Her colleagues had all gone to school together, their club established long before she came along. She kept her professionalism even in the face of the obvious snubs like not being invited to lunches and after work drinks, instead pouring her energy into the work. Six months working on one project and it came all down to this; together they would make that deadline.

The bar they celebrated in was ten minutes away from work, she made it in five. Except hesitation kept her on the threshold unable to step over.

She found herself back home humiliated and unconsoled, with nobody to keep her company. She needed a friend and the top drawer granted her wish. She let her dress slide down her hips, unravelled her stockings, fingers moving beneath the most comfortable underwear she owned, pushing the elastic aside and probing. This would bring the control back. She fell back on the bed and nudged the edge of the head, tracing subtle outlines before plunging the silicon inside, releasing the scent and sating her own ego. Fuck it, nobody knew their body better than themselves. The release threw her back into the headboard spent. She didn’t remember dropping the phallus or passing out. In the morning she left the projectile on her dresser. She had found her key.

She accepted the invitation on a whim, not believing the sincerity with which it was offered; however, her name was on the door list, so she positioned herself to watch them come in, a lone martini her only support. Her courage grew bigger after the second drink and she went for the junior of them first; his voice stood out the most and the others gave him the one thing she craved from them: respect. She moved in with the pretext of one-on-one time and held his attention with a light touch here, laughing in the pauses; a twist of lace at the edge of her collar to catch his eye. In the back of the cab she asked him how he became so refined. Elocution lessons, he explained. He offered her a personal lesson back at her apartment. She demurred, that would be perfect, as long as it stayed between them. Once she got him back home he sprawled on the bed expecting a surprise. And she delivered. He was amused by the length of it. His wrists chafed when she bound him to the headboard whispering to him it was the only way. She strapped the harness on and tightened the buckles, gripping it next to her pubic bone. Ignoring his reluctance to accept the offering when he saw what she had in mind, she pinched his nostrils and told him it wouldn’t hurt; he should be used to it, after all wasn’t this what he did at the office all day. She was right, he took her well after an initial struggle, eyes bulging, as he swallowed her manhood. She told him to stay with her and began to slowly throat fuck him. He was such a natural, she had the impression he’d done this before.

She forgot he couldn’t answer right now; his mouth was full.

She had never seen anyone get dressed so fast, he nearly tore his jacket on the way out, muttering words about seeing her in the boardroom tomorrow.

She could taste him as she lubed up the shaft, warm viscosity dripping down her chin. Eventually her hunger grew and she wanted to be naughty. She relented and once there, clung to the pole unwilling to release it should its power disappear and leave her stranded. Afterwards she replaced it in the drawer ready for its next encounter.

She woke full of enough energy to power through the gym and into the boardroom. Another tight schedule and another opportunity to prove herself. Her manager took her for a working lunch and told her if she continued down this path they would finish ahead of schedule and a bonus was a certainty. She told him she had the stamina to see this one through even with one member down. Early evening, she convinced colleague number two to walk her home.

She used the same routine as before. He struggled initially before her persuasion skills got the better of him, his boasts about being open minded coming back to haunt him as she began. She started slow, his saliva made the passage easier. She opened his mouth wider, massaging his throat to help control the gag reflex. Forcing it down. She admired his accommodation.

Later, lying back, legs pushed past her neck, she began to fuck herself, searching for that spot. Not even bothering to release the tool from its harness.
Only two of them fronted the manager’s office. They would have to work overtime to get this done. They got takeout and worked until the early evening. On the taxi ride home she invited him in for a nightcap and to check out her proposal. He was easier than the first two; practice made perfect. She gave him a copy of the report and the taxi fare home, the least of which she could do.

The next morning she was in the office two hours before anyone else, dressed in her new charcoal suit, the shivers from last night’s liaison running through her body. A call from her manager confirmed that another colleague was sick; it was all down to her. She knew they sensed a change when she walked in the room. Her skills held them rapt until the end, then briefcase closed, hands shaken, she said it was a pleasure and looked forward to working with them all soon. As the meeting finished she detected unease, like they couldn’t wait to leave the room. A couple refused to meet her eye as they left and she didn’t know why. Perhaps it was something in her voice.

 
 
 
Tim Beverstock is 31 and lives in Wellington New Zealand. Working in an office gives him more inspiration than he will ever admit to.

 

“Mm,” I said.

She said, “Charity saw him in Hawaii once? By the pool? And she went up and asked him for an autograph and he told her he wasn’t who she thought he was.”

“That was Dan Aykroyd,” I said.

“How would you know?”

I said, “Because she told me that story. It was Dan Aykroyd.”

“Oh.”

It was the part where the cops bring Fletch into the Chief’s office and the Chief tells the cops they can go and Fletch says, “Yeah, why don’t you guys go down to the gym and pump each other?”

I laughed. I’ve seen this movie a hundred times.

“Why would he be such a dick?” she said.

“Those cops planted heroin on him.”

“No,” she said, “I mean, in real life. Why would he tell Charity he wasn’t him?”

“But that was Dan Aykroyd. Maybe it wasn’t Dan Aykroyd.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It was Chevy Chase.” Her voice was getting higher. She sounded like Barb when she did that.

“No,” I said. “Maybe the guy she thought was Dan Aykroyd really wasn’t Dan Aykroyd. Maybe it was just some guy.”

“Whatever.” She picked some lint off my shirt. “Those guys, they’re all the same. They were all on Saturday Night Live. Why do they have to be such dicks?”

Barb would say that a lot. Why do people have to be so mean, Barb would say. I don’t think that’s very funny, Barb would say.

“Well, I dunno,” I said. “Maybe they can’t be funny all the time. I mean, I’d say comedy’s all about conflict, y’know?” I scratched my elbow. “Why did the chicken cross the road?”

“To get to the other side,” she said.

“Yeah, right. That answer’s so… y’know, obvious. That’s the joke. It’s so obvious, you wouldnt’ve thought it was the answer. It conflicts with your—”

“I don’t see what all this has to do with being a total dick,” she said.

“Well, you can’t be nice and agreeable all the time, that wouldn’t be funny. He’s supposed to be funny, that’s his job. He’s supposed to be a total dick.”

She picked some more lint off my shirt. I could feel her nails through the fabric. “I still don’t see why,” she said.

“I hate Tommy Lasorda,” Fletch says and punches the picture on the Chief’s wall. The glass shatters. I laughed. I’ve seen this a hundred times.

 
 
 
Jimmy Callaway lives and works in San Diego, CA. Please visit attentionchildren.blogspot.com to read more about comic books than you could ever possibly want to.
 

Arthur lives on East Fifth Street in Los Angeles—sometimes called “the nickel” or “Skid Row.” He resides in the “City Of Angels Hotel,” Room 821. If you live in this shithole, you’re on the edge of the world. You can get a room for a night or a lifetime. Most of Arthur’s monthly disability check goes to paying for this room, which includes a bed, two chairs, a bedside table with a small lamp, a dresser, a microwave oven, and a small refrigerator. No television. No radio. The only window in the room looks down eight floors onto a trash-filled alley. Unlike most living quarters, there are no collected objects from an earlier life—no sense of gathered time.

Only two outsiders ever come into this room. One is an old drunk, named Eddie Sellers, who lives on the seventh floor. Arthur pays Eddie a few bucks to run errands: trips to the grocery store, the liquor store, and sometimes the Laundromat. The other is Brother Thomas from the local mission who comes by once a month bringing his message for the sick and infirm. He has never made the lame walk or the blind see, but he does carry a big King James Bible full of platitudes and beatitudes, which are recited with evangelistic enthusiasm, so as to give Arthur hope.

