my striped tie blue.

“What blows up?” He asked, stopping to stare at me upon hearing the magical words, blows up.
“A star.”

“Stars blow up?”

“Yup. Ours will too.”

“Ours?”

“Our star.”

“We have a star here?” he asked, painting the stem of his tortured marigold. “Where? In the principal’s office?”

“No, there is not a star in the principal’s office. You just painted it on your pot. Well, you did at the beginning.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No I didn’t.”

It may have been childish, but these easy comebacks are often a release from the adult arguments that require me to think.

Plus, I knew I was right.

“Yes you did, T. Didn’t you paint the sun on your pot?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well T, the sun is a star. The sun is our star.”

“The sun is a star?” He giggled and cackled; obviously thinking I was playing some sort of joke on him. His laugh, joyfully pure, was strong and righteously innocent; he thought I had no idea what I was talking about and in turn, was extremely confident in what he thought he knew to be true.

“It’s true, T. The sun is a star,” I explained over his growing laughter. “And there are a lot more out there, more than you can count.”

I could tell he was trying to remember the highest number he could think of. “More than one hundred?”

“Much more.”

“More than two hundred?”

“Yes.”

“More than one hundred hundred two hundred?”

“If that was a number, than yes.”

“More than…”

Knowing this could, and would go on for the better part of the afternoon, I had to halt this runaway train.

“T, there are more stars than anyone could possibly count. More than you could ever count.”

“I can count to one hundred.”

“I am quite aware of that T, and you can do it well. But still, there are too many to count.”

Ignoring my acknowledgment of his counting abilities, he proceeded to give me a demonstration, making it to twenty-four before giving in to the miracle of distraction and poking his thumb into his pot and pulling out his dirty digit to inspect it once more.

“But Mr. Thomas, why does the sun blow up?”

“You mean other stars?” A nod of his tiny noggin gave me the affirmation I was looking for. “Because T, it runs out of fuel.’

I could tell his silence betrayed his actual knowledge.

“Just less than fourteen billion years ago there was what amounted to a small spark. Now what started this spark, we don’t know yet. But from this spark came a huge explosion. An explosion that we can’t even comprehend or imagine.”

“What’s an esplojun?”

“Explosion. Ex-plosion. When something blows up.”

“Bigger than fireworks?

“Much bigger.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“How lot?”

“Very big, Terry, now try and follow along.”

“Follow what?’”

“For millions of years, there was nothing but this gas called hydrogen floating around, clumping together like…. like when you add snow to a snowman.”

“I built a snowman at Christmastime with my brother. It was big! It was this big.” He stood up and held his hands above his head, a full four feet off the ground.

“Wow T, that’s big. Now, after those clumps sped around at extremely high speeds they started to smack into each other—like when you guys are in the gym running around, and they started to form the first stars.”

“Our sun?”

“Not our sun just yet, that was much later on. As the hydrogen fused together with helium to fuel the stars, other elements eventually began to form, such as carbon, nitrogen, silicon, and iron. But billions of years later, those stars began to run out of hydrogen—or fuel, and then gravity took over.’

“Gravy?”

“Not gravy, T, gravity. Gravity is what makes thing fall to the ground. It also keeps our feet on the ground.”

“I like gravy on my mashed potatoes.”

“Me too.”

“My shoes keep me on the ground, but I can jump real high. Watch how high.”

He obviously felt another demonstration was in order. He leapt like a frightened gazelle, displaying some fine four-inch vertical jumping ability. What this had to do with his shoes, I hadn’t a clue, but he was giving a perfect example of gravity whether he knew it or not.

“T, you’re doing a fine job, but you’re also doing an even better job of tracking dirt and paint all over the floor.”

Seven more jumps and he was convinced. Either that or he was just exhausted. His heavy breathing and sweaty brow convinced me of the latter.

“Are you done?”

He forced out an exhausted, “Yes.”

“Well good. Now, sit down and finish up your work.”

I figured I had at least another five minutes of focus time. We worked in earnest once again. I was resigned to the fact that my discourse on the beginnings of time had ceased, but after two minutes of silence, Terry surprisingly brought me back.

“What happens when it gets empty?”

“Gets empty? What are you talking about?”

“Gets empty…the star?” he repeated, obviously thinking elaboration was unnecessary.

“You mean when the star runs out of fuel?”

Yet another affirmative nod answered my query. With a seemingly eager audience, I forged on.

“Well, as the star runs out of fuel, or gets empty, it starts to cool at its core, which is the middle of it, and is made of molten—or liquid iron. The star begins to shrink and it collapses in on itself. After it collapses, it explodes outwardly. Keep in mind, T, this all takes place in a thousandth of a second. This process is called a supernova.

“A thousand seconds? I can count that high.”

“Not a thousand seconds. A thousandth of a second. A second split into a thousand pieces.

“Huh?”

“Now all that stuff inside the star gets blasted out at tremendous speeds into space, in all different directions. And all those elements and star stuff clumps together and eventually some of it forms a big ball of space debris. Get that out of your nose T, because I’m not cleaning it up. Now, one of those big balls of debris eventually cooled down after billions of years and became our earth.”

“My uncle’s name is Dupree.”

“Not Dupree. Debris. De-bris. With a ‘b’.”

“What’s an earth?”

“It’s what we live on.”

“But we live on the ground, on the floor.”

“Yes, but the ground and the floor sit on the earth, the ground is the earth. Anyway, after even more billions of years the ocean and land were formed from all those leftover elements. And even we were formed from those leftover elements.”

“You mean the dirt made us?”

“Do you go to church, Terry?”

“No, but my granny do.”

“Okay….then yes, the dirt made us. But if your granny said God made you, just go along with it for right now. It’ll be easier on you and me.”

“Why?’

“Forget it. Now do you understand where dirt comes from?”

“From our sun, and Uncle Dupree.”

“Debris, T. Debris.”

“That’s what I said, Dupree.”

“Good enough. Thank god for Uncle Dupree.”

I wrote my name on the bottom of my pot for identification purposes later as I realized my pot had fallen back to the pack in terms of painting, creativity, and overall presentation. Terry was wrapping his work up also, looking as if he was thinking real hard, possibly trying to digest the information I had just offered.

