Issue One, May 2009
Contents
1. Poetry
Kissy Kinds of Candy; Among Seaweed; Kitten. (KJ Hannah Greenberg)
Nikki Purrs. (Michael Lee Johnson)
Skin and Bones; (Paul Handley)
Epitaph for a Dead Bouquet (Howie Good)
Voyages (Colin James)
obeying the rules; the end (Peycho Kanev)
Lives at Sea (William Doreski )
2. Flash Fiction
Injection (Paul Handley)
Bellows Falls (Luca Penne)
Summer's Here ( Stephen J. Katuzney)
Take-Off; The Buddhas (David Whitehouse)
3. Short Stories
Origin Story (Sheldon Lee Compton);
Nighttime drive (Malkam A. Wyman)
The Date (Randall W. Pretzer);
The Comfort Woman (David Whitehouse)
The Escape (Gavin McCall)
4. About the contributors. Rights remain with the author in every case.
Kissy Kinds of Candy; Among Seaweed; Kitten. (KJ Hannah Greenberg)
Nikki Purrs. (Michael Lee Johnson)
Skin and Bones; (Paul Handley)
Epitaph for a Dead Bouquet (Howie Good)
Voyages (Colin James)
obeying the rules; the end (Peycho Kanev)
Lives at Sea (William Doreski )
2. Flash Fiction
Injection (Paul Handley)
Bellows Falls (Luca Penne)
Summer's Here ( Stephen J. Katuzney)
Take-Off; The Buddhas (David Whitehouse)
3. Short Stories
Origin Story (Sheldon Lee Compton);
Nighttime drive (Malkam A. Wyman)
The Date (Randall W. Pretzer);
The Comfort Woman (David Whitehouse)
The Escape (Gavin McCall)
4. About the contributors. Rights remain with the author in every case.
Poems
Kissy Kinds of Candy
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Kissy kinds of candy cause
Gag reflexes in sober spiritual
Undertakings more
Often than she could swallow.
Such life-producing struggles
Shadowed other darknesses
As beige plus crimson blended time
Toward live action tornies.
If only a pill or two might
Erase the pain of dawn,
She'd schedule offsprings births
Like so many appointments.
Conversely, real life, grown-ups terms,
Offered only sloppy ways
Out of fanatic midnight prancing.
All in all, starlight was not so charming.
Her personal panorama balanced
Private ship capacities.
Again, she’d been mothballed
Nine months or so.
* * *
Among Seaweed
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Flitting fishes,
Tangles green and gray,
Swim sky colors,
Slipping ocean to ocean.
Amid bone corals,
Anemones’ rare beauty,
Brightly speckles certain,
Frugal graces.
Thick, heavy, pungent,
No land instrument can weigh
Sea gravity’s
Capricious quality.
Loaded by stones,
Sunk, once treasured
Nigh alive. Nigh awake
Nigh replete.
G-d speed to others,
Among seaweed, small lips sigh.
* * *
Kitten
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Fuzzy, friendly, frisky, fun.
Round, quite rompy, "real rotund."
Chewing, wooing, won’t be waiting.
Lying, lolling, contemplating.
Ears and whiskers, scurry! rush!
Bat ball, bend blinds, pounce, push!
Jump in jumble, jest, then jounce.
Furry love, in every ounce.
* * *
Nikki Purrs
By Michael Lee Johnson
Soft nursing
5 solid minutes
of purr
paw peddling
like a kayak competitor
against ripples of my
60 year old river rib cage−
I feel like a nursing mother
but I’m male and I have no nipples.
Sometimes I feel afloat.
Nikki is a little black skunk,
kitten, suckles me for milk,
or affection?
But she is 8 years old a cat.
I’m her substitute mother,
afloat in a flower bed of love,
and I give back affection
freely unlike a money exchange.
Done, I go to the kitchen, get out
Fancy Feast, gourmet salmon, shrimp,
a new work day begins.
* * *
Skin and Bones
By Paul Handley
I’m tracing my temporal veins down,
only to get lost almost immediately about socket high.
I let my pads cat pedal down,
Why is my nose so thick?
Mom said, lineage creates a unique nobility.
My lips created little deviation,
Why are my lips so thin?
Dad said, if you really want to know,
pay attention in Biology.
Down to my chest revealed a small soup bowl concavity,
Can I bench press my way out of the bottom?
Coach said, son the world needs more quality practice players.
Sister said, you could lose change in the folds of your gut,
I licked a quarter and stuck it in my bellybutton
and circled the room, I think I’m all torso,
I said to the changing room mirror,
It turned shimmery funhouse in response,
I looked like a receding-chested large bird,
with two insignificant peg legs.
The technician traced her fingers over the backlit x-rays
You have magnificent bone structure, she said,
On the wall next to the cheval, a subtle glance,
before I reach the edge of conceit,
and let my eyes move to perhaps the tibia.
* * *
Epitaph for a Dead Bouquet
By Howie Good
Here's something I was interested to learn
talking to another man in line:
it's possible to break your jaw
merely by laughing.
He smiled without showing his teeth,
and I felt a familiar emptiness,
as when voices float down at dusk
from the barred windows of Juvenile Hall,
or the shadow of the photographer
falls crookedly across the child in a photo,
or minutes turn into days,
and days into nine leafless oaks.
* * *
Voyages
By Colin James
The old fire is still there.
We haven't grown soft
just because of our
manicured hair.
Nowadays when I look over
the side of a cruise ship,
I see pirates
dangling from ropes
made of cloth and wire.
To ponder these
over ambitious Lotharios,
is to reminisce about the old days
and using the stairs.
* * *
obeying the rules
by Peycho Kanev
I was somewhere in the deep South
at some truck stop
in the diner
and here come this waitress
big southern woman
with big tits and big warm smile
she gives me the menu and walks away
I drink my beer slowly while I am waiting
for the steak
and just watch her behind the counter;
the movements of this big fresh southern body
bred by the warm sun and the healthy food
and I imagine how I go there
behind her and just bend her over
and she just smile and giggle and moan
but instead she just bring me my steak
and I reach for the salt
and the black pepper.
* * *
the end
by Peycho Kanev
bastard, she said
I am going away and I will never
come back.
you will die alone.
all right, I said.
bastard, she said
and
shot me
on the couch.
oh god.
I had so many great plans
for myself.
* * *
Lives at Sea
By William Doreski
From the dour winter shore we watch
boatloads of submarine victims
struggle past, the surf too heavy
for landing. The war ended
seventy years ago, but still
these survivors row and row,
hoping to one day step ashore.
They shout across the surf the names
of liberty ships torpedoed
on the Halifax-Portsmouth run:
George Davis, Jonathan Sturgis,
William Eustis, Robert Gray.
The men look tough from rowing
so long, the women smile with pride.
They must catch and eat fish raw,
but how do they get fresh water?
Trapping rain, we suppose. A life
at sea, the rowers in their nineties
or over a hundred, grown children
and grandchildren helping to row
the clumsy boats along the seam
that splits the water from the world.
You can’t believe these revenants
and their descendants have passed
every possible harbor in fog
ever since the Second World War.
I, however, have experienced
such fog, and accept the premise.
The rowers groan past, boatload
after boatload, and while you scorn
their efforts I wish them well—
the creaking of the oarlocks
resonating in all my joints,
and the depth of their sunburn
permanent as the printed page.
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Kissy kinds of candy cause
Gag reflexes in sober spiritual
Undertakings more
Often than she could swallow.
Such life-producing struggles
Shadowed other darknesses
As beige plus crimson blended time
Toward live action tornies.
If only a pill or two might
Erase the pain of dawn,
She'd schedule offsprings births
Like so many appointments.
Conversely, real life, grown-ups terms,
Offered only sloppy ways
Out of fanatic midnight prancing.
All in all, starlight was not so charming.
Her personal panorama balanced
Private ship capacities.
Again, she’d been mothballed
Nine months or so.
* * *
Among Seaweed
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Flitting fishes,
Tangles green and gray,
Swim sky colors,
Slipping ocean to ocean.
Amid bone corals,
Anemones’ rare beauty,
Brightly speckles certain,
Frugal graces.
Thick, heavy, pungent,
No land instrument can weigh
Sea gravity’s
Capricious quality.
Loaded by stones,
Sunk, once treasured
Nigh alive. Nigh awake
Nigh replete.
G-d speed to others,
Among seaweed, small lips sigh.
* * *
Kitten
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
Fuzzy, friendly, frisky, fun.
Round, quite rompy, "real rotund."
Chewing, wooing, won’t be waiting.
Lying, lolling, contemplating.
Ears and whiskers, scurry! rush!
Bat ball, bend blinds, pounce, push!
Jump in jumble, jest, then jounce.
Furry love, in every ounce.
* * *
Nikki Purrs
By Michael Lee Johnson
Soft nursing
5 solid minutes
of purr
paw peddling
like a kayak competitor
against ripples of my
60 year old river rib cage−
I feel like a nursing mother
but I’m male and I have no nipples.
Sometimes I feel afloat.
Nikki is a little black skunk,
kitten, suckles me for milk,
or affection?
But she is 8 years old a cat.
