Weirdyear

3/12/10

2010-03-12T00:00:00.000-08:00

Scenes of a Crime
By Jay Coral

The song, not the siren

Lady Gaga was playing when the siren cowed unusually loud in close earshot from my room window. I was sorting my newly-washed clothes, at that time, folding here, hanging there and stuffing everywhere. The song stayed, despite the siren‘s all too common for my left side of the brain prompt. Familiar and characteristically omnipresent on this side of the neighborhood, the sound of the siren often lost some of its emergent attention and was passed on and ignored as the lolling musical ice cream truck. Last time I heard, Paparazzi was no. 4 on the weekly top 10 chart and though I felt that this has a bleak future for a classic, I relishly hummed its tune with the psyche of a modern man.

The dance, not the crash

I stopped my chores and peeked through the blinds. A blue car, driver and passenger doors swung-open, was moving by itself like a slow choreographed locomotive train on the middle of the street. Two men jumped off, fell on the pavement like they were breakdancing, and ran in opposite directions before the car smashed the next car. And then there was the chase, the police shouting and giving the prey a run for his money and winning the hunt because of their numbers. 5:1. In seven seconds, a wavy, diagonal, and cut-corner display of movements danced before my eyes. Wrecked and stationary, the crushed car sat as a mere props on the design.

The face, not the name

Few hours later, streets were cleared and the helicopters were gone. Strolling to my car, I noticed a red spray painting on the sidewalk. There was a picture of a face, did not recall the name, and a text which read "killed by police". No one died that day but I guessed the artist painted it for someone, someone who died somewhere. I remembered him alright, his nameless face on the concrete smiling.

- - -
Jay Coral currently lives in Los Angeles and can be found at http://bluejayeye.blogspot.com/.

3/11/10

2010-03-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

Negative
By Daniel Romo

The results of the paternity test on the morning talk show that only focuses on baby momma’ drama and transgender makeovers were obvious when the charismatic host announced, “You are NOT the father!” Turns out, neither was his brother. And the young unwed mother (who upon first glance looked like a resident of Bedford Falls, but whose deliberate urban accent claimed Westside Bedford Sty) cried as if every DNA test thereafter would be rerun reminding her of reoccurring failure, and bad decisions made. “You do NOT have the job!” “You can NOT buy the car!” “He is NOT the father either!” Sometimes it’s necessary to change the channel, make the decision to get off your ass and search for the remote, rather than subject yourself to infinite daytime drabble and what you are not. Because who wants a daily dose of that shit? Not me.

- - -
Daniel Romo teaches high school Creative Writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University, and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration. More of his writing can be found at danielromo.wordpress.com/ (Peyote Soliloquies)<

3/10/10

2010-03-10T00:00:00.000-08:00

Yellow
By Damien Walters Grintalis

He painted the walls before he said goodbye.

The soft sweep of the brush on the wall. Up and down, up and down. Long, even strokes.

I will never forget that. He spent the entire weekend with paintbrush in hand. The sun streamed in the windows, turning the pale hair on his forearms to gold. I watched him, my heart so full of love I thought it would explode.

Two days later, he packed his things and said goodbye. We just weren’t good together anymore, he said. I told him he was just afraid, and everything would be okay.

I can still hear the soft sweep of the brush against the wall. I remember the color. Yellow--not bright, not sunshiny, but pale, like butter. Soothing.

The smell. That sharp, new paint smell.

He picked the color on purpose. I know it now. He wanted to take the sting away. His words were like a whip, cutting deep into the softest parts of me. All the yellow in the world couldn’t take it away.

He told me he was sorry. He said he still loved me. Liar. If he still loved me, he wouldn’t have tried to leave. He wouldn’t have said goodbye. He was my world from the moment we met. My Prince Charming. He made me perfect.

Brush up, brush down.

I know I made him happy. All the little things we did together. The movies, the picnics, the love. The lazy Sunday afternoons in bed, watching dust motes travel in the sunlight.

He promised me a happy ending. He promised me forever, but he took it back. He pretended it didn’t exist. It wasn’t fair. I told him that, and he kissed my forehead and said he was sorry again. Then he said goodbye.

Brush into color. Whisk of brush on wall. Up. Down.

I couldn’t let him leave.

Later, after I showed him how much I loved him (how much I needed him), he told me he was sorry we ever met. I kissed his forehead. He said so many sorrys, but sorry wasn’t enough. I deserved my happy ending; I deserved to be perfect again.

Brush up. Brush down.

Everything is perfect now. I’m surrounded by my perfect Prince Charming, and he won’t ever leave me again; he told me so. Not with words, but his eyes told me. I know he loves me. We’re perfect together.

The fresh paint drips from the brush, and smells sweet, like pennies--the scent of forever. I will never repaint the walls. I love the new color. All the yellow in the world can’t take it away.

