The trouble started with the columnist. Where the hell did he come from, and why was he messing with the lives of Carol and her daughter? It was none of his business, not at all.
She should have known better than to trust him. He was a columnist, and she'd read some of his other moralizing columns. Like he was so damn good, better than all the people he was writing about. She should have expected it. It was funny really that she'd been so naive, considering what she'd been doing for the last three years. And when the column came out, she was afraid to walk out of the apartment. He didn't use her name, but put down enough identifying information -- the name of the school, the hospital, her position, even the class her daughter was in. God, there were only twelve kids in Patty's class. Did he really think he was doing anyone any good? Enlightening mankind by victimizing others? Or was it just to sell papers, sensationalism, like the talk shows on TV? Was that all it was? And now she was disgraced. Even her job was in jeopardy.
She could see him now with his innocent, youthful smile, the little bow tie that made him look about fifteen years old.
They'd met for coffee in a little restaurant near the hospital when she got off from her job at the hospital at three. He was already sitting at a booth in front of a coffee cup, waving her over.
"Mrs. Reynolds. Thanks for coming. I hope you don't mind I ordered ahead. I was afraid they'd kick me out if I just sat here. They seem to get their share of vagrant types."
She stood there, trying to smile at him, wondering what he meant by that. She'd suggested the place, after all.
"Well, sit, sit. Please."
She sat.
"What'll you have? Coffee, tea? A piece of pie, maybe?"
"Just coffee. I'm trying to watch my weight."
"Why? You look just fine. C'mon. I'll have one too. The paper doesn't give me much, but a piece of pie I don't think they would mind."
"No, really. Coffee's fine."
He smiled, a sincere sort of smile, at least it seemed that way then. "You're a woman who knows what she wants, huh? Maybe I'll use that as my angle."
"Angle?"
"Well, you know. You write a column, you've gotta have an angle. You could write any piece twelve different ways and wind up with twelve different stories. Surely you know that. The news is only more deceptive for trying to sound objective. Take a murder. You can write it from the viewpoint of victim's family -- the blood-thirsty, justice-to-be done, hang the son-of-a-bitch angle -- or you can play it from the neighbors' viewpoint -- you know, the old, he seemed like a nice guy, watered his lawn, cut his grass, kept to himself, we never would have dreamed that he would be capable of such a thing bit. Or you can play it another way, say the poor guy, he couldn't help himself murdering the old lady, he had so much rage from his childhood, beaten by one mother's lover after another, locked in a closet by another without food for three days, that sort of bit, he's society's fault, ya' know? Anyway you play it, they're the facts. But objective? It's just a matter of how you marshal the facts. Know what I mean?"
He was stirring his coffee in quick little circles, the spoon grating as it scraped against the inside of the cup.
"Now, me, writing a column, I don't have to even pretend that I'm objective. I just write it the way I feel. What seems right, the truth, you know?"
The truth. He'd actually said that, just after he'd said basically that there is no capital T truth.
"So, why don't we begin." He whipped a little note pad out of his shirt pocket and clicked his fifty cent pen.
"Where do you want me to start?"
"Wait a minute. Where are my manners? I never did get you that tea."
"Coffee."
"Yeah, sorry, Carol. You don't mind if I call you Carol, do ya'?"
"Not if you don't mind me calling you Bob."
"Yeah, sure." He grinned widely, staring at her with his deep brown, unblinking eyes. "Why not." Then he turned his head sharply and called the waitress by name: "Hey, Jill, how about some more java over here for my friend?"
A woman with bright red hair and a big backside came over, snapping her gum, smiling at the columnist. Everybody loved him. He was a local celebrity.
"Sure, Bob. What'll it be?" she said, still looking at him, a little awestruck maybe. Carol thought maybe she was a little, too, sitting with this guy whose face was in the paper everyday.
"Coffee, Carol? Are you sure that’s all you want? No pie? The paper, like I told ya'...."
"Just coffee," Carol said. The waitress gave her a cup and poured some of the steaming brown fluid from the coffee pot. Then she stood, mooning at Bob.
"You sure are cute. More handsome than that picture of you in the paper. Truthfully, you should get a new one. It doesn't do you justice."
