Within a couple weeks, it will be Halloween, meaning Haratron can finally wear that human costume-the one he swears isn’t made from real human flesh but has raised more than a few eyebrows around the office. Personally, I find it’s better not to ask. He gets touchy. And touchy with mechanical claws? Never any fun.

This month is our last month of “regular” content (if anything that appears here can be called regular). It’s also a little fatter than usual. We have poems by Casey FitsSimons, Doug Draime, and Mark Cunningham, as well as prose by CJ Hallman, Deborah Gottner, John Frank Weaver, Pavelle Wesser, Lydia Fazio Theys, and Leland Thoburn. We hope you enjoy it!

November and December will feature nothing but science fiction. Why? Because we feel like it. And because we like lasers and time machines and alien motherships. And because a sentient robot runs our PR department. Keep those sci-fi submissions coming!

That’s all for now. Big news, you say? I assure you I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if I did, I would certainly wait until next month to tell you. It’s our birthday, after all.

—Andrew Kaye, editor-in-chief

I’ll squish any with my thumbnail
that trample on my words
and lest he be remembered,
on a period, obscured.

————

Casey FitzSimons is an over-educated, under-published artist and writer. Her father was a Milton scholar and she has yet to walk it off.

I couldn’t read my intervention on how hegemonic ideology physically changes the way people see the world until I put on my new glasses with the thick black ear pieces that are all the rage now. I started to see things as if I were a point-of-view shot in a movie, so I knew I was getting ready to do something bad. I’ve come to terms with everything I’ve ever done, but I’m still embarrassed by the hair on my nose. When I look in the mirror, I think of the mathematical statement that 1 can be noted two ways, either as 1 or .99. People who believe that someday their Prince will come have never really been constipated.

[specimen]

She was a mail-order bride, yet she resented our kidnapping her, which struck us as a little inconsistent. But that fighter plane what costs $150 million is our health care system. He said, “floating bridges the relationship between solid and liquid.” Then we found the bridge didn’t float. The committee took a never-say-die approach toward investigating reports of reincarnation.

[specimen]

Only 27% of the people surveyed could tell where their lungs are. My bowels moved and didn’t leave a forwarding address. Brits Say They Made Sperm. Monsanto used to make plastics; now it copyrights organisms, but I don’t think they go so well with muzak. My life changed forever when my date to the sixth grade prom wore a Stay Furry button on her dress. Scientists Reveal that the Human Body Glows.

[specimen]

No doubt aliens built the pyramids, but were they legal aliens? Now that I don’t get around easily, I’ve become interested in hyperspace. The website’s package tracking offered a “Quantum View” and, indeed, it could tell me either that the package was moving or where it was, but not both at the same time. The phrase “anxiety of the infinite” was so vague we realized we’d worry over it endlessly. It turned out the 80-ft. long boar thing was back projected-we were.

————

The following information about Mark Cunningham is true: he has four chapbooks out, all on-line:  Second Story and nightlightnight (with photographs by Mel Nichols), both from Right Hand Pointing; 10 specimens from Gold Wake Press; and Nachträglichkeit from Beard of Bees.  He also has three books out: BodyLanguage from Tarpaulin Sky Press, 80 Beetles from Otoliths, and 71 Leaves, an ebook from BlazeVox. Mark Cunningham is also a notorious liar. Look up any of these publications, and you’ll find nothing but advertisements for shampoo and donuts (and one instance of shampoo for donuts). Go ahead. Look them up.

he called
at 4 in the
morning
crying into
the phone
telling me
she’d left
him and
asking for
my advice.
i told him
to take a
nice hot bath,
clean his
apartment
of all her things,
listen to some
jazz (Miles Davis
if he had any),
take the phone off
the hook, lock
his door, fix himself
something to eat, &
go the fuck
back to bed.

 
Budget Meeting

I put in a comma
break the 4 lines
into 2 stanzas,
while I talk to my wife
about economics.
I finish it and read
the poem aloud to her.
She looks up at me from
our stack of bills,
and smiles gently.

“That’s very interesting, honey.
And, oh, thanks for reminding
me. I forgot to budget in
the $25 you made this
month from your writing
career.”

————

Doug Draime emerged as a presence in the ‘underground’ literary movement in Los Angeles in the late 1960’s. Most recent books include: “Knox County” (Kendra Steiner Editions) and “Los Angeles Terminal” (Covert Press). Forthcoming are two large collected volumes: “Transmissions From The Underground” (d/e/a/d/b/e/a/t press) and “Farrago Soup” (Coatlism Press). Also, coming out in 2009, “Boulevards of Oblivion” from Tainted Coffee Press. His diverse range of writing continues to appear in publications worldwide. He moved to the foothills of Oregon in 1981, where he still resides.

