Archive for the ‘!What’s New!’ Category

Evening of Earth

Friday, December 27th, 2024

by Douglas Cole


37
(publishing December 27th)

Evening of Earth
(publishing December 28th)

Attractive Nuisance
(publishing December 29th)

Delivery Job
(publishing December 30th)

The Fight
(publishing December 31st)

The Silver Cloud
(publishing January 1st)


37

Cazadores tequila is a warm stranger, all palm trees and heat. No sound from the screen above, but he heard the little gunshots of each hit anyway, watching the two players mid-way through a tiebreak. He had beaten them both before. Kander was about to pull the trigger, the shadow of his racket flaring like a cobra, then strike. He was on to the semifinals.

You’re Turner!

I am. He didn’t have to look, but did think, no one ever recognizes me.

Why aren’t you playing up there? She was pointing at the screen.

I was out of that tournament three days ago. He picked up his drink and got up from the bar. Bye, now.

The double doors opened. He went out and stood on the smooth wet cobbles of the terrace. A little snow floated down, needle-fine sparkles in the silent night. A few house lights up the hill and a ferry boat in the dock below. Nothing moving.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.

Oh, you weren’t. He drank his tequila and the palm trees and sea waves returned. It doesn’t bother me. You win, you lose, you win… He scanned the empty street below. You can want it, but you can’t need it.

Wisdom of the court?

Wisdom.

He looked at her—all lines and mystery, the way some people present themselves as confident yet offer a fill-in-the-blank expression. It wasn’t the first time he was willing to be a stand-in. He once had a ranking that put him on more people’s menus of interest, but that was a few tournaments ago when his racket was still full of magic.

Her room looked just like his room only in reverse. Her balcony window looked into the big open shell of the church across the street, collapsed on one side, bare rafters like bones covered with snow. These sheets had probably once been on the bed in his room. The ceiling fan was the tornado on an aerial view weather map. The waters rolling over his eyes, the colossal effort to keep them open—



You talk in your sleep. 

What did I say? 

I couldn’t tell. It was like you were telling someone a story.

He put on his clothes. She watched him with one eyebrow raised and a slight smile. 

You want to get some coffee? he said.

They crossed the street. Their footprints were the first to impress the snow. Not another soul out there. The doors to the church were blasted clean off. He drank some coffee, feeling its heat. She stood close, her shoulder pressed to him while they were struck by little gusts of wind, a cold bite each time against the skin. They wandered into the church. Snow sloped down like banks of sand. A pulpit rose like the prow of a ship. He looked up into the hard grey sky, the snowflakes falling like thousands of paratroopers. He turned to say something to her, but she was gone.


Evening of Earth

More and more the world feels off limits.


Antonin already in T shirt, of course—he works hard tearing up these abandoned homes to strings of wood piled and laced, as he says, a work of art. You have to admire his discipline. He says, you know how many cars I’ve driven with bad transmissions?

How are the panels? I asked.   

I picked a few very clean ones out. I’ve got more energy than I need.. So…

I’m good. What’s your next project?

Still finishing the add-on to that one up on Seaview. Have you seen it?

No, but I’ll come check it out.

Do.

Hard to describe his work. I mean, you might look at one house and think it was spotless, but he’d be able to tell you where the fatal flaws were, which was why they’re empty and why he renders them down faster than a school of piranhas. And the others… spiders of brokenness and collapse, barely the shape they were, and he riddles the sticks of that pile and pulls out survivors most of us would miss. He’s an artist. Rubble is his medium.

I kept on walking. The first thing… scent. The apple blossom, the earth coming through four waves of freeze and thaw and other elements in the mixture. I could give you my own private name for this late winter, first spring maybe second after a few bloomers, but here, now, this scent I know my whole life back to first becoming aware of color.

She’s in front of the screen watching the chaos as though there might be a test coming along the way: place names (always changing), people—the principal players, representatives, officers, brigadier chiefs… the old play. Why watch that more closely than the king tide out there coming in like invasions? A line of sand higher than it’s ever been.

Who’s winning?

What do you mean?

Who’s winning?

Nobody. It’s a mess.

Somebody’s got to be winning—that’s always what it’s about.



That moment, awakening. Who am I now? Existential questions crop up in every mind, but this was diagnosed. A doctor says, sometimes you’ll be here, sometimes you won’t. So, I start with concrete things. The architecture of survival and responsibilities was hard-embedded here so I could pretty quickly get up to to some semblance of local speed and make believe my way through the day. These concrete elements were favors I did for myself, a way to stay in the moment, otherwise…That grandfather clock. When did it last ring? A drip in the kitchen sink waiting to fall. A bird looking at me through the window. 


Attractive Nuisance

When the picture by an artist we’ve never heard of looks exactly like a photograph we took off the end of the Berkeley pier. We both see the tall man coming down Alaska Way and think of dead Sylvester in the Curiosity shop. Because all cities should have a wall of water fountain like this one and chairs you can sit in under the shade of a tamarind tree and the cool sky. And we both stop ten steps into Macy’s and say, “I don’t want to be in here.” The fantasy of condo living, all these parallel lives and the things we imagine we’ll do. I’m saying something to the osprey above, I just don’t know what it is. And I’m playing my best game of pool in the bar above the lake. 


Let me put it this way: David Bacon who played the Masked Marvel was murdered. The murderer got away with it. I read about it in a magazine. And in the corner of one page was a picture of the comic book version of the Masked Marvel, and inside that picture was a list of illustrators and writers and panel artists, one of whom is Rod Bacon. No relation to the Murdered David Bacon. The next actor to play the Masked Marvel would die from suspicious causes. 


You were a healer, and so you receive your reward. 

A healer? I thought I was a clown. 

That, too. 

So, what’s my reward?