“What’s up T? You all right? You look like something’s bothering you.” I was beginning to think that maybe he had a follow-up to ask, that maybe an explanation of what an ‘element’ was might be in order. Or possibly I had somehow sparked the scientific flint inside his growing cranium and he was wondering and questioning our very existence on this earth. A proper follow-up question if I had ever heard one. Maybe, just maybe I could begin to steer his mind into the journey of the unknown. “Terry, everybody at one tine or another in their life starts to wonder, perhaps even question…”

“Isn’t it time for recess?”

“Oh my god. You’re right. Hurry up and wash out your brush and your hands. No—no forget the brush! Get in line! Hurry, hurry!”

April Grey

2011-12-04T17:57:00.000-05:00

I'll Love You Forever, But...
Fiction by April Grey

You know, it was a marriage they said would never last.

Even I had my doubts. After all, I was a dancer—a dancer, mind you, not a stripper—at the Pussy Cat A-Go-Go Club and he was this geeky post doc at his friend’s bachelor party. But I became a good professor’s wife. I hosted faculty teas and luncheons, kept the house spotless, made healthy meals, kept myself in shape and raised two beautiful boys--one now at MIT and the other at Cal Tech.

Still, it’s supposed to be until death do you part. Death: the parting of the ways. This whole eternity thing, I never agreed to it.

Faithful to a fault, that’s my Fred.

And he wasn’t buried three days when he showed up at the back door covered in dirt, and his feet, well, he had no shoes on, just socks. Wet, muddy, slimy socks! He should have told me, put it in his will or something, to bury him in shoes. I would have done it. I can be unconventional. He should have warned me, but he was always the typical absent-minded professor.

I was in such shock that I hadn’t the presence of mind to shut the door on him, and the he was on my freshly washed kitchen floor, with moldering leaves and what have you, and he grunted at me.

“Huh?” I said, equally speechless. I kept that floor clean enough to eat off of and now look what he’d done.

He grunted again. Prior to his demise, my Fred was a well-spoken man, and he had this amazingly plummy voice for his lectures.

“Fred, honey, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

He opened his mouth a bit wider and a few white crawly things, slugs, maggots, I don’t know, fell out onto the floor. I shrieked and ran for the disinfectant and my cleaning gloves. While I was under the sink, trying to decide on straight ammonia or pine fresh, he shambled over. He tried to embrace me as I stood up with my supplies. Well, no way, I thought, though I was pinned to the sink. He smelled of soil and decaying things.

Still, I tried to stifle my revulsion. This, after all, was the father of my boys, so I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Neither could I accept letting him get one inch closer. I put out both my hands, filled as they were with cleaning products.

He grunted plaintively, perhaps at the expression on my face, and turned around, moving toward the living room—oh, my white shag rug! The one that I waited years for the boys to grow old enough to head off to college before getting. The one that I made everyone take off their shoes before walking on. That one!

Well, yes, Fred wasn’t wearing any shoes, but that only made things worse; there was already a trail of grime across my kitchen floor. I know Martha Stewart claims she can get out dirt from shag, but can you take the word of a jail bird?

It was time to lay down some guidelines.

“Fred, Lovey,” I said as I got out some chilled wine from the fridge. I froze. I had had that wine in the fridge chilling since before his accident at the lab. The dinner I had planned that tragic night was trout almandine with green beans and rice. Healthy meals, that’s what I strived for. Pulling myself together, I found the corkscrew and opened the wine. “Please sit down and have a little. I know this has been a stressful time for us both. Why, the boys lost a week from their classes, and only flew back last night. I’m sorry you missed them.”

I must have been getting through to him because he turned away from my shag and came back towards the kitchen nook where I had poured us two glasses of wine. I patted the wrought iron café chair, hoping he’d take a seat. I only meant to sip my glass of wine, but the sight of him and his yellowing, hard boiled eyes, upset me. I downed it and poured a second.

“Sweety-kins,” I began, using the back of my hand to wipe away a dribble of wine from my chin. “This isn’t going to work out. You know I adore you, and I’ll love you always.”

He moaned and the sound of it drove a cold chill down my spine. I forgot what I was going to say for a moment, while I wondered what that green and fuzzy thing was on the side of his nose. Was it growing there?

He was trying to say something, maybe that he loved me too. But did he love me enough to stop this insanity and head back to his grave?

“You know, you can’t stay here. You’re dead and your new home is in the cemetery. Remember? We picked out the grave site together. You really loved those cypress trees!” I tried to be as gentle as possible. “And the funeral, I guess you don’t remember that, but the boys were there and all your colleagues from the University. And what would they all say after such a beautiful ceremony? It would be downright rude not to stay dead.” I gulped down another glass of wine and felt the room whirl.

“And I promise to visit you every week. Won’t that be grand?”

He didn’t touch the wine, but grunting even louder returned to the entrance of the living room and my shag rug. I hadn’t gotten through to him at all, and now my rug was about to pay the price! Where was that reasonable man I had married? Gone forever, I feared.

I didn’t know how I would stop him but I ran past him into the living room and stood in front of him, wordlessly begging him to stop. But stop he didn’t. Instead, he pushed past me and crossed my rug leaving a dank, black, oozing trail across it. But the rug was not his final destination, and he entered his study. I was tempted to shut the door behind him and lock it. Then what would I do? I had to somehow get him to understand his place in the world was the graveyard now that he was dearly departed.

Inside the study I found him tearing through his desk. He slipped a vial of some grey-green concoction into his coat pocket, and then continued to throw papers on the floor. His study was the one place in the house where I wasn’t allowed to go while he was alive. After his demise, it had taken me hours to collect and sort his papers, but I didn’t complain about this new mess. I can be noble.

With a happy grunt, he found his research journal. It was his habit to have two sets of notes, one in his study for him to pore over at night and the second one at his lab. I smiled and nodded—maybe he just wanted some reading to take with him?

He brandished it at me. I read the cover, “Immortality Project.” I sighed. Poor, poor Fred. I usually spent the time when he was talking about his work figuring out the dinner rotation or the week’s grocery shopping in my head. Had I known, I would have told him what a dumb idea it was.

Immortality? Who would fund something like that?

“Is that it, Fred? You wanted to tell me what you had been working on? Well, I understand. It all went wrong, horribly wrong. You’re dead now, and it’s time to head back to Shady Elms. I’ll miss you, but I’ll come by every week with fresh flowers. You’ll see that being dead isn’t too bad.”