Up. Down.

- - -
Bio: My short fiction is forthcoming in Bards & Sages Quarterly, Murky Depths, Crash, Liquid Imagination, Emerald Tales, Copper Wire, and The Stray Branch, and my poetry has appeared in many publications, including Rose & Thorn Journal, Every Day Poets, The Cynic Online, and Baltimore’s City Paper.

3/9/10

2010-03-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

Narcissus in Patagonia
By Beth Spencer

He knew better than to carry a mirror. Mirrors were his crystal meth, but he had kept himself clean for several millennia now by steering clear of windows and other reflective surfaces. Hence, Patagonia, which hadn’t civilized itself much since the time of Butch Cassidy. Now his worst peril was the crazy-love of mortals. It was safest to avoid them but lonely, too. What would it be like to love one the way he loved himself? He had given them up centuries ago and limited his contact with humans to the most basic of transactions. Even a god needs to eat something once in a while besides nuts and berries and the occasional wild hare.

And so it was that he descended on a llama from the icy Cordillera into a village for supplies, the brim of his sombrero lowered to obscure his face. It didn’t work. It never worked. Old women in the marketplace clucked in admiration of his jaw as he passed. As for the chicas, all it took was a glance at his gorgeous mouth for them to heave their rosaries into the well and moisten immodestly. He feared they might rend him fontanel to fundament, devour him raw with their chilies and maize. Come back, they called after him, displaying their breasts. Come back, cruel yanqui, come back!

Poor Narcissus, a godmeat in boots and serape. Cruel? He would have been more cruel to choose. Who could survive the envy of the rest? Exhausted, he asked a blind vieja where he might safely hole up for a few months, then made for Cueva de las Manos, the dark sanctuary where, she said, he would be bothered by no one. But when he struck his flint within the cave his taper revealed paintings on the walls: hundreds of splayed palms that seemed to reach for him, his burnished chest, the ingots of his nipples. Once again he made use of his own hand.

Just after he flowered, his stain like a lily on the wall of the cave, he heard the tiny thunder of wings. A beautiful bird, its throat aflame in the light, hovered before him. Sure that it, too, was pursuing him, he quickly hid his face in his sleeve. But the bird, serene, indifferent—who knows but what the old woman had sent it?—offered not love but the cure for loneliness.

Streaking deep into the cave, the bird dusted its wings with the char of ancient fires. Again and again it returned to paint his face, each application altering the shape of his countenance until, spent, the bird lighted on his knee. It said to Narcissus: Now you are a man, and then it vanished.

Narcissus yawned and stretched. Where was he? Who was he? The mouth of the cave shimmered in leaf-light and he felt for the first time in his existence the sprouting of whiskers.

A young woman drawing water from the spring nearby nodded at the stranger who knelt there to fill his cantina, watched as he looked at his reflection and ran his hand along his jaw. Her friends in the village had told her of a mysterious man—muy, muy guapo—who had ridden this way. She had hoped to catch a glimpse of him. She twisted her ollas into her rebozo. He splashed water on his face, stood, and asked her to point the way to town.

- - -
Bio: I am the editor at Bear Star Press, which publishes books of poetry and short literary fiction by writers living west of the central time zone.

3/8/10

2010-03-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

Outside the Within
By E.S. Wynn

Bend your mind beyond thought, and it tastes like granite. The teeth freeze, darkness behind the eyes. MEAT CHAUVINISM, she says, but she is just a voice in your head. Why give her credence? Any special treatment? We don’t trust those who know for certain. They cannot see, can’t talk. Belief comes from concrete survival on paper, sweaty handgrasp touch. Light and memory slip through seizeknuckled fists.

- - -
E.S. Wynn knows that, no matter how you look at it, nothing matters beyond the moment. In the moment, everything matters.

3/7/10

2010-03-07T00:00:00.000-08:00

A Dog's Tale
By Mark Twain

My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing. My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so much education. But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only show: she got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company, and by going with the children to Sunday-school and listening there; and whenever she heard a large word she said it over to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off, and surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which rewarded her for all her trouble. If there was a stranger he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath again he would ask her what it meant. And she always told him. He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed, whereas he had thought it was going to be she. The others were always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience. When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right or not? for she was the only cultivated dog there was. By and by, when I was older, she brought home the word Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings, making much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh definition every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind than culture, though I said nothing, of course. She had one word which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver, a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get washed overboard in a sudden way—that was the word Synonymous. When she happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that time she would be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting anything; so when he’d hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment— but only just a moment—then it would belly out taut and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer’s day, “It’s synonymous with supererogation,” or some godless long reptile of a word like that, and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack, perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking profane and embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured with a holy joy.