I’m her substitute mother,
afloat in a flower bed of love,
and I give back affection
freely unlike a money exchange.
Done, I go to the kitchen, get out
Fancy Feast, gourmet salmon, shrimp,
a new work day begins.
* * *
Skin and Bones
By Paul Handley
I’m tracing my temporal veins down,
only to get lost almost immediately about socket high.
I let my pads cat pedal down,
Why is my nose so thick?
Mom said, lineage creates a unique nobility.
My lips created little deviation,
Why are my lips so thin?
Dad said, if you really want to know,
pay attention in Biology.
Down to my chest revealed a small soup bowl concavity,
Can I bench press my way out of the bottom?
Coach said, son the world needs more quality practice players.
Sister said, you could lose change in the folds of your gut,
I licked a quarter and stuck it in my bellybutton
and circled the room, I think I’m all torso,
I said to the changing room mirror,
It turned shimmery funhouse in response,
I looked like a receding-chested large bird,
with two insignificant peg legs.
The technician traced her fingers over the backlit x-rays
You have magnificent bone structure, she said,
On the wall next to the cheval, a subtle glance,
before I reach the edge of conceit,
and let my eyes move to perhaps the tibia.
* * *
Epitaph for a Dead Bouquet
By Howie Good
Here's something I was interested to learn
talking to another man in line:
it's possible to break your jaw
merely by laughing.
He smiled without showing his teeth,
and I felt a familiar emptiness,
as when voices float down at dusk
from the barred windows of Juvenile Hall,
or the shadow of the photographer
falls crookedly across the child in a photo,
or minutes turn into days,
and days into nine leafless oaks.
* * *
Voyages
By Colin James
The old fire is still there.
We haven't grown soft
just because of our
manicured hair.
Nowadays when I look over
the side of a cruise ship,
I see pirates
dangling from ropes
made of cloth and wire.
To ponder these
over ambitious Lotharios,
is to reminisce about the old days
and using the stairs.
* * *
obeying the rules
by Peycho Kanev
I was somewhere in the deep South
at some truck stop
in the diner
and here come this waitress
big southern woman
with big tits and big warm smile
she gives me the menu and walks away
I drink my beer slowly while I am waiting
for the steak
and just watch her behind the counter;
the movements of this big fresh southern body
bred by the warm sun and the healthy food
and I imagine how I go there
behind her and just bend her over
and she just smile and giggle and moan
but instead she just bring me my steak
and I reach for the salt
and the black pepper.
* * *
the end
by Peycho Kanev
bastard, she said
I am going away and I will never
come back.
you will die alone.
all right, I said.
bastard, she said
and
shot me
on the couch.
oh god.
I had so many great plans
for myself.
* * *
Lives at Sea
By William Doreski
From the dour winter shore we watch
boatloads of submarine victims
struggle past, the surf too heavy
for landing. The war ended
seventy years ago, but still
these survivors row and row,
hoping to one day step ashore.
They shout across the surf the names
of liberty ships torpedoed
on the Halifax-Portsmouth run:
George Davis, Jonathan Sturgis,
William Eustis, Robert Gray.
The men look tough from rowing
so long, the women smile with pride.
They must catch and eat fish raw,
but how do they get fresh water?
Trapping rain, we suppose. A life
at sea, the rowers in their nineties
or over a hundred, grown children
and grandchildren helping to row
the clumsy boats along the seam
that splits the water from the world.
You can’t believe these revenants
and their descendants have passed
every possible harbor in fog
ever since the Second World War.
I, however, have experienced
such fog, and accept the premise.
The rowers groan past, boatload
after boatload, and while you scorn
their efforts I wish them well—
the creaking of the oarlocks
resonating in all my joints,
and the depth of their sunburn
permanent as the printed page.
Flash Fiction
Injection
By Paul Handley
It’s counterintuitive to believe that a bullet in the thigh makes me feel high, like a ham on rye, then soaked in a plate of lye, that gives credence to the artificial and subjectivity remains all the same, like a snowflake super slider that glazes completely over the perceptive, into my brother’s eleven a.m. shadow, that overly ornate skeleton of plates, caps, iron lung, and hip piercing that lead to cleansing defoliation, with a locked enamel drawer holding a brain displacing syrupy cryoprotectants, to be plucked from lyre playing clouds.
“What’s with all the carcinogens in this sandwich?”
* * *
Bellows Falls
By Luca Penne
The power canal: a long black slur creeping under the railroad girder bridge and slipping through the hydroelectric plant. A boy in a red T-shirt poses at a black ribbed steel fence and pees between the slats, reaching the canal with a long brassy arc of urine. The hippie who owns the little café overlooking the canal stares from his back door. The canal, no longer black and sluggish, froths with copper foam. A woman shaped like a bell jar emerges from a sulking frame house and shouts at the boy to stop fooling around and get pushing that lawn mower. The boy’s too busy peeing to hear her, his great arched stream glittering like a twenty-four karat rainbow. At last a freight train erupts from the little tunnel just past the bridge. The hoot of its air horn derides the boy’s effort, so he laughs, finishes with a dribble and zips his fly. His mother hustles down to the fence and drags him home, his bladder slack as a busted volleyball and his grin scorched on the sky.
* * *
Summer's Here
By Stephen J. Katuzney
The porch stairs were five high in front of the house, and we sat three high on the steps. We sat at steps two, four and five. Step one was too low and made your legs bend like two jack- knifed trucks.
The neighborhood was green grass spread between the street and the sidewalks lines, cars were passing about four an hour. It was not a busy road.
We did more watching than talking. Watching the next door family in the house to the left of the steps. The family was out of place on our block since they cursed and drank and were not at church much. he Kilgern family, that was the name of the people on the left. The Kilgerns beat their only child in the summer, probably all year but we couldn't be sure in the winter since no one sat outside. Michael was the child, and they beat him seasonally as far as we knew. Michael didn't have to do much to be struck, maybe it was the humidity of summer, but his folks had short tempers, they didn't go to church much.
"Michael", his mother talked only in screams as far as we'd heard.
"Michael, what have you done?"
Slap, slap, slap and crying, all summer, slapping and crying. We used to joke how he could cry after being beaten at such a consistent schedule, he wouldn't callus easy I guess.
"What do you think he's done"? asked Harper.
"What could he have done? What is it that he can do?" Sara always got choked up easy.
* * *
Take-Off
By David Whitehouse
It used to be OK to smoke, even on airplanes. The first time I rode one I flipped open my lighter and sparked one up. I puffed once and a shiny, creamy hostess came rustling down the aisle to tell me to wait until after take-off. I knew all about women by then, but had never sat on a runway caressing the first fragrance of a smoke with my tongue, too young to glimpse the march of progress.
* * *
The Buddhas
By David Whitehouse
So that my new girlfriend couldn't see, I sneaked a look at the museum's printed notes for the exhibition of 600-year-old Thai Buddha statues. Then, having let her walk past them a few times, I showed her the odd Buddha out: the one with the rolling eyeballs and the uncombed clots of hair.
-Parody of a fourteenth-century Buddhist follower, I murmured gravely into the elegant curves of her ear. -Trying too hard to understand the message.
-That's remarkable, she said.
I luxuriated in the authority of her heels ringing over the museum's parquet floor. Later, in bed, I said that the idea of the half-full cup of tea was meant to capture the Buddhist sense of having much still to learn. I jumped up to put the kettle on and she said the latest advice is to let it cool for four minutes to reduce the risk of cancer.
* * *
Short Stories
Origin Story
By Sheldon Lee Compton
The first word I learned to read was frog. I got kicked out of kindergarten for punching the teacher in the gut. She was a huge woman and it probably didn’t hurt her very much, but they kicked me out anyway.
Take him home and bring him back next year, they said, we'll see if he can do any better at that time.
Dad was a reader. He read everything, even old math books. You know, the kind that smelled like mold and had warped covers. He decided when they kicked me out he was going to teach me to read while I was at home until the next time around.
So we started with frog. I see now it was too big of a word for a four-year-old to be fooling with. But I learned it. I took a piece of paper to Mom in the living room and handed it to her.
Frog, I said to her, and pointed at the paper.
She looked disgusted and got up and went through the kitchen into the small bathroom at the back of the apartment. I could hear her crying inside.
Turns out Mom had a phobia of frogs. Her uncles tortured her with them when she was little. They'd squash a frog and then hold her down and rub the guts and slimy busted skin into her hair and on her face and such.
Mom and Dad divorced before I tried kindergarten again.
When they sent me back try again, I nailed it. The teacher with the big gut was gone, replaced with another one that smiled all the time and pointed to a board with blocks of color taped to it.
She'd ask, What color is this?
Blue, I'd say, and then spell it. B-L-U-E.
A kid beside me who keep saying cat whenever she asked him what color this or that was kept pulling ropes of snot from his nose as thick as pencils. He'd gather the snot together and then push it into his mouth and the smiling teacher would stop smiling and stop class to do whatever it was she had to do with the kid. I imagined his Mom and Dad ate snot, too.
They put in the hospital when I was thirteen. They put me in because they said I was confused. I told them when I was thirteen that my name was no longer Jason. I whispered my true name to my mom.
I whispered to her, Sociosavior.
They put me in the hospital two days after that.