With a howl he rushed forward and lifted me up in his arms. I shrieked, and then I kicked and pushed against him, but to no avail—he was walking on my beautiful shag again—this time headed for our bedroom. Now I didn’t have just one filthy path to clean but two. I had to admire his strength though; lugging me around like that should have thrown out his back, but here he was carrying me without a moan or even a grunt.

I’ve always been careful with my husband’s feelings. Scientists are like artists, sensitive, but he just wasn’t getting the message. Something dropped off of him and wiggled itself down into the shag. I screamed and pounded my fists on his all too solid back, enraged that not only would I have to get it cleaned but fumigated as well.

But just when you’d think it can’t get worse, it did. He crossed the threshold of our bedroom and I realized that he was about to violate the pristine ambiance of our bedroom.

“Put me down, Fred. I’m not going to make love to you. No, means no!” He ignored me. Crossing the pale pink and beige carpet of our bedroom, he tossed me on the bed like a sack of turnips.

“Please, in the name of all that is holy, there are 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets on this bed.”

Sex, great sex, had been the mortar of our marriage. In the bedroom, we were frenzied, exotic animals pounding out our differences, but I draw the line at necrophilia.

I opened my mouth to tell him no one last time, but he grabbed my jaw. With surprising deftness, he unstoppered the vial I had seen him put into his pocket, and poured the stuff down my throat.

It was as if liquid nitrogen had been poured into me, instantly freezing my mouth, jaw and neck. It slid down my throat into my stomach, and an intense iciness enveloped my torso and spread through my limbs.

The only heat remaining was my tears pouring down the sides of my face.

As my vision faded, Fred leaned over and mouthed some words. I can’t be sure, I can only hope, but I think he said, “Trust me.”

Well, maybe Martha was right about getting dirt out of shag…

Wayne Scheer

2011-11-21T07:19:00.000-05:00

Revenge of the Words

Fiction by Wayne Scheer

Bosco George had a problem. Although born in Iowa, America's plainspoken heartland, his own English sounded like the linguistic love child of Yogi Berra and Sarah Palin. It's not that he didn't know the language, it's just that his syntax sounded like Puff Diddy singing tunes from Oklahoma.

"I just open my mouth for business and the words come out to play," he'd say. Folks would scratch their heads.

As a young man, he'd get angry. "Don't laugh at me," he'd say. "Or you'll be smiling out of the other side of your teeth."

He grew up a tough kid from Cedar Rapids. "I come from the other side of the railroad," he told people. When he saw the confusion on their faces, he'd try to clarify. "You know, where the grass ain't green with envy."

"Say what?" was the usual response.

And, of course, he'd say, "What."

In time, it was clear to Bosco he didn't belong in Iowa, so he traveled the country in search of work and acceptance.

People still laughed. Especially in Texas.

At a bar outside Dallas, he had an encounter with a man wearing a cowboy hat, boots and pants so tight Bosco was afraid to look. The would-be cowboy drawled, "Y'all sure got some funny ways."

Bosco assumed the man must have been drunk and seeing double. That would explain why he dressed so funny and said, "y'all." He just thanked him, and moved on.

In Georgia, he interviewed for a job, but it didn't go well. It began with the woman saying, "Good morning," with her voice rising on the first syllable of "morning." Bosco thought she was asking a question, so he tried to explain why he thought the morning was so good.

Later in the interview, the woman asked him where he was from originally. When he told her, "Iowa," she asked how long he'd lived in this country.

"You're luhnin English real good, sugar. You'll be talkin like us in no tahm."

Frightened, Bosco suffered what he called his "dark bluish" period. "I guess I'm always gonna stand out, like a hammer that hit its thumb on the nail."

But something odd happened the first day he arrived in New York City. He felt at home. "These people talk funnier than I do. We're kindled spirits."

He found a job at a pizzeria in Queens. Everyone thought he was from Italy.

S. Michael Wilson

2011-11-07T13:16:00.000-05:00

A Quarter at a Time

Fiction by S. Michael Wilson

I have met the future ruler of the free world. Under this leader’s tyrannical rule, the nations of the globe will be ushered into the unfaltering dominion of one focused, unified vision. There will be no more countries, no more borders. There will only be One World Order, led by a single, stoic personality.

Her name is Lilith. She is eleven years old.

Lilith is not shy when it comes to talking about her plans for world domination. When asked about it, she will nod eagerly and matter-of-factly, as if confirming her attendance at a slumber party. This unassuming girl with the fire-red pageboy haircut, diminutive even for a girl her age, can often be heard informing people of their predestined place in her benevolent dictatorship. Her older sister has been promised a position of power and stature among the higher ranks of government. The diner waitress who spilled juice in her lap last week will not be so lucky. Apparently, she has also become quite accustomed to the idea of deciding who lives and who dies.

Lilith has already decided on a name for her empire: Lilantis. Domed underwater cities will provide strategic defense in the early years of her nation-building campaign, guarded by soldiers riding genetically altered giant War Seahorses. Flag designs are being taken under consideration.

She plays close to the chest when it comes to her takeover plans. It will be by force, that for is certain; there will be time for diplomacy after the initial battles have ended. She knows not to give away too many strategic details. Nevertheless, she has confided in a select few that insects will play a major part in the first wave of the invasion, as will large numbers of rats. Possibly even zombie rats, although the logistics behind this have yet to be properly researched.

A massive campaign of domination and subversion perpetrated on a global scale requires an adequate amount of funding. Zombie rats and aqua-domes aren’t cheap. There is a price tag attached to any endeavor of such magnitude, and Lilith has calculated the budget of her master plan precisely. The total cost of her eventual world rule: seventeen million, five hundred forty-two thousand, seven hundred twenty-six dollars and fifty-seven cents.

When questioned as to how she arrived at such a precise number, she will usually shrug and assure whoever asks that the numbers are indeed accurate. Of course, it could just be a casually derived amount, pulled out of the air while eating her Lucky Charms and watching SpongeBob. However, what is possibly most disturbing about this seemingly random number is the chilling finality of the fifty-seven cents.