Before exploring examples of the terrible crimes against breakfast cereal, it is essential to classify this common item. According to grocers throughout the United States, breakfast cereal constitutes approximately 10% of the supermarket environment. Being minorities, cereals do not have adequate resources to protect themselves. Their minority status once they leave the store constitutes an additional travesty–achieving a 2.5% representation in homes and businesses. Among the 350-some types of cereal, about half are sugared (tailor-made for children), 1/10 are granola, approximately 1/6 are oatmeal, and about 1/4 are flakes (corn or bran).[1] Because of their low intelligence, flakes become easy prey; cereal slaughterers target them the most.

On June 7, 2009, police arrested Sylvia Spoon in the five-story, 102-room mansion her parents gave her when she left high school. Her parents, concerned about her welfare as a single woman, ensured she would never need to go on welfare. Spoon inherited more than just the mansion, though; she received at birth an extreme aversion to cereal, especially flakes (they remind her of her younger sister who happens to be blonde). She focused her rage on one brand: Special K®. In her sentencing interview, Spoon admitted to spying on her mother as she took a butter knife and repeatedly stabbed the defenseless food while shouting expletives. At first, Spoon stared in horror and disbelief, but with time grew desensitized to cereal mutilation. Predictably, it was Special K® that had incurred her mother’s wrath.

When Tom Brokaw asked why she had selected her unique method of torture, Spoon revealed, “I wanted a close connection to my victim and silverware was too big a barrier. Instead of using utensils like so many cereal killers, I use my hands, crushing each flake until there’s nothing left but fragments. It is extremely satisfying to do this.”

When asked if there were any other triggers in her childhood that led to these destructive tendencies, Spoon pointed to her mother’s constant demoralizing statements against the hapless cereal. “I was unmoved. I didn’t even see Special K as cereal anymore.”

Spoon’s story is not unique. Although only a dozen people more or less can be labeled cereal killers, the brutal nature of the act warrants scrutiny. How is a cereal killer different from any other food killer, or those who don’t kill food at all? (Jainists only consume food already dead…they neither harvest grain nor pull vegetables.)

Dr. Herbert Nutrimentum, in response to these questions, indicates that the biggest distinction between a cereal killer and a “normal person” is a cereal killer is unable to have a normal relationship with other foods. Whereas ordinary people purchase produce and wash and cut fruit and vegetables carefully before consumption, the cereal killer feels terrified of foods he or she cannot control. Because of its delicate nature, foddapaths[2] become obsessed with cereal and often target one brand. In many cases, cereal becomes a surrogate victim for another food that has more power such as chocolate and chips. The breakfast cereal has a malleability and resiliency most other foods lack and contains blandness easy to control. This may be why few foddapaths target granola.

In extreme cases, foddapaths will consume the cereal after mutilation and keep a trophy of the victim. In Spoon’s case, she stored the plastic bags that cradle the cornflakes. She burns all other evidence. She, like many other cereal killers, is meticulous: she disposes the evidence miles away from her home to avoid detection.

Like most cereal killers, she made a fateful mistake that led authorities to her door. She, like dozens of other incarcerated perpetrators, undergoes extensive psychiatric care.

[2] Those who are maladjusted toward food and have no empathy concerning cuisine. Not all foddapaths are cereal killers, but all cereal killers are foddapaths.

————

deborah gottner lives in Colorado with one husband, one dog (no, they are not the same entity, and no she is not polygamous), one fish, and one snake. By day, deborah performs in front of a captive audience containing eye-rolling, insult-slinging adolescents at Roosevelt High School and by night, she practices her new routine for the next day. during the summer she sleeps. and eats. and sleeps. sometimes writes. deborah has published poetry and fiction in small periodicals but is hoping to one day make her “big break.”

“Gladys,” he said, “we need to talk.”

“At two o’clock in the morning?”  

“I’m leaving Agnes for you.”

“Have you told her yet?”

“No, I wanted to tell you first.”

“How can I believe you when you’ve said this sort of thing before, Will?”

“Tonight is different, Gladys.  I was lying in bed and my thoughts were driving me insane.  Agnes woke up and asked me what was wrong.  I told her I had an emergency at the hospital, then I came to my office to think.  I love you, Gladys.”

She coughed.  “Will, remember I told you about my old boyfriend, Don?”

“I don’t care about him.”

“Don started calling me, claiming that he couldn’t live without me.” 

“Forget that idiot.”

“He asked me to marry him.”

“Surely, you’d never consider such a ridiculous proposal.”

“I am.  I did.  I accepted his marriage offer.”