The only time Arthur leaves #821 is to walk down the hall to the bathroom.
_____

Arthur Nagel would be considered just another peculiar loner if not for his amazing talent. He is a master musician—an expert guitarist in the Mississippi Delta style.

Arthur spends most of his days sitting on the edge of his bed drinking Seagram’s 7 from a Dixie cup and playing his ancient acoustic guitar. Since Arthur has trouble forming some words, he has learned to use his voice like a musical instrument to improvise solos over finger picked guitar chords. Using only the right side of his mouth, he creates unique sounds—high wailing tones, almost animal-like in their intensity. He runs through notes and phrases that are inside and outside the blues, and some that are missing from the twelve-tone Western music scale altogether.

Arthur’s only reprieve from the sameness and solitude of his existence is an occasional visit from his one and only fan. Actually, it’s not a visit, because the boy never comes into the room. He just sits in the hallway across from Arthur’s closed door and listens to him play. When the boy hears something he likes, he claps. This has been going on for months. The two music lovers have never met.
_____

Brother Thomas is a handsome middle-aged man with a long nose and a smooth face. His brown hair is combed straight back on his head. Today, he’s dressed in a white shirt, a skinny black tie, gray slacks, and black shoes. At this moment, the whole of Arthur’s tiny room is filled by his impressive voice.

“Heavenly Father,” he prays, “Have mercy on this simple man. And Lord, may the words you spoke at the ‘Sermon on the Mount’ bring him some hope and comfort in these difficult times:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

With each line, the voice of Brother Thomas swells.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

And blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

In thy holy name Lord, Amen.”

“All over,” thinks Arthur. The dramatic prayer is always the grand finale.

Brother Thomas closes his bible and gets up from the chair. For almost an hour, he has been sitting knee to knee with Arthur, who’s perched on the edge of the bed.

He shakes Arthur’s hand, and turns toward the door. Then he stops and looks back over his shoulder.

“Arthur, I talked to a friend of yours yesterday at the mission.”

Arthur looks up—surprised. For as long as he can remember, he’s never heard the word “friend” associated with his name.

“A young man who calls himself Adam told me that he comes by here and listens to you play guitar—claims you’re something special.”

Arthur shakes his head in denial.

“I don’t know him,” mutters Arthur. “The boy just sits out in the hall.”

“I don’t know much about him myself,” says Brother Thomas. “I do know the boy is really sick—fourteen years old and already a junkie. He’s been hustling the street since he was eleven. Now he has full-blown AIDS. He’s going down fast and has absolutely no interest in making a fight of it. The crowd he used to run with won’t come near him now. Even the folks at the mission don’t like him hanging around.”

Brother Thomas pauses and runs his right hand through his hair as if he’s pondering something.

Then he waves to Arthur and says, “Got to finish my rounds. I’ll drop in next month to see how you’re doing.”

And he’s gone.
_____

Just after nightfall the rain starts. As Arthur gets up to close the window, someone knocks at the door. Arthur keeps quiet hoping that whoever it is will go away. But the knock comes again—this time a little louder. So he moves closer to the door and calls out, “Who’s there?”

From the other side of the door there’s a fit of violent coughing. Then a voice.

“Mr. Nagel, my name is Adam. Could I please speak with you a minute?”

Arthur immediately recognizes the name but is still hesitant to open the door.

“It’s late,” says Arthur.

The boy notices the strange blurring of words—muffled, as if the sound is coming from inside a can.

“Can you help me?” asks the boy.

Arthur opens the door slightly, keeping the chain latched.

“How can I help?”

For a few seconds there is no reply. Then quietly, with an obvious effort, the boy says, “I need a place to stay.”

Arthur unlatches the chain and opens the door.

The kid stands in the doorway with his head slightly bowed. He looks to be maybe thirteen or fourteen. Pale and skinny with jet-black hair and dark eyes that shine like drops of oil. He is wet from the rain and clearly exhausted.

“Would you like to come in and sit down?”

Adam looks up, and for the first time, gets a look at Arthur Nagel. He studies the man’s warped features and realizes why he has never seen him outside of his room. If there had been any more space available for hurt inside his body, the sight of this heartbreaking little man would have filled it.

“Mr. Nagel, I hate to bother you, but I have nowhere else to go.”

To keep from falling, the boy leans against the doorjamb.

“Would you like something to drink? Some water or something?” asks Arthur.

Before the boy can answer, he drops facedown just inside the door.
_____

Shadowed in the half-light of a table lamp, Arthur sits on the bed watching the boy. He reaches out with his left hand, gently pats the boy’s shoulder and whispers, “I want to help you.”

Adam groans in his sleep and starts to cough again—blood on the pillow. Then he begins to mumble something—the same thing over and over. But he’s shaking so bad it’s difficult to make out the words. Arthur leans closer, putting an ear close to the boy’s lips. What is he saying? Sounds like: “Please help me go. Please help me go.” Yes that’s it. Arthur is certain.
_____

Time has stopped. Adam knows he is sinking—mind moving in dark circles—rolling in the blackness, sick and moving further away. It’s getting harder to breathe, and it seems that his heart might stop at any time. All the while he is conscious of Arthur near him. He feels that everything is about to be decided—this madness, pain, and loneliness he has carried for too long is about to be eliminated.

He is ready to exit this place—tired of being a prisoner in his own ravaged body. This has been a long time coming. Now it is here. He feels calm, relieved. This is the man who will do it. Adam is sure of it.
_____

Arthur stands over the boy for a long while, trying to make up his mind.

If God doesn’t speak now, then God never speaks…

Nothing. Silence.

“Blessed are the merciful,” says Arthur.

Adam opens his eyes as the pillow is lowered over his face. Arthur pushes down as hard as he can. There is a muffled sound as if the boy is trying to say something. But he does not fight. Arthur closes his eyes and holds the pillow in place until he is sure the boy is gone. Then he falls back across the bottom of the bed, and listens to the rain tap against the window.

He stares up at the ceiling and shakes his head—trying to clear his brain. He considers the word “friend.” He thinks about the wall he has been busy constructing around himself for so many years—an ugly little freak determined to keep out all the hurt. An exclusive enclosure that became smaller and smaller until there was no room inside for anyone except Arthur Nagel.

Arthur pulls himself up to a sitting position on the side of the bed, reaches over and turns off the lamp. He begins to cry quietly, tears sliding down his misshapen face and splattering onto the linoleum floor.

Finally he stands up, walks over to the window and looks down at the rain-slicked alleyway. He pushes the window all the way to the top and lets the rain blow into the room. With the palms of his hands, he knocks the wire screen out of the frame and watches it sail into the alley below. For a few seconds he stares down at the hazy reflection of light on wet cobblestones, then he turns and walks to the closet.

Arthur takes out his guitar, walks back across the room, and props it next to the window. He pulls a chair over, climbs up, and lowers himself onto the windowsill—legs dangling over the edge of the building.

He reaches back and picks up his baby—the only comfort he’s ever really known.

Closing his eyes, he leans lovingly over the smooth, wooden curves.

And from the eighth floor of a hotel somewhere on “Skid Row,” a bluesman, balanced on a ledge, coaxes stiletto notes from an old guitar. He sings in mournful wails that cut through the haze like lightning—igniting the murky space with a supernatural fire that burns for a while—then goes cold.
 