My first week in I stole a pencil from a ten-year-old girl with a wrinkled face in the day room. She spent the day working crossword puzzles. I took her pencil while they were giving her pills. She didn't move the rest of the day. She didn't look for her pencil once. She sat in her chair and looked out the window. Every now and then a nurse would stop by and wipe spit from her chin.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you.
Cry, and the world turns away..
Rose is beside me in bed, naked, the rest of her body as pale and perfect as her face and neck and tiny ears. But the black is always there, just at the edge of things. I imagine the ends of her toes are black and then the ends of her fingers and then around her mouth. It's silly, but we still haven't kissed and I lean in close and our lips touch. I move her hair back from her ear and take my lips in close. I whisper to her my true name.
I imagine her Mom and Dad smell bad, too.
* * *
Nighttime drive
By Malkam A. Wyman
These streets always surprise me. Their characters make me think and wonder about half-mentioned, ungraceful meanderings; imaginings that never fully take their form in my mind. I’m a grown man. Born and bred in this place. My father was born here. My grandfather was born here.
I don’t wonder anymore if my own progeny will be born here.
My jeep is roaming the midnight roads, its headlights splashing their faded amber baubles onto the path in front of me. It’s as if my jeep cuts through the darkness and it folds back into place after I pass by, like a boat in calm waters. The roads at night speak more to me; in our loneliness we seek each other out for good, reliable company.
I am running away from home; from my wife. I need time to clear my head and this is the best place to do it. I think it’s amazing that one can come to a coherent decision about something only after they’ve pushed it to the farthest swallows of their mind. So I glance at the houses around me, navigate the bends and twists in the road, and marvel at the light snowfall dressing the bare trees in clusters.
I see crumpled wrapping papers fluttering in the wind, desperately trying to hug the ground. Some are tattered green with red stripes, gaudy gold with white snowflakes ripped and rolling lazily down the street. I catch sight of one that’s folded and creased. It is a solid maroon color. As I drive by, the paper looks like a human heart rolling in the road, trying to catch up with the others.
Are these wrappings for somebody’s birthday? Christmas isn’t for another ten days. Hanukkah is about to start, tomorrow maybe, or the next day. ‘Tis the season for materialism. I think I shouldn’t ever have a child. I’m too cynical.
I don’t drive straight. I wander south for a long time before turning at an intersection and going west for a while. I drive by a grocery store; its wide empty parking lot beckons me, yearning to be used for something. Then there are three gas stations, two diners, one bookstore, a strip mall with a video store, tanning booth, tattoo parlor, a bar, and a mediocre Mexican restaurant. The neon signs are beacons that glare at me as I drive by.
My mother always told me that when my father was still alive, when I was very young, he would point to advertising slogans and ask me what words were on the billboard. Then when he passed away, my mother took over the practice until I was able to actually read. I’ve been told that my father was a hard worker, a clever man, although I can’t truly say.
As I’m driving, I realize that I haven’t been out on the roads before five o’clock in the afternoon in almost six months. I’ve been working at home. I have no need to join the throng of noisy cars at nine thirty every morning. I feel disconnected from the modern world. I feel there is some kind of hand on my shoulder. It is giving me a gentle shove in the direction of these superstores and national coffee shops and fast food giants. I wonder if anybody else feels the pressure of these things.
I stop at an intersection. I try to decide if I should turn north or south. I glance over at the car beside me. They want to turn south. There is a man in the driver’s seat. He has one hand on the wheel and the other on the shoulders of a man crying in the seat beside him.
I am struck by the ugliness of the crying man. He is shaven to be bald. His face is gaunt and leathery and his eyes and lips are small, but his nose is huge and crooked. He holds his horrible face in his hands and sobs uncontrollably. The driver does nothing to comfort the crying man except lay a single hand on his shoulder. He whispers no words. He offers no encouraging glance. He does not peek at his passenger’s misery.
Why is this man crying? Perhaps his tears are the tears of the financially paralyzed. Perhaps he is crying for all of us. Perhaps his father has just died. Perhaps his identity was stolen. Perhaps his rent is due. Perhaps his rib was broken when he slipped and fell on the icy sidewalk. Perhaps he is crying because it is time to cry.
Then the driver notices the green light and speeds away. I am left alone at the intersection. I sit through the green light, thinking and thinking.
When I am driving again, I decide to stop at a convenience store that’s open until three in the morning. I buy a cup of coffee, two chocolate bars, three stale donuts, some toilet paper for home, a half-gallon of milk, an air freshener, a pack of cigarettes.
“Road trip?” the cashier asks.
“What?” I say.
“These things,” she motions, “You on some kind of trip?”
“You could say that.”
She is a young woman. She looks tired, like she’s been working in the store since nine o’clock that morning. Her shirt is stained with some kind of condiment, possibly mustard.
“Have a good night,” she calls after me.
I smile. She is the one well-wishing me.
I stand outside the store and drink my coffee for a moment. Beside me there is a park and a basketball court that needs weeding. In front of me is the road and beyond that are trees where the deer live. I look down at my feet to find a dog sitting and looking up at me. He is a scrawny, short haired dog with little floppy ears. The nape of his neck is grubby and oily.
“Hey there,” I say to him.
He blinks.
“What’s your name?” I see no collar. “I’m Armistead.”
He licks his chops and stares at the bag of donuts in my hand.
“Wait here,” I say.
I go back inside and buy six rubbery hotdogs. I watch the dog scarf down the meat as if it hadn’t had anything to eat in days. I pet his flanks and scratch behind his ears. He savors the attention.
“Okay, I’m going now.”
I go to the jeep and he follows me.
“No,” I say. “I can’t take you with me.”
He doesn’t seem to understand. When I open the door he jumps in the seat and lets out a triumphant yelp.
“No,” I shake my head. “I can’t even take care of myself, much less a dog.”
He lets out a lengthy groan and jumps into the backseat.
“My wife wants a cat.”
We drive and become acquainted over the next few hours. I tell him that I’m out on the roads thinking. I tell him that I’ve noticed that industries and conglomerates have created the perfect marketing tool; ‘buy this or you will feel like a failure,’ ‘buy this or you will not be successful with women.’ I tell him that I cannot imagine what it would be like to be a young boy in this world when I am an adult battling against these things, and losing miserably.
The dog jumps into the front passenger seat. He seems happy to be riding with me. He sticks his head out the window and snaps at the wind. He can taste the cold on his pillowy tongue better than I can.
I am on a secluded road with forest all around me. I see an old man hobbling in the center lane, using a crutch to support himself. He is avoiding the snow covered sidewalk. There is a young girl, maybe ten years old, helping him walk. She is giving him her love and attention in the shape of a lending hand. Where is he walking? Is he just trying to get exercise? At four in the morning? The old man is struggling, but she is his support, his other crutch.
I see this scene and drive right by them. I glance at the dog who is staring at me. I make the decision to go home.
My apartment is friendly and comforting. The dog warily sniffs around, exploring his new home. I think he and I will make great friends.
“Where’d you find a dog?” my wife says. She has been waiting up for me.
“I … he followed me to the car,” I say. “I couldn’t leave him alone.”
My wife raises her eyebrows.
“Armistead,” she says my name slowly. “Are you ready to talk?”
I come and sit beside her. I place my hand on her knee.
“So…” I begin. “You’re pregnant.”
* * *
The Date
By Randall W. Pretzer
Kim thought she had finally landed the man of her dreams and wanted to make this night count. She had two hours before he would arrive to pick her up and take her out for the night of her life. She had no time to buy new clothes, new make up or perfume. Kim had to wing it. It was a night not to remember. He asked her out yesterday and he insisted they go out tonight. His eyes were so mesmerizing. His face was that of an angel. There was not a woman who never really thought Romeo from Shakespeare's Play Romeo and Juliet ever existed but yesterday Kim swore he had come to take her troubles away. His name just happened to be Romeo. His full name was Romeo Julius. He was an accountant. She would be set for life emotionally and financially.
Romeo lost his patience by the time the mail man delivered his package. He was told it would be in the day before but he was sure the mail man made one mistake too many. Romeo didn't wait for the mail man to knock.
"Good day sir, this came in for you."
"I know." Romeo said and pulled out his .45. He fired. A shot right in the chest. The mail man fell to the ground. He died instantly. Romeo grabbed the legs of the man and dragged him inside his house. He lived out in a corn field with no signs of civilization for at least 20 miles. He knew there was not a living thing that saw what he did. He shut the door behind him and dragged the corpse into the kitchen. He lifted up the body and placed it on the kitchen table. He turned on the stove and set it on high. Romeo grabbed a frying pan he had left on the counter and put it on the stove. He looked for a butcher knife but found none in any of the drawers where he kept his silverware. He checked the dishwasher and there it was. It was dirty but it didn't matter. He began to cut into the corpse, stripping the bones of the flesh and giving the bones to his dog. It was a Doberman pincher. He checked the time on the stove. He still had two hours before he was to meet Kim.
Kim heard a knock at the door. It couldn't have been Romeo all ready she thought and walked over to the door slowly. She grabbed a bat she had leaning up against the corner next to the front door. She looked in the peephole and it was her ex-husband. She rolled her eyes and opened the door.