Will gasped.  ”Gladys, how could you?”

“I thought I was wasting my life on a married man.  Besides, I feel good about my decision, Will.”

“Ahhhh.”   

“Will?  What’s wrong?  Are you going to hurt yourself?”

“Am I going to hurt myself?”

“Don’t repeat what I say.  Answer me, Will.”

“Fine.  No, Gladys, I’m not going to hurt myself; I am going to kill myself.”

He slammed down the receiver and slumped over on his desk.   With his eyes closed and his head pounding, he took himself back in time.  He’d attended an Ivy League college and had gone on to a top medical school.  He’d married a pretty girl and had built up a successful medical practice.  Then the problems had started; the only problem was that they’d all been inside his head.  He wasn’t happy.  It was a simple and as complicated as that.  His life had become one long, tedious chore.  Only Gladys had broken his cycle of misery.   

Three loud knocks on the door interrupted his thoughts.

“Who is it?” He called out.

The door flew open and a man stumbled in wearing rumpled pajamas.  His hair was unruly and his expression wild.   

“Hey Doc!”  He plopped himself into the chair opposite Will’s desk.

“Pete, what are you doing here?”

“I was out for a stroll and noticed your lights on.  I figured we could chit chat.”

Will cursed himself for not locking the door.  “You can’t just barge in here, Pete.”

Pete stared at him with haunted eyes.  “The pain is getting worse, Doc.”

“We discussed this during your last appointment.  Pain marks the progression of your disease.”

Pete wrung his hands together.  “This ain’t no life, Doc.  It’s a living death.”

“You have to be strong for your family, Pete.”

“I got none.  My wife and I recently divorced.  At first, I was relieved, but then I started to understand that all them years, I’d seen her like the kitchen wallpaper, something faded and old in the background of my life.  I was wrong.”

“Go home and get some sleep, Pete.” 

Pete started to cry.  ”Tonight I was lying in bed, thinking, and suddenly I couldn’t take it no more.  I ran from the apartment in my pajamas.  I never stopped until I saw your lights.  Then I says to myself, ‘Me and Doc awake at this crazy hour is destiny.  We gotta’ talk.”

Will leaned forward.  “You need to be evaluated by a psychiatrist, Pete.  I’ll give you someone’s name.”  Will began scribbling in a notepad.

“Don’t bother, Doc.”

Will looked up and stiffened.  “What’s that in your hand?”

“What do you think?”  Pete was pointing a gun at his own head. 

“You’re not thinking of killing yourself right here in my office, are you, Pete?”

“Of course I am.”

 Will stood.  “Pete, you cannot kill yourself here.”  

“Is all you care about your office, Doc?” 

“Killing yourself anywhere is not advisable, Pete.”

“It’s the easiest way out,” Pete cocked his pistol.

“Don’t do this, Pete.” 

Pete’s eyes were empty.  “Good bye, Doc.”

Will leaped forward and grabbed at the gun just as it went off.  The blast threw him against the wall, where he remained, stunned.   When the smoke cleared, he saw the gun lying at an angle from what was left of Pete’s head.  As Will stood paralyzed with horror, the door flew open and Gladys charged in, flanked by four police officers.  She stopped, her mouth opening in horror. 

“Will, oh my God!”

He looked up.  “Gladys!  I…”

Her eyes filled with hatred.  “I knew you didn’t have the guts to kill yourself but just in case, I called the police.  Now I see that in your weakness, you killed this poor, innocent man.  Oh, Lord, have mercy.”  She choked out a sob and shoved a fist into her mouth.

“Gladys, you’re wrong.  I was just about to take an overdose of prescription medication when he barged in, ranting and raving.  I tried to help him.  I swear!” 

 The police officers trained their guns on him.  ”Raise your hands above your head, Mister.”

Will, who had contemplated suicide only moments before, now obeyed the officers on pain of death.  As they handcuffed him, he stared at Gladys.

“The truth of my innocence is out there, Gladys, even if you never believe me.”

#

Three years into Will’s incarceration, Pete appeared to him in his dreams. 

“If you’re willing to die, Doc, I can take you to the truth.”

“I died on the day I didn’t kill you, Pete.”

“You may as well have.  Your life ain’t nothing but a living death.  Come with me, Doc.”

“You fill me with a cold comfort, Pete.  Let’s go.”   

As Will departed his life, he glanced one last time upon the world of shadows and lies before looking up to welcome the truth.

The End

————

Pavelle Wesser’s writing has appeared in various online publications. Her interests include travelling, cooking, reading, writing fiction and taking care of her dogs.  When she is not engaged in the aforementioned activities, she can be found teaching English at various locations in and around New Haven, Connecticut.