And it was the same with phrases. She would drag home a whole phrase, if it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees, and explain it a new way every time—which she had to, for all she cared for was the phrase; she wasn’t interested in what it meant, and knew those dogs hadn’t wit enough to catch her, anyway. Yes, she was a daisy! She got so she wasn’t afraid of anything, she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures. She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a rule she got the nub of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut, where, of course, it didn’t fit and hadn’t any point; and when she delivered the nub she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering to herself why it didn’t seem as funny as it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too, privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point, and never suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn’t any to see.

You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up, I think. She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored resentments for injuries done her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also to be brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but face the peril that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think what the cost might be to us. And she taught us not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and the surest and the most lasting. Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things! she was just a soldier; and so modest about it—well, you couldn’t help admiring her, and you couldn’t help imitating her; not even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.

- - -
Mark Twain is known as one of the great American authors, but I think that this little gem paints him as something more. Enjoy the weirdness and wry humor of "A Dog's Tale"

3/6/10

2010-03-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

Migraination
By John Ogden

Phantom
TENSIONER - / - SPiNEMiND
-NAiL-
SHARP liquid spread~

- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.

3/5/10

2010-03-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

Eternity in Tedium
By E.S. Wynn

When the fabric between realms caught fire, Dana was the only one who didn’t see it, didn’t feel it. While others were sucked violently into places that lay between or saw their very reality melt away in a dripping haze of mobius donuts and melting coffee cups, Dana saw only the letters and the numbers ticking across her computer screen, ordinary invoices handled and processed repetitively, one after another, one after another, one after another until the next stack came. While others stared, laughing hysterically at hands that bulged with alien color or cried out on the edge of hairy, sweaty abyssal gulfs, Dana’s fingers tapped away at the solid keys of the aging diehard computer that had lurked monolith-like in her office for as long as she could remember. Reality never cracked for her, never changed, even while the whole of reality folded in on itself and collapsed to a pinpoint of golden light, Dana continued to type, to review the numbers, perpetually tired but not exhausted, the clock on the wall ticking but never changing time. Even now, as the final moments of the universe approach like a steady tide, as the condensed nature of the heavens coalesces toward a hazy rebirth of colors and ethnic music and donuts and false prophets, Dana continues to type, glances up at the clock, sighs. Her day has only just begun.

- - -
E.S. Wynn can see the future. Maybe.

3/4/10

2010-03-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

Maladroit
By J. Bradley

Courting Blaze Fielding was easy. I cooed Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" and her halter top fluttered to the floor. Blaze always liked to tease her hair high so I could weed the moans. I didn't mind wearing her Aqua Net like mittens after.

She was always picky about the where. Blaze hated bathrooms, how the tiled floors chewed checkerboards into her back. She didn't like bringing food into the mix so the kitchen was out. The thought of being caught rotted her lust so public places were out, too. It always came back to my daybed.

I waited until my little brother watched t.v. downstairs before I closed the door of our bedroom. I folded open the GamePro, held it steady in my left hand; I could see in Blaze's eyes how much she missed me. We were always careful to not let the bed springs bloom.

- - -
J. Bradley is the author of Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009). He lives at iheartfailure.net.

3/3/10

2010-03-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Death Dealer
W. Steven Pendleton

The Death Dealer lies in wait,
his knife a tool of fate.
Shadows hide his smiling face
as he watches his next case.
Judgement tickles the front of his mind,
sentence is passed, then signed.
The young mark, in a calm air of laziness,
scans the crowd with haughtiness.
Assassin eyes lock, he sets his course,
and he acts quickly without remorse.
Slithering through the crowd, the viper,
strikes without warning, like a sniper.
A splash of gore hits the ground,
the lad's insides lay all around.
His eyes and face register pure amazement
as he scans the crowd in appraisement.
His mouth opens into a silent scream
as "death" disappears, unseen.
Shadowed eyes lie hidden by cowl of cloak,
it always takes only one stroke.
The Death Dealer slowly leaves the scene,
his dagger and smile equally keen.

- - -
Bio: Well, besides his favorite past times Steven enjoys the sunsets he can see from his hillside home in southeastern idaho. His wife, four kids, two dogs, and Peaches and Cream the Cat, share a life of adventure and chaos. He enjoys telling his kids stories about the characters in his world Pendora.

3/2/10

2010-03-02T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Sibilant Sin
By James Bloomfield

A turbulent tempest raged outside and, duvet pulled tight up to my chin, I listened to the eerie din; of whistling wind and lashing rain as it whipped my windowpane. With a flicker and a flutter my bedside lamp began to sputter. When in the trees outside a night-owl spoke, the feeling that the sound evoked, was a pang of fear I tried to quell but proved too stubborn and did swell.