"Hey, thanks, Jill. You're not bad yourself."
"So, when you gonna do a column about me? I'll give you the lowdown on why a woman of my many talents puts up with serving a bunch of thankless low-lifes -- yourselves excluded, of course -- everyday, with no thanks. Why do I put up with it, you wonder? When I've got a degree in English Lit? I'll let you in on a little secret. I've got a dynamite novel nearly completed, that's going to make a great movie. You'll be able to say you interviewed me when I was just a waitress at this greasy spoon. What do you say, Bob?" she asked, a hand on her hip. "I'll give you the inside story, an exclusive."
Bob seemed to be taking it all in with enthusiasm. Or was it just that she had a body to go with her mouth? "Hey, Jill," he said, "it sounds great. I'll tell you what. Right now I'm full up with stuff for a while, but here's my card." He pulled one out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. "Call me in a couple weeks. Then maybe we'll see what you've got. Okay?"
"You mean it? Yeah, yeah, sure. Thanks."
The moment she was gone the columnist leaned over confidentially toward Carol. "They've all got novels, every third waitress from here to Albany. But they don't have anything. Now you, you've got a real story. Speaking of which...."
"What's it like to be so famous?"
He laughed a staccato laugh -- it sounded a little like machine gun fire. "It's not all it's cracked up to be, believe me. You work ten to twelve hours a day -- I get to work at eight every morning and leave at seven, sometimes eight at night. It's a lot of hard work, a little glory, and even littler pay. What can I say?
"So, where were we?" he asked, staring at his blank pad. "Start wherever you like. Start with what you told me over the phone. Refresh my memory."
"About my daughter, about Patty, you mean?"
"Sure. Why not."
So she told him about Patty, a sweet kid, a smart kid with big things ahead of her. "I'd do anything for that girl," she said. "To give her the best, a better life than mine. That's your angle, if you want."
"Hmmm?" he said, looking up. "Oh, yeah, sure, sure. Not bad. The mother who'd do anything for her daughter. Even sell herself to strange men."
Carol's pulse quickened, her face reddened. "It's not exactly like that."
"Oh, no, no, so tell me what it is like."
"Well, after I was divorced, I started seeing a lot of men. That's all. Most of them weren't all that pleasant to be around but I still, you know, had my needs."
"Can't live with 'em, can't live without them."
"Right. So, I had my needs, but wasn't really finding anyone I could really go for, and then there was the school, the city school, kids getting knifed in the hallways, I didn't want that to happen to my girl. But where else could I send her?"
"There are lots of private schools in the city."
"Sure. Catholic schools. No thanks. I went to one of them myself back in Philly when I was a girl. Thanks, but no thanks. I told ya'. I only want the best for my girl."
"So it had to be Springdale."
"Yes. The best."
"And that costs a pretty penny, doesn't it?"
"They have financial aid, but even with that, I couldn't afford it on my salary. Nurses' aides don't exactly make a killing in Rochester."
"I see. So, you had your needs, and you had your daughter's needs to think about, and you were seeing all these guys...."
"So, I thought, what the hell. Kill two birds with one stone. Meet my needs and her needs at the same time. It's not as bad as it sounds. I'm not strutting around on street corners in a leather miniskirt, poking my head in strangers' windows."
"What exactly are you doing?"
"I told you on the phone. I've got three or four friends, it varies some times. We have an understanding between us, an arrangement, that's all. It helps us all out. Everyone benefits from the situation. What could be simpler?"
He looked up from his notebook then and smiled at Carol with a bloodthirsty look that made her shiver, made her sorry for everything she'd said.
And two days later, when the paper came out....how could he have done that to her? Made her seem so depraved, so ugly. She thought she'd made her position, her angle clear. But he had his own angle, going on, as he did, about how we lived in a time when nothing was sacred, when money was king, when people would do anything to get ahead, to help their children get ahead, no matter how ugly and degrading the act was. What ever happened to old-fashioned morality? That sort of sermonizing. His angle.
But as if that weren't enough, he'd put in those little details. He'd promised her before she'd left the restaurant that day that she would be totally unidentifiable, unrecognizable. He'd lied to her, the moralizing son of a bitch.