You can ask her whenever you like. Try to catch her off guard, but the number never changes. She will rattle it off instantly when prompted, the price of her world rule firmly dedicated to memory. This grand sum is always on her mind, and she is constantly in fundraising mode. Family members and strangers alike are regularly asked for loose change and other small donations. Those who are unaware of her nefarious plans assume that the money will simply go towards Pokemon cards, Bakugan figures, or her growing collection of Silly Bands. It is true that she collects these things with the same unwavering passion as other children her age. However, trading cards and bracelets are not the only things you can collect, especially if the world must one day bow trembling before you.

Most of the money collected for “The Campaign” is stored away in a large mason jar, prominently displayed on Lilith’s bedside table. A few years ago, Lilith’s mother noticed that the majority of loose change and stray singles that had half-filled the jar just the other day was missing. In its place were dozens of non-descript folded slips of white, ruled paper. When questioned, Lilith simply shrugged and explained that she had been “trading with friends.”

Lilith’s school called two days later. It seemed Lilith had concluded that you could not just raise money towards the eventual goal of world domination. Occasionally, you have to spend a little.

With an eye towards laying the groundwork of her massive future armies, she had approached several of her fellow classmates (or, as she affectionately called them, “future followers”) and offered to purchase their souls. Upon closer examination, each slip of folded paper in the Mason jar contained the name of a student, the words “My Soul,” and the cash amount paid for each ethereal entity. The amounts varied from student to student, ranging from twenty-five cents to a couple of dollars, no doubt based upon Lilith’s shrewd appraisal of each soul’s future value.

It had taken two days before some of the students exhibited seller’s remorse and complained to their parents that they wanted their souls back. The parents were not amused by Lilith’s “collection.” The school was even less amused. Having previously banned Halloween parades for fear of exposing students to the influence of occult iconography, the faculty was more than a little perturbed at the thought of lunch-money soul-trafficking taking place on school grounds. Their solution to Lilith’s spiritual investments was to line up all of the students she had purchased souls from and make her hand each student back his or her slip of paper--effectively giving their soul back to them--and apologize for treading in God’s domain.

She protested the massive soul recall at first, stating that possession is nine-tenths of the law, extolling the virtues of a free market, and balking that the money she paid out for the souls would not be returned. Her complaints were ignored. However, she did what she was told and performed the school’s soul redistribution ritual without any undue strife or commotion. Weeks later, when asked why she did not put up more of a fight, she would merely smile and reply, “I only gave them the slips of paper back.”

Ever since the “Soul Incident,” as it is known on her permanent record, Lilith’s plans have become more low-key. Many have assumed that her lust for global conflict and world domination have simply been abandoned, but those wise enough to question her are quickly assured otherwise.

“Just you wait,” she will say with a smile. “The rats will come soon enough.”

Lilith just recently turned eleven. As she grows into her teenage years, it is quite possible that interests normally shared by teenage girls, such as boys and fashion, will divert her attention away from plans of nation-building and global conquest. Alternatively, her gradual progression towards maturity might simply bring about what she ominously refers to on occasion as “Phase Two.” Until then, a small chill travels down my spine with every quarter that she feeds into her piggy bank, and I am vigilantly on the lookout for folded slips of white, ruled paper.

Jay Morris

2011-10-31T07:52:00.004-04:00

ASK UNCLE JAY: HOW TO BE A LITERARY GENIUS

Fiction by Jay Morris

Dear Uncle Jay:

My friend Irwin says I should quit my job as an assistant paint store manager so that I can become a towering literary figure and be hailed as the voice of my generation. What do I have to do, take a test or something?

--B.W., Racine, Wis.

Yes. Gone are the days when a lonely, desperate figure has to huddle in a cold garret for years, scrawling on scraps of paper, risking health and sanity while attempting to express the measure of his or her soul in elegant prose. It’s too much trouble.

Now you may simply put in for the position of literary “Voice of a Generation” by picking up an application at any Post Office or Radio Shack, and attaching letters of recommendation from two people willing to state that, to their knowledge, you have never before been named Voice, Conscience, or Savior of this or any other generation. Enclose two dollars for postage and handling and in four to six weeks you’ll receive notification of where and when to take the test.

Copies of the test are available. To receive one, send a bribe to:

Kenneth Darwell

Behind the Water Cooler

Government Printing Office

Boulder, Colorado

The bribe should be in the form of cash or McDonald’s Gift Certificates. Here’s a free sample of the exam, taken from the section testing literary sensibility:

1.What is the most important element of a modern novel?

A) A deeply moving narrative exploring eschatological ideas, ending with hard-won
affirmation of man’s place in the universe
B) Flattering jacket photo of the author
C) Sequential pagination

ANSWER: B. The favorite pose of literary authors is one that stresses robust masculinity, with the shirt open, displaying a massive, hairy chest—see Gertrude Stein.

2. Your name is Emilio Crum. You have written a novel called Spam City. Which of the following reviews would be better to receive?

A) “Crum has abandoned plot, character, and ideas as necessary components of a novel. His

book is a bold cry against the tyranny of ‘quality fiction.'"

B)“In Spam City, Emilio Crum, author of Shemp—Stooge of the Gods, proves thatthe

literary question is not ‘Who?’ or ‘What?’ or even ‘Why?’--it is ‘Huh?’ He impales our

preconception that fiction should be ‘enjoyable’ on a lance of insipidness honed in an

atmosphere in which pronounced cranial vacuity is our only hope.”

ANSWER: B. The name of your book is mentioned.

3. Do you write good?

ACCEPTABLE ANSWERS: “Yes, most goodly.” “Indeed-a-roonie!” “Who wants to know?”

4. If you are not accepted as “Voice” of your generation, would you be willing to accept another role? Number the following choices in order of preference.
A) Bursa Sac of a Generation
B) Nasty, Hacking Cough of a Generation
C) Knuckle Crack of a Generation
D) Valet Parker of a Generation

ANSWER: A trick question. None of these titles exist except “Nasty, Hacking Cough of a Generation” and that’s already been assigned to Mickey Rourke.

5. Why won’t Steven King ever win the Nobel Prize for Literature?

A) Genre writers are generally disparaged in literary circles
B) Too dang funny-lookin’

ANSWER: B. It’s easy to write scary stories if inspiration is as close as the nearest mirror.

6. Why do you want to be the literary “Voice” of your generation?

A) To focus the collective energy and ideas of a particular group of people who lived at a
particular time in history, establishing its place in the ongoing intellectual and cultural
evolution of Mankind
B) Ten percent discount on dry-cleaning

ANSWER: B. Do you know how expensive dry-cleaning is these days?