He follows me into the woods. He’s nearly blind and would never find his way out alone. And yet, he trusts me. Divide and subdivide ad infinitum to nothing. Even that’s an equation. And the scenes are all there after the war, the things that happened in the fields, without law, without order. I am cruising through the Sound past Blake Island and Manchester, north, which is the only way out. 


The dog chews on the bones at the edge of the fire. Where does the light go in its travels? Where does it stop? The great black hole at the center of the universe is the great black wall up ahead where night falls and we lean in. And I rise from the green swamp, cross the land, a humming in my head as I climb to the house on the hill. 


Owl and Frog Woman, and the gossiping clam people. The dancing man among the deer. The Fire brothers, the Changer. Sky world, earth mother, star father, stolen by the dog salmon people, moon, the transformer, downriver transforming. Here come the rum runners. We’ll meet at Doc Hamilton’s speakeasy. Or maybe the ranch. And every light must be out by 11 o’clock. Stock up on blackout bulbs, deluxe scintillators and survival crackers. Plant your Victory Garden. He’s a donkey in lion’s skin. And driving up I came upon the lone logger, both of us startled to see the other.


Frank Capra said, “I knew I wasn’t going to make a war picture—I’d had a belly full of war.”


Tiendas, industrial parks, sawmills, gun shop, Mattress World, old school massage parlors, bare stretches, used trucks, used campers, boarded up stores, graffiti-tagged tobacco shop, country farm market, apothecary, I-Hop, police blockade, blue lights, bottleneck, reroute, Home Depot, KFC, Bikini Espresso, girl making dawn in the middle of the highway. And what should appear but a boy in black shorts, vest and tie, and a girl in a black velvet dress, both of them looking like they just stepped out of nesting dolls, followed by the father, I assume, with square face and flattop head and Baltic music coming from a transistor radio in his suit pocket.   


You slip away. I can’t find a magazine. First and Pike is disappearing. So long, Lusty Lady, I hardly knew you. Christmas lights, big star, that season again. Cold wind, cold street, a welcome bar that opens in. Wood table, copper machine, candles burning, a good place to hide. Traffic and bodies, Leonard Cohen whisper-talking from the dark, and occasionally in the mirror the face of a ghost. 


Light gage, heavy gage, goof. Opening the door with cool paranoia, justifiable under the circumstances. Dim-lit room, a fish tank with gouramis, a string of blue lights that flicker like water traveling down the wall, check-in counter and a little couch with old woman smoking. She’s the one in charge. Back going back, dying in a wave sound and simple one-string instrument and the slow vibrational disintegration through filthy carpet and cement floor, the dirt of the earth and the hot core, and up through the ceiling fan and piles of insulation, the rooftop and cloud smoke blue sun bear up there, all to arrive at once in one spot blank, grateful and free—out of nothing, I tell you, but a code, the heavy drapery of clothing, wandering, wandering, and that feeling when you’re the only person in the restaurant or the movie theater. Who’s running the show?


We have been fighting chaos forever and losing. 


I could have sworn we saw that movie together.

Nope

Really?

Nope.

Man.

Word.




We went for breakfast somewhere in Oakland. Ten thousand things as gray as morning, nothing to do, then a bright decision. The woman loads the gun. A crane drops a hook. Wheeling kite above the rooftops. Magic crickets, rattle of castanets. Ghost, smoke, clouds we emerge from wandering through enlightenment like an ophthalmic migraine because only when you’re sick of sickness will you be well. Show the edge of the garden. Road of a thousand cuts. A story you keep telling. The town ahead where I wake up. The dogs rip up the rest.


Delivery Job

I liked delivering flowers. This was when we were first in San Diego, around ’86 or ’87. There was no GPS at the time. I didn’t know the city at all. But I learned fast, and I liked looking up the addresses in the Thomas Guide map book. I liked driving around, on my own, checking out the neighborhoods—Normal Heights, Pacific Beach, Ocean Beach, downtown, National City Chula Vista, San Ysidro on the Mexican border, dust yards, yucca, wide streets going into the desert east or the big ocean west. I loved swimming in the ocean off Sunset Cliffs, the red sandstone trails down to the beach and pelicans cruising in armadas over the waves.

The owners of the shop were two men: Olaf, short and large-bellied, red receding hair and red beard. He was mostly the numbers. Then Walter, very tall maybe 6’6’ or 6’8’, with big square head and black hair dyed; he looked like Lurch from the Adam’s Family. Sweet energy, artsy, the arranger—something was wrong with his neck, so his head leaned to the side past looking like he was thinking about something and into oh that looks uncomfortable. I’d rate the angle of neck to shoulder at maybe 35 degrees, acute it’s called.

What a job, I thought. It was perfect: one of those throw-away ones you know isn’t forever. But it’s a fun adventure. Something strange. And what fun to bring flowers to people. I felt like a magic elf bringing pixie-dust happiness to the world. I felt like that. Most deliveries were to offices, weddings and of course funerals. The first time I ever went into a funeral home was to deliver flowers. There was no one there, literally, except a dead body. In an open casket. I rang the bell and no one appeared, so I arranged the flowers at the head of the casket. That was the first dead body I ever saw. I wasn’t afraid. I was curious. The difference between a body with a life in it and a body without a life in it is obvious. The spirit of this old guy was pretty much long gone. Maybe he had a few feelers still tethered in there. He mostly looked like gray modeling clay. 

I was learning the city well. I knew my way around better than most natives within a couple of weeks. And I really liked that city. The main highway east and west was the 8, and it ended at the ocean. North and south were the 5 and 805 and, well, I don’t remember them all now, but then, you could tell me an address, and I could picture the path to it in my mind, gauge the best route by the time of day and the flow of traffic. I acquired my best spider sense city driving skills doing that job, which is saying something because I had become pretty skilled at driving San Francisco before I went to England and then LA fairly well when I moved there. I liked having that ability to read the city traffically.