"Hello."
"What do you want, Ron?"
"Can I not see my own wife?"
"I am not your wife anymore."
"Maybe not in spirit but on paper you are."
"I am not in the mood to discuss this."
"Discuss what?"
"Never mind."
"I just wanted to say hi."
"You never just want to drop by for a social call."
"You are right. I came for the rest of my stuff."
"Make it quick. I have a date coming in two hours."
"Ms. Don Juan."
"Look who is talking."
"I came for another reason."
"Now what?"
"Just this."
Ron put his hands around her waist and pressed his lips against hers. She pushed him away.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I just thought for ole' time's sake."
"You stay away from me. You get your stuff and get out."
"You never were any fun."
Ron walked right by her and into her bedroom. He just had some underwear, a few books and some DVDs left to get. Kim rubbed her lips with the back of her hand in disgust. She clenched the bat. Ron came out with his things in a trash bag that Kim had a year supply of in the closet. She never could have enough of anything, he thought.
"All right. I am going now."
"Please don't come back."
"I can come back anytime I like. You don't have a restraining order."
"I can get one."
"You do that bitch."
Ron threw down his stuff and charged at Kim. She lifted up the bat and swung at Ron. He ducked. She swung again and he ducked. He lunged at her legs and she felt backwards. She landed flat on her back and she lost her grip on the bat. He flipped and bounced away from her. Ron crawled on her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pinned her down. She kicked at him and screamed. He punched her in the mouth and she stopped. Her lip was split open and blood flowed down her cheeks. He ripped off her dress, her panties and threw them behind him. He stood up and brought down his jeans and underwear. Ron went down on Kim slowly. He never did last long in bed and he finished in two or three minutes. He stood up and pulled up his jeans and underwear. He picked up his stuff and headed out the door. Kim slowly got up and walked up behind him.
"Please don't go."
Ron turned to look at her.
"Don't play games with me. I had enough of your games."
"I am not playing. I want you here with me."
Ron looked at her closely. She had an expression on her face he had not seen before.
"I never stopped loving you."
"I know. I realize now how much I have always loved you."
Ron smiled.
"You come to me. Now."
"Wait for me in the bedroom."
"Anything you say Sugar."
Ron headed to the bedroom. Kim went into the kitchen and grabbed her purse which she left on the counter. She went into their bedroom and Ron lay on his side of the bed in the nude. Kim quickly pulled out a .44 magnum from her chest and fired at Ron. He had no time to flinch. A shot right in the gut and she fired again and again and again. He lay still. A corpse. Kim went into the garage and grabbed a can of gasoline saved for the lawn mower. She went into the dining room and grabbed a pack of matches resting on the coffee table. She went back into the bedroom and poured all of the gasoline on the corpse. She lit a match and threw it on the corpse. The flames shot up instantly like a shot in the dark. Kim put the pistol back in her purse and walked out the house. She and Romeo shared one thing in common. They lived out where there was not a living soul around. She pulled out her cell phone from the purse and told Romeo to meet her at the restaurant instead. He didn't object.
Romeo knew how to make IEDS or improvised explosive devices. He placed one under the mail truck and went back inside his house. He pulled out a remote control from his pocket and hit the button. The mail truck blew up. He smiled and went back into the kitchen to finish his dinner. Romeo put the mail man's uniform into the fireplace and started a fire. The mailman tasted all right but he had had better. It was better than nothing for he had nothing else to eat in the house and he was starving. He had not eaten in three days. He realized he forgot to ask Kim if they were to meet at the restaurant at the same time he was suppose to pick her up from her house. He would find out. She didn't say anything about it so he figured it was safe to assume they were on for the same time. Kim wondered if she was the one to take his breath away. She almost took his soul when they met. Romeo placed several IEDs in his house after he finished his dinner. He timed them to all go off simultaneously. The best way as he demonstrated earlier was to detonate them by remote. It is at least what he thought. He had not been proven wrong yet. He checked his watch and he had 30 minutes to get to the restaurant. He walked out of the house and once he was about 30 feet away he hit the button on the remote. The bombs went off at the same time just as he planned. His house lay in rubble. Beautiful rubble Romeo thought. A work of art.
Romeo arrived at the restaurant 10 minutes early. He found them a table and waited patiently. He figured Kim might be a little late. Fashionably late. He would give her 10 or maybe 15 minutes after the time they were to meet and then go to a hotel. A waitress came by to ask him what he wanted to drink as was her job.
"What can I get for you to drink?"
"You can get me nothing for the time being."
"Just let me know when you are ready."
The waitress walked off. This was a little impressive thought Romeo. She didn't even budge or notice how rude he was. He laughed to himself. He checked his watch. Kim had 10 more minutes before it was time to say goodnight. He headed to the bathroom to wash his hands. He tried to open the door but it was locked. Romeo may have needed a key and he looked for one of the waitresses. He found the one who had first come to him about his drinks at the register.
"Excuse me….do you need a key for the bathroom?"
"No."
"Why is the door locked? Can you answer that?"
"I think there is someone in there. There is lock on the door."
"You think there is someone in there?"
"I think there might be yes. I mean when the door is locked it usually means someone is in there but I could be wrong. I am sorry sir. I will let you know if someone comes out and the bathroom is available."
"I don't need you to do that. I can take care of myself."
"I will be back to check up on you sir."
"I feel like I am still living at home."
Romeo headed back to his seat. He checked his watch again. It was 5 minutes after the time they were suppose to meet. He would say goodnight in 5. The waitress came back.
"So are we ready yet?" She said chuckling.
"I don't see what is so damn funny."
"I am sorry."
"You should be sorry."
"I was just checking up on you."
"You can go check up on yourself."
"I will be back in a minute." She left.
Romeo shook his head. How could anyone take such abuse? It made him feel powerful but confused. It was like you were at the top of the world but didn't know why it was allowed to happen. It was these thoughts that made Romeo feel he was still alive. Kim would make him feel like thunder.
Kim arrived at the restaurant 15 minutes after the time she was suppose to meet Romeo. She was afraid he would all ready be gone but she saw him all ready sitting at a table but had not ordered anything yet. She hurried over to where he was sitting and sat down across from. He had chosen a booth.
"I am so sorry I am late. My car broke down and I had to walk the rest of the way. I had to walk a distant that would take only 3 or 4 minutes in a car."
"I want to hear it. I have heard that shit from so many women."
"It is the truth."
"Who knows what the truth is anymore?"
"I promise…."
"You should have been here on time."
Romeo pulled out his .45. Kim pulled out her .44 and fired. A shot in the chest. Romeo flew back like a thunderbolt and landed flat on his back. Everyone in the restaurant screamed. Romeo lay still now as a corpse. Kim got up slowly and looked around for a waitress or someone who worked there. She saw one waitress at the register. The same one who had served Romeo. Kim walked up to her.
"I want you to call the police."
* * *
The Comfort Woman
By David Whitehouse
In the 1920s, when she was small, she adored the life-sized tigers that her father painted on the sliding paper doors that separated the tatamae rooms at home. He was a coalminer, and the family lived in the small village of Kitamatsu on the southern Japanese island of Kyushu.
When she was a teenager, she started to take part in the annual village summer festival. She was one of the girls who each July donned bright blue kimonos and struggled through the humid evening in their wooden sandals with the rest of the procession.
The air was smoky and damp, loaded with the smells of grilled fish. The men carried a huge painted plaster dragon, mounted on a wooden palette, on their shoulders. After the rain started, the kimonos with their red sashes became wetter and more revealing and the girls danced more keenly to the cacophony of beating drums and clanging bells.
As she danced there was a tiny needle of light in her mind that told her there would be trouble. It was the same slither of light which had soundlessly intimated the previous year that her brother would come home from school camp in the mountains with a broken arm.
When the procession finished, she said to her father that she wanted him to take her home. He wouldn’t listen and kept drinking beer in the village square with the rest of the men. Their songs got louder and cruder. Then she saw him with the shiny red eye of the dragon in his hands, trying to thrust it under his coat. He was a poor man and the eye could be sold for at least a month’s wages.
Then he was down in the mud and she could see the crowd of men kicking, kicking him again and again until the eye slipped from his hands and into the mud. She pushed against the mob to try to reach him but she couldn't get through. No-one heard her as she screamed at them to stop.
Ten years later, in 1937, Japanese soldiers invaded China. She was still living in Kitamatsu with her elderly mother. Her brother had married and moved to another village. The tigers on the doors, which had been as large as life, were now shrunken and faded, and marked by dirty children's fingerprints.
The soldiers came to the house and seized her. They wanted to use her to stop Japanese troops raping their way indiscriminately across the eastern Chinese seaboard, which would have inflamed local resistance to the occupation. They wanted her to control China. With her one body she was to hold the Chinese at bay for her masters.
At the military base in Shanghai she wore a tatty grey kimono and lived in a tiny hut that had insects crawling on the floor. As she was raped every day, 10 times a day or even more, sometimes by two at once, she began to concentrate on the tiny needle of light that still existed in her mind.