She'd seen the paper during her regular 2:00 lunch break in the hospital cafeteria. She'd spilled coffee all over herself when she'd opened to the second section, where his somber face appeared above his column, and she read the words. She managed to keep down the half of the tuna sandwich she'd eaten, although the taste of refluxed stomach acid was burning in her throat. She tried to regain her composure. She cleaned up her trash, looking at no one, not daring to, then headed for the door and the nearest pay phone.
She dialed the number, reading off the ripped piece of envelope she still had in her purse.
"Bob Shepherd, please."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Shepherd's on another line right now. Let me take your name and number and have him call you back."
He didn't call back that afternoon, or the next, despite the many times she'd called for him. He'd used her, chewed her up and spat her out. It was worse than what she did, what he thought the guys that visited her did to her. It was much worse.
For two days she didn't leave the house. Patty took care of her, started to worry about her. She even called Stan and Mark to call off her meetings with them. Stan knew what it was about. He'd seen the paper, sent her a dozen roses. What did that Shepherd know about anything? Stan was the most decent guy she knew. He cared, he truly cared about her. What was wrong with that? He'd even said he'd leave his wife for Carol, if she didn't have all that goddamned money. It was Rhonda's money that had financed his beer distributorship. He'd cut his own neck if he left her. And what was the need? Why couldn't people just leave things, leave other people alone.
For two days she stayed in the apartment, lying in bed, eating tuna sandwiches, eating one row of Oreos after another, while watching television. It was mindless noise, but it was needed right now.
When, after two days, she decided to venture out, she felt as if everyone -- Mr. Marx at the deli on the corner, the pharmacist at the drugstore, and her landlady, old Mrs. Griggs -- knew about it. Not even a hello amongst them. And what about the kids, what about the Springdale parents, or even Patty's own classmates? But, never mind them. Nurse Crawford, the head nurse, from the hospital had called. She said not to bother to come in to work, and that she wanted to speak with Carol at ten o'clock the next morning in her office about what she said was a very serious matter that had come to her attention. So, she could probably kiss her job goodbye. And what about Patty? While Carol had made sure the paper was not around for Patty to see the day the column came out, she could not be sure Patty hadn't heard about it from the kids at school, could she?
"You want me to take care of this guy, this Shepherd guy? I've got some friends who can do it for me." Mark Niccio was a friend. After two years of meeting twice a week, they were comfortable with each another, they were good friends. So much for Bob Shepherd's morality. Little he knew about it. Narrow-minded bastard.
"So, whattaya say? I could make a couple of phone calls...some of the guys from the old neighborhood...."
"No, Mark. Thank you. It's not what I want."
"Then maybe I'll do something myself. You know where the guy lives?"
"Now Mark, honey, please."
"I wanna do it, Carol. I need to do it for what he did to you and your little girl. I want to see this guy hurt."
"You won't Mark. You'd blacken his eye and what do you think you'd read about in the paper the next day? You want that? You know how complicated that could get?"
"No, no. You're right. We don't need that. I got enough trouble with Marcia, already, I don't need any more. I don't need you getting messed up with her. She's one tough broad when she wants to be. A real mean one. You've seen some of the marks she's left on me."
"Thank you, but...no. It's not what I want."
The next morning it wasn't Carol, but Patty who didn't get out of bed. Carol padded softly into her daughter's room. Patty was snuggling with her teddy bear ¬¬-- thirteen and still hugging bears, maybe that was good -- when Carol came into the room.
"You okay, honey?"
"I'm not feeling well enough for school today."
"You sick? Here, let me feel your head." Patty pushed Carol's hand away as she moved it toward her daughter's forehead. Patty was staring at her mother. "Go away. Get out of my room."
"Is something wrong, darling? Is there something you want to talk about?"
"I said get out of my room, you whore!"
Carol was shaking as she left the room. She sat down at the kitchen table and tried to light a cigarette, but her hands were trembling too much. So this is what it had come to, what Shepherd's words had done.
She had no one to call, no one to turn to. A sister in Poughkeepsie that she could never talk to. A brother in Baltimore that she hadn’t seen in five years. She’d been a mother, done what she’d thought she’d needed to do for her daughter. Was that wrong? Did that make her a horrible person?