 
 

DB Cox is a blues musician/writer from South Carolina. He can often be found in the early-morning hours bent over a Fender Stratocaster guitar in roadhouses, honky tonks, and juke joints throughout the south. His poems and short stories have been published extensively in the small press in the US and abroad. He has published five books of poetry. His first chapbook entitled “Passing For Blue” was published by Rank Stranger Press. Two other chapbooks, “Lowdown” and “Ordinary Sorrows,” were published by Pudding House Publications. Main Street Rag published his first full-length collection, entitled “Empty Frames.” A new chapbook called “Nightwatch” has just been released by Pudding House Publications.

“Mind if I smoke?” Syd sat in the passenger seat and dug in his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He looked like a man that knew what it felt like to get punched in the face.

“Don’t even think about lightin’ that thing in here. This is the wife’s car. If she finds a dent, a mark, a scuff, or anything outta the ordinary on her baby she’ll chop off my balls. Swear ‘ta god.” Phil raised his right hand like he was being sworn into office.

Syd placed his pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket. He seemed restless and fidgeted around in his seat like a nervous cat.

“Why don’t ya get comfortable already, you’re drivin’ me nuts with all the movin’ around.” The passenger seat shifted back and forth and came close to reclining into Carlo’s lap. “Look at ‘is, you’re eaten up all my legroom? I got no space for my feet back here.”

Syd leaned forward and looked under his seat. “Where’s the seat mover do-hickey Phil?”

Phil remained still. His eyes were closed, arms rested on top of his plump belly. “What mover do-hickey?”

“The nob. You know to move the seat up?”

Phil pointed to the passenger side door. “The nob’s on the side of the door at the bottom.”

“Where?” Syd was in a pilates position looking under and around the seat.

“Over there on the side at the bottom. Whaddya blind?”

Syd found the knob and pushed it. His seat slowly moved forward giving Carlo extra leg room.

“Now I can breathe back ‘ere. For a moment it felt like I was on an airplane squeezed behind a fat chick.” Carlo readjusted himself and got as comfortable as he could in the backseat. Syd turned on the radio.

“How long we gotta sit here for? Is it going down right now?”

Phil lifted the rim of his hat from his eyes and pulled back the end of his coat sleeve to check his watch. “Yeah the dance should’ve started by now. Once we see the van pull out from the alley, then we can get tha hell outta here.”

“I need a cup of coffee.” Carlo looked over his shoulder and stared at the building.

“I need ta take a piss and have a smoke.”

“Smoke outside why don’t cha.” Phil adjusted the driver’s seat to an incline position.

“I ain’t smokin’ outside, you kiddn’ me? I ain’t about to have some Joe Blow ID me on the street for the five o’ clock news. I got mouths ‘ta feed and two strikes against me.” Syd pushed the seek button on the car radio. There was opera music, talk radio, country, and pop music. Syd left it on pop music and snapped his fingers to the rhythm.

“Turn off that garbage, you’re gonna make my ears bleed.” Phil itched his big nose with the back of his hand.

“You don’t like this? She’s an alright singer.”

“I work all day and when I come home my kids are listenin’ to this junk twenty-four-seven on the TV and radio. This ain’t music. This sounds like a broken kitchen appliance.”

“I think it’s cool.”

“That’s because you’re a frickin’ retard.” Phil pointed at the radio. “These yahoos are just a bunch of assholes gettin’ rich. What we used to listen back in the day, now that was music.” Phil nodded to his own comment.

“Hey Carlo, you like this music?” Syd turned around in his seat. Carlo was looking over his shoulder. He watched as cars drove by, people walking up and down the street. “Naw this ain’t music, it sounds like alley cats screwin’ in a garbage can.”

Carlo squinted out of the back windshield hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going down. He felt he was just wasting his time with Phil and Syd. He turned back into his seat. “How long are they supposed to be in there?”

“As long as it takes.” Phil adjusted himself in his seat. He was an old man and old men needed naps.

“I like this music.” Syd snapped his fingers and bopped his head.

“That’s because you’re a frickin’ class-less degenerate.” Carlo saw a couple holding hands and followed them until they got into their car. He was suspicious of everyone, especially when he was on the job.

Syd waved his hands in front of his face. “Ah, screw the both of you. We listened to pop music when we was young and our parents hated it too. I’m just trying to keep an open mind.” Syd turned up the volume and moved his arms around like a maestro conducting an orchestra.

“Well I have a right to hate this pop crap. I’m allowed to be biter and annoyed. I’m an old man and I like the quiet, so if you don’t turn down that goddamn radio I swear ta God I’ll shoot you myself.”

“Take it easy Phil.”

“Don’t tell me to take it easy. Stop bein’ an asshole.”

“I didn’t mean any disrespect. I’m just bored. We’re sittin’ here with our dicks in our hands waitin’ for everyone…what else am I supposed to do?”

Carlo took another glance at the building. Everything looked quiet. “Why don’t you go have a smoke on the corner with the brothas over there and start an acapella group?” Carlo pointed ahead to a couple of men standing at the bus stop.
Phil laughed. Syd looked at both of them like they spit on his shoes. He turned off the radio. He crossed his arms and turned his head and stared at the fire hydrant.

“They should be comin’ out any minute. All we have to do is sit and wait. We got easy money comin’ our way so let’s not screw it up by actin’ like a bunch of boy scouts.” Phil lifted his hat and eyed Syd. Syd remained silent, staring out of the window.

“I wish I was able to get off in there man. I live for that shit.” Carlo watched as a man exited the coffee shop with a newspaper under his arm.

“Maybe next time. But for today we’re just about the easy money. No worries about gettin’ pinched. Let the cowboys take the heat.”

“Whaddya plan on doing with your cut Phil?”

“Probably buy shit for the grandkids. Maybe take a vacation with the wife. This may be my last run. Gettin’ too old for all of this. Men my age play shuffle board and stare up young waitresses skirts, not pull jobs. ”

“Says you-you old fart. I still feel like I’m twenty. I should be in there makin’ shit happen. I can’t believe I got passed over by those cowboys in there. Did you see some of them, they looked like psychopaths? No respect at all. I don’t know what Uncle Philly was thinkin’.” Carlo shook his head in disappointment.

“It’s time for the young guys to prove themselves like we had to when we was their age.”

“I don’t hafta prove nothin’. I just like to steal.”

“You should take it easy.”

“You think I got time for a cup of coffee?”

Phil checked his watch. “If you make it quick. Get me one too while you’re at it.”

“Syd you want anything?”

“Naw I’m just gonna sit here until were done.” Syd huddled in his seat.

“Have it your way.”

Carlo opened the passenger side back door.

“Hey go out on the other side.”

“Why?”

“Why you think smart ass?” Phil returned his seat to an upright position. “The last thing I need is for the bottom of the door to get scrapped up on the sidewalk. Then I won’t hear the end of it from the wife. She loves this car. When I got it for her she made me take a picture of her standing next to it. Then she actually took out our wedding photo on the mantel and put that picture in its place. Can you believe it? I shouldn’t even be drivin’ this thing.”

“You sound like your wife.”

“You sound like an asshole. Go out on the other side.”

Carlo slid across the backseat. “You want anything in your coffee?”

Phil placed his hand on the steering wheel and gripped it as if he was getting ready for Daytona. “Two creams, two sugars.”

“Syd you sure you don’t want anything, I’m buyin’?”

Syd waved him off with the back of his hand.

“Get my sister here a cupcake before she starts cryin’.”

“Go fuck yourself, the two of ya’s.”

Carlo and Phil laughed. Syd held himself and pouted like a child.

“I’ll be back in a flash. Don’t do anything without me.”

Carlo opened the back door on the driver’s side. As he stepped out a car flew past. Carlo disappeared. The back door was ripped off the hinges. A shotgun blast of shattered glass hit the pavement. The impact caused Phil’s car to jolt forward. Phil and Syd jerked towards the dashboard. “What the hell…”

The passing car came to a sudden halt a few cars up ahead. Carlo was wedged into the windshield and rolled off the hood of the car and onto the pavement. Phil’s car door was lying in the middle of the street.