My parents cut me off, said I needed to learn responsibility, independence, the value of a dollar, etc. but the truth is that my dad bled half my college fund dry to buy his mistress a boob job, and then, my mom drained the rest of it because she needed a better/bigger boob job than my dad’s mistress. Cest la vie, such is life, whatever, etc.

There we were, two fully grown nineteen-year-old college men outside a dorm building, playing basketball waiting for the cafeteria to open up for dinner.

“This place is like a jail,” Bryant threw the basketball up toward the hoop. Missed. He always missed. Just a terrible basketball player. He was from northern China, tall and white-skinned, which was an effect he’d told me, of all the milk he drank as a child. He also told me that in his middle school English class, he’d taken the English name Kobe Bryant, but after he came to America and found out about the whole rape thing, he’d shortened the name to just Bryant so as to have better luck with the ladies. It didn’t work. Bryant was such a typical Asian– never got any ass.

The ball bounced off the backboard and landed, squarely, in my hands. I dribbled it against the concrete. “Don’t they pull this same shit on you in China? Tanks, Tiananmen, all of that.”

Bryant lunged toward me with his French bread arms, trying to steal away the ball. “In middle school and high school, yeah. But college is supposed to be the free time.”

I turned my back to him to protect the ball. He cut in with his meaty arm and stole it anyway. He dribbled toward the goal, performed an inept layup that ended with him on the ground– a jumbled pile of flesh like a Picasso gone wrong, Oriental. The ball rolled around on the rim for a moment, and finally went in– swish. Bryant stood up and dusted off his Nike warm-ups. I looked at him, this giant of a Chinese guy in head-to-toe name brands and I thought, Jesus. I thought, if this guy…THIS guy…thinks this place is like a prison, there must be something wrong.

The ball bounced underneath the basket, closer and closer to the ground before stopping and rolling away toward the grass.

“Bryant, how much are we– how much do your parents pay for you to go to school here?”

Bryant shrugged, “I don’t know. Maybe thirty-thousand U.S. dollars a year.”

“Jesus. Do they have that kind of money? In China?”

“They saved much money, but still, they must to take out loans from friends and people in my hometown.”

“God. Christ. Damn. Jesus.”

All of that money– it was going to be my responsibility now. Thirty thousand bucks a year. I’d pay that off in a hundred years, maybe, probably not. I secretly wished, right then, that someone would cut off my dad’s dick Lorena Bobbit-style so that he wouldn’t get to enjoy the four tits my tuition money had paid for.

“Yeah, it will be worth it though. They say it’s investment. I go back with a degree from America and I should earn much money.”

“And if you don’t?”

Bryant stood on the court, his sneakers planted in the concrete, his calves like tree trunks. He stood with this dumb look on his face. I guess nobody had ever doubted him before. He finally shrugged. “Then, my friend, I’m fucked.” He ran off to chase the ball into the grass. I watched the slow stream of students flowing out of the dorm and into the cafeteria. I wasn’t hungry anymore. But that’s not what this is about.

Bryant and I were always together; roommates, best friends, all of that.

My family was/is white. Not just race, but, like, really white. Like, our house was on a lake, and our walls were the same beige color that they had been when we moved in, and we had a boat and jet skis, and my dad barbecued squash and chicken breast and made monthly car payments. That kind of white. Bryant was/is really Chinese– like super Chinese. His parents called him weekly, Sunday nights, and shouted at him, ching-chong-fuck-you. After these phone calls, Bryant would spend a solid five to ten minutes cursing under his breath in English, then he’d turn on his computer and engage in a marathon session of World of Warcraft that generally lasted anywhere until midnight to early the next afternoon, depending on the volume and severity of that night’s shouting.

It was during one of these Warcraft marathons that I made my big announcement.

“I’m going to the bank tomorrow.”

Bryant grunted, clicked, clicked, clicked the mouse.

“Bryant. Did you hear me? I’m going to the bank tomorrow.”

He pounded on one of the keys on his keyboard and cursed under his breath.

“Bryant, you stupid motherfucker.”

His eyes didn’t stray from the screen, “What?”

“I am going to the bank tomorrow to take out a loan to rob the bank so that we can go to prison.”

A few days before, in my Ethics class, I’d learned that there was some program our state had instituted that enabled prisoners to receive diplomas while behind bars. I figured this would save me, and Bryant’s family back in China, a shit load of money. Plus, you know, I needed an accomplice, a sidekick, whatever, etc.

Bryant turned around in his chair. “What?”

“I calculated the costs. It’s expensive to commit a felony. So we’ll need to take out a small loan.”