She got up, grabbed her purse off the couch, and headed out the door.
She drove and drove in her old Toyota, not knowing where to go. Driving in circles around the town. There was the police station, there was the hospital, there was Patty’s school...around and around she went, when all she wanted to do, really, was to flee the scene, leave this town now, for good, and never come back. But how could she do that? She had a life here, her daughter had a life here. If only they would be allowed to continue to live them.
She saw people on the sidewalk as she passed, coming out of stores, walking hand in hand, smiling, talking to one another. Why did it seem that every face turned to her, the smiles gone, the eyes of accusation on her, as she passed them by? Even the cop on the motorcycle who pulled up next to her at a red light seemed to be glaring at her, scowling as the light turned green.
But it was her imagination. It was a small town, but not that small. She led a quiet life. Most people did not know her. It was her imagination. But why then, why were they staring like they did?
She drove for twenty, thirty minutes before she saw the church spire. She hadn’t been in a church in years, and didn’t know why she pulled off the road next to it now.
She turned off the engine, and slammed the car door shut. It made a loud, echoing sound in the stillness of the day. There was a slight breeze and a gray, cloudy sky above, as she looked up at the spire. She took a deep breath and walked up the concrete steps to the church’s large oak doors.
Inside, in the vestibule she remembered the smells of churches from her childhood, old wood, mustiness and dust. No smells of cooking or home or burning fires (not the pleasant kind, anyway). No, it was cold in here, in all churches that she remembered -- the chilly, rarified air. These are the things she remembered -- hugging her mother’s leg after the services, as the people smiled and laughed and patted her on the head, her father, now long gone, smiling with the brown front tooth and the grubby beard, trying to look his Sunday best before tearing off the tie in the car, scowling all the way home.
She opened the door to the church, staring up at the dark wood of the ceiling so high above her, then staring down the long aisle that led to the altar and the large crucifix of Jesus, surrounded by glowing candles. She knelt down at the next to last pew and made the sign of the cross (she still remembered how to do that), then slid in and pulled out the kneeler, knelt down and placed her head in her hands. Looking for words of prayer, but none came, only the tears that burst forth all at once. What should I do, what should I do? she asked, not expecting a response, feeling ridiculous and lost at the same time. She had given up her religion so long ago and this was, well… a sort of Hail Mary wasn’t it. But she had nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn.
The silence was broken for an instant and she saw the black robed priest coming from behind the altar and down the aisle, heading toward her. She quickly wiped her face, grabbed her purse off the pew and hurried out the doors. Escaping him, his eyes, his words, his feigned understanding.
And outside she breathed in the air deeply. It had been a mistake. Why had she even thought to go in there? She didn’t believe in it anymore, not any of it. It was not where she belonged. She started up the car and drove home.
The next morning she awoke, knowing exactly what she had to do. She would leave this town with her daughter. She would give them both a new start. There was no doubt in her mind. She would have to rebuild some of the bridges she’d so easily torn down, but this is what she would have to do.
She fixed her coffee, took a sip, then pulled her phone directory out of the kitchen drawer and opened it to the page with her brother Bob’s number. Then, her hand shaking slightly, she punched in the numbers and listened to the sound of the ringing, wondering what Baltimore looked like in the springtime.
Short Stories, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Books non-fiction reference, music, art, photography, gardening, cooking, Self Help, architecture, design, biographies and roleplay games, Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Historical Romance, Paranormal Romance, Horror, Crime, Thriller, Comedy, Western. We also publish Author Interviews, Paintings, Art Work, Art Work by Susie Wilson, and non-fiction articles.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
FICTION: Dream Food By Anthony R Pezzula
Prudence was suspicious from the start, even before the party that became her living nightmare. She sensed something wasn’t right, and her intuition was rarely wrong. She had felt like she was in the eye of a hurricane; everyone else around her was caught up in the excitement and enthusiasm swirling around the country while she languished in her quiet doubt.
It started, like most fads do lately, with a posting on You Tube. It was little more than a five minute infomercial that spread quickly through cyberspace. Within days it had been viewed more than a million times. The product and the pitch were so unusual, as was the spokesperson, that some people considered it a hoax while others viewed it with hope.