Unaccountable and ungrounded; unexplainable and unfounded - needless to say I felt the fool; until my fear was further fueled by my sudden, certain intuition of a supernatural apparition.

All at once, into my midst, came a thing of myth and mist. A shape unclear and unclean; indistinct yet so obscene, that the screams that caught within my throat were so violent they caused me to choke. The darkness stole on tip-toed feet towards me cowering ‘neath my flimsy sheet.

The sibilant sin that sauntered in spread me wide and crawled within. Enmeshed itself within my flesh. Then, dear reader; burned with fever, my body was invaded, violated and pervaded. Made mad with terror I fought my best but this was a power I could not contest; the sickening sin in serpents’ skin spun its webs within my chest.

A helpless hostage held immobile; I could only panic while, in a fierce furor of fear, I felt his many tongues within my ear. Malign and oh so erudite; my choleric cleric spoke of many things that night. Everything that has been and will be. Saviors and scapegoats; monsters and messiahs. Guns, Gods and Governments. Our full story in all its gory, gruesome glory.

Listen closely; for this is what I learned...

- - -
BIO: James Bloomfield has been writing flash-fiction ever since a copy of Stanley Donwoods’ “Tachistoscope” introduced him to the style. He lives on the outskirts of London, England and is lucky enough to be in love with both his job as policeman and his flame haired fiancé for whom he writes.

3/1/10

2010-03-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

In Billings
By Daniel Romo

Said he always thought God would come into his life when he was older—
But you didn’t. I don’t blame you. Standing with his back leaned against
the kitchen counter, he ate a big steak holding it in his calloused hands like
fresh kill. He licked his fingers and belched when he was finished. That was
last night in Billings. This morning he ate a bowl of Corn Flakes for breakfast
and laughed while soy milk trickled down and evaporated into his lavish,
rustic beard. Quite funny. Even his Labrador he called “Moats-art” got a
kick out of it, howling in tune to the man’s own amusement. How ‘bout that
boy? Hee hee hee... And at noon when perfectly parted hair, short-sleeved
Mormons knocked on his front door, he dove to the ground like he did when
he heard Vietcong thunder. That was forty years ago in Hanoi, and said,
Please God. Don’t let them see me. Hee hee hee...

- - -
Daniel Romo teaches high school Creative Writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University, and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration. More of his writing can be found at danielromo.wordpress.com/ (Peyote Soliloquies)<

2/28/10

2010-02-28T00:00:00.000-08:00

Automatic writing attributed to a spirit entity identifying itself only as Ur.
Transcribed by continental clairvoyant, Patrice Nunez, April 7, 2007

by Richard Cody

We filled buckets with the blood of our enemies! Red and black and green – for all who came before us were enemies, and all who came before us fell before the wrath of our terrible faces!

And all who beheld our wrathful aspect and fell before it were honored to offer the blood of their lives to the great and most terrible Shub i’ Rath!

He who dwells within the earth and deeper still inside we who were honored to partake of his body and serve his will most terrible and great. He who came from beyond the stars when the world was new. Shub i’ Rath! The Black Jelly!

He who grew inside our bodies and minds, beneath the fields, the crawling caverns! Shub i’ Rath! M ‘ylo hartep, Shub i’ Rath, ia! Hungry now and searching the reaches of time and space for you!

- - -
Richard Cody, a native Californian, has been known to write poetry and fiction of varying lengths. His work has appeared in many print and virtual publications. He is currently not working on the great American novel.

2/27/10

2010-02-27T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Monstrous Octopus
By Bobby Larsson

The creamy blue octopus of the northern sea

who snatches ships from time to time

was born south of the great reef.

With an eel as mother and

a heavenly beast for father

the monster came into being

long before our own time. With no

less than thirteen tentacles and five eyes

it spends most of its time sleeping.

But every other century it awakens

and there is a fire in the sky and

disorder at sea. These are the signs.

Once it awoke in a time when

all sailors were wise and stayed at home.

The creamy blue octopus came up

onto land where it climbed

the highest mountains of the northwestern

islands, shredding them down as

the enormous tentacles worked their way through

and finally reached the heights, saw the

moon, reached out for it, and fell back

into the sea which it promised never

to leave ever again.

- - -
Born 1980 in Sweden and now I live in Durham (UK). At the moment I'm writing a fantasy novel for children.