But one day I was in a hurry. I had a lot of deliveries to get out before the evening rush hour, and I was heading out of the flower shop parking lot, made a right turn into the street, and caught the corner of a flatbed truck, gouging a deep groove into the passenger side of that delivery van from stem to stern. It made an excruciating sound, that steel ripping other steel. I backed into the parking lot, and Walter came running out, his head bouncing sideways, his hands pressed against his face. He shrieked. Oh, the horror of that expression as I climbed out and came around to see the ugly cut-open, bent-in metal on the side of the van. The flatbed truck was fine, not a scratch. The van was half-totaled. You couldn’t open the passenger door or the sliding door. 

I finished my deliveries, getting the flowers out through the back of the van. The owners were pretty cool about it. They didn’t dock my pay or anything. No report to the police, which was a big deal for me, then. I quit soon after for a better paying job at the high school as a TA. There, I spent the majority of my time at a little study cubicle in the library, bent over a stack of essays, under a bunker-style window about a foot high and two feet wide through which I saw nothing but the solid blue sky.


The Fight

My father drove through the dark. The headlights lit up a tunnel down the black road. One way was forest, and my mind saw me lost in there, slow slogging through fallen trees and the uneven wicker of branches. The other way was the lake, a deeper darkness. I couldn’t actually see the lake, but I knew it was there.

I was just a kid about to hit double digits. Bewildered. My father was a stranger who had left and was now back haunting me. He reappeared once in a while, saying, hey buddy let’s go to the driving range or see a movie, and it was like he had never left. Then he would disappear again for months, a year. This time, when he appeared, he said, “You want to go with me out to Jerry’s?”

“Sure,” I said.

And off we went down the road to the lake.

The cabin rose up in the headlights. A grass field sloped down to the water behind it. Summertime, ending of summer. Jerry’s son, Sam, stood on the back porch looking at us. The retinas in his eyes flashed red as we pulled up.

We went in, and Jerry cuffed me on the side of the head with his bear paw. Then he and my father went to the den to start some drinking. I went with Sam out to the back yard and took up opposing stations at the ping pong table. Fireflies flew along the ground, little green tracers. The ping pong ball came at me. I hit it back. The table tilted on the lawn. Light from the screened-in porch came down, illuminating our space. Out there, the black lake. I heard an owl.

“Your parents are getting divorced?” Sam said.

“No.” I said. It wasn’t a lie. Not like telling people that my father was dead, killed in a plane crash.

“My dad said they were,” he said.

We went back and forth a few more rounds. He won the point. Smug, fat kid with his face lit up in the light. I wanted to annihilate him. He won three points in a row.

We went up the lawn to the house. The grass felt like a saturated mattress. Black screen-meshed windows surrounded the back porch. Moths and mosquitos were looking for a way in.

My father was smiling. Smoking and smiling, a beer in his hand, a whiskey bottle on the table, two shot glasses next to that. He and Jerry were throwing down cards in a friendly, shit-talking rummy match.

“Take that, ya cock sucker!” Jerry said.

A grin, a pluck of a card, and…“There! Up yer ass, mother fucker!” My father said.

“Hey, boys,” Jerry said, “and you—kid—how’s your summer going?”

“Good,” I said.

“Well, good, good…good to have you here. You stay as long as you like.” And he exhaled a blue stream of smoke that plumed in the blue cloud of smoke already hanging in the room. Then he laughed a big gusty laugh with a cough at the end of it. Jerry was a fraternity buddy, the hazing one with a bit of the sadist in him who says afterwards, all in good fun, eh? I knew you could handle it! And this was his kingdom: wood paneling, dartboard, wet bar, big screen, sports jerseys and photographs of him with big fish. No woman around.

“Here—there—” sloshing another shot of whiskey for my father and himself. “And here—” yanking two beers out and tossing one each to Sam and me.

I looked at my father.

He nodded his head.

It wasn’t the first beer I’d been given.



“Hey, now! Why don’t you two boys put on the gloves?” Jerry said.

Two pairs of red boxing gloves hung by a nail next to the back door. It’s true. Sam went and got the gloves and tossed a pair at me. His father’s son, you didn’t have to ask him twice.

Vulture-hunched, sitting on a stool by the bar, I pulled the gloves on and glanced at my father. His eyes were narrow, impenetrable. He seemed like he wanted to say something, like his mouth was about to open and some saving words come out of it, but no. Nothing. “A friendly little match,” Jerry said.

I stepped into the space between the bar and the back door. Sam was waiting for me. I put my hands up like I’d seen on TV. Sam stood back. He was bigger than me. He was smiling. I got the feeling that he wanted me to throw the first punch, so I did. I hit him in the shoulder. He threw a few jabs. His weight came through, jarring. He caught me in the gut and I lost my breath for a moment. Fear swinging, I threw a few more hits out there and by pure luck caught the side of his face. He shifted a bit, anger flaring, and came at me, hitting harder. I protected my face, his blows hitting my shoulders, my head, my sides.

I was breathing hard. So was he. I went into a fury of fast blows, throwing them out there. He curled and took them. Didn’t seem to faze him. He came back, hitting harder. At this point, it was pretty clear I was getting beat up. I staggered a bit. I felt dizzy and out of breath. But I didn’t fall down.

“Okay, there…hold up!” Jerry said, hitting his beer bottle with a spoon, and Sam stepped back like he was yanked by a rope.

I lowered my arms. I was hot and sweating. The room was full of smoke like a real boxing ring.

“Take a break, there, killers!”

I hunched back on the stool.

“Nice job,” my father said. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. His eyes looked crossed. Jerry poured them another drink.

“You kids got heart,” Jerry said. “I give you that!”

He and my father drank their shots.

Then Jerry rang the beer bottle, and I was back in, swinging, landing a few shots but taking more hits to the stomach, more hits to the head. The outlines were fuzzy. But the buzz of the mosquitoes was loud. The screens in the windows were full of their tiny, hungry faces. I felt sick.