I wanted to commit a federal offense so I’d get into a good prison. That’s the thing people forget about prisons, that they are a lot like colleges– good, bad, average, snooty, historically all-black, liberal, religious, whatever, etc. College, prison, prep school, law school, it’s all the same really, so I wanted to do something big enough to get into someplace decent. I wasn’t Ivy League material, that’s for damn sure, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to settle for State– not again.

“Felony?”

“Jesus, Bryant. A felony. A crime. We want to do something big, you know, but murder is just morally…I don’t know. I couldn’t just kill someone, you know?”

“Okay,” he faced the screen and continued playing, shooting, walking around in avatar form.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“So, you’ll rob a bank with me?”

The back of his head nodded. “Sure. Fine.” He slaughtered someone on the screen, paused the game, turned to me, “But will we have to repay the loan?”

I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. That’s not what this is about.

I put on the same white button-down, slacks, and tie that I had worn to my high school graduation. They fit more tightly than I had remembered. Fuck the freshman fifteen. Bryant dressed up, too– he’d ordered some fancy outfit, Versace or some shit, from the Internet with his credit card one night when he was bored. It didn’t fit him right, but it definitely looked expensive. Bryant waited in the lobby and I followed the man who had called my name, followed him back to his office, took a seat in a scratchy upholstered chair.

“How can I help you, son?” The man, the loan officer, had sort of a high voice, like his balls had once-upon-a-time been caught in a vice.

“I’d like to take out a loan.”

The man glanced down at a stack of papers on his desk, then stared at his computer screen. I leaned around the corner– a game of Solitaire was open on the screen. He was definitely in a bind– not going to win this game no matter how long he stared. Try again, man.

“Yoohoo? I said, I’d like to take out a loan.”

He tore his gaze away from the screen, shuffled the papers, “What for?”

“Because I need money.”

He cleared his throat, “Yes. So it seems. What is the purpose of this loan?”

I stared back at him.

“In other words, how do you intend to spend this money?”

“I need it to rob a bank.”

“A bank.” He slurped something, I guess his own spit because there sure as hell wasn’t any spaghetti lying around. “Rob. A. Bank.”

“Yes.”

“Are you pulling my leg, son?”

I shook my head all solemn-like, but I wanted to laugh at this man with Mike Tyson’s voice calling me son.

“Why do you need a loan to rob a bank?”

I pulled a sheet of notebook paper from my pocket, unfolded it, rested it atop his desk. The man’s eyes darted left to right across the page. The asking price of a used van I had found in the newspaper classifieds, a couple of good guns, ski masks, etc. etc.

“Jesus.”

“You religious?”

“No, I just never really considered how much money it would take to pull something like this off. On TV, they always make it look so easy. Cheap. Affordable.”

“Yeah, well, that’s TV for you. Real life is hard times. Tough economy. All of that.”

The man nodded. The hum of the air conditioner filled the room. From a distant cubicle, I could hear a woman’s laughter, shrill and obnoxious, the kind of woman who would straighten a stranger’s tie, the kind of woman you wanted to shove down a flight of concrete stairs, etc. The banker tapped his Bic pen against my sheet of notebook paper, thud thud thud.

He lowered his voice to a whisper, “So, what bank you gonna rob?”

“This one.”

He nodded again, “Good choice. Yeah, tell you what. I give you a loan for all this–” he planted his finger on the paper, continued to whisper, “–and we call it a small personal loan. I’ll write down that you’re getting married and need the loan to pay for your honeymoon. Get my manager to approve it.”

“Where am I going on my honeymoon?”

“Hawaii?”

“Nice. What’s the catch?”

The man stared at me blankly, “That’s a TV line.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Okay. The catch,” he got this satisfied look on his face, “is that I’d really like it if you robbed me, personally. Don’t shoot me or anything. Just hold the gun to my head, threaten me, whatever you robbers do. I’ve just always wanted to be a hero.”

“Victim.”

“Whatever. At the very least, I’ll get some time off for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I already used up all my paid vacation this year looking after my mother.”

“You’ve always wanted to be a hero?”

The man nodded.

“Then why’d you become a loan officer?”

He shrugged, “You can’t go into the movies with a degree in Accounting.”

I promised him I would point the gun at his head, but not blow it off, and he gave me the stamp of approval, a fat wad of cash, his undying devotion, etc. etc.

Bryant tried to convince me to let him drive, but come on, the kid didn’t even have a valid U.S. driver’s license, and I didn’t want things to get messy– I just wanted a simple felony. So I drove, but let him control the radio. The bastard put on Celine Dion, can you believe that? Celine Dion. I didn’t say anything, figured I could listen to the wretched woman wail for a few minutes if it meant that I wouldn’t have to pay for college. Bryant sang along like we were at karaoke. I was embarrassed for him.