2/26/10

2010-02-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Nerve
By Daniel Romo

He thought I was a carnie. And never had I been so insulted! Not
even when Alex Gordon called me a dirty wetback in third grade.
A carnie! “Excuse me. Where do I buy tickets?” Was it because of
my basic blue tee and distressed denim pants I purchased yesterday
from the GAP? Perhaps my disdain for shaving, hence my 5 o’ clock
shadow maybe more like 6, but even so. Doesn’t he know I’m allergic
to hay and meager pay, and I have health insurance? Not to mention
I hate traveling, crowds, and corn dogs. A carnie! I haven’t even had
to do community service. And I graduated high school with honors,
college even. And when he left because my disbelieving stare wasn’t
the answer he was looking for, I tapped him on the shoulder making
sure to give him a piece of my mind. “Excuse me sir…The ticket
booth is behind the Porta-Potties.” Huh. A carnie.

- - -
Daniel Romo teaches high school Creative Writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University, and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration. More of his writing can be found at danielromo.wordpress.com/ (Peyote Soliloquies)<

2/25/10

2010-02-25T00:00:00.000-08:00

Note For A Pink Lady
By Neila Mezynski

Surrounded by heaps of color clothes, trip over bad ass lady of the upstairs. Demon say, demon know. Bow wearing pink plastic purse carrier. Lit with self aware, contemplates her life as all there is, no exception to now. Me. In between. Keep it fast and sassy my dear. Come now. She’ll touch you how you like hummingbird soft, bow lady. Don’t put on your hatchet face or sharp rattle me landlord used car salesman bit. Garden grown peaches. She’ll come then.

Bio: Dancer/choreographer turned painter/writer, Neila Mezynski has fiction published and forthcoming on Snow Monkey, Word Riot, Kill Author, Dogzplot, Scrambler, Weird Year, Mud Luscious among several others.

2/24/10

2010-02-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

Set Her Free
By E.S. Wynn

When you see the love in her eyes, you notice also the death there. You can’t help it. It seethes behind dull color, cold, soul deep.

When she smiles, you see it again in the soft curves of her lips, the new lines, creases that weren’t there yesterday. Every move she makes comes stiff, labored, like the onset of rigor mortis, every touch– ice.

Let her go. Set her free

Before all that was once beauty

Turns to rot.

- - -
E.S. Wynn believes in zombies, vampires, good women and other fantasy creatures.

2/23/10

2010-02-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

Hooves
By Bobby Larsson

Grey riders without heads riding

their dead horses over the stone

bridge. They always come from

the woods and ride towards town.

Cascades of hooves trampling over

the vacant river. Moonflash in drawn

swords. Attached to ropes the king

is being dragged swiftly over

cobblestone. Once they reach the

chapel they always disappear.

- - -
Born 1980 in Sweden and now I live in Durham (UK). At the moment I'm writing on a fantasy book for children.

2/22/10

2010-02-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

Simple
By Daniel Romo

They offered kids like me an invitation to play each day, where
clouds were swept away and friendly neighbors met yet continually

asked if I could tell them how to get there. Perhaps so engrossed in
their sense of community, lost was their sense of direction. Can you

tell me how to get to that familiar street to meet multi-ethnic, highly
literate orphans who appreciated man’s differences, never giving

second thought to Burt and Ernie’s relationship, or questioning if
an orange, hairless man playing with rubber duckies in the bathtub

is merely metaphorical. They taught us about conservation and
the environment, even though we learned it’s not easy being green.

Each episode was always brought to us by a number and letter.
Just once I wished they would’ve devoted a show to the number 2

and letter squiggly n. Stick a giant, felt cutout on Maria’s clingy
blouse like a Latina superhero. I can picture The Count pointing and

narrating it now— “Children, this is the Spanish N, also known as
eñe. Au! Au! Au! Au! Aauu… And those are a pair, also known as 2.

I shall use them in a sentence. El niño dreams of Marias’ 2 spicy
jalapeño breasts. Niño. Jalapeño. Breasts. Count them. 2 breasts.

Au! Au! Au! Au! Aauu…” Mr. Rogers would walk by and instantly
get a chubby, conservative khakis on fire, sweater buttons popping off

like spontaneous combustion of the conformist, envious he’s not a
resident of this zealous zip code. But now our children stand too close

to the TV playing Wii, absorb nonsense from a witty sponge, yet still
find time to lament the absence of their fathers. How I miss the simplicity

of public television, static naïveté, where I could always count on Linda
who spoke sign to give a thumbs up confirming everything, “A-ok.”

- - -
Daniel Romo teaches high school Creative Writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University, and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration. More of his writing can be found at danielromo.wordpress.com/ (Peyote Soliloquies)<

2/21/10

2010-02-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

Newlywed
By Richard Cody

His wife was not what she seemed. After the incident on the bridge, he was sure of that. Now, the many strange occurrences he had so readily attributed to imagination these past four months came back to him in a rush of memory.

He had suspected nothing, really, until the night of the onion dip. The pictures of their honeymoon had been back from the one-hour lab a week or more at the time, he recalled. She was slicing onions in the kitchen when she cried out and sucked with a pained face on her left index finger.