Jerry rang the bottle again. “Ah!” he said, slapping the shot glass down and looking at me. “That’s good for one night, don’t ya think?”

I sat down on the stool and peeled off the boxing gloves.

“Isn’t this fun?” Jerry said, waving his cigar at the world.

Sam went out the back door. I grabbed my beer and got up to follow and pushed open the screen door and stood there a moment. I couldn’t see anything. I knew the lake was straight ahead. I turned back.

“Don’t let the bugs in,” Jerry said.

I looked at my father. He smiled nodding his head and winked.


The Silver Cloud

I think someone dosed me. My processing is way off. Memory is a vague fog of things. I have no idea how long I’ve been in this hotel. I’m supposed to be doing something. I have the clothes for it. But what is it?

Wind is shooting through the buildings, old red brick hotels with black burned out windows and freight barns with wide wooden hangar doors across the street from titanium structures with long cement stairs and a colosseum—a big empty colosseum. Hardly anyone is around. People I see look old but aren’t. They bear the signs of aging—wrinkled skin, bad teeth, thin hair, but they’re eyes are young. They look sick. They walk with limps and hitches like their bones don’t link up right. And even though they’re walking around, they’re all at a distance, and it feels like the street should be crowded.

On Occidental Avenue I stop under the big yellow globe lights. Wind is whipping the trees. And I can see the silver tower with heavy security where the big boss has his offices, a building looking down into the heart of the stadium one way and right into Pioneer Square the other. A trolley comes by bell ringing and rolling down King Street. It’s good to see the trolleys back up and running. I can’t remember how long they were gone.

A woman approaches me, and she seems healthy walking fast dressed in a black coat and black hat and looking ahead and then directly at me as if she knows me. She smiles like she’s in on a joke. I’m supposed to—I’ve forgotten the code. We’re in an age of code words, here, but I don’t know them or don’t remember them. 

And glass intact, the in-lit art gallery though closed has placed one painting in the entrance behind the doors locked as they are with a light shining on the circle in the painting with its murky interior, and along the outer surface a human form is swimming and looking for a way in.








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Francis and the Stigmata

Thursday, December 26th, 2024

by John Manderino

[this is the third in the three part series–
read From the Life of St. Francis from the beginning]


Francis and the Stigmata

Kneeling in a cave one evening near the end of his life, holding his scrawny arms out wide, Francis envisioned the suffering of Christ on the cross so vividly and with such compassion he was granted the Stigmata, the wounds of Jesus, in his palms and feet where the nails had been driven, and on his right side just below the ribs where the spear had entered. 

This has never happened to anyone ever before, he thought, then prayed so hard for humility the wounds began to run. Lord, look!” he cried aloud. “I bleed for Thee!Then prayed even harder for humility, and bled even more. 

After a while, weak and dizzy from the loss of blood, Francis stretched out on the floor of the cave. Soon, he was fast asleep. And while Brother Spider and Sister Centipede crawled over him, he dreamed about a pretty girl he once knew named Angelina. He used to call her Angie. She used to call him Frankie.   






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Francis and the Rain

Wednesday, December 25th, 2024

by John Manderino

[this is the second in the three part series–
read From the Life of St. Francis from the beginning]


Francis and the Rain

The brothers were grumbling among themselves about the mud and pouring rain they’d been slogging through all morning in their soaking-wet robes, hoods up. And they were very hungry. They hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and that was just some rock-hard bread from a loaf an angry baker had thrown at them to make them stop singing and go away.

They felt like nothing better than a pack of miserable tramps. 

At the head of the line Francis was trying to think of something he could possibly say or sing or do to pull the brothers out of their gloomy mood. At last he suddenly stopped walking, the others stopping too. Francis looked at them with profound compassion. Then he suddenly laughed like hell, pulled his robe off over his head, and went cavorting naked in the downpour, his face raised to the silvery fingers of Sister Rain.

Dutifully, the brothers began removing their robes.






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From the Life of Saint Francis 

Tuesday, December 24th, 2024

by John Manderino

Francis and the Leper
(publishing December 24th)

Francis and the Rain
(publishing December 25th)

Francis and the Stigmata
(publishing December 26th)


Francis and the Leper

The dashing young playboy from Assisi got down from his father’s white charger and gave the leper begging at the side of the road a kiss on his shriveled lips, thereby demonstrating to the Lord as well as to himself how sincerely he intended to change his ways and become a saint, renowned for loving everything and not just pretty girls. Returning to his horse he resisted the urge to take out his handkerchief and wipe his mouth. 

The leper meanwhile shook his tin bell at him and made gobbling sounds, trying to say, “How about some money?” 

Francis called down to him from the saddle, “I love you too, brother,” and rode off in triumph. 

The leper spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his shriveled hand. 


Francis and the Rain

The brothers were grumbling among themselves about the mud and pouring rain they’d been slogging through all morning in their soaking-wet robes, hoods up. And they were very hungry. They hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and that was just some rock-hard bread from a loaf an angry baker had thrown at them to make them stop singing and go away.

They felt like nothing better than a pack of miserable tramps. 

At the head of the line Francis was trying to think of something he could possibly say or sing or do to pull the brothers out of their gloomy mood. At last he suddenly stopped walking, the others stopping too. Francis looked at them with profound compassion. Then he suddenly laughed like hell, pulled his robe off over his head, and went cavorting naked in the downpour, his face raised to the silvery fingers of Sister Rain.

Dutifully, the brothers began removing their robes.


Francis and the Stigmata

Kneeling in a cave one evening near the end of his life, holding his scrawny arms out wide, Francis envisioned the suffering of Christ on the cross so vividly and with such compassion he was granted the Stigmata, the wounds of Jesus, in his palms and feet where the nails had been driven, and on his right side just below the ribs where the spear had entered. 

This has never happened to anyone ever before, he thought, then prayed so hard for humility the wounds began to run. Lord, look!” he cried aloud. “I bleed for Thee!Then prayed even harder for humility, and bled even more. 