The eye of the needle became a little wider and seemed to become a tunnel that was inviting her to enter. Each day with the brutes inside her she would crawl a little further along the tunnel. One day the tunnel got wider and she was able to stand up. It felt solid under her feet. She looked down and she could see the brutes down there, one between her legs and one at her ass and she suddenly felt that they were fucking a corpse. She could also see outside the hut, the slack-jawed, unshaven soldiers smoking and waiting their turn. The tunnel opened out endlessly before her. She stepped forward into the light and was gone.
* * *
The Escape
By Gavin McCall
As the girl waited for the jostling crowd to squeeze itself through the small gate into the prison compound’s yard, she barely noticed the bumps and shoves of those around her as they moved slowly through the gate. Once through to the courtyard, the crowd spread out, only to regroup in a swelling mass around the platform set against the wall opposite the gate.
On the platform stood a man with a dark mesh shroud over his head, his knees at the girl’s head level. He seemed very intent on inspecting the large, angled blade suspended between two beams of wood. Suddenly he stepped around the little wooden tower, and stooping to throw a lever, let the blade fall. The girl couldn’t hear the rasping sound as the blade fell between the grooves built to keep it on course, but she did hear the dull thump of the blade cutting through a bundle of straw. Then the man scooped up a handful of the decapitated straw and tossed it into the crowd, letting it scatter over the heads of the gathered audience. The rest he swept away with his feet.
As he began to raise the blade, a sudden cheer went through the crowd, and the girl saw two guards leading four bound men, tugging at the short ropes slung around their necks. She’d come for one of those men, though she barely recognized him. His head hung so that his black hair covered much of his face, and all she could see was covered by two week’s worth of stubble. Like the other prisoners, he was dressed in loose brown pants and a matching coat, each stained with dark blotches.
*
I’d been looking forward to feeling the sunlight, as opposed to just watching it heat the dust of the courtyard from behind a small, barred window. So the first thing I do as I am led out of the prison is look up at the overcast sky. At least it’s not raining.
I try to ignore the crowd’s jeers, which isn’t particularly hard, since I know that none of them are for me. Why would they make the effort to come here, to the place so many of them spend their entire lives in fear of, merely to see a nobody like themselves get killed? No, I know they are here to see the man in front of me die. Of course, he is nothing special to look at now, dressed as the rest of us are. He is paler, fairer of complexion and hair, and taller than the rest of us, though his head is hanging low enough that it doesn’t make much difference, now.
And even though it can’t be seen in him now, the man – Molyneux is his name – probably would, not long ago, have been disgusted to be so near so dirty a rabble. He had once been an important man in these streets, a kind of king of the slums. He had once owned many of the buildings in this area, from bars to stores to homes and whorehouses. At least he had, that is, until the crown found out that through the machinations of a well-connected cousin, Molyneux had not paid a penny of tax in years. When the scam had been found out, his cousin had denied any wrongdoing, and through his connections had managed to throw all the blame upon Molyneux. The combination of fines and the taxes he had originally owed went far beyond what he could pay, and thus he had ended up here in the debtor’s prison, sentenced to death for robbery from the king.
If that had been all, there would surely have been enough of a crowd assembled – it’s not everyday the rabble gets to see a rich man reduced to nothing but a landless, headless corpse. But this crowd has a more personal reason to see him dead. When Molyneux had been declared in fault, his assets had been seized by the crown, including the homes and businesses of many of the people gathered here. And since the king isn’t interested in maintaining slum-homes, whorehouses and bars, many of the screaming people flinging refuse and garbage at Molyneux had either been put out of their homes or businesses to make way for “city improvements.”
I wonder that such a group of people could be found here, at the core of this great nation. They never think to direct their malice towards the ones who actually robbed them of house and home, and rather choose to attack the only one who has lost more than themselves, I think, looking out over the seething, steaming crowd.
*
For the girl to see the stage, she was obliged to stand well behind the crowd so as to see over the much taller people in front of her. While this allowed her to see everything that happened on the platform, it meant she couldn't see the faces of the prisoners clearly. Because of that, when the first of them was separated from the others and led to the guillotine, she feared it was her lover, until the man’s crimes were announced.
The crowd barely seemed to notice, much less to care that a rapist and murderer was to be removed from the streets permanently. To the girl, it seemed more that they cheered when the blade dropped not because he was dead, but because he no longer stood between Molyneux and the guillotine. So it went with the second man, a thief, according the king’s judge. The girl thought he seemed out of place in his fancy robes, particularly because he was the only man on the platform with neither armor on his chest nor a rope around his hands.
Then came Molyneux’s turn. Even before the second man’s body had been removed from the machine, the crowd began to seethe – every man and woman in the crowd screaming jeers and obscenities. It rose to such a pitch that the girl couldn’t hear the man’s crimes, even though she knew them as well as anyone else.
*
As the guard pulls the second man’s body off the stage, I find I can’t keep from looking at the trail of blood as it steams in the cold afternoon and drips between the loose, black planks of the platform. There are now two parallel trails leading to the big cart. It looks like it could hold at least six or seven bodies.
Maybe they’ll keep us around for a day or two until there are enough of us to fill it, I think, imagining my stiff body lying there, swollen with gas and failure.
My face gets splattered with what I can only assume was once an apple. The guard holding my rope swears, wiping rot off of his face. I don’t bother.
Molyneux needs to be carried to the guillotine, as his legs don’t seem to be working. But neither are they resisting; like the rest of his body, the life seems to have already left them, as they drag and flop their way over and then onto the diabolic machine. The crowd is nearly deafening, and for the first time I wish my hands were free, not to wipe off the apple but to protect my ears. I smile again, almost laughing at the thought that I don’t have long to worry about them.
Suddenly, the crowd silences for a moment, and in that moment I hear, for the first time, the rasping slink of the guillotine, and the final thump as the blade hits home. Wincing at the redoubled cheers of the crowd, I watch Molyneux’s head tumble from his neck into a bloodstained basket to end up looking right at me. His face is frozen in a look not of fear or anger, but of surprise. His wide, startled eyes stare through me and the black stone behind me, showing more emotion and life than I have seen in them during the past few days we’ve spent huddled against opposite sides of a prison cell.
I barely notice as the guard tugs on my rope, too impatient to wait for the other to pull Molyneux’s body from the machine. I am busy staring at the basket of heads and the three trails of blood leading to the cart as I lay on the guillotine with the help of the guard, who simply pushes me until I fall into the right position, unable to catch or maneuver myself with my hands tied behind my back. He presses the wooden guard onto the base of my neck, and I am trapped.
I smell fresh, metallic blood over the acidic bite of rotten apple and my own stale sweat. I start to struggle, twisting against the rope and wood that binds me, barely hearing the king’s justice listing my crimes. I want to laugh, to cry. Unable to do anything else, I scan the faces of the onlookers, but no one is looking at me. My own execution, and no is watching.
The assembled rabble, once so vicious and bloodthirsty – every one of them seems to have had his fill of death, or more likely, to have been filled with the particular death he or she desired. I watch as the crowd begins to part, turning to leave even as the justice condemns me. I begin to laugh, or at least I try to, but the only thing that comes out of my hoarse throat is a kind of hiccupping croak.
Then I see one face not turned towards the gate. Josephine is here, her slight form and bulging pregnancy covered in a filthy cloak, but she is radiant. Her pale face shines from beneath her black hair and her eyes capture mine. I struggle, no longer caring about the crowd that cannot be bothered to watch me die, no longer caring about the justice or the guards or the three lines of blood.
Not even caring about myself or the pain of my bindings or the heavy metal poised above me, I struggle to get to Josephine, toward her and our child to be. At first, all seems hopeless; the wood and cords are cold and unyielding to my pleas. Then, without warning, I am free. My hands no longer tied, by feet no longer bruised and bound. I feel myself lifted, and I soar, over the departing heads of the masses to Josephine. Her eyes beckon to me, and I come tumbling to her, flying, fleeing with her and her eyes to the gate, to the streets where I first met her, and beyond. I feel myself taken from this terrible place and its wet, cold bindings. I am free.
*
The girl no one knew was named Josephine stood in the dull courtyard long after everyone else had left, after it began to rain, after the four bodies had been hauled away and the guillotine and its platform had been scrubbed with hay to remove the cold, drying blood. She didn’t cry, didn’t move, and barely even reacted when a guard, showing uncharacteristic warmth, held her hand as he led her outside the courtyard, then shut the gate.
* * *
By Sheldon Lee Compton
The first word I learned to read was frog. I got kicked out of kindergarten for punching the teacher in the gut. She was a huge woman and it probably didn’t hurt her very much, but they kicked me out anyway.
Take him home and bring him back next year, they said, we'll see if he can do any better at that time.
Dad was a reader. He read everything, even old math books. You know, the kind that smelled like mold and had warped covers. He decided when they kicked me out he was going to teach me to read while I was at home until the next time around.
So we started with frog. I see now it was too big of a word for a four-year-old to be fooling with. But I learned it. I took a piece of paper to Mom in the living room and handed it to her.
Frog, I said to her, and pointed at the paper.
She looked disgusted and got up and went through the kitchen into the small bathroom at the back of the apartment. I could hear her crying inside.
Turns out Mom had a phobia of frogs. Her uncles tortured her with them when she was little. They'd squash a frog and then hold her down and rub the guts and slimy busted skin into her hair and on her face and such.