Phil lifted the rim of his hat past his forehead and looked over his shoulder. He noticed the car door was missing. He noticed Carlo was missing. He turned back around and looked in front of him. “Is that Carlo?”

Syd looked in the backseat. “Shit.” He looked at the car and at Carlo and couldn’t believe what was happening. “That car just took out Carlo.” He pointed. The car’s brake lights were bright red. A woman was screaming and shaking her head like a crazed psychopath in the driver’s seat.

“Holy shit, Carlo’s dead.” Syd couldn’t look away.

People ran out into the street. They pointed at Carlo and turned to point at Phil’s car.

“They’re IDin’ us. We gotta get the hell outta here.”

“My car, my frickin’ car. The wife is gonna kill me.”

“Tha hell wit your wife. We gotta go. Hit the gas.”

Phil lowered the rim of his hat so no one would be able to identify him. He started the ignition. He backed the car up and smacked the bumper behind him. “Shit.” He turned the steering wheel. He pressed on the gas and the car jerked forward and smacked into the car in front of him.

“Go, go, go. They’re callin’ the cops.”

Phil turned the steering wheel and backed up. They both jerked around in their seats like crickets trapped in a glass jar. Phil put the car in drive and stepped on the accelerator. The car shoehorned out of the parking space and sped down the street and turned at the first intersection.

Carlo remained in the middle of the road like a used up doll. People gathered from both sides of the street and looked at one another and shrugged. They surrounded the body. Someone was on the phone with the police. Another man stepped forward and knelt over the bloody remains. He checked the man’s pulse and knew right then that there was a dead man lying in the street.

DeLeon DeMicoli is the author of Lick Me and White Belts. He has contributed to several online magazines and writes a blog at P’nK Books. When he’s not writing he spends his time training in grappling and Krav Maga.

A few months ago, we ran what’s called a “blind taste test.” Women selected at random would sit down at a non-descript table with two samples of makeup in front of them. The products would always be out of their packaging, so as not to clue the participant in as to what brand they were. Shades and colors always matched. Consistency and texture never wavered.

The women would be seated in front of twin lipsticks or two identical hills of blush. Cloned mascara or foundation. An oval shaped mirror. After they had applied both products to either side of their face, the participant would be asked, “Which one do you prefer?”

It was important that this question was asked from neither left or right, for that could indicate favoritism. Or, “their good side,” the saying goes. A person’s position in the room, whether the test subject is aware of this or not, is an indication of “the right choice.”

The most famous case of this kind of influence would be Pepsi vs. Coke. Identical wax paper cups, served chilled with no labels.

Over 70% of the time, people choose Pepsi.

The next day, over 70% chose Coke.

Same group, both times.

The difference, of course, was the placement of the charming little test assistant asking the questions. Body language, for all intents and purposes, is always speaking. Suggesting. So the question must be asked from the direct center for the sake of integrity.

“Which do you prefer?” and eye-contact is broken as the subject examines themselves, comparing blushing cheek to cheek. Painted nail to nail, and so on. Typically, less than a minute passes before they surmise no difference between the two. Very rarely is a definitive choice made.

At this point, the variant was introduced.

Two vessels of eye shadow are presented. Identical grays.

One is labeled: Dust

The other: Debris Clouds of the World Trade Center, Sept. 11th, 2001, 8:34am

Carbon copy cylinders of lipstick on the purple scale.

On the left: Bruise

On the right: Contusions of a Pop Star, Beaten by her R&B Singer Boyfriend in his BMW

Black is never black. It’s: 007 Bond Girl Gunmetal or Obsidian Ovarian Oblivion.

Your lashes can now be beyond color. Defy definition. They can be an event like: Nipple Gate: The Wardrobe Malfunction of Janet Jackson, Super Bowl XXXVIII.

Your lips will be better than red. They’ll be: Marilyn Monroe Miscarriage; Aug. 1st, 1957 or Chinese Dolphin Blood; cove massacre (now a motion picture).

These women would be given tantamount mascaras, nearly always favoring The Crude-Soaked Sands of the Iraqi Desert over the standard, run-of-the-mill named, Oil.

97% of the time they were leaning towards the product some freelance absurdist named after a subway bombing or skin disease or award show attire. Colors became more than shades and hues. They were personal and evoked emotions of danger and menace.

“It’s like my lips are wearing a power tie,” one of the subjects said, remarking on Exit Wounds of JFK. “I want to kiss a stranger for some reason.” Smiling and confident like a self-help role model, a can’t-be-wrong kind of woman. No longer a force of nature. A force to be reckoned with.

This was the perfect time for the last part of the experiment: full disclosure.

It was right then we revealed that the two choices of makeup—both the left and right, are actually from the same stock. Same brand and manufacturer. Only the name was different, yet paramount to them.

Red became less scandalous. Black: less sinister.

And the gray scale was reduced to a state of being mundane again.

We decimated their glamorous portraits, and then sold these cosmetics with indications of historical relevance and memorable imagery. We gave them “a little something extra” so they could become extraordinary. Makeup with memoirs.

Gold nail polish was: The 75th Annual Academy Awards.

Maroon became: The Hooded Sweatshirt of John Kaczynski; Unabalmer.

Women would purchase and wear and share the names, remarking on how clever they were; a nice little conversation starter in a bar or at a dinner party, but it was still just makeup. The colors were still just colors. People are smart enough to know that “new and improved” doesn’t mean much these days.

If you want to make it in this business, you have to accept that sometimes the product itself doesn’t matter. Quality can become secondary to a name or title.

Women are just dying to say things like, “The lipstick is Care Bear Rape Party,” and “Thanks for noticing! It’s something called Pop Star Custody Battle,” because honestly, this is about the only time a guy will actually be interested in talking about makeup.

We finally proved the superficial could eclipse the surface.

 
 
 
Brandon Tietz is the author of Out of Touch, a transgressive take on nightlife, socialites, and sensory deficiency. He’s a featured author on Lobster Cult Magazine, and one of the moderators of the Chuck Palahniuk Writer’s Workshop. In Jan. 2010, he made finalist for Chuck’s anthology project with his short story, “Diamonds.” Currently, he lives in Kansas City working on his second book, a themed anthology, entitled, Vanity.

 
 
 
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If you come in here, that would be the first word that comes to mind. The walls, the doors, and even the ceiling; everything is black. Flat black like Krylon spray paint laid on thick. All that is anything else are the blood red barstools with that shiny soda fountain trim, the same trim you would find on a car from that era, that, and the brushed brass trim on the tables. The walls are hung with movie posters and albums, and everywhere that’s eye level where the booths are is black and white glossies with signatures from people like Tim Curry in full Frankfurter get-up and David Letterman.

It’s not that the food here is cheap, or even all that tasty; just the normal fried stuff and the runny or overcooked omlettes you would find anywhere else. Other diners serve the same stuff, just with normal names and less black; nothing you order at Shari’s is called a Slack Stack, or Naked Chicks. The places with less black would never serve you an Italian soda loaded with over-caffeinated Sky Rocket syrup, either. That is what brings us here. That, and the fact that the place is open twenty-four hours a day on all days that don’t happen to land on Monday. We know this, we’ve done this before. Dinner before concerts, and if the concert goes too long, shitty coffee after until the bus starts running around five the following morning.