SCORING: If you answered all six questions correctly, you are either a genius born to be one of the leading literary voices in modern America, or a big fat cheat. Either way, you’ll go far. If you got between one and five answers correct, chances are you will do better in some field other than literature. If you answered none of the questions correctly, check for a brain tumor.

John Moran

2011-10-17T19:27:00.003-04:00

Herbert's First Job
Fiction by John Moran

I was resting in Hell when the portal appeared.

“We need a type one demon,” shouted the thing in charge of logistics.

A little later, he added, “Type twos. Get here now.” A minute after that, “Type threes — anyone?”

I tugged the edge of his wing.

“They’re in Asia Minor fighting in the wizard war.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“So what am I supposed to do? We can’t ignore a summons.”

“Send me.”

“What the heaven are you?”

“Type six sprite, sir.”

“Have you ever been summoned?”

“There’s a first time for everything, right?’

He frowned, looked round in desperation, then shrugged and burned a glyph onto the air.

“You know the rules: fulfill your summoner’s wishes to the letter, and be rewarded with power and lands. Fail, and torture will be thy lot.”

“To the letter?” I said.

“That’s it. Get through quickly.”

###

I emerged into a teak-paneled hall between a pair of black candles. The ceiling was open to the stars, revealing a tall tower where a zeppelin was tethered.

I turned invisible, preparing my entrance to impress my new master.

“Spirit of Hell, I call thee,” my summoner said. Dressed in a purple hat and cloak with a Toledo rapier at his waist, I knew him instinctively as Count Philippe di Courtuga, lord of the castle and its surrounding lands. Beside him stood a slimmer figure dressed as a butler.

I waited as they completed the spell.

“Hazel sticks, Vincente,” the Count said.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Curse the dratted woman.”

“Indeed, my Lord.”

"So I’m clumsy am I? Have the courting manners of a drunken Spaniard, do I? I’ve had no other complaints.”

“No-one would dare, my Lord.”

“Damn right! Mandrake.”

Vincente upended a squirming leather bag, and the root fell screaming onto the flames.

I felt the tug of compulsion, and used every appearance trick I’d learned from the big boys. Five candles lit spontaneously around the room, dust whirled in a vortex from floor to ceiling and lightning crackled like the discharge of an etheric gun.

“What,” Philippe asked, “are you?”

“I'm a sprite, my Lord. My name’s Herbert.”

“Where's my mezzo-demon?”

This was not going well. I lifted my left foot and scratched my right ear in confusion. “There’s only me available, my Lord.”

Philippe snarled and thrust his rapier at me. I fled to the far edge of the magic circle.

“Begone, useless weakling,” he shouted.

Had I failed already? I hung my head and began to fade.

“My Lord?” Vincente said.

“Yes?”

“That was our last mandrake.”

Philippe sighed. “Wait. You'll have to do.”

“Certainly master,” I became solid once more. “Tell me your will.”

“I demand ...” Philippe paused and pushed out his chest… “wrath upon the Countess Montefeltro.”

My forehead ached as I struggled to understand. I was only part-way through infernal studies and my grasp of human was poor.

“Wrath?”

“Ruination.”

“You want me to turn her to rubble?”

“Decimate, despoil, extirpate her. Be her bane.”

Philippe paused when I continued shaking my head.

“Make her miserable,” he said at last.

“Ah,” I said. “That I understand.”

“Then go.”

I rejoiced in my mission, but hadn’t the slightest idea how to carry it out.

“Er. Would you mind if I wander your domain in human form first? Ask questions of the locals, that sort of thing?”

Philippe nodded.

I sped off, taking human form to mingle with his servants. When I inquired about the best way to make a woman miserable, the answer rang the same from everyone.

I returned to find Philippe striding the walls of his castle. Thunder cracked the heavens as lightning struck a tower nearby and ran along a metal strip to safety.

“I have a plan my lord, but it needs clarification.”

“Proceed.”

“May I do anything to make her miserable?”

“Of course, the more sadistic, the better.”

“Do you want her to recognize you as being responsible?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Not only do I want this, I command it!”

“Then we are ready.” I produced the box I’d spent the last hour crafting and revealed a dozen papers within. “These are forged, to come from Lord Gattario, a rebel with ties to the Spanish. If it is discovered in her chamber, she will be ruined politically. For full effect, you should be the one to reveal it.”

“Except I am banned from her castle.”

I smiled.

“I have heard that the lady is shallow and vain. If you allow me to press your advances, you will break her heart as well as her status.”

“Even after I described her as a pregnant hog with stubble to match?”

“Trust me, my lord.”

Philippe clapped his hands together. “Very well. Destroy her, Herbert — whatever the cost.”

I flew across the land, my spirit darkly joyous, and crept into the bed-chamber of Carlotta, fifteenth Countess of Montefeltro. Her eyes were brilliant blue, her bosom high and her waist narrow, though her legs were thick and her voice like clanging brass.

I sat watching for two hours while her maid Lisa brushed her hair.

“Do you think I'm the most beautiful person in the city?” Carlotta asked.

“Undoubtedly, Mistress.”

“Do you think I'm the most beautiful in the country?”

“Few would argue.”

“I think,” continued the Countess, “that I'm the most beautiful in the whole world.”

“You are as knowledgeable as you are beautiful, Mistress.”

Because my first apparition didn’t go as I’d hoped, I put some extra magic into my second. The air shimmered and the room trembled. Two china dogs fell off a shelf, the dark velvet curtains before the casement swung closed, and the multi-pronged candelabra on the black granite mantelpiece lit itself.

I appeared as a pale-skinned footman, kneeling with a bunch of flowers.

“Who are you?” the Countess said.

“I come from Philippe di Cortuga.”

“That worm? I've already told him what I think.”

“Indeed, lady, which is why I return with his deepest apologies. Knowing your beauty he desired to court you, but became tongue-tied in your presence.”

“That’s understandable.”

“I bring flowers, regrets, and a petition from the depth of his sorrow that you might allow him another attempt.”

The Countess sniffed. "I am known for my tolerance.”

“And your ready affections,” Lisa said.

The Countess stared coldly at her. “If I ever find you using humor again, I’ll have you whipped.” She turned back to me. “Tell your master I accept, though I don’t come cheap.”