Rushing to her side, he found her sucking the finger. He offered assistance and tender kisses, reaching for the offending digit so that he might see what was wrong and so affect a cure. But she refused, frowning around her injured finger, and ran to the restroom, slamming the door behind her!

He stared after her a moment before his eyes found the curious drops of green splattered upon the floor where she’d stood, and there on the cutting board just the way blood from a lacerated finger might look. But green!? Insanely, he recalled in a flash an old episode of Star Trek in which it is revealed that Mr. Spock’s blood is green. Even more insanely, he found himself wondering if he had married a Vulcan. Ripping a length of paper towel from the roll on the counter, he quickly wiped the thick green drops away; realizing only after he had tossed the crumpled towel into the trash, that he had cleaned the strange green splatters with such haste because he was afraid.

Of what, he was only just beginning to figure out when she emerged from the bathroom, the injured digit swathed in clean white bandage. “I cut my finger,” she said, indicating with a nod the serrated knife on the cutting board. She held the injured finger to her breast and appeared, he thought, peevish.

“Oh,” he said, trying not to look at the small green pearl of a drop he had missed with the paper towel.

“Let me finish that onion,” she said, moving into the kitchen and resuming her position at the cutting board. He moved aside and there had not been an easy moment between them since.

This morning on the bridge had taken them beyond deferred eyes and awkward silences. He shivered to think of that kiss, far too moist, and the loathsome touch of that thing in her mouth, glimpsed writhing a moment between her teeth and in the full light of day!

- - -
Richard Cody, a native Californian, has been known to write poetry and fiction of varying lengths. His work has appeared in many print and virtual publications, most recently Eclectic Flash. He has recently produced two books of poetry and one collection of short horror fiction - all available at Lulu.com.

2/20/10

2010-02-20T00:00:00.000-08:00

Johnny Mercer's Pier
By Paula Ray

Hurricane Hazel chewed the end off Johnny Mercer's pier. Mama said raging waters swallowed waterfront houses and caused the shore to recede like a middle-aged hairline on the face of the coastal map. There is history in the swollen pilings and cracks between boards so large I used to fear I’d fall through, as a child, maybe even as an adult. A rickety mental film projector keeps playing the same sepia movie in my mind: Mama leaping into the obsidian sea and me reaching, always reaching.

Each summer, tourists and locals parade up and down the planks of the pier and people fish along the rail. I hate the sounds and smells created by the crowd. I hide in the dunes at night, where I have the moon to myself. This is when the music comes to me, using patches of moonlight on water as stepping stones. First the sway of grasses lulls me into a rhythm, then waves begin to sing. I press my weight into the sand. It opens just enough to bury me hipbone and ankle deep in soft, cool beige.

But there are distractions. Couples pass by holding hands. Drunken college students strum untuned strings and shout incoherent lyrics into flames of illegal campfires. Lovers moan and pant mating calls that slap the belly of the horizon. I fold myself into an origami swan and pretend I can sail away before I dissolve into illegible ink smears. Morning smiles; the sun stares down with its big white eye and I scurry home in search for a dark crevice to press my body into. I'm a water bug with wings rarely used.

On brave summer days, I walk through the maze of umbrellas, beach towels, folding chairs, coolers, flip flops, radios, and shiny bodies: glistening earth worms pierced by the barb of a fish hook. I wear sunglasses to tone down the fluorescent glow of bathing suits and flotation toys. I’m a black and white figure--out of place in a Saturday morning cartoon. The sky is littered with bug-eyed kites and planes dragging toilet paper behind them, advertising pizza and car insurance.

In the fall, yellow school buses gather giggling children. Their parents are locked away in mirror-windowed towers, cages, and cubicles. SUV's cluster the park edge where dedicated moms and dads are plastered to bleachers along the soccer field. As the autumn leaves fall onto dying lawns, the litter on the beach begins to disappear. I pray for snow to sterilize the sand.

During the winter, I wrap myself like a wound and climb the steps onto Johnny Mercer’s pier. I take my clarinet and lean into the wind, force myself to the very end where the only light visible leaks through holes in the tin sky. Mama watches; I sometimes see her winking.

With hobo gloves, I assemble my clarinet and grease each cork. I suck on a reed and remember those homemade popsicles Mama used to make in ice trays. The ocean mist sprays my face and fingertips. My skin is confused. It can’t decide if it’s freezing or burning. I press the mouthpiece onto my bottom lip; run my tongue along its crystal tip as my fingers strangle the ebony body, bejeweled with silver rings and buttons. One long hot breath followed by another causes clouds to seep from the bell. This is when I bite down with the pressure a bitch applies to the nape of her puppy’s neck. I push notes through the instrument. Some are thin and light, others thick and dark. The textures vary, depending on speed and volume. Condensation dances inside the glass mouthpiece.