Mom and Dad divorced before I tried kindergarten again.
When they sent me back try again, I nailed it. The teacher with the big gut was gone, replaced with another one that smiled all the time and pointed to a board with blocks of color taped to it.
She'd ask, What color is this?
Blue, I'd say, and then spell it. B-L-U-E.
A kid beside me who keep saying cat whenever she asked him what color this or that was kept pulling ropes of snot from his nose as thick as pencils. He'd gather the snot together and then push it into his mouth and the smiling teacher would stop smiling and stop class to do whatever it was she had to do with the kid. I imagined his Mom and Dad ate snot, too.
They put in the hospital when I was thirteen. They put me in because they said I was confused. I told them when I was thirteen that my name was no longer Jason. I whispered my true name to my mom.
I whispered to her, Sociosavior.
They put me in the hospital two days after that.
My first week in I stole a pencil from a ten-year-old girl with a wrinkled face in the day room. She spent the day working crossword puzzles. I took her pencil while they were giving her pills. She didn't move the rest of the day. She didn't look for her pencil once. She sat in her chair and looked out the window. Every now and then a nurse would stop by and wipe spit from her chin.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you.
Cry, and the world turns away..
Rose is beside me in bed, naked, the rest of her body as pale and perfect as her face and neck and tiny ears. But the black is always there, just at the edge of things. I imagine the ends of her toes are black and then the ends of her fingers and then around her mouth. It's silly, but we still haven't kissed and I lean in close and our lips touch. I move her hair back from her ear and take my lips in close. I whisper to her my true name.
I imagine her Mom and Dad smell bad, too.
* * *
Nighttime drive
By Malkam A. Wyman
These streets always surprise me. Their characters make me think and wonder about half-mentioned, ungraceful meanderings; imaginings that never fully take their form in my mind. I’m a grown man. Born and bred in this place. My father was born here. My grandfather was born here.
I don’t wonder anymore if my own progeny will be born here.
My jeep is roaming the midnight roads, its headlights splashing their faded amber baubles onto the path in front of me. It’s as if my jeep cuts through the darkness and it folds back into place after I pass by, like a boat in calm waters. The roads at night speak more to me; in our loneliness we seek each other out for good, reliable company.
I am running away from home; from my wife. I need time to clear my head and this is the best place to do it. I think it’s amazing that one can come to a coherent decision about something only after they’ve pushed it to the farthest swallows of their mind. So I glance at the houses around me, navigate the bends and twists in the road, and marvel at the light snowfall dressing the bare trees in clusters.
I see crumpled wrapping papers fluttering in the wind, desperately trying to hug the ground. Some are tattered green with red stripes, gaudy gold with white snowflakes ripped and rolling lazily down the street. I catch sight of one that’s folded and creased. It is a solid maroon color. As I drive by, the paper looks like a human heart rolling in the road, trying to catch up with the others.
Are these wrappings for somebody’s birthday? Christmas isn’t for another ten days. Hanukkah is about to start, tomorrow maybe, or the next day. ‘Tis the season for materialism. I think I shouldn’t ever have a child. I’m too cynical.
I don’t drive straight. I wander south for a long time before turning at an intersection and going west for a while. I drive by a grocery store; its wide empty parking lot beckons me, yearning to be used for something. Then there are three gas stations, two diners, one bookstore, a strip mall with a video store, tanning booth, tattoo parlor, a bar, and a mediocre Mexican restaurant. The neon signs are beacons that glare at me as I drive by.
My mother always told me that when my father was still alive, when I was very young, he would point to advertising slogans and ask me what words were on the billboard. Then when he passed away, my mother took over the practice until I was able to actually read. I’ve been told that my father was a hard worker, a clever man, although I can’t truly say.
As I’m driving, I realize that I haven’t been out on the roads before five o’clock in the afternoon in almost six months. I’ve been working at home. I have no need to join the throng of noisy cars at nine thirty every morning. I feel disconnected from the modern world. I feel there is some kind of hand on my shoulder. It is giving me a gentle shove in the direction of these superstores and national coffee shops and fast food giants. I wonder if anybody else feels the pressure of these things.
I stop at an intersection. I try to decide if I should turn north or south. I glance over at the car beside me. They want to turn south. There is a man in the driver’s seat. He has one hand on the wheel and the other on the shoulders of a man crying in the seat beside him.
I am struck by the ugliness of the crying man. He is shaven to be bald. His face is gaunt and leathery and his eyes and lips are small, but his nose is huge and crooked. He holds his horrible face in his hands and sobs uncontrollably. The driver does nothing to comfort the crying man except lay a single hand on his shoulder. He whispers no words. He offers no encouraging glance. He does not peek at his passenger’s misery.
Why is this man crying? Perhaps his tears are the tears of the financially paralyzed. Perhaps he is crying for all of us. Perhaps his father has just died. Perhaps his identity was stolen. Perhaps his rent is due. Perhaps his rib was broken when he slipped and fell on the icy sidewalk. Perhaps he is crying because it is time to cry.
Then the driver notices the green light and speeds away. I am left alone at the intersection. I sit through the green light, thinking and thinking.
When I am driving again, I decide to stop at a convenience store that’s open until three in the morning. I buy a cup of coffee, two chocolate bars, three stale donuts, some toilet paper for home, a half-gallon of milk, an air freshener, a pack of cigarettes.
“Road trip?” the cashier asks.
“What?” I say.
“These things,” she motions, “You on some kind of trip?”
“You could say that.”
She is a young woman. She looks tired, like she’s been working in the store since nine o’clock that morning. Her shirt is stained with some kind of condiment, possibly mustard.
“Have a good night,” she calls after me.
I smile. She is the one well-wishing me.
I stand outside the store and drink my coffee for a moment. Beside me there is a park and a basketball court that needs weeding. In front of me is the road and beyond that are trees where the deer live. I look down at my feet to find a dog sitting and looking up at me. He is a scrawny, short haired dog with little floppy ears. The nape of his neck is grubby and oily.
“Hey there,” I say to him.
He blinks.
“What’s your name?” I see no collar. “I’m Armistead.”
He licks his chops and stares at the bag of donuts in my hand.
“Wait here,” I say.
I go back inside and buy six rubbery hotdogs. I watch the dog scarf down the meat as if it hadn’t had anything to eat in days. I pet his flanks and scratch behind his ears. He savors the attention.
“Okay, I’m going now.”
I go to the jeep and he follows me.
“No,” I say. “I can’t take you with me.”
He doesn’t seem to understand. When I open the door he jumps in the seat and lets out a triumphant yelp.
“No,” I shake my head. “I can’t even take care of myself, much less a dog.”
He lets out a lengthy groan and jumps into the backseat.
“My wife wants a cat.”
We drive and become acquainted over the next few hours. I tell him that I’m out on the roads thinking. I tell him that I’ve noticed that industries and conglomerates have created the perfect marketing tool; ‘buy this or you will feel like a failure,’ ‘buy this or you will not be successful with women.’ I tell him that I cannot imagine what it would be like to be a young boy in this world when I am an adult battling against these things, and losing miserably.
The dog jumps into the front passenger seat. He seems happy to be riding with me. He sticks his head out the window and snaps at the wind. He can taste the cold on his pillowy tongue better than I can.
I am on a secluded road with forest all around me. I see an old man hobbling in the center lane, using a crutch to support himself. He is avoiding the snow covered sidewalk. There is a young girl, maybe ten years old, helping him walk. She is giving him her love and attention in the shape of a lending hand. Where is he walking? Is he just trying to get exercise? At four in the morning? The old man is struggling, but she is his support, his other crutch.
I see this scene and drive right by them. I glance at the dog who is staring at me. I make the decision to go home.
My apartment is friendly and comforting. The dog warily sniffs around, exploring his new home. I think he and I will make great friends.
“Where’d you find a dog?” my wife says. She has been waiting up for me.
“I … he followed me to the car,” I say. “I couldn’t leave him alone.”
My wife raises her eyebrows.
“Armistead,” she says my name slowly. “Are you ready to talk?”
I come and sit beside her. I place my hand on her knee.
“So…” I begin. “You’re pregnant.”
* * *
The Date
By Randall W. Pretzer
Kim thought she had finally landed the man of her dreams and wanted to make this night count. She had two hours before he would arrive to pick her up and take her out for the night of her life. She had no time to buy new clothes, new make up or perfume. Kim had to wing it. It was a night not to remember. He asked her out yesterday and he insisted they go out tonight. His eyes were so mesmerizing. His face was that of an angel. There was not a woman who never really thought Romeo from Shakespeare's Play Romeo and Juliet ever existed but yesterday Kim swore he had come to take her troubles away. His name just happened to be Romeo. His full name was Romeo Julius. He was an accountant. She would be set for life emotionally and financially.
Romeo lost his patience by the time the mail man delivered his package. He was told it would be in the day before but he was sure the mail man made one mistake too many. Romeo didn't wait for the mail man to knock.
"Good day sir, this came in for you."