I parked, stepped out of the car, pulled on the ski mask, left the keys in the ignition, left Bryant in there, still singing along, wearing his own ski mask. I walked into the bank, did my thing, and next thing you know, everyone’s crouching on the ground, women are crying like titty-bitches, my gun is pointed at that Mike Tyson guy’s head, I’m surrounded by cops, etc. Just like TV, man. The Tyson loan officer had this big, stupid grin on his face, and I was happy that I could make his day, get him some extra vacation time, etc. I stood there for, like, ten minutes with the gun to the guy’s head. I kept saying, “Give me all the money. I’m robbing this bank.” I said it, like, fifty times. No one gave me any money. A few of the crouching customers and employees tossed, slid credit cards, debit cards, gift cards, at me from their spots on the floor. One of the cops picked up a gift card from the Olive Garden, muttered something about taking his wife to dinner, and finally spoke up, loudly, in this real confused voice, “Wait? You’re doing what?”

“I said, I am robbing this bank,” I tried to make my voice sound forceful, but it cracked like my balls were just now dropping– like right now-right now, like that episode of the Brady Bunch where Bobby sings a song about puberty or whatever. I ripped off my ski mask. None of the cops had guns. One of them held a latte or a mocha or an Americano or whatever, in one of those recyclable cups– he took a dainty sip and went, “You’re, like, what? Fourteen?”

I stood up straight, tried to puff out my chest, “Nineteen.”

Another cop shook his head, “Nah. No. You can’t be older than fourteen.” He bit at a hangnail.

Another cop squinted, “Fifteen, tops.”

“Arrest me!” I shouted. “Arrest me, or I’ll– I’ll shoot him!” The loan officer’s smile fell. The cops all shrugged. The first cop shoved the Olive Garden gift card into his empty gun holster. That other cop set his latte down on the counter. They plucked the gun from my hand, snapped handcuffs around my wrists, led me outside.

The van, Bryant, Celine Dion– they were long gone. I cursed the fucker under my breath, wished him luck, hoped his parents enjoyed their debt, hoped he didn’t get pulled over for driving without a license, etc.

After that whole ordeal, I pretty much became a minor celebrity. An example of hard work paying off. The dream. America’s sweetheart. Whatever.

On the TV in the prison lounge, I’d watch the weekly updates on Fox News. They did this segment with a blogger– another college student, a guy with a crew cut and a double chin, probably served in his school’s government or was his dorm’s RA or something– who had taken it upon himself to tell my story, writing shit about my progress, how many credits I had left to earn, the kinds of foods I ate, what activities I partook in that day in the recreation yard. Fox News called the weekly segment “Barvard Univeristy” or “Inside the Can (Graduate)” or “‘Can’egie Mellon” and all sorts of clever shit like that. It changed every week– you know, people get bored, whatever, etc. But that’s not what this is about.

Agnes and I, remember her? My dreams, my poems, my letters, all of that eventually became reality– Agnes and I had a thing. God, her lips, her skin, her curves, etc. My bunkmate Marcus went to the Computer Lab every evening to play World of Warcraft, and so this was when Agnes would come over to my place. I could be behind bars forever, man, if she was locked up, too. At that point, I only had a year left until I finished my degree and they let me out. It bothered me a little that I had only been sentenced for a three-and-a-half year term. We reclined together on the bed, Agnes and I. I took a deep drag from the cigarette she had sneaked in for me in her cleavage. “I think they were just being nice to me. Humoring me. This can’t be for real.” The cigarette tasted like sweat, like skin flakes, like her.

“Whaddya mean?” She rested her hand on my thigh, and I rested my hand on her thigh, and she said it so sweetly that I just wanted to squeeze the life out of her.

“The cops, Agnes. The media. The prison. Everyone. The whole circus. College boy goes to jail to make a point. Har Har. Isn’t that charming?”

“But this is whatchu wanted, right?”

I considered this for a moment, “Yes. No. I mean, I wanted to make a point. But mostly I didn’t want to have to pay for college. Why milk the cow when you get the udder for free? Or however it goes.”

She glanced down at her fingernails, “Lord, you know they don’t letchu have real fingernails workin’ in the food industry.”

“I don’t think I’m really locked up, is what I’m saying. I feel like I’m getting special treatment. Like the prison industry is using me to prove itself. Like they just took me in here for publicity or to get more funding or improve their rankings or whatever. Like I could just walk out of here anytime and no one is going to stop me. They just don’t take me seriously. As a prisoner, I mean.”

“You gettin’ your diploma?”