Mama raises her head from her watery grave and listens. She floats above the waves, white gown billowing and swirling on the water. I serenade her, show her I became a musician, just like she said I would. I play the second movement, the Romanza, from Poulenc’s Clarinet Sonata. She comes closer. I hear a gull shriek a warning. I turn to see a silhouette duck down behind a dune. A stranger in the darkness lurks, but I ignore him. He reminds me of my father, spying, but never making his presence known. I play louder, but Mama never stays. When I can no longer feel her, I stop playing.

Night after night, I find myself alone, sitting on the splintered edge with feet dangling above the liquid onyx mouth of a hungry ocean. I feed it music followed by the silence Mama leaves in her wake. I reach out, upturned palm, and catch empty answers that trickle through my fingers, reaching, always reaching.

- - -
Paula Ray has a knack for repairing broken musical instruments and donates them to struggling band programs in her area. She teaches music during the day and writes poetry and fiction in the margin of her life while humming songs she’s yet to record. Visit her blog: http//:musicalpencil.blogspot.com

2/19/10

2010-02-19T00:00:00.001-08:00

Imperial Death Again
By E.S. Wynn

Rain
In Sacramento
Is the color of highway
Through blurry wetness
On broken wipers
Everything moves like slow chrome
Powerful surges
Arteries of a dying empire
Red lights going out
White lights coming in
Carting out the death
Carting in the hopeful life
Mere buckets of water
In a sinking ship

- - -
E.S. Wynn sees echoes in things that cease to exist.

2/18/10

2010-02-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Meaning of the Night
by James C. Clar

Elevation to the position of chief librarian proceeds in a series of distinct phases. Midway through the first of those, I was still awed by the honor that was about to be bestowed upon me.

“Boreas,” the high priest addressed me from beneath his cowl. “Are you ready to proceed with your initiation into the ultimate mysteries of your conlegium? Think carefully. From this point on, there is no turning back.”

I had been raised in the conlegium and had labored in the Library for nearly thirty years. I could no more refuse than I might, of my own volition, cease drawing breath. Even so, I hesitated. As a sub-librarian, I had been instructed in only the more superficial of our mysteries. What the future might hold for me once our most sacred doctrines were revealed was something that, despite the promptings of my ego, gave me pause.

I knew that untold millennia ago when power was consolidated in the Ekklesia, books had been outlawed. As a result, the general population of our world sank into illiteracy. The Library was constructed as a repository for the arcana of the ages and so that the accumulated knowledge of the past might not be lost. The members of my conlegium retained the ability to read and were charged with the organization and maintenance of the Library.

As for the Library itself, most of us who wandered its many rooms and levels assumed it to be infinite in space. More than a few of my colleagues also stated matter-of-factly that there never was a time when the Library was not. In the end, my curiosity concerning the veracity of such assertions overcame my fear.

“Yes, your eminence,” I said in a voice which I hope did not betray itself by wavering, “I am ready to proceed.”

The hundred or so sub-librarians who watched from the tiers of stone seats that flanked the great hall in which we stood seemed to have taken a collective breath. Perhaps they feared that I would decline. In any event, it was owing to them and their evident admiration for me and my work that I stood poised to succeed our previous chief librarian who had been found dead of a heart attack in the stacks two days earlier. Contrary to the practice in most other branches of the vast bureaucracy that controlled our world, our conlegium choose its leader by vote and on the basis of merit rather than heredity.

The sound of a brass gong sounded from deep in the dark and smoky recesses of the hall. The high priest’s voice took on an even more solemn note. “Then the hall will now be cleared and the final steps in the initiation of Boreas will conclude in holy secrecy.”

I was instructed to kneel as my former colleagues filed out of the hall. I can well imagine that the majority of them stole glances in my direction; glances fraught with envy and, perhaps, relief as well. Although we knew little of such matters, the task of the chief librarian was most certainly one laden with responsibility. And, too, it would be the last time that any of them would see my face … or I theirs.

For the rest of that night, I knelt in silence and listened as the lore of our conlegium was made known to me. As the first light of the pale sun filtered into the upper reaches of the hall and dust motes swam in its wan light, I was ordered to rise so that I might be conducted to the medical wing. There, members of that syntechnia would prepare me for masking. Once elevated, the chief librarian thenceforth wears a mask signifying his office.

*********

Two weeks have passed. I can hear the measured steps of the high priest and his acolytes as they approach the cell in which I have been recuperating. I must remember to let them know how well cared for I have been by the members of the medical syntechnia. Today my bandages are to be removed and I am to be masked. Afterward I will be presented to my conlegium as their new chief librarian.