"I know." Romeo said and pulled out his .45. He fired. A shot right in the chest. The mail man fell to the ground. He died instantly. Romeo grabbed the legs of the man and dragged him inside his house. He lived out in a corn field with no signs of civilization for at least 20 miles. He knew there was not a living thing that saw what he did. He shut the door behind him and dragged the corpse into the kitchen. He lifted up the body and placed it on the kitchen table. He turned on the stove and set it on high. Romeo grabbed a frying pan he had left on the counter and put it on the stove. He looked for a butcher knife but found none in any of the drawers where he kept his silverware. He checked the dishwasher and there it was. It was dirty but it didn't matter. He began to cut into the corpse, stripping the bones of the flesh and giving the bones to his dog. It was a Doberman pincher. He checked the time on the stove. He still had two hours before he was to meet Kim.
Kim heard a knock at the door. It couldn't have been Romeo all ready she thought and walked over to the door slowly. She grabbed a bat she had leaning up against the corner next to the front door. She looked in the peephole and it was her ex-husband. She rolled her eyes and opened the door.
"Hello."
"What do you want, Ron?"
"Can I not see my own wife?"
"I am not your wife anymore."
"Maybe not in spirit but on paper you are."
"I am not in the mood to discuss this."
"Discuss what?"
"Never mind."
"I just wanted to say hi."
"You never just want to drop by for a social call."
"You are right. I came for the rest of my stuff."
"Make it quick. I have a date coming in two hours."
"Ms. Don Juan."
"Look who is talking."
"I came for another reason."
"Now what?"
"Just this."
Ron put his hands around her waist and pressed his lips against hers. She pushed him away.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I just thought for ole' time's sake."
"You stay away from me. You get your stuff and get out."
"You never were any fun."
Ron walked right by her and into her bedroom. He just had some underwear, a few books and some DVDs left to get. Kim rubbed her lips with the back of her hand in disgust. She clenched the bat. Ron came out with his things in a trash bag that Kim had a year supply of in the closet. She never could have enough of anything, he thought.
"All right. I am going now."
"Please don't come back."
"I can come back anytime I like. You don't have a restraining order."
"I can get one."
"You do that bitch."
Ron threw down his stuff and charged at Kim. She lifted up the bat and swung at Ron. He ducked. She swung again and he ducked. He lunged at her legs and she felt backwards. She landed flat on her back and she lost her grip on the bat. He flipped and bounced away from her. Ron crawled on her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pinned her down. She kicked at him and screamed. He punched her in the mouth and she stopped. Her lip was split open and blood flowed down her cheeks. He ripped off her dress, her panties and threw them behind him. He stood up and brought down his jeans and underwear. Ron went down on Kim slowly. He never did last long in bed and he finished in two or three minutes. He stood up and pulled up his jeans and underwear. He picked up his stuff and headed out the door. Kim slowly got up and walked up behind him.
"Please don't go."
Ron turned to look at her.
"Don't play games with me. I had enough of your games."
"I am not playing. I want you here with me."
Ron looked at her closely. She had an expression on her face he had not seen before.
"I never stopped loving you."
"I know. I realize now how much I have always loved you."
Ron smiled.
"You come to me. Now."
"Wait for me in the bedroom."
"Anything you say Sugar."
Ron headed to the bedroom. Kim went into the kitchen and grabbed her purse which she left on the counter. She went into their bedroom and Ron lay on his side of the bed in the nude. Kim quickly pulled out a .44 magnum from her chest and fired at Ron. He had no time to flinch. A shot right in the gut and she fired again and again and again. He lay still. A corpse. Kim went into the garage and grabbed a can of gasoline saved for the lawn mower. She went into the dining room and grabbed a pack of matches resting on the coffee table. She went back into the bedroom and poured all of the gasoline on the corpse. She lit a match and threw it on the corpse. The flames shot up instantly like a shot in the dark. Kim put the pistol back in her purse and walked out the house. She and Romeo shared one thing in common. They lived out where there was not a living soul around. She pulled out her cell phone from the purse and told Romeo to meet her at the restaurant instead. He didn't object.
Romeo knew how to make IEDS or improvised explosive devices. He placed one under the mail truck and went back inside his house. He pulled out a remote control from his pocket and hit the button. The mail truck blew up. He smiled and went back into the kitchen to finish his dinner. Romeo put the mail man's uniform into the fireplace and started a fire. The mailman tasted all right but he had had better. It was better than nothing for he had nothing else to eat in the house and he was starving. He had not eaten in three days. He realized he forgot to ask Kim if they were to meet at the restaurant at the same time he was suppose to pick her up from her house. He would find out. She didn't say anything about it so he figured it was safe to assume they were on for the same time. Kim wondered if she was the one to take his breath away. She almost took his soul when they met. Romeo placed several IEDs in his house after he finished his dinner. He timed them to all go off simultaneously. The best way as he demonstrated earlier was to detonate them by remote. It is at least what he thought. He had not been proven wrong yet. He checked his watch and he had 30 minutes to get to the restaurant. He walked out of the house and once he was about 30 feet away he hit the button on the remote. The bombs went off at the same time just as he planned. His house lay in rubble. Beautiful rubble Romeo thought. A work of art.
Romeo arrived at the restaurant 10 minutes early. He found them a table and waited patiently. He figured Kim might be a little late. Fashionably late. He would give her 10 or maybe 15 minutes after the time they were to meet and then go to a hotel. A waitress came by to ask him what he wanted to drink as was her job.
"What can I get for you to drink?"
"You can get me nothing for the time being."
"Just let me know when you are ready."
The waitress walked off. This was a little impressive thought Romeo. She didn't even budge or notice how rude he was. He laughed to himself. He checked his watch. Kim had 10 more minutes before it was time to say goodnight. He headed to the bathroom to wash his hands. He tried to open the door but it was locked. Romeo may have needed a key and he looked for one of the waitresses. He found the one who had first come to him about his drinks at the register.
"Excuse me….do you need a key for the bathroom?"
"No."
"Why is the door locked? Can you answer that?"
"I think there is someone in there. There is lock on the door."
"You think there is someone in there?"
"I think there might be yes. I mean when the door is locked it usually means someone is in there but I could be wrong. I am sorry sir. I will let you know if someone comes out and the bathroom is available."
"I don't need you to do that. I can take care of myself."
"I will be back to check up on you sir."
"I feel like I am still living at home."
Romeo headed back to his seat. He checked his watch again. It was 5 minutes after the time they were suppose to meet. He would say goodnight in 5. The waitress came back.
"So are we ready yet?" She said chuckling.
"I don't see what is so damn funny."
"I am sorry."
"You should be sorry."
"I was just checking up on you."
"You can go check up on yourself."
"I will be back in a minute." She left.
Romeo shook his head. How could anyone take such abuse? It made him feel powerful but confused. It was like you were at the top of the world but didn't know why it was allowed to happen. It was these thoughts that made Romeo feel he was still alive. Kim would make him feel like thunder.
Kim arrived at the restaurant 15 minutes after the time she was suppose to meet Romeo. She was afraid he would all ready be gone but she saw him all ready sitting at a table but had not ordered anything yet. She hurried over to where he was sitting and sat down across from. He had chosen a booth.
"I am so sorry I am late. My car broke down and I had to walk the rest of the way. I had to walk a distant that would take only 3 or 4 minutes in a car."
"I want to hear it. I have heard that shit from so many women."
"It is the truth."
"Who knows what the truth is anymore?"
"I promise…."
"You should have been here on time."
Romeo pulled out his .45. Kim pulled out her .44 and fired. A shot in the chest. Romeo flew back like a thunderbolt and landed flat on his back. Everyone in the restaurant screamed. Romeo lay still now as a corpse. Kim got up slowly and looked around for a waitress or someone who worked there. She saw one waitress at the register. The same one who had served Romeo. Kim walked up to her.
"I want you to call the police."
* * *
The Comfort Woman
By David Whitehouse
In the 1920s, when she was small, she adored the life-sized tigers that her father painted on the sliding paper doors that separated the tatamae rooms at home. He was a coalminer, and the family lived in the small village of Kitamatsu on the southern Japanese island of Kyushu.
When she was a teenager, she started to take part in the annual village summer festival. She was one of the girls who each July donned bright blue kimonos and struggled through the humid evening in their wooden sandals with the rest of the procession.
The air was smoky and damp, loaded with the smells of grilled fish. The men carried a huge painted plaster dragon, mounted on a wooden palette, on their shoulders. After the rain started, the kimonos with their red sashes became wetter and more revealing and the girls danced more keenly to the cacophony of beating drums and clanging bells.
As she danced there was a tiny needle of light in her mind that told her there would be trouble. It was the same slither of light which had soundlessly intimated the previous year that her brother would come home from school camp in the mountains with a broken arm.
When the procession finished, she said to her father that she wanted him to take her home. He wouldn’t listen and kept drinking beer in the village square with the rest of the men. Their songs got louder and cruder. Then she saw him with the shiny red eye of the dragon in his hands, trying to thrust it under his coat. He was a poor man and the eye could be sold for at least a month’s wages.
Then he was down in the mud and she could see the crowd of men kicking, kicking him again and again until the eye slipped from his hands and into the mud. She pushed against the mob to try to reach him but she couldn't get through. No-one heard her as she screamed at them to stop.