The three of us huddled around the table, our heads down, and our hair hanging over the menus; eyes searching quietly for the food with the weird name we want tonight. Without talking we know a towering slack stack is in order. Thin cut French fries, piled high smothered in Oregon cheddar cheese and green onions. No meal here would be complete without at least that.

Our waiter presents himself and offers to bring us coffee in a voice that tries to betray his sexual preference. Coffee, I tell him and cream. Lots of cream. I do not tell him that I like to drink the little white cups of half and half that won’t be finding their way into any of my three cups of coffee. As the waiter is writing down my coffee on our bill, my eyes take in the things that describe him. He’s bald. Genetically. Male pattern baldness he’s hiding with little success by shaving his head. His glasses are the thick black Army issue that only look good on Drew Carey and girls with pink pixie hair cuts. His shirt is black and reads in capital hot pink that takes up his entire chest: Eating out is fun. Maybe if he never talked, if he never opened his mouth, you would think he enjoys eating out. The first time he speaks to you it would become obvious he hasn’t eaten out in quite some time. His jeans are worn, and not to perpetuate any stereotypes, but I swear to God, he’s wearing loafers.

While he’s off getting our coffee my mind wanders to the old diner style jukebox in the corner, its bright neon tubes and bubbles sharp and contrasting the black everywhere else. A few audible button clicks and it becomes clear that everything in the thing features Trent Reznor, Les Claypool, Chris Hall, or Liz Phair. Some of the more notable appearances belong to the soundtrack for the movie Airheads, and The Beavis and Butthead Experience, an album which features the aforementioned characters singing a duet with Cher, and a rare Nirvana track that appears nowhere else called I Hate Myself and I Want to Die.

A couple quarters leave my pocket to hear Brendan Frazer, Adam Sandler and Steve Buscemi perform The Lone Rangers’ song that made up most of the plot to the movie Airheads.

The black on the bathroom doors shines with the wood grain it suffocates.

Back at the table with my friends the coffee is being doled out, and the 7-Up that Melissa drinks. She is the only Portland native I have ever known that refuses to admit coffee is the sweet ambrosia of life. Her boyfriend Tyson, a recent convert himself, still eyes the the stuff with suspicion, as if he’s looking for spit in its dark depths. For a guy I have known to let orange juice ferment in his room so he could get drunk, his random germ-a-phobia seems to know no bounds tonight.

The waiter’s lisp asks if we’re ready to order yet. My fingers peeling open a coffee-sized-serving of half and half, my voice saying Slack Stack to start, and when these guys are ready I’ll have the Naked Chicks. By this time I had ordered this enough to know if eye contact was not made with the waiter, the order could be made with a straight face, without the creeping warm of asking some punk girl with pink hair and an assortment of facial piercings for something called Naked Chicks. I don’t bother to see if it is as embarrassing to ask our lisping Moby look-a-like for the same thing.

My coffee is gone long before the appetizer even leaves the fryer, and my compulsion for half and half has led me to start on the communal supply for the table. By the time our waiter gets back there is quite the stack of empty white plastic cups in the bowl of creamer.

The Slack Stack, the beautiful heart attack on a plate it is, comes, and I’m left to wonder if anyone has ever ordered it with sparklers stuck in it; it’s just that amazing, at least when you’re starving. It is, in fact, so incredible that I have seen street kids on Stark panhandling so they could get one.

In predictable fashion the whole edible cartoon haystack is ripped apart in handfuls onto our plates by the time Moby returns to fill up my coffee. Tyson and Melissa order between mouthfuls of cholesterol, and somehow we’ve started talking to the waiter about music. He says he likes The Lords of Acid, and he got to touch the lead singer’s pussy during the song of the same name when they were in town last time. He says he doesn’t know her name, but he was up front and she grabbed his hand and rubbed it against her crotch.

With that he is off again.

In the void of his absence, I can’t help but be an asshole to the rest of the patrons and commit my last two quarters to the playing of Beavis and Butthead singing I’ve Got You, Babe with Cher.

When the food comes, it comes on heavy white plates like the ones at places that are nowhere near as black as this place. When the food comes it’s as greasy and stomach upsetting as you would expect from a place that stays open one hundred forty four hours a week. Patting down my Naked Chicks with a napkin is the best I can do to ensure not having empty ketchup bottle splatters in the toilet tomorrow. When the food comes, the waiter who must have applied at the Fish Grotto before applying to work here comes back with another story to tell.

He says that before he came to Portland he was in the Army. He never says where he was stationed. He says he worked in a hospital at the base he doesn’t name. Then his story changes tense to present; everything stops being in the past. I work in a hospital he says, and you would never believe the shit you see in a military hospital. People shot during live-fire training exercises, and privates with mysterious rectal injuries who swear up and down they are not now, nor have they ever been, homosexuals.

He says when people tell you that you have to see something, especially if you’re still on the clock; if you’re still in the building, don’t look. Never look he says. Never ever fucking look.

This happens one night, he says. It happens and he sees it before anyone says he should come take a look at it. One night a stretcher gets pushed in carrying a woman, breathing heavy and sweating. A blanket covering her from about the navel down. Her bare feet poking out over the sides; her legs are obviously spread around the great mass under the blanket.

He says his first guess is she’s in labor. She is so big she could be having six babies or something.

Thinking nothing of it, he goes back to work. Coding insurance bills and calling people to tell them that their son Private Whoever was shot because he raised his hand when he should have been belly crawling in the mud under a hell of a lot of five-five-six fire.

It’s inevitable, he says while we’re stuffing our mouths, someone calls me in to see what’s going on with the pregnant lady. They say I need to call and get an oral consent to sedate her. Behind the curtain in the back of the Emergency Room, where all the curtains are white with thin little rainbow stripes of primary colors, people whisper and then let me in.

There, underneath the harsh lights, and behind the white curtain with the primary color stripes, I get introduced to the General’s wife… and his black lab.

The food stops in my mouth, and gravity pulls it open a little more than a little.

Our storyteller does not notice this, or does not care. The story continues as he explains that the dog is breathless, but still going out of reflex and instinct. He explains how the dog has become stuck inside her because of how a dog’s penis expands to ensure that the female dog does not pull away before the goose lays the golden egg. His words; not mine. Now he says it wasn’t all just her breathing heavy when they wheeled her in. He says the next time I see someone who might be pregnant to remember she might also be fucking her dog.

Our waiter says it fell on him to inform the General of all this, so they could sedate her and the dog, so he would stop, and she would relax. He says he does not know what happened after they got the dog out, or when the General got back from wherever he was stationed.

This is just one of the reasons we don’t eat there anymore. Just one of many. If you have ever read Fight Club, let’s just say: In Tyler they trust. If you have not, let’s just say don’t ever, under any circumstances, order anything with cream in it.

Charles King takes in air in Portland, Oregon. He likes to look at the world behind a camera, when he isn’t writing. He speaks sign language, loves poker, and is working on a novel.

I remember no faces for they left me long ago.
Voices trickle down forgotten hallways and whirl round me blending indistinct and incomprehensible in the blackness.
I have lived here too long to be lost but the rooms no longer hold shape. I drift between the walls, my movements dictated by habit through this spectral world.
But the fireflies blaze and resonate to lend form and structure to this ghost-life in the land of amorphous phantoms.

***

My father and I ran into the summer nights that smelled of bonfires to capture them in mason jars. When people die their souls fly into the stars and shine there with the past, he told me, and when they grow lonely in the infinite blackness of the sky they return as fireflies to shine over their families on earth.
Lanterns made from glass and the dead souls of the past flickered beside me every night to protect my dreams. If you listen close, you’ll hear what they have to say, he said while tucking me into bed. I never slept better.
I was ten when my father, dressed in the only suit he ever wore, lay motionless beneath the tears of my mother and the eulogy of Father Thomas.
That night I caught every firefly in the neighborhood. I filled four mason jars and ten empty peanut butter jars with the flickering lights of the past hoping he was one of them. That summer the fireflies filled my room and I held the jars to my ear listening for him. I often brought the jars to keep his body company and reunite the soul, the past, and the present.