I have no regrets. I understand what has been done … and why. It is a small price to pay. It is one thing for a sub-librarian to fritter his time away reading. That is to be expected and, to some degree, encouraged. For a chief librarian to do so would be anathema.

My task now is to see to the physical preservation of the innumerable tomes placed under my care. From that standpoint, their actual content is of no consequence whatsoever. My earlier infatuation with such matters was, as I said, something that accompanied my youth and my apprenticeship.

As the high priest explained toward the end of my initiation, it may well be that my manifest love for the matter inside the folios, octavos and scrolls that abound in the vast alcoves of the Library has prepared me to care for the books themselves with a vehemence that someone who was unaware of their substance might lack.

It will take me some days to learn to negotiate the Library given my new physical condition. I must be careful not to reveal too much to the sub-librarians with whom I come into contact. Any disorientation I may manifest can easily be ascribed to the newness of my role and the unaccustomed burden of my duties. The sensors in my mask will help as well. That the Library is, generally speaking, a dark place means that I am already acclimated to working in dim conditions. The transition should not, therefore, be a difficult one.

Now, as the mask is lowered over my head, I recall something written aeons ago by our most illustrious chief librarian, Borkos: “The Pancreator who saw fit to give me books, also gave me night.”* I now comprehend the full meaning of those cryptic words.

THE END

* “Let neither tear nor reproach besmirch this declaration of the mastery of God who, with magnificent irony, granted me both the gift of books and the night.” Jorge Luis Borges

- - -
James C. Clar has published short fiction in print as well as on the Internet. Most recently, his stories have found a home in the Taj Mahal Review, Golden Visions Magazine, The New Flesh Magazine, Antipodean SF, Shine: The Journal of Flash, Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers, Apollo's Lyre, Static Movement, Bewildering Stories and Flashshot. His story "Starbuck" was voted story-of-the-year by the editors of Long Story, Short and " A Night to Remember" (August 2009) has been nominated for a 2010 Pushcart Award by the publishers of Word Catalyst Magazine.

2/17/10

2010-02-17T00:00:00.000-08:00

The Return Trip
By Jim Harrington

Brad hooked a carabiner into the bolt in the granite wall. He planted his feet against the stone and leaned back in the harness. His left hand held the rope. He rolled his shoulders forward and back. The climb had been more strenuous today, the anger fermenting in his gut the probable cause, he assumed. Regardless, he felt the same rush he always did when he looked down the eight hundred feet to the base of the mountain and inhaled the pollutant-free air.

His climbing partner, Erik, wasn’t with him today. They hadn’t spoken since Erik had been promoted to a corporate sales manager position and transferred to the headquarters in Chicago. Brad had wanted the job and didn’t know Erik was under consideration. He wondered what else Erik had neglected to tell him. September hadn’t been a good month for Brad. Besides losing the promotion, his father had passed away; and on the night he planned to propose, Jessica told him her true calling was to be a nun. He didn’t know which one of the three he hated more.

He pulled himself back into position and prepared to continue when he heard the voices. He looked up, down, left, right, and saw no one. Yet the voices continued. Shouts for help? He paused. Silence.

He placed his foot on an outcropping; and when he put his weight on it, he heard a moan, as if he’d kicked someone in the stomach. He shook his head, wondering if the altitude was getting to him, and continued his climb. After a few more steps, he heard another moan.

“Who’s there?”

He listened, looked, but no answer came.

“Come on. This isn’t a joke.”

The voices began again, their chant louder. They were cries for help. He was certain of it, but from where. As he restarted his climb, the rock moved and shook him from his perch. He repelled away from the wall and watched a vertical seam open in front of him. He swung back to the rock and bounced off once more. The crack widened. He returned to the cliff face and felt a suction on his chest, pulling him into the opening. He propped a foot on either side of the hole, leaned back, and twisted his torso in an attempt to free himself from the eerie force. It was no use. The grip was too strong.

Brad screamed for help as the mountain enveloped him. Whatever held him lowered Brad to the floor of the cave, and the pressure on his chest eased. He saw the fissure closing and raced to escape, but it was too late. He turned and noticed the figures of other climbers—some asleep, in fetal positions—nested among the layered rock. A few waved to him and called his name.

It was warm and damp inside, like his impression of a womb. A solitary figure stood at the back of the cave. It was a woman, a woman he knew well, his mother, or maybe everyone’s mother. It was then he realized the voices from earlier weren’t crying for help. They were saying “Welcome home.”

- - -
Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two cats. His stories have appeared in Apollo's Lyre, Camroc Press Review, Every Day Fiction, The Houston Literary Review, Long Story Short, MicroHorror, Flashshot and others. He currently serves as a flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre. You can read more of his stories at www.jimharringtononline.net.

2/16/10

2010-02-16T00:00:00.000-08:00

OCULUS
By E.S. Wynn

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