I watched the maid struggle to control herself, and bowed.

“Thank you, Lady.”

I vanished in a shower of rose petals, then sped through the air to find Philippe groping a maid aboard his airship. The butler stood nearby, looking discretely away.

“Did she reject you?” Philippe asked.

“Of course not, Lord. She will now allow your zeppelin within her airspace. All you have to do is plant the box and seduce her to her room.”

“You’re sure this will work?”

“Everyone assures me this is the perfect way to make a woman miserable.”

“Excellent!” Philippe dispatched the maid with a slap on the behind, then turned to his assistant. “And while I’m sneaking, you can distract her, Vincente. It’ll give you a chance to see that maid of hers again, though why you’re interested in someone of low status I have no idea.”

“We believe we have much in common, my Lord,” Vincente said.

###

I had just finished my preparations when the airship cruised to a halt outside Carlotta's balcony. Philippe stepped across, placed his ear to the glass and listened. A moment later, he freed the latch with his dagger and stepped inside.

Thanks to me, the room was a riot of color. Roses covered every surface, in vases, schooners and fluted wine glasses. Pink candles burned above the fireplace, while Carlotta's four poster bed had ribbons tied to it.

The noise of a dinner party rose through the floor.

I watched Philippe creep forward and curl his lip at the decoration, unaware it was my doing. He placed the box on the mantlepiece, then stole down the staircase. It took an hour before he returned, leading Vincente, the maid, and a number of dignitaries. As I suggested, he had his fingers around Carlotta’s eyes.

“Ta da,” Philippe said, dropping his hands so she could see what had been done to her room.

She clapped her hands and turned to her guests. “You see the response my beauty brings.”

“But wait,” Philippe said, “what’s this?” He walked to the mantlepiece and picked up the box.

“Is that a present?”

“A box this beautiful has to contain something special,” Philippe said. He flipped open the lid and offered it to her, then froze. Instead of the letters, I’d substituted his mother’s engagement ring on a velvet pillow.

Carlotta beamed, took the ring from his twitching grasp and placed it on her finger.

“I accept,” she said.

The guests applauded politely. Behind them, Vincente reached out and squeezed the maid's hand.

Six months later, I watched invisibly as double festivities ran into the night. Vincente and Lisa swore some meaningless vows before heading off to a cottage in the woods, but my heart was with Philippe and the moment of his triumph.

I watched as, breath wheezing, he attempted to carry his bride through the door to his chamber. After dropping her on the bed, he spent ten minutes in front of the mirror re-aligning his moustache. Then he moved towards her with what looked like great reluctance.

Shortly afterwards, the two of them lay on their backs and stared at the ceiling.

“You can praise me now,” the Count said.

“If you think three minutes of adolescent fumbling is sufficient, you’ve got another think coming,” Carlotta said.

The Count stood. “You, madam, have the manners of a baboon.”

“And you make love like one.”

“Well get used to it,” he shouted, “because from now on I’m all you’re getting.”

He stormed onto the balcony, slamming the door behind him.

I appeared and waved. This was the moment all demons savor, when the mission is complete and the compulsion to obey dissipates.

“I hope you are happy, my Lord?” I said.

He screamed at me. “You made me marry that harpy!”

With this final confirmation, I bowed and vanished, though I allowed my voice to linger long enough for him to hear it after I was gone, “and I am informed by all parties, my Lord, that nothing else can make a woman so miserable.”

###

When I returned to Hell, I reported to the thing in charge of logistics.

“That was an interesting approach,” he said.

“You did say to follow his instructions to the letter.”

He nodded. “And she certainly will be miserable.”

I grinned. “Even more so, when the King finds the documents I placed in his palace.”

The thing in charge of logistics put his wing around me and smiled. “You know,” he said, “I’m beginning to think you may be a natural.”

Happy Halloween!

2011-10-14T08:15:00.002-04:00

Jim Harrington

2011-10-10T08:53:00.000-04:00

Ralph's Ruse

Fiction by Jim Harrington

"Oh, my God. She's going to do it."

Ralph looked up from his jigsaw puzzle to see Millie peeking out the family room window. When the clap of thunder rattled the windows, he dropped the piece it'd taken him forever to find.

"Do what?" Ralph said. He located the elusive piece and locked it in place. After forty years of marriage, he knew how animated Millie could get over nothing.

Millie turned to him.

"Remember how Suzanne told us about Albert's wish to die on the golf course if he got too sick to take care of himself?"

"Yeah. So, what about it?"

"Well, he must be sicker than we thought. She's pushing him in a wheelchair onto the fifteenth fairway, and she's got something in her hand." Millie pointed at the window. "Get over here and see for yourself."

Ralph pushed himself to a standing position, knowing Millie would keep after him until he obeyed. He walked on stiff legs, bent at the waist. He'd sat too long working on the puzzle.

"Maybe they're just being frisky," Ralph said, as he approached the window. A light along the street opposite the green expanse provided enough illumination to see the two figures.

"Really, Ralph. At their age?"

"Yes, at our age," Ralph mouthed behind Millie's back.

Invigorated by the brief walk and the sight of his neighbors, Ralph reached out and pinched Millie's bottom. She slapped his hand away and gave him a look. Ralph stepped to one side and peered through the spotless glass.

"Don't stand right in front of the window. They'll see you," Millie said, pulling him halfway behind the curtain. "Oh my. Is Albert naked?"

Ralph squinted at the couple. "He must have shorts on. Can't really tell, though. It's kinda dark."

"I think he's naked," she said. He turned to see Millie looking through the binoculars she used for birding. "Oh my God, he is naked."

Ralph didn't know how she could tell, but he knew better than to argue. "How about Suzanne. Is she naked, too?"

"Ralph. That's disgusting," Millie said and gave him that look again.

"Geez, did you see that lightning?" Ralph said to change the subject. "She better turn him around and get inside."

As they watched, Suzanne bent down, first on the right side, and then the left.

"Looks like she's putting the brakes on," Ralph said.

Millie stood speechless, a hand over her mouth.

"And now she's putting something in his hand," Ralph said and moved closer to Millie. "It looks like a 6-iron. What the hell is she doing?"

"I don't know, but I think you should call the police."

"Wait. Let's see what happens." Ralph put his arm around Millie's waist.