***

Gerry, a woman’s voice calls and footsteps click, d’you wanna shave that beard?
The sound echoes and shakes the ghosts from me. My face bushes out, but my scalp feels smooth. The voice floats forgotten.
—In the room the woman comes and goes talking of Michelangelo—
—I grow old…I grow old…I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled—
My memories disintegrated; the past comes unstructured to me in blinking images, fleeting and ambiguous. The endless night fell when I caught my wife in a mason jar. A daughter born from my wife’s flight to the stars may still live but her name and face escape for I have never seen them.
Gerry?
The name means nothing for I am no longer.
My heart no longer beats.
But my blood lives.
If only for the fireflies.
A hand runs through my beard; it is soft like satin and smells of oranges. A tender voice crawls through space, Should we get rid of this thing?
I speak no words because I know not my voice.
Won’t you ever speak to me?
Her voice crumbles but I feel nothing for she is only another phantom wandering with the others.
The orange-scented hands hold my face and tilt it upward into a sun I have forgotten. Gerry, she whispers warm breath against my cheek, the fireflies return tonight.

***

The fireflies swarm and fill only 100 nights of the year. My father told me, The memories of centuries flicker during The Season of the Dead Souls to light up the world.
The months become nameless for my mind deteriorates. The world fades, leaving me neither the past nor the present. There is only The Season of the Dead Souls or nothingness.
Spectres bury me in silent neverending darkness.

***

The voice with orange-scented hands sits near me reading aloud. I wait and her words drift in and out like tinkering bells.
—I am Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all—
—That is not it at all, that is not what I meant, at all—
They are here.
—Till human voices wake us, and we drown—
Quiet, my voice crackles like glass shattered on gravel.
Her reading stops and I hear a song far away reaching from the past.
Woman, I say, help me out of this chair.
Yeah, okay, Gerry, her breathless voice rushes, Where d’you wanna go?
A hand reaches under my elbow and I lean on it to rise.
Blood-red stars flicker faintly far away. The house, no longer dimensionless and habitual, becomes knowable in hues of blackened red. The woman’s face is young and furrowed but I do not recognize it. My steps shuffle to the door and walk into the flaring light.
Her voice follows me but I do not listen for the fireflies emerge.
The world blazes into a crimson and indigo existence. No longer shuffling, steps become deliberate strides leading me over the prickling grass past the collapsing spirits and into the constructed night. The fireflies surround me and memories shimmer. My hands reach into the shining past where I see. My blood flows reminding me that I still live. Centuries of the past collide with the present in a supernova illuminating the world. Their voices envelope my soul and reverberate through me. I no longer capture fireflies for I live in them and they watch over me resonating. They resurrect me. Tears fall when their faces appear, all of the dead remembered, smiling at me. Their voices pour into the night singing to me.
They sing to me.
And I dance.

edward j rathke is a wandering sort who wastes away his days making bad decisions and trying desperately to not die. More of his life and words can be found at edwardjrathke.wordpress.com.

I lie on the soft floor, arms numb, darkness wrapping around me like a tight jacket. There are footsteps outside the door, a glimmer of faded yellow light seeping through the tiny windowpane, and it is hard to breathe. A flash of light, voices, and they are picking me up, helping me to stand up tall. Today I am a woman, I am myself, but I don’t know what tomorrow brings. They tell me to be brave, that I can do it.

— Sunday —

I scratch the stubble of my worn face. Forty-three years and I have nothing to show for it. Delta’s been gone for six now, and the boys, well they never visit any more. Tommy is too busy in Little Rock going to AU and John is exhausted working at Chrysler and having his own kids. God knows I can’t drive anymore. After the brush fire, my vision never was the same. Can’t hardly focus at all. Farming isn’t what it used to be. Nobody wants to do an honest day’s work.

The old, red barn sits quiet but for the tinkling of ice covered branches across the yard.  Wrapping my flannel arms tight around my emaciated frame, plumes of breath fog the air. No matter how many layers of long underwear and denim I wear, the cold penetrates to the bone. No matter the shirts and wool sweater, I am cold. And out of habit I still smoke on the porch, rain or shine, snow or heat. Delta still holds a firm grip on my habits, even from the grave.

No point in quitting now. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, I say. Might as well finish it off right. Hell, might as well start drinking again too. There’s still that bottle of scotch up above the fridge, good stuff, twenty-years old. Delta never did find it. Or notice my occasional nip at it. Nothing but medium-rare porterhouse steaks and loaded baked potatoes from here on out. And vanilla ice cream, with real vanilla. And chocolate sauce.

The porch door opens and out wafts the scent of smoky, thick-cut hickory bacon, buttery biscuits with sausage gravy, and French Roast coffee begging for cream and sugar.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

— Monday —

I run my hands through my long blond hair. The big question is whether or not that thing is a deathtrap or a future playground. Well, I guess that’s the least of my worries. There are lots of plans to make and stuff to buy. Painting and redecorating, books and toys. There’ll be so much room to run around and play. Maybe I’ll start gardening again, put some tomatoes and cucumbers in the ground. Some carrots and peas, make my own baby food. We could always get some chickens, maybe a pig or two. No cows though, I can’t handle that. But horses maybe. If it’s a girl.

I wrap the robe around the tiny bulge of a stomach and cinch it closed, stuffing my hands in the pockets for warmth.

The henna frame stands valiant in the nippy air, proud shoulders hoisting up beams and siding. An air of confidence and history holds court over the hay and rusty farm tools. It is nothing but a home for brittle spiders, gray squirrels and lost field mice now. A blanket of white bundles it up.

Guess I’m done smoking now. And no more wine either. Have to start eating healthy, lots of vegetables, and protein. I’ll have to pull that list out again. I forget what all I can and can’t do.

The porch door opens and out eases the sweet smell of blueberry pancakes, the sizzle of pan-fried sausages and a hint of mocha latte with the whipped cream on top I like so much.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

— Tuesday —

I adjust the bra strap that is biting into my shoulder, these creaky old bones. Praise the Lord. I thank you Jesus every day of my life for the bounty you have given me and the opportunity you have given me to do your work. I am your humble servant and I am here accepting your calling, answering your word and shouting out your name. Though I have remained barren, I seek your love. Though I have struggled, I bathe in your glory. For I know that someday I will be a witness to your kingdom, and I will come inside and be saved from this mortal coil, this earthly imperfection.

I stand without a shiver in my bones, face flush and eyes wide. Blue jeans, a pink turtleneck and fuzzy bunny slippers are all that separate me from the elements.

The crimson sanctuary reflects the morning sun off its icy countenance. Every juncture of beam a crossroads. Every rotting slat and sagging doorway is but a respite from the bitter storm. Made by man, it is a collapsing pile of ruddy wood and nails. Blessed by God it is a temple filled with light and opportunity.

Where I once was blind, I now can see. Whether your house will hold heathens filled with addiction or wayward lambs seeking guidance, I care not. I will be doing the Lord’s work now. How can I fail?