After a while, weak and dizzy from the loss of blood, Francis stretched out on the floor of the cave. Soon, he was fast asleep. And while Brother Spider and Sister Centipede crawled over him, he dreamed about a pretty girl he once knew named Angelina. He used to call her Angie. She used to call him Frankie.   






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Late Lunch

Monday, December 23rd, 2024

By Ann Kammerer

[this is the fourth in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]


Late Lunch

Mr. Lindell was at lunch when his daughter got to the office. He called and asked me

to keep Debbie busy, to tell her he hadn’t forgotten, to let her know he’d be there soon, that he had run late in court.

“Yeah sure,” she said. “I’ve heard that before.” Debbie triangled an elbow on the counter. Her purse slipped off her bare shoulder, so she put it on the counter, too. She grabbed a Brach’s peppermint from a dusty candy dish and popped it in her mouth, sliding the candy in and out between her glossy pink lips.

“I knew he wouldn’t show,” she said. “He likes long lunches.” Debbie walked to the window, lifting her hair and sighing, her white heels catching in the worn carpet. She sat down

in the waiting area and crossed her legs, her blue skirt hiking over her tan thighs. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back as she looked up and pulled on the ends of her paisley scarf.

“Christ,” she wailed. “Where is he?”

I glanced at the clock, remembering how Mr. Lindell had said she’d be in around 2, that he’d be a tad late, but not by much.

“You know how it goes,” he had said. “That Jensen. He gets to talking.”

I had told him not to worry, that I’d be here, both of us knowing he’d be at Fitzpatrick’s

drinking tonic and gin. I thought about how my dad had done the same, saying he’d be home

but not showing, pulling in late, his tires crunching, his car door creaking, his feet scraping as he mumbled his way to the front door.

“Got any coffee?” Debbie uncrossed her legs. She tapped her feet.

“I can make some,” I said.

She twirled a sparkly bracelet and asked if she could smoke. I said that was fine and pulled a green glass ashtray from my desk.

“My dad,” she said. “He’s such a loser.”

I poured water into the Mr. Coffee, half-listening as she went on about how her dad was always late, that he never did what he said he would, that he’d get mad if she did the same.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He just sounds like a lot of dads.”

Debbie came to the counter. She dug deep into her purse.

“Here you go.” She gave me a Virginia Slim then struck the flint of a silver lighter engraved with her initials. We leaned in, lighting our smokes, our heads nearly touching, the smell of her Charlie perfume mingling with the butane of the gold-blue flame.

“Does he call you his girl?” she asked. 

I nodded. Her eyes fluttered.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” she said. “I suppose he’s cute, in that old man way, but come on. Working here from some two-bit lawyer is pretty boring don’t you think?”


–END–






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Quittin’ Time

Sunday, December 22nd, 2024

By Ann Kammerer

[this is the third in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]


Quittin’ Time


I thought about Mr. Lindell and his daughter on the bus ride home, how he bought her things, gave her things, did most everything for her only to say he did too much, and she needed to do more for herself.

“Her Mom and me,” he said. “I guess we spoiled her. Don’t you think?”

Slipping on my coat, I said I didn’t know, that Debbie seemed like a lot of girls from my high school, the ones with letter-jacket boyfriends, shiny new cars, and snazzy clothes, their hair perfect, their make-up refined, their parents cheering them on for anything and everything, while my mom and dad yelled and screamed, picking fights after every Stroh’s or Jim Beam on ice.

“She’ll be fine,” I said. “Debbie I mean. You’ll see.”

Mr. Lindell tapped the counter and shook his head. He mumbled more about Debbie, about his day, about his clients—how they moaned, how they lied, how they showed up late or poorly-dressed, even when it was time to go to court. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Those clients. And Debbie. They’re all so aimless. Like nothing matters ‘cept what they can get or take, take, take.”

Mr. Lindell rubbed his five-o-clock-shadow. Peering out the window, he watched shopkeepers across the avenue flip door signs from ‘open’ to ‘close.’

“Well, I guess it is ’bout quittin’ time, isn’t it?” he said.

I told him it was, that I had to get going or I’d miss my 5:15 bus at Capital and Grand.

“Well let’s call it a day then.”

His face brightened as he loosened his tie. Clapping his hands, he said I did good work, that he was glad to have a girl like me, that he struck gold the day I walked in looking for a job.

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what to say next, ‘cept I’d see him in the morning, and to not work too late. 

“No chance of that,” he said. “The wife. She doesn’t like it when miss supper.”

He laughed a little, then opened the door, ushering me out with a half-bow, saying again he was grateful for everything I did.

The door locked behind me as I stepped into cool twilight. Turning up my coat collar,

I walked passed his office window, the blinds still open, the lights dimmed, seeing his silhouette as he pulled a bottle of gin and a single glass from the bottom drawer of his scratched wooden desk.



##






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Long Face

Saturday, December 21st, 2024

By Ann Kammerer

[this is the second in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]


Long Face


Mr. Lindell complained a lot about his daughter. He’d emerge from his office and stare out the window, raising up and down on his toes, his wingtips squeaking as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I don’t get it,” he’d say. “She was such a good girl, never any trouble to me and her mom. But now, well, look at her.”

His daughter was tall and slender and had bouncy blonde hair. Her name was Deborah, but he called her Debbie except when he was mad. She drove a sleek silver car and wore tube tops, short skirts, and heels. Her boyfriend Len was slender, too, with a penchant for flared pants, leather vests, and medallions. Neither worked, although Debbie had been a dental assistant for six months, only to quit, saying the dentist was “touchy-feely.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Mr. Lindell would say. “’Cept that Len. He’s a bad influence.”

Debbie called the office at least twice a day, sometimes more.

“It’s Debbie,” she’d say. “Put me through to my Dad.