"The storm is getting closer," Millie said, pointing to the western sky. She shifted her slender body into him. "We should do something."

"Wait," Ralph said. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

They watched Suzanne put the club in Albert's left hand and raise it as high as his arm would go. At that moment, a bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree. Suzanne fell to the ground and covered her head. Albert rose from his chair and yelled to the heavens, the club held high. Millie turned into Ralph's arms. This was better than he could have hoped for.

"OH MY GOD," Millie said. "He's...he's...huge."

"That is quite a boner." Albert lowered his hand to Millie's rear and gently rubbed up and down. He waited for Millie to say something. Instead, she swayed her body against his caress.

"Ralph."

"Yes, dear."

"I..." Millie put a hand on Ralph's chest and smiled. "Let's go upstairs."

Ralph put his arms around Millie, pulling her body to his, and gave a thumbs-up sign through the window. He didn't know if Suzanne and Albert could see him or not, but he'd be sure to tell them how well the skin-colored body suit and ten inch strap-on dildo had worked.

Wayne Scheer

2011-09-26T07:48:00.000-04:00

Doing God's Work

Fiction By Wayne Scheer

Eli and Vernon Browbridge rolled The Fat Man's bloated body from the trunk of their 1987 Pontiac Grand Prix into the hole in the ground they had just dug.

Eli spoke first. "I wonder if a dead fat guy smells worse than a thin broad that's been roasting in a hot car trunk?" He grabbed a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose and wiped the sweat from his face. Dirt and snot streaked his cheek.

"You got me," Vernon replied. "Ain't never had no dead broad in my trunk. But The Fat Man sure stinks."

Eli put a hand to his chin. "Makes you think."

Vernon nodded, but he paid little attention to his brother. He was enjoying the cool breeze drifting down from the North Georgia Mountains. As a child, he'd spend nights in the hammock on the back porch falling asleep to the sound of chirping insects. Even with the skeeters, Vernon preferred the view of Mount Yonah to the room he shared with his brother, who would spend half the night asking him questions he had no idea how to answer.

"Vern," Eli asked. "How we gonna get The Fat Man into this little hole?"

Vernon circled the overstuffed grave. He tried bending Fat Man's legs, hoping the stiffening limbs might snap off. No luck.

"We gotta dig more. That's all there is to it. We gotta push The Fat Man on his side and dig this hole deeper."

It was hard work digging through the roots and

Georgia

clay that passed for soil in the mountains. When they finally pushed the body towards the deeper side, Eli wondered if that was enough.

"No," Vernon said, the body still stuck up on one side. "We gotta fit him in and cover him up good or we won't get paid."

Eli spit a mouthful of dirt. "Why's

Georgia

dirt get so hard in the sun?"

"Iron," Vernon said. "

Georgia

soil's got a lotta iron in it." He felt proud when he had an answer to one of Eli's stupid ass questions. "That's why it's so red. The iron rusts when it mixes with rain and that turns it hard." He paused to let Eli appreciate his smarts.

While Eli dug some more, Vernon took a breather. "I sure like the way these woods smell when their ain't no Fat Man stinking it up."

"Yeah. Me, too. Remember how when we was kids we'd run through the woods nekkid after a rain? Give Mama a fit."

They continued digging. The midday sun took no pity on them. Their T-shirts stuck to their bodies; their jeans felt like they'd have to be scraped off.

An hour later they had dug The Fat Man's grave about three feet deep. There was still a little hump along the middle of the hole where they had dug around a big rock, but the brothers decided it would do. They laid out The Fat Man's body until he looked almost comfortable and began shoveling dirt and leaves over him. A mound, formed by his belly, remained visible, but they covered it with more leaves until it evened out.

"You think we should say a prayer or something, Vern?"

Eli was back with his damned questions. "Wouldn't do no good," Vernon said after a few seconds. "Only prayer I know is 'Now-I-Lay-Me-Down-to-Sleep.' I reckon it's too late for that one."

"Vern," Eli had on his serious face, the one where his forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows met. "Are we bad people for doing this?"

Vernon answered immediately. "No, sir. The man deserves a grave, don't he? We're giving it to him. We didn't kill him. Now that'd be wrong. We just doing a honest day's work for a honest day's pay, just like Mama always says." He leaned on his shovel. "When we get the money, we'll give her some and she'll give part of it to Reverend Atwater. So the way I see it, we doing God's work."

Proud of himself, Vernon topped off the grave with more leaves and tree branches. "I reckon this here's as fine a grave as The Fat Man deserves."

The two brothers stepped back to admire their work, threw their shovels into the back of their car and drove off to collect their pay.

***

In less than two hours, a pack of dogs happened on the shallow grave and uncovered most of the body. Soon after that, a young couple searching for wild blackberries saw the mangled corpse and called 9-1-1. An hour later, Sheriff Erskine Calloway identified what was left of the body as Horace Latimer, a.k.a. The Fat Man, a local loan shark. He specialized in loans of twenty to one hundred dollars to illegals and gamblers, often demanding twice that if the loan wasn't repaid within twenty-four hours.

"At least we won't have a problem finding folks who wanted him dead," the sheriff told his deputy. He sniffed at the body like a bitch in heat. "Sure is getting ripe out here in the sun. Don't reckon he's been dead too long, though. Can't see no gunshot or stab wounds, but it's hard to tell with all these dog bites. The man's so fat he just might have ate hisself to death. But I doubt seriously he buried his damn self." Sheriff Calloway looked at his deputy who was writing furiously in his ever-present notebook. "You getting all this down, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"We won't know nothing for sure till Doc Robbins has himself a look-see. Probably won't know much then, if Doc already drank his lunch." He turned to his deputy. "It sure ain't like that CSI show on television."

***

Eli and Vernon collected their five hundred dollars for a good day's work and visited their mother. LuAnne Browbridge had the sturdy, no nonsense look of a woman who raised two boys by herself after beating her drunkard of a husband nearly to death with a frying pan. Nothing surprised her, least of all Eli and Vernon. When they handed her one hundred dollars in twenties, she asked no questions. She just reached under the top of her faded housedress and stashed the money safely into her bra.

"You boys gimme that kind of money, you got plenty more. Hand over another hundred."

The boys complied without a word.

She separated twenty dollars from the money. "This here's for Reverend Atwater. I'll ask him to pray for your sorry asses. Now y'all wash up good and you can stay for supper."