The porch door opens and out floats the aroma of onions, peppers, and maple-cured ham. The omelet is ready, and the coffee sits steaming in a plain white porcelain cup next to it.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

— Wednesday —

I hitch my jeans up, adjusting my balls, the denim always biting into me. I just don’t care any more. They can all go screw themselves. You just keep putting yourself out there, and nobody cares. Every nice girl I meet, well she just wants some jerk on a motorcycle that will toss her aside like a used Kleenex in a week. And then she’ll have a story to tell about the hot guy in the leather jacket. And no matter how good I do at work, well mom, it just isn’t good enough for you is it? It’s always ‘get a haircut,’ or ‘what’s with the clothes, are you gay?’ and ‘do you need that beer?’ And you, Dad, you cold-hearted Texas wannabe cowboy. You can’t be bothered unless we’re working on the car or moving some lumber. I’ll never get out of here, I have nowhere to go, and I’m too stupid to make any plans. I’m not working on the Chrysler assembly line or at the Tyson poultry plant. I’m not going to do it.

The stale burgundy a-frame opens its maw and like an abandoned refrigerator offers a myriad of possibilities. Deep in its bowels sits a scythe and shears and giant cans of gasoline and old motor oil. An insulated cavern to the bitter cold around it, a prison in which the final sentence can be carried out.

You and me sister. We’ve got a date. We’ll take his best bottle of bourbon and her stupid figurines and have one Hummel of a good time. This is on my terms, but they sure as hell can clean up the mess.

The porch door opens and brown sugar and butter mingle with apple raisin oatmeal. Freshly squeezed orange juice waits in a tall jelly jar.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

— Thursday —

I dig the plain white cotton panties out of my butt and take a deep breath. Ohmygod, ohmygod, I can finally get out of here. I can get that new car, that cute pink VW Bug convertible with the little holder for the daisy. And talk about a new wardrobe. No more hand-me-downs, no more Salvation Army, no more searching through the 50% off racks and praying for something in a size 7. But I can’t tell anyone. If they find out, they’ll take it from me, and somehow I’ll get nothing. I’ve got to go tonight. I’ll pack a bag after dinner, and run it out to Old Bessie and hide in her hay loft. Nobody goes out there anymore. I can walk or hitch. The bus station is only a couple of miles away, and I can either take that all the way to Little Rock or head over to the Amtrak. I’ve never flown before, but I could always do that too. Up in the air with a drink in my hand, flying over the fields, the city approaching. Oh wait. When do I get my check?

The chestnut asylum doesn’t say a word, shuddered under the weight of the morning’s snowstorm. All manners of crazy hide amongst its neglected corners. Old science fair projects that didn’t win. Rusted bicycle frames that never went far. Frayed tire swings that broke under the strain. Dusty hay long dried of blood and tears and shame. Beer bottles turned into empty shards of brown and green, filling the black trash bags.

I can get as far as Little Rock. I have that much. I have to figure out how to cash it, how to claim it without the vultures swooping in. I’m 18 now, I can do it. He’ll never see me…What?

I turn my head to the kitchen, but only the frigid air answers me back. I stuff the ticket back in my ragged down coat, the color of faded bruises, duct taped at the elbows. Beaten Levi’s patched at the knees and Keds with busted laces barely keep in the warmth. I stare at the back yard, and map out my path.

The porch door opens and a stack of waffles calls my name. Strawberries and syrup join the chorus. Coffee too, ‘cause I’m 18 now, with four sugars and heavy cream.

“Hey honey, come on in here, your breakfast is getting cold.”

“OK, Mom.”

I shuffle inside and the kitchen embraces me. The light is blinding, every little sound and noise clanging in my ears, every aroma both nauseating and enticing. The harshness of every corner and edge sends goose bumps up my arms.

“Did you take your pills yet Madison?” she asks.

“No, Mom.”

“Take ‘em wouldja honey? That’s part of your doctor’s release you know.”

“Sure, Mom.” I push a loose strand of hair out of my face.

“You know, you’ve been staring at that old red barn all week. What is going on in that head of yours?”

“Nothing, Mama. Nothing.”

“No more voices, all quiet?”

“Yes, Mama. No more voices.”

In my head there is laughter, so I close my eyes to the world.


 
 
 
Richard’s debut novel, a neo-noir thriller entitled Transubstantiate will be out with Otherworld Publications on 6.18.10. Visit www.transubstantiate.net for more information. He was the winner of the ChiZine Publications 2009 “Enter the World of Filaria” contest. His short story “Maker of Flight” was chosen by Filaria author Brent Hayward and Bram Stoker Award-Winning editor Brett Alexander Savory. His work is published or forthcoming in Shivers VI (from Cemetery Dance), 3:AM Magazine, Word Riot, Dogmatika, Gold Dust, Cherry Bleeds, Vain and Opium. Richard is a member of the Horror Writers Association.

None of the Church Elders had the immediate sight to leave their seats out with the congregation and escort the Reverend off the pulpit until he was well underway with what would have become his greatest sermon.

It wasn’t until he said, “And La Malinche is seen in contradictory terms even today, much like those motherfuckers the Yankees, the Judas Steinbrenner, who betray the sanctity of the sport like some say La Malinche betrayed Mexico, and I can walk right outside these doors to the parking lot and I promise you I will count no less than twenty Yankee stickers on the back of your cars, but of course, we must remember him, Steinbrenner, for the success he had, much like we must remember La Malinche for instigating a new age in Mexico, for good or ill, who but our dear Lord can say. This in mind, should we not then thank Judas for what he did for us, the Christian of today, in betraying Yeshua bin Yosef, or Issa, as our Islamic brethren know him, should we not thank Judas Iscariot, the man of Kerioth, for if he did not betray Issa, would we be here today? Would we be fucking Christians at all?”

Elder Jones managed to get the power cut to Ward’s microphone before he went any further. Elder Mitchell quickly took the stage and escorted the Reverend from the pulpit to his office while Jones addressed the congregation, telling them that the service was to be ended early today and to go with the grace of God. The Elders forced a cup of coffee into Ward’s hand and locked him in his office while they convened just outside his door. After a few moments, the blues could be heard coming from the office. Ward was a fan of Robert Johnson, and he was singing along, off-key, but with a joyful voice.

It took no great effort to decide that Tom Ward’s time as Reverend had come to an end. It was decided that Michael Peterson, the Reverend’s second in command would take control. He was in charge of the Bible studies, was well-liked, respected, and the obvious choice. Elder Buchanan was sent out into the flock to bring Peterson before the Presbytery. The great mass of the congregation was still in their seats, concerned and confused at what they had seen. Certain members of the laity were talking in hushed, disparaging terms of their Reverend and how they had seen this coming, a lie each knew and accepted. The Elders discussed with Peterson the decision and he was more than happy to take the role.

Elder Jones, being a man of some respect among the Elders, relayed the order to them and the new Reverend to get the affairs of the church in order before he entered the office of the now former Reverend Ward, who was sitting behind his desk for what would prove to be the final time, looking out the window to the parking lot, an open bottle of bourbon on the desk, and a cigarette hanging from his thin lips. Elder Jones turned off the stereo on the bookshelf and sat in the chair before Ward.

“You’re not allowed to smoke in here,” Jones said after a moment. Ward made a sound that could have been either a chuckle or a cough, but said nothing coherent. “What the hell, Ward?”

“Moctezuma Xocoyotzin, heir of Auitzotl, that man, he— he must have known his time had come,” Ward said.

“What?”

“He stood, he stood there before his people, asking them to relent and they cast their stones at him. Sound familiar?”

“The hell is wrong with you?”

Ward laughed like an asthmatic before continuing. “No longer the honored young one they had praised him as, Moctezuma wished to spare his people anymore suffering. The years, they had foreseen many omens, many signs that the cycle they were in, well, would be the last. No culture can last forever, they knew that. Everyone has to figure that out. The end always comes.”