I nodded. Room, board, education– it had all been free. Agnes removed her hand from my thigh, jammed it inside her pants pocket, pulled out a hairnet, stood up. “I gotta go back to work, baby.”

“Agnes?”

She twirled the hairnet around her finger like it was a basketball. “Yeah, baby?”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“You wanna go get dinner or what? Go to the computer lab? Pool? TV room? Tanning beds?”

“No, I mean out out. Let’s go somewhere. To live.”

“Boy, you crazy. How we gonna pay for that shit?”

I stared up at the ceiling. “I know a loan officer.”

“Where we gonna live?”

“Hawaii.”

She shook her head and laughed, “Lord, no. No no no. Hot. Volcanoes. Racism. They ain’t really even parta the United States, you know. Different people. Different language.” She laughed harder and said, again, “Lord Almighty.” Her laughter was deep and hearty, like a big barbecued slab of meat. “Lord Almighty,” she went on, “Lord Almighty.”

I stared down at the book of poetry and love letters I had written about, but not for, her. I decided to start using the pages as toilet paper.

“Lord Almighy.”

She stood up, and her shoes squeaked softly against the floor. She disappeared to prepare dinner, and I lost my appetite– maybe I never had it. But, come on, even if she did squash my dreams, regularly, she could cook, and I couldn’t just stop loving her. Life’s not like that. And that isn’t what this is about.

Life’s like this– Marcus returned from the computer lab a couple hours later, and the guard came to lock up behind him, left the keys dangling in the lock, told us he was going to make a late-night run to Arby’s, asked if we wanted anything. We said no, but told him to drive safely. I fell asleep to the steady sound of Marcus’s snoring, wondered if I’d ever find a place as free as prison, what I was going to do when they let me out– maybe commit murder, maybe get my Master’s.

*

You know, there’s basketball and there’s Mexican food cooked by white people in a college cafeteria and there’s that emptiness that starts in the bottom of your stomach, not heartburn, and you start to feel the world’s sadness on your shoulders, and sometimes, when I laid awake in my prison bunk, listening to Marcus snore, I would think back to when my dad used to fund my endeavors and my mom was flat-chested. I haven’t spoken to them in a few years. I’m sure they saw it all on Fox News– my independence, my responsibility, all that jazz, but they never called, e-mailed, text-messaged, Twittered, etc.

Anyway, now, I’m out. The blog’s gone, archived. Now I am free, a free man, twenty-two, etc.

I stopped driving a car not because I’m some environmental freak or because I can’t afford the gas (the State gave me a car, an apartment, a big fat lump sum when I left prison– to get my life started, stand on my own two feet, teach a man to fish, all of that) but because I felt so isolated in that Toyota pod.

Now, I take the bus and there are people on the bus who smell like urine because they urinate on themselves and there are people without limbs and all sorts of crazy shit like that, and sometimes when I’m downtown waiting to transfer buses, there’s this midget who sits perched on a first-floor windowsill smoking Parliament after Parliament, and at first I was tempted to make some joke to him about cigarettes stunting his growth, but then the more I held off, the more afraid I got to talk to him at all and then he became, like, this mythical creature, this god, and I would get all anxious in his presence, and on that windowsill he was taller than me, could see right over my head, straight into the outsides of other buildings. So yeah, there’s that midget, and then there’s this black guy who stands outside the Merill Lynch building, and then there’s Agnes, who dumped me for Marcus, because she can’t deal with men on the outside, and then there’s Fox News, who doesn’t do those clever segments anymore because there’s nothing clever left to say, not about me anyway, and then there’s Bryant, who went back to China and became some sort of business tycoon, and then there’s the Mike Tyson loan officer, whose manager forgave my loan because of all the publicity my stunt gave to their bank. And man, fuck it, man, then there’s me, me me me– me, who graduated debt-free. There. That. That’s what I wanted. That’s what this is about.

————

Tragically, CJ Hallman’s fiction is deeply rooted in fact. Triumphantly, writing has (thus far) kept her out of the loony bin. Next comes the story about the time she lost her eyebrow on a shopping mall merry-go-round. Also, her creative work has recently appeared in Identity Theory and SP Quill, among others.

1. Your submission must be in the form of a commandment. It must tell the reader what to do, or preferably, what not to do. We are open to any kind of commandments, but are especially partial to those that suck the fun right out of life.

2. All submissions must be a paragraph or shorter. No exceptions.

3. We will immediately reject any submission that includes name calling, personal accusations or other potential “Bible libel.” Been there. Done that. Amen.

4. All submissions must be carved in stone, double-spaced, no indents. No bevels or other fancy formatting. Granite only! Please, no marble or dolomite.