”I’d tell her he was in a meeting, or in court with a client, even though most times he was there, mouthing the words “take a message,” before changing his mind, grabbing the phone, asking what she wanted.

“Calm down,” he’d say. “Talk slower.”

I could hear Debbie, her voice a blur of sharp to sweet, him saying OK, don’t worry, I’ll fix it, I’ll take care of it, it’s fine.

Hanging up, he’d scurry out, walking to the bank three doors down. When he got back, he’d catch his breath and crack bad jokes, asking if I’d heard the one about a horse walking into a bar, the bartender asking ‘why the long face?,’ me laughing, even though he’d told it a million times.

“You’re a good egg,” he’d say. “Debbie. Well I love her. But she has no drive. No ‘get-up-and-go.’ Not like you.”

He held out a coffee cup. I poured him some, thinking about Debbie and her slim boyfriend, how Mr. Lindell said they ate out a lot and went to bars, buying clothes on credit in between.

“Damn if I shouldn’t make her pay down that Master Card sometime,” he’d say. “Maybe she’d think twice then.”

I looked at my watch. My bus came in 15 minutes. Mr. Lindell paced, his hands in his pockets jangling his change.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I’d say. “Debbie I mean. Some people take a while. You know. To figure things out.”

Mr. Lindell’s hand shook. He pushed in his cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, then pinched his bottom lip.

“You’re probably right,” he’d say. “Go ahead and go. I’ll close things up.”

##






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Once a Good Girl

Friday, December 20th, 2024

By Ann Kammerer



Good Looks
(publishing December 20th)

Long Face
(publishing December 21st)

Quittin’ Time
(publishing December 22nd)

Late Lunch
(publishing December 23rd)



Good Looks

I worked in an antique building with spalling brick and carved stone insets of flowers and fruit. The words “Andrew Lindell Law” arched on the glass door above the ghosted outlines of an ex-partner’s name, the sticky remnants of the press-on letters I had peeled away two months before.

I sat behind a counter that faced a squat window trimmed in dark wood. When I typed or answered phones, I wasn’t quite tall enough to see over the divider, having to rise in my rolling chair every time the door opened, or someone walked by.

Mr. Lindell liked to stand behind the counter before I got there each morning, drinking coffee and eating donut holes while he read the local news

“Good morning,” he’d say, the paper spread flat over the orange Formica. “Ready for another busy day?”

He’d smile and lick powdered sugar from his fingertips, then went back to the box scores and comics. Sometimes, he’d smack his lips.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m ready.”

I draped my coat on a brass hook shaped like a lion’s head, then squeezed past him, careful not to bump the pastoral landscape his wife painted and hung on the back wall.

“Well, glad to hear it.” Mr. Lindell took off  his narrow plastic glasses. He clicked the bows open and shut.

“Read back my calendar for me, will you please?” he said. “When’s my first appointment?”

I flipped open a large black planner, paperclipped to the day.

“Looks like the Jacobiacks at 10,” I said. “Then you have a luncheon near the Capitol. Something with the Rotary.”

Mr. Lindell slurped coffee. He aligned his pale striped tie over a missing button on his oxford. 

“And the afternoon?”

I sat and swiveled,  tapping a pen.

“Mr. Bennett is coming,” I said. “Around 2. Then you’re taking your daughter to the bank. Around 3.” 

Mr. Lindell yanked at his shirt cuffs bunched in the sleeves of his tweed jacket.

“Oh yes,” he said. “That’s because she can’t figure things out herself. Maybe you could teach her.”

Staring at his wife’s painting, he went on about his daughter, calling her Debbie, then Deborah. His face reddened and his temple pulsed. 

“I’m not sure I could show her much,” I said. “I mean, actually, I think it’s kinda nice you help her. You know, with her finances.”

Mr. Lindell folded the paper. He slapped the counter.

“Well I suppose,” he said. “I always tell her she’s gotta do something, that you can’t make a living on just your good looks.”


##



Long Face

Mr. Lindell complained a lot about his daughter. He’d emerge from his office and stare out the window, raising up and down on his toes, his wingtips squeaking as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I don’t get it,” he’d say. “She was such a good girl, never any trouble to me and her mom. But now, well, look at her.”

His daughter was tall and slender and had bouncy blonde hair. Her name was Deborah, but he called her Debbie except when he was mad. She drove a sleek silver car and wore tube tops, short skirts, and heels. Her boyfriend Len was slender, too, with a penchant for flared pants, leather vests, and medallions. Neither worked, although Debbie had been a dental assistant for six months, only to quit, saying the dentist was “touchy-feely.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Mr. Lindell would say. “’Cept that Len. He’s a bad influence.”

Debbie called the office at least twice a day, sometimes more.

“It’s Debbie,” she’d say. “Put me through to my Dad.

”I’d tell her he was in a meeting, or in court with a client, even though most times he was there, mouthing the words “take a message,” before changing his mind, grabbing the phone, asking what she wanted.

“Calm down,” he’d say. “Talk slower.”

I could hear Debbie, her voice a blur of sharp to sweet, him saying OK, don’t worry, I’ll fix it, I’ll take care of it, it’s fine.

Hanging up, he’d scurry out, walking to the bank three doors down. When he got back, he’d catch his breath and crack bad jokes, asking if I’d heard the one about a horse walking into a bar, the bartender asking ‘why the long face?,’ me laughing, even though he’d told it a million times.

“You’re a good egg,” he’d say. “Debbie. Well I love her. But she has no drive. No ‘get-up-and-go.’ Not like you.”

He held out a coffee cup. I poured him some, thinking about Debbie and her slim boyfriend, how Mr. Lindell said they ate out a lot and went to bars, buying clothes on credit in between.

“Damn if I shouldn’t make her pay down that Master Card sometime,” he’d say. “Maybe she’d think twice then.”