***

The next day, Dr. Robbins said he couldn't determine cause of death for sure until the autopsy, but it seemed natural enough. The dog bites, at least, were post mortem. "From what I can tell it looks like his heart gave way," the doctor concluded.

"Well," Sheriff Calloway said to his deputy. "We got ourselves a di-lemma. If The Fat Man here died of natural causes, why'd someone go to the trouble of burying him in the woods?"

The deputy wrote the question in his notebook, adding three question marks.

Sheriff Calloway waited for an answer. When none was offered, he spoke. "My guess is someone didn't want us to know they was with him."

The deputy nodded.

"Off-hand, I don't know anyone who'd want it known they was with this sad sack of human feces. So we got ourselves a whole mess of folks to question. Or we could look at it another way." He paused for the deputy to turn the page in his notebook.

"If you had a dirty job you wanted done, like burying a body, who'd you get to do it?"

The deputy looked up, his eyes flashing wide. "The Browbridge brothers."

"And who would do the job so half-assed, the body'd be discovered before the devil had time to cart it off to hell?"

"Eli and Vern."

Sheriff Calloway smiled. "What say we have ourselves a little chat with the brothers Browbridge?"

***

Mrs. Browbridge wasn't the least surprised when she saw the sheriff's car pull up in front of her house. "Eli! Vernon!" she shouted to her sons who were watching stunt bowling on ESPN. "The po-lice is here. I don't know what y'all did this time, just keep me out of it."

Sheriff Calloway and his deputy removed their hats as they entered the surprisingly cozy Browbridge abode. "Ma'am," the sheriff nodded. "Your boys home?"

Eli and Vernon were trying to figure out how to record their show, but operating their mother's TiVO system might as well have been rocket science. They were pushing buttons and cursing when the sheriff walked in.

"What you boys up to?"

Vernon and Eli looked up from the remote. "Nothin'," Vernon said.

His brother added. "This danged recorder don't work."

"You boys trying to record this here bowling show?" the sheriff asked. When the brothers nodded, he took the remote and pressed the red record button.

"There. Now y'all do something for me. I got The Fat Man's body in the morgue. Found it out in the woods." He looked Eli and Vernon in the eye. "You boys know anything about it?"

"No, sir," said Vernon, speaking fast so Eli didn't say something dumb.

Eli still managed to get in a few words. "We don't know nothin' bout buryin' no body."

"Who said the body was buried?" He turned to his deputy. "You taking this down? We'll need this when we go before the judge."

"Judge?" Eli asked. "Why we need a judge?"

"Because murder and kidnapping and burying a body without a permit are crimes, that's why." The sheriff went silent, giving Eli and Vernon time to understand.

In less time than it would take a hungry fox to devour a chicken, the boys told him how Missy Taggert had hired them to put The Fat Man's body in the trunk of their car and bury him. "He was already dead," Eli explained. "We was just doing Miss Missy a favor."

"How much she pay you for this favor?"

"A hundred-and-fifty dollars," Vernon said. "We already give it to mama."

The deputy wrote furiously.

Sheriff Calloway took one look at the death stare LuAnne was shooting at her boys and figured they'd be punished enough. "Don't go spending that money or leaving town," he said, as he and the deputy walked out the door.

***

Missy Taggert had been good-looking enough in her youth to have made a comfortable living as the town prostitute. When her looks went south along with her other assets, she married Darnell Grimes. Still, everyone in town knew her as Missy Taggert, especially the men. Darnell worked construction when he could get on with a road crew and fixed cars when someone felt sorry for him or Missy. He wasn't home when the sheriff knocked on Missy's door. Since Sheriff Calloway had a personal relationship with Missy dating back to her former line of work, he had arranged for his deputy to meet him at the stationhouse.

Missy knew by the expression on the sheriff's face that this wasn't a friendly call, but she tried stalling. "Erskine, I haven't seen you since Tina Mae had her baby. How old is your granddaughter now?"

"She'll be two this coming winter, Missy. But I ain't here to talk family or old times." He wished he hadn't mentioned old times. "It seems we have ourselves a di-lemma. The Browbridge boys tell me you hired them for a certain job not long ago."

Getting Eli and Vernon to confess took more time than it took Missy to explain how she had been doing sexual favors for The Fat Man to hold her over while Darnell found work. This time his heart couldn't take the excitement. She didn't want her husband to know, so she did what everyone in town did when they had a cesspool that needed unclogging or snakes under the porch that needed killing. She called the Browbridge boys and paid them with half of the money The Fat Man had in his wallet. She kept the rest.

"A hundred and fifty dollars?" Sheriff Calloway asked.

"Is that what they told you? The boys may be smarter than they look."

After coffee with a shot of rum, he agreed to keep the incident on the hush and hush if the final coroner's report confirmed it was a heart attack. After all, The Fat Man had no family and no friends who'd miss him.

***

Sheriff Calloway had one more point of business to take care of before this whole mess could be wrapped up.

"Vern. Eli," he said, wrinkling his forehead to look as paternal as possible. Missy told me the truth, so it looks like you boys are in the clear this time. There won't be no murder charges against you."

In unison, the boys blew air out of their puffed up cheeks. Eli wanted to shout "Yehaw!" but he thought better of it.

"But we still got ourselves a di-lemma." The sheriff rolled his tongue inside his mouth for a moment. "It seems Missy says she paid you five hundred dollars and you say one-fifty. Since I believe her, that makes your statement to me—that my deputy had wrote down for the judge—what we call lying to a officer of the law. Now that can get you jail time."

Eli and Vernon just stared at the Sheriff. Even Eli couldn't think of anything to say.

"But we can work something out. Say you give me two hundred. You boys keep the rest and we won't talk no more about this."

The Browbridge brothers readily agreed. Vernon reached into his boot and took out a wad of wet, smelly twenties. He counted out two hundred and handed it to the sheriff.

Sheriff Calloway took the money. Before walking away, he said, "You boys stay out of trouble now, y'hear? I can't always be bailing you out."

As he slipped into his car, he smiled and put nine twenties in his wallet. The other one he placed in an envelope on which he scrawled, "Rev. Atwater."

Feeling the spirit, he mumbled, "Aw, what the hell," and added another twenty to the envelope. "Somebody got to do God's work."