5. Please enclose a self-addressed stamped packing crate if you would like your submission returned.

6. There is no payment at this time, however consideration will be given in the afterlife.

7. By submitting your work to us, you are agreeing that we are free to attribute it to another author or deity at our discretion.

Thou shalt send us thy best work!
Yours,

Mo

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Lydia Fazio Theys lives in Connecticut with her husband and a pleasing mixture of great big kids, fat cats and a wee dog. Woodland creatures find the cat door and check in for a visit from time to time. Lydia’s work has appeared online and in print, including Cezanne’s Carrot, flashquake, Opium, Yankee Pot Roast, Gator Springs Gazette, Moondance (Pushcart nominee), Quintessence, All Things Girl, Somewhat, Mad Hatter’s Review, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Quiction, HeavyGlow and the humor anthology Just Bite Me; on KRCB public radio; on a coffee mug and as inspiration for a dance. Thou shalt read more of her stuff.

Although your story, A Hamster’s Heartbreak, does not meet our needs at this time, we thank you for submitting it, and we wish you the very best of luck placing it elsewhere.

Sincerely,

Editor
Backbiter Press

* * *

dear editor

you have to publish my story. hamster huey has cancer and my story needs to be published for him to survive and you wouldnt want him to die would you? my story has been rejected by 47 editors so far and that’s wrong cause it took me three years to write it and i cry every time i read it and sometimes i think i am little huey except i’m not.

i’m submitting seven copies this time so you can get a second opinion.

sincerely,

artemis queem

* * *

Dear Mr. Queem:

Your story was rejected not for lack of copies. We cater to a niche market, and your story is simply not suitable for that market. I suggest you read a copy of our magazine, Gay Mutant Extraterrestrial Romantic Mysteries, before submitting again.

We wish you the very best of luck in placing your story elsewhere.

Sincerely,

Editor
Backbiter Press

* * *

dear editor

here’s 20 copies of a hamsters heartbreak. i rewrote it so huey is now a gay extraterrestrial hamster with cancer and i even made it that he’s in love with an editor isn’t that perfect?

sincerely

artie

* * *

Dear Mr. Queem:

I never knew there were so many new ways to construct a sentence. What is the name of this new language you’ve invented? It can’t be English.

I repeat, this story is NOT suitable for our publication. Please read several copies before submitting anything to us again.

We wish you the very best of luck in placing your story elsewhere. Like a shredder.

Sincerely,

Editor
Backbiter Press

* * *

dear editor backbiter

huey got mad when he got your letter then he died. how does that make you feel you heartless moron you killed little huey. unlike you hueys in a better place now. he told me about it so i wrote another story i call it hamster in heaven (100 copies enclosed) and if you don’t publish this story huey will not be allowed to stay in that better place and he’ll have to go to the bad place where snakes and eagles and editors go when they dont print my stories.

yours,

a. queem

* * *

Mr. Queem:

Do you want to know what I really think? If I printed your story I would forfeit my career if not my life. My readers would revolt. Western culture would be set back thousands of years.

Forget about reading our publication. Start with any grade school grammar text.

Here are some of our associate editor’s comments:

1. “Is this manuscript missing some pages? If not, it should be - the more the better.”
2. “This is the worst translation I’ve ever seen. It is a translation, isn’t it?”
3. “We should report this guy to the SPCA. This is cruelty to animals of the highest order.”

We wish you the very best of luck in placing your story elsewhere. Like an incinerator.

Sincerely,

Editor
Backbiter Press

* * *

hey backbiter

huey has arisen and he’s coming to get you.

a.q.

* * *

Queem:

Please find enclosed a copy of a restraining order forbidding you, or any alter ego that may inhabit you, from approaching our offices, our editors, our employees, the parking lot attendant, the mailman - in short, ourselves or anyone with whom we might even have random contact.

You are also forbidden under penalty of law to submit any further material to this office, whether written in the English language or not.

We wish you the very best of luck in placing your story elsewhere. Like where the sun doesn’t shine.

Sincerely,

Editor
Backbiter Press

* * *

dear editor backbiter

enclosed please find my story about a poor poor author who is treated cruelly by idiot editors and other morons and then his story wins the knowbell price for literature and women love him but they hate the editors and will not mate with them.

sincerely,

huey

THE END

————

Leland Thoburn is 56 years old, married, and the father of two. In addition to writing, he plays jazz saxophone and flute, and has a hobby of exploring old ghost towns and mines in the California desert. Mr. Thoburn is working on one novel, one memoir, and a gaggle of short stories.

————

John Frank Weaver received $1.25 million from the stimulus package to write for Defenestration. In return for receiving those funds he agreed to forgo his annual bonus, which was going to be a puppy.