I looked at my watch. My bus came in 15 minutes. Mr. Lindell paced, his hands in his pockets jangling his change.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I’d say. “Debbie I mean. Some people take a while. You know. To figure things out.”

Mr. Lindell’s hand shook. He pushed in his cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, then pinched his bottom lip.

“You’re probably right,” he’d say. “Go ahead and go. I’ll close things up.”


##



Quittin’ Time


I thought about Mr. Lindell and his daughter on the bus ride home, how he bought her things, gave her things, did most everything for her only to say he did too much, and she needed to do more for herself.

“Her Mom and me,” he said. “I guess we spoiled her. Don’t you think?”

Slipping on my coat, I said I didn’t know, that Debbie seemed like a lot of girls from my high school, the ones with letter-jacket boyfriends, shiny new cars, and snazzy clothes, their hair perfect, their make-up refined, their parents cheering them on for anything and everything, while my mom and dad yelled and screamed, picking fights after every Stroh’s or Jim Beam on ice.

“She’ll be fine,” I said. “Debbie I mean. You’ll see.”

Mr. Lindell tapped the counter and shook his head. He mumbled more about Debbie, about his day, about his clients—how they moaned, how they lied, how they showed up late or poorly-dressed, even when it was time to go to court. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Those clients. And Debbie. They’re all so aimless. Like nothing matters ‘cept what they can get or take, take, take.”

Mr. Lindell rubbed his five-o-clock-shadow. Peering out the window, he watched shopkeepers across the avenue flip door signs from ‘open’ to ‘close.’

“Well, I guess it is ’bout quittin’ time, isn’t it?” he said.

I told him it was, that I had to get going or I’d miss my 5:15 bus at Capital and Grand.

“Well let’s call it a day then.”

His face brightened as he loosened his tie. Clapping his hands, he said I did good work, that he was glad to have a girl like me, that he struck gold the day I walked in looking for a job.

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what to say next, ‘cept I’d see him in the morning, and to not work too late. 

“No chance of that,” he said. “The wife. She doesn’t like it when miss supper.”

He laughed a little, then opened the door, ushering me out with a half-bow, saying again he was grateful for everything I did.

The door locked behind me as I stepped into cool twilight. Turning up my coat collar,

I walked passed his office window, the blinds still open, the lights dimmed, seeing his silhouette as he pulled a bottle of gin and a single glass from the bottom drawer of his scratched wooden desk.



##



Late Lunch

Mr. Lindell was at lunch when his daughter got to the office. He called and asked me

to keep Debbie busy, to tell her he hadn’t forgotten, to let her know he’d be there soon, that he had run late in court.

“Yeah sure,” she said. “I’ve heard that before.” Debbie triangled an elbow on the counter. Her purse slipped off her bare shoulder, so she put it on the counter, too. She grabbed a Brach’s peppermint from a dusty candy dish and popped it in her mouth, sliding the candy in and out between her glossy pink lips.

“I knew he wouldn’t show,” she said. “He likes long lunches.” Debbie walked to the window, lifting her hair and sighing, her white heels catching in the worn carpet. She sat down

in the waiting area and crossed her legs, her blue skirt hiking over her tan thighs. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back as she looked up and pulled on the ends of her paisley scarf.

“Christ,” she wailed. “Where is he?”

I glanced at the clock, remembering how Mr. Lindell had said she’d be in around 2, that he’d be a tad late, but not by much.

“You know how it goes,” he had said. “That Jensen. He gets to talking.”

I had told him not to worry, that I’d be here, both of us knowing he’d be at Fitzpatrick’s drinking tonic and gin. I thought about how my dad had done the same, saying he’d be home but not showing, pulling in late, his tires crunching, his car door creaking, his feet scraping as he mumbled his way to the front door.

“Got any coffee?” Debbie uncrossed her legs. She tapped her feet.

“I can make some,” I said.

She twirled a sparkly bracelet and asked if she could smoke. I said that was fine and pulled a green glass ashtray from my desk.

“My dad,” she said. “He’s such a loser.”

I poured water into the Mr. Coffee, half-listening as she went on about how her dad was always late, that he never did what he said he would, that he’d get mad if she did the same.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He just sounds like a lot of dads.”

Debbie came to the counter. She dug deep into her purse.

“Here you go.” She gave me a Virginia Slim then struck the flint of a silver lighter engraved with her initials. We leaned in, lighting our smokes, our heads nearly touching, the smell of her Charlie perfume mingling with the butane of the gold-blue flame.

“Does he call you his girl?” she asked. 

I nodded. Her eyes fluttered.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” she said. “I suppose he’s cute, in that old man way, but come on. Working here from some two-bit lawyer is pretty boring don’t you think?”


–END–







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Upír

Thursday, December 19th, 2024

by Jacob Anderson

[this is the third in the three part series–
read The Vanishing of Viera from the beginning]


Upír

Holy hell. I knew Larric was strong, but that bastard did a number on me. I limped through the streets, covering the gash in my ribs hoping the flesh would start to mend soon. Dodging street lights to remain unseen became a challenge in my condition, but I saw a house with its lights off and it looked like the family might be gone. I meandered down the side of the fence until I was hidden from the street and clumsily threw myself over it into the backyard. I hit the ground and tumbled forward, bouncing off a shrub and landing hard onto my back. Definitely not my most graceful landing. As I struggled to catch my breath and composure, unexpected footsteps hustled to the rear door. Oh great. An older woman walked out and when she saw me she hustled over and helped me to my feet, fussing about getting me cleaned up. I tried to break away but she was insistent, and honestly, her determination to help me was refreshing. So, I did as she said and she got me bathed and fed, even going as far as stitching up the gash in my side. Apparently  she had been a seamstress when she was younger, remarking that skin was just the cloth of the body. Very macabre, but I still found it very endearing. 