Ten years later, in 1937, Japanese soldiers invaded China. She was still living in Kitamatsu with her elderly mother. Her brother had married and moved to another village. The tigers on the doors, which had been as large as life, were now shrunken and faded, and marked by dirty children's fingerprints.
The soldiers came to the house and seized her. They wanted to use her to stop Japanese troops raping their way indiscriminately across the eastern Chinese seaboard, which would have inflamed local resistance to the occupation. They wanted her to control China. With her one body she was to hold the Chinese at bay for her masters.
At the military base in Shanghai she wore a tatty grey kimono and lived in a tiny hut that had insects crawling on the floor. As she was raped every day, 10 times a day or even more, sometimes by two at once, she began to concentrate on the tiny needle of light that still existed in her mind.
The eye of the needle became a little wider and seemed to become a tunnel that was inviting her to enter. Each day with the brutes inside her she would crawl a little further along the tunnel. One day the tunnel got wider and she was able to stand up. It felt solid under her feet. She looked down and she could see the brutes down there, one between her legs and one at her ass and she suddenly felt that they were fucking a corpse. She could also see outside the hut, the slack-jawed, unshaven soldiers smoking and waiting their turn. The tunnel opened out endlessly before her. She stepped forward into the light and was gone.
* * *
The Escape
By Gavin McCall
As the girl waited for the jostling crowd to squeeze itself through the small gate into the prison compound’s yard, she barely noticed the bumps and shoves of those around her as they moved slowly through the gate. Once through to the courtyard, the crowd spread out, only to regroup in a swelling mass around the platform set against the wall opposite the gate.
On the platform stood a man with a dark mesh shroud over his head, his knees at the girl’s head level. He seemed very intent on inspecting the large, angled blade suspended between two beams of wood. Suddenly he stepped around the little wooden tower, and stooping to throw a lever, let the blade fall. The girl couldn’t hear the rasping sound as the blade fell between the grooves built to keep it on course, but she did hear the dull thump of the blade cutting through a bundle of straw. Then the man scooped up a handful of the decapitated straw and tossed it into the crowd, letting it scatter over the heads of the gathered audience. The rest he swept away with his feet.
As he began to raise the blade, a sudden cheer went through the crowd, and the girl saw two guards leading four bound men, tugging at the short ropes slung around their necks. She’d come for one of those men, though she barely recognized him. His head hung so that his black hair covered much of his face, and all she could see was covered by two week’s worth of stubble. Like the other prisoners, he was dressed in loose brown pants and a matching coat, each stained with dark blotches.
*
I’d been looking forward to feeling the sunlight, as opposed to just watching it heat the dust of the courtyard from behind a small, barred window. So the first thing I do as I am led out of the prison is look up at the overcast sky. At least it’s not raining.
I try to ignore the crowd’s jeers, which isn’t particularly hard, since I know that none of them are for me. Why would they make the effort to come here, to the place so many of them spend their entire lives in fear of, merely to see a nobody like themselves get killed? No, I know they are here to see the man in front of me die. Of course, he is nothing special to look at now, dressed as the rest of us are. He is paler, fairer of complexion and hair, and taller than the rest of us, though his head is hanging low enough that it doesn’t make much difference, now.
And even though it can’t be seen in him now, the man – Molyneux is his name – probably would, not long ago, have been disgusted to be so near so dirty a rabble. He had once been an important man in these streets, a kind of king of the slums. He had once owned many of the buildings in this area, from bars to stores to homes and whorehouses. At least he had, that is, until the crown found out that through the machinations of a well-connected cousin, Molyneux had not paid a penny of tax in years. When the scam had been found out, his cousin had denied any wrongdoing, and through his connections had managed to throw all the blame upon Molyneux. The combination of fines and the taxes he had originally owed went far beyond what he could pay, and thus he had ended up here in the debtor’s prison, sentenced to death for robbery from the king.
If that had been all, there would surely have been enough of a crowd assembled – it’s not everyday the rabble gets to see a rich man reduced to nothing but a landless, headless corpse. But this crowd has a more personal reason to see him dead. When Molyneux had been declared in fault, his assets had been seized by the crown, including the homes and businesses of many of the people gathered here. And since the king isn’t interested in maintaining slum-homes, whorehouses and bars, many of the screaming people flinging refuse and garbage at Molyneux had either been put out of their homes or businesses to make way for “city improvements.”
I wonder that such a group of people could be found here, at the core of this great nation. They never think to direct their malice towards the ones who actually robbed them of house and home, and rather choose to attack the only one who has lost more than themselves, I think, looking out over the seething, steaming crowd.
*
For the girl to see the stage, she was obliged to stand well behind the crowd so as to see over the much taller people in front of her. While this allowed her to see everything that happened on the platform, it meant she couldn't see the faces of the prisoners clearly. Because of that, when the first of them was separated from the others and led to the guillotine, she feared it was her lover, until the man’s crimes were announced.
The crowd barely seemed to notice, much less to care that a rapist and murderer was to be removed from the streets permanently. To the girl, it seemed more that they cheered when the blade dropped not because he was dead, but because he no longer stood between Molyneux and the guillotine. So it went with the second man, a thief, according the king’s judge. The girl thought he seemed out of place in his fancy robes, particularly because he was the only man on the platform with neither armor on his chest nor a rope around his hands.
Then came Molyneux’s turn. Even before the second man’s body had been removed from the machine, the crowd began to seethe – every man and woman in the crowd screaming jeers and obscenities. It rose to such a pitch that the girl couldn’t hear the man’s crimes, even though she knew them as well as anyone else.
*
As the guard pulls the second man’s body off the stage, I find I can’t keep from looking at the trail of blood as it steams in the cold afternoon and drips between the loose, black planks of the platform. There are now two parallel trails leading to the big cart. It looks like it could hold at least six or seven bodies.
Maybe they’ll keep us around for a day or two until there are enough of us to fill it, I think, imagining my stiff body lying there, swollen with gas and failure.
My face gets splattered with what I can only assume was once an apple. The guard holding my rope swears, wiping rot off of his face. I don’t bother.
Molyneux needs to be carried to the guillotine, as his legs don’t seem to be working. But neither are they resisting; like the rest of his body, the life seems to have already left them, as they drag and flop their way over and then onto the diabolic machine. The crowd is nearly deafening, and for the first time I wish my hands were free, not to wipe off the apple but to protect my ears. I smile again, almost laughing at the thought that I don’t have long to worry about them.
Suddenly, the crowd silences for a moment, and in that moment I hear, for the first time, the rasping slink of the guillotine, and the final thump as the blade hits home. Wincing at the redoubled cheers of the crowd, I watch Molyneux’s head tumble from his neck into a bloodstained basket to end up looking right at me. His face is frozen in a look not of fear or anger, but of surprise. His wide, startled eyes stare through me and the black stone behind me, showing more emotion and life than I have seen in them during the past few days we’ve spent huddled against opposite sides of a prison cell.
I barely notice as the guard tugs on my rope, too impatient to wait for the other to pull Molyneux’s body from the machine. I am busy staring at the basket of heads and the three trails of blood leading to the cart as I lay on the guillotine with the help of the guard, who simply pushes me until I fall into the right position, unable to catch or maneuver myself with my hands tied behind my back. He presses the wooden guard onto the base of my neck, and I am trapped.
I smell fresh, metallic blood over the acidic bite of rotten apple and my own stale sweat. I start to struggle, twisting against the rope and wood that binds me, barely hearing the king’s justice listing my crimes. I want to laugh, to cry. Unable to do anything else, I scan the faces of the onlookers, but no one is looking at me. My own execution, and no is watching.
The assembled rabble, once so vicious and bloodthirsty – every one of them seems to have had his fill of death, or more likely, to have been filled with the particular death he or she desired. I watch as the crowd begins to part, turning to leave even as the justice condemns me. I begin to laugh, or at least I try to, but the only thing that comes out of my hoarse throat is a kind of hiccupping croak.
Then I see one face not turned towards the gate. Josephine is here, her slight form and bulging pregnancy covered in a filthy cloak, but she is radiant. Her pale face shines from beneath her black hair and her eyes capture mine. I struggle, no longer caring about the crowd that cannot be bothered to watch me die, no longer caring about the justice or the guards or the three lines of blood.
Not even caring about myself or the pain of my bindings or the heavy metal poised above me, I struggle to get to Josephine, toward her and our child to be. At first, all seems hopeless; the wood and cords are cold and unyielding to my pleas. Then, without warning, I am free. My hands no longer tied, by feet no longer bruised and bound. I feel myself lifted, and I soar, over the departing heads of the masses to Josephine. Her eyes beckon to me, and I come tumbling to her, flying, fleeing with her and her eyes to the gate, to the streets where I first met her, and beyond. I feel myself taken from this terrible place and its wet, cold bindings. I am free.
*
The girl no one knew was named Josephine stood in the dull courtyard long after everyone else had left, after it began to rain, after the four bodies had been hauled away and the guillotine and its platform had been scrubbed with hay to remove the cold, drying blood. She didn’t cry, didn’t move, and barely even reacted when a guard, showing uncharacteristic warmth, held her hand as he led her outside the courtyard, then shut the gate.
* * *