“We’ve decided that Michael Peterson will be taking over as Reverend, effective immediately. He was the obvious choice.”

“Every generation has the fear that theirs would be the last, but to face the approaching doom, to see the feathered-serpent Quetzalcoatl in human form, shit, that’s got to be unprecedented, to make the— the doomsday prophecy, and that damn thing comes true. He, um, Moctezuma, he sent two ambassadors to the Yucatan to greet the newly arrived god. When he learned that Quetzalcoatl was approaching with an army, he— he sent more gifts to appease the— the apparently angry god. When the serpent massacred the people of the sacred Cholula, Moctezuma, shit, he must have known what would come next. Once Quetzalcoatl arrived in Tenochtitlán, he offered flowers from his own garden and submitted his throne.

“When Quetzalcoatl saw the sacrifices of the temple, and was offended, Moctezuma immediately had the temple cleaned and allowed Quetzalcoatl to install icons of his own god, odd of a concept as that may be, a god who worships a greater deity. Moctezuma and his people had betrayed Quetzalcoatl by allowing men and women to be slain, something the feathered-serpent god had opposed for generations. When Quetzalcoatl left Tenochtitlán in the control of an emissary, Moctezuma, well, he submitted to him as well. The priest of a god was to be as honored as the god himself.

“When— when the priest saw the celebrations in the great temple, he had the upper classes butchered. When the people of Tenochtitlán had enough of these massacres, they rose up to the authority of the god, and Quetzalcoatl’s emissary took Moctezuma captive, threatening his very fucking soul if the chaos didn’t come to an end.

“So— so it was that Moctezuma stood before his people and knew his legacy was tarnished. It’s funny that, just before he was strangled by a lowly soldier of Quetzalcoatl, Moctezuma was worried more about his legacy than the fate of his people. He had been Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin, the honored young one. Now, he was nothing but a victim of his god. From the sea had come a great leviathan, and from the sea had come the end.”

“Very enlightening.”

“Was it a good sermon?”

“What?”

“My sermon, earlier. Was it any good?”

“You’re drunk. What do you expect?”

“I thought it would be my best sermon. Had a good one thought up, about the evils of looking for signs. Guess I read too much into Moctezuma. Didn’t want to get garroted by the likes of you.” He took a sip from the glass and rolled the liquor around his mouth like he was tasting a fine communal wine. Satisfied, he downed the rest of the glass. “Michael will do well here. He deserves a good position. Guess I set him up well. There’ll be an ass in every damn seat next Sunday.”

“I think we can afford a decent severance package for you.”

“Fuck you, and fuck your severance package, Elliot.”

“Well, excuse me!” the Elder yelled. “Just because you lost your faith doesn’t mean you’ve got the right to get up in front of the congregation and behave like that.”

“That’s the difference between us,” Ward said, inhaling deeply of his cigarette before he crushed it out on the expensive wood of the desk. “I’ve never once in my life, not even for a moment, doubted the existence of our God in Heaven. Never once.”

“Could have fooled me. You’re acting like a damned heathen.”

“I’m acting like a person. That’s all I am, Elliot. I’m a sinner, and I’m fucking tired of acting like I’m not.”

“Well, you’re doing a good job.”

“Thank you.”

“So, you’ve not lost your faith, and you’re not a saint. Why’d you throw this all away? Is it because of your grandson?”

Ward turned in his seat, put both hands palms down on the surface of the desk, and looked Jones in the eye. “Don’t talk about him.”

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

“It’s a beautiful world, Elliot. Maybe one day you’ll remember that.”

“I’m sorry the little boy drowned. There was nothing anyone could do.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Ward said.

“Then what, Tommy? What?”

“You’ll make sure all the paperwork is transferred, right?”

“Of course.”

“I’m sure Michael will do great. May never give a sermon quite as good as the one I was forced to abandon today, but he’ll do all right.”

“Of course.”

“And you, Elliot. I may not be able to do anything formally about your little situation, but I’m washing my hands of you.”

“I’m working on that, Tommy.”

“I know you think I’m doing this church a disservice, and I’m fine with that. But you, Elliot, you’re the one destroying this place. You’re the cancer. You’re the leviathan lurking, the Devil in human form.”

“Fuck you, Ward.”

“I never really believed in the Devil until I met you. You yourself made me more secure in my faith. I hate that I have to thank you for that.”

“Fuck you.”

“I hear tell you have anything more to do with the Youth ministries, you’ll have to answer to me.”

“Fuck you, you heathen son of a bitch. Get out of this church.”

“I’ll send for my things,” Ward said with a soft smile and stood up. He rolled down his sleeves, took his coat from the rack and put it on, picked up the bottle from the desk, and went to the office door.

“Oh,” he said, pausing at the open door, the rest of Elders there, watching the two with morbid curiosity, “you know, there really isn’t any consensus about old Moctezuma, really, about if that fellow really thought Cortez was a god. I doubt he did, but maybe he just saw how the tides were going to turn, and got caught up in the rapids.”

Chris Deal writes from Huntersville, North Carolina. If so inclined, see him at cdeal.blogspot.com.

I turned to watch the scene like everybody else, only I wasn’t laughing. I summoned the courage to scowl and shake my head as I turned and walked faster toward my bus. All the while, hearing Janet peck at you, “October, why don’t you talk? Why don’t you say something? Can you talk? Say something!”

Your jack-o-lantern face was mostly eyes. Your mouth was just a thin, thin line as she taunted you, poked you, pushed you. You stumbled and corrected yourself, adjusting your backpack straps as you moved in an unsteady line forward. You kept your gaze moving forward, never looking back at her.

I used to wonder what happened to your mouth, did you once have lips? Did they curl and atrophy from lack of use? Remember when I sat across from you at lunch? I asked you if you would mind me sitting there and you only stared at me. What intense eyes you have, October. I wonder what you’ve imagined behind there? Do you think of cruel things you’d like to say? Were you trying to penetrate my skin? What did you see inside of here, October? Was it all hair-strangled bones and bits of teeth? Was I all chewed up inside?

That poem you wouldn’t read in English class, the one that Mz. Hobletzel read aloud for you, it was so beautiful. That is how I knew you think of things in that empty head of yours. I knew exactly what you meant in that poem when you said you didn’t know the girl in the mirror. How I wish we could have been friends, October. I would have liked to meet your parents. Who names a girl October? What does it mean to them? Is it all burnt orange and chocolate? They must have known you were born in the fall of your life, with only winter to look forward to. Does your jaw unhinge when you get home? I can imagine you animated and normal somewhere else. Does poetry pour out of you when you sit under the October moon, knowing it’s your very own?

I’m sorry, October, for the way life is, the way people are, that cruelty is sharpened and practiced on the young. You had to keep your mouth shut all through middle school, carrying on like a real girl. Really you were just a marionette, weren’t you? You got tangled up in the strings, those wild, intense eyes burning out faster than oxygen. Your painted-on skin stretching over that pumpkin head didn’t take long to crumple and peel. Inside the marks of candle burns that had scorched your flesh made an ashy kind of calligraphy. Poetry in every language was burned deep into you. But you didn’t last.

I wonder what it sounded like when your head came to rest on that brittle bed of ascetic leaves? Your empty eye sockets facing up at the networks of anorexic winter branches. It wasn’t a hollow thump. When I hear it in my dreams it’s a two-ton artillery drop from five thousand feet. The kind of sound that people feel for miles. Deep down in the cradle of their spines, it jolts and vibrates the sacrum, the cocyx. It’s the kind of sound that earthworms implode under, six feet deep.

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Jessica L J Smith
Aspiring human, loyal writer, adequate aspirer.