We got to talking and I explained that I was “jumped by some no good goons.” Not a total lie, Larric and his band of half-breeds certainly ambushed me and are quite goonish. She offered me her couch for the night, or for a few nights if I still wasn’t feeling well tomorrow. Her kindness was warming, it was clear that she was missing company and someone to dote on. From the pain in her eyes she probably lost a child, but it is not my place to ask.

The next day I repaid her kindness by fixing some broken items I saw around the home and cleaned where I could. She had well maintained vinyls of Marvin Gaye, and with those spinning the work was done in no time. She eventually woke up and greeted me and we spoke more, she loved hearing my tales from ages past. We spent hours and hours chatting, reliving our glory days. She was a wonder. Kind and strong, enduring all the hardship life threw at her with a smile. She eventually did mention the passing of her daughter Jackie. She talked about how hard life was after she lost her and she even thought of ending it all, but she decided against it. Deciding that since Jackie didn’t get to live her full life, she would take on a few more years to make up the difference. It was a beautiful sentiment.

I stayed another night and the next day went much the same, I did a few chores and we reminisced and listened to oldies. That night she said goodnight and went to bed, and I sat on the couch thinking. She deserved to live a full life and carry on the legacy that Jackie would’ve wanted. So, as she slept I snuck in her room and gently as I could, as not to wake her, I began to blood her. This would give her the chance to live long enough to fulfill her wish. As I finished the process I could hear some raucous outside, when I peeked I saw that it was Larric and his goons again. I carefully slid out the back door and made my escape, leaving enough clues to drag Larric away from that poor woman’s house.

I spent the next couple months knocking Larric and his brood down a peg and regaining control of my territory. Unfortunately, this whole process kept me away from seeing my new progeny come into her own, but I would make my way to her soon and indoctrinate her properly. Alas, that never came to fruition. I was called to visit a colleague a few states over and during that time I felt a tinge in my heart. That old, familiar feeling of when someone close to you has their chapter closed. My presence was required by my colleague and delayed me from investigating her death.

When I finally came back, I was greeted with an estate sale at her home. I had been gone far too long and now I may never be able to avenge her. But, I caught a whiff of someone with an overt garlic odor, and I saw a man walk out of her home with her ragged diary in his hand. I followed him that day and waited for my time. He parked by a lake and sat on the bed of his truck as he read through her journal. I waited as the sun set, and once it dipped below the horizon I made my way to a tree closer to him.

“I know you’re there. I assume you did this?” He said.

“Nothing gets by you hunters.” I laughed as I stepped out of the shadows. “I assume you’re the one who killed that lovely woman.”

“When I found her she was nothing more than a rabid dog.”

“You will not speak about her that way. You bastards would never know a pure soul like hers.”

“That old bitch was just another pest like all of you.”

I instantly closed the distance, knocking the gun out of his hand and holding him in the air by his throat.

“All you hunters are self-righteous bastards with no sense of morals, and I will not stand for it.” I said as I snapped the bastard’s neck and dropped him to the ground. I looked up at the rising moon.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Viera.”






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Krvavý

Wednesday, December 18th, 2024

by Jacob Anderson

[this is the second in the three part series–
read The Vanishing of Viera from the beginning]


Krvavý


June 23, 2017

It’s been awhile since I’ve done one of these. Ever since I lost Jackie a few years ago it has been a struggle to do anything. A few weeks ago I started seeing Dr. Trenton and she recommended that I start journaling again as a form of therapy, apparently having a routine like this can help me get back into the groove of day to day life but I guess we’ll see how that goes.

July 7, 2017

I’ve started sitting out on the porch in the afternoon and wave at the kids as they walk home. It hurts to know my kiddo won’t be walking through the gate, but seeing them run home all happy and smiley warms my heart.

August 3, 2017

I’ve been having a much better time lately. I started picking up books from the library and have really enjoyed reading my nights away. Sometimes I’ve been hearing some animal noises out in the backyard, hopefully there’s not racoons digging up my flowers.

August 10, 2017

I went and saw Dr. Trenton again today. She says that I’m starting to show signs of Alzheimer’s dementia. I would be lying if I said I was surprised, momma died of it and so did grandma. Well. I’ll just try and enjoy what time I have left.

September 18, 2017

Last night while I was reading I heard some loud noises from the backyard and when I went to check it was a young man! He was very beat up and was bleeding a little bit. I brought him in and helped him get cleaned up. I know I shouldn’t have but I let him rest here for a bit. He has been good company, he may be young but he has an old soul. He loves to listen to my vinyls and he has so many fun stories! I hope he sticks around for a little bit, I could use the company.

September 15, 2016

Unfortunately it seems that my visitor has vanished. He was a great help the last few days helping me clean the house and doing some other chores that I’ve started struggling with. The excitement of having company must have burned through my energy because I am so tired today.

Octobr 1, 2017

I don’t know what it is, but I have just been so hungry the last few weeks. No matter what or how much I eat I just can’t get enough. I should go see Dr. Trenton soon.

October 30, 2018

The Dr says it’s probably nothing, just a side effect of the medication I’ve been taking or maybe I’ve been forgetting meals. She said if I eat a little more red meat it should keep me fuller longer. I guess I’ll try that.

January 12, 2018

I’ve started seeing dead animals in the backyard. It looks like a coyote or something has been dragging stuff in, hopefully it gets run off soon. Also, it looks like the Dr was right, just a change in diet and I haven’t been so hungry lately!

Janary 29

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Jackie, and she won’t pick up my calls. I am starting to get worried. It doesn’t help that something has been leaving dead animals in my backyard.

Feb 8

Why is that man always looking at me, it’s like he is planning to break in. I keep trying to tell Jackie about it, but she won’t answer my calls. Hopefully, she’s not mad at me, it looks like I forgot to send a birthday message so I hope she gets my sorry text and reaches out.

It hurts so much, why won’t the hunger stop, I just keep eating and eating and eating. I need to get better before Jackie gets back, it’ll be a shame if she sees me in this condition after coming home from her friends house






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