He, the spokesperson, called himself Xavier. He had a deep, almost hypnotic voice, but it was his appearance that garnered the most attention. His body was very thin, while his head was oversized. Like the creatures in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, only much taller and with more human features. The promise he persuasively made for the product he was pushing, called KafKake caught the imagination of the masses.
“Within days,” Xavier intoned, “you will be as thin as I am. But that’s not all. This amazing product is also guaranteed to increase your brain power.”
He proceeded to parade out individuals who had body and head shapes similar to his, with before pictures preceding each entrance. Both men and woman were displayed and interviewed. IQ scores before and after were posted, “verified by independent testers,” Xavier proudly proclaimed. Within weeks there were millions of “likes” on the product’s Facebook page, with an equal number of followers of Xavier’s on Twitter, hanging on all his Tweets about himself and the mysterious product.
Prudence’s husband Jack seemed to be caught up in the excitement despite her reservations.
“You remember Tom my old college roommate, remember how overweight he was?” he said to her one day.
“Yeah I remember him,” Prudence replied.
“He got this stuff and I saw him today, skinny as a rail.”
“I hope he’s smarter than he was.”
“Didn’t talk to him that long, but he seemed sharper. The way his head swelled, he’s bound to have a bigger brain in there.”
“He could use it.”
“Always the wise ass.”
“So what’s your point in telling me this,” Prudence said, “you’re not thinking of trying this stuff are you?”
“Why not?” Jack replied. “It seems to be working; you’ve seen the reports on Nightline and other news shows.”
“Jack,” Prudence pleaded, “you can’t be serious. We don’t know what’s in this stuff, long term effects, any of that. Why would you want to jump into this?”
“I could use a little more smarts to get ahead on my job. Besides, you’re always saying I could lose some weight.”
“But not like this. I don’t like it; something about that Xavier guy doesn’t set right with me.”
“How about this, he’s going to be on 60 Minutes tonight let’s see what he has to say, what they have to say about him. If anybody can get at the truth, those guys can. What do you say, let’s watch that, and then go from there.”
Little did they know that interview would shake the world. Xavier insisted it be done live, and the producers agreed sensing a huge story. That’s when he revealed he was not of this world.
“We, as your movies say, are from a galaxy far far away,” he told the interviewer, but really the camera and the millions behind it. He went on to explain that he was from a planet billions of miles away that was similar to Earth. He was vague about how they travelled here, and insisted their mission was a peaceful one. When the interviewer expressed doubt, Xavier requested the camera point skyward in a northeasterly direction. It did, and within a few seconds a huge spacecraft appeared as though out of nowhere. A minute later it flew away so fast it seemed to vanish.
From that moment on Xavier had everyone’s attention. He sent out representatives to all the major cities to promote their product. It would be given away free now that the truth was known, and would serve to better humanity. Knowledge, and the intelligence to use it, would serve mankind well, healthy minds and healthy bodies, that’s what they promised.
Prudence remained unconvinced. Nevertheless she agreed to go with Jack to the huge block party downtown that Xavier’s representative, Eric, would host. When they got there the crowd was enormous. There were thousands of Xavier’s people there, or were they regular folks who ate the KafKake? There were rumors around that the change from consuming it was even faster than before, almost instantaneous.
Prudence fidgeted, looking around, eyes wide trying to hold onto Jack’s hand as they were pulled apart by the crowd. She resisted but eventually lost her grip and was separated from Jack.
“Jack,” she yelled near panic as he was pushed away from her and toward the handout stations, “Jack, come back.”
“Can’t,” was the last thing she heard him yell.
She fought her way against the stream and found herself on the outskirts of the crowd among a group of people that were hesitant to join the rush. They were, however, listening to Eric speaking from a stage set up at the end of the block. She forced her way to the front of the stage and raised her voice to get his attention.
“Hey,” she shouted, “I’ve got a question.”
“Yes,” he said as he turned his coal black eyes toward her, “what is it.”
“Has this stuff been approved by the FDA?”
“FDA?” he said with a smirk.
“The Food and Drug Administration. Have they tested it to see what was in it, anything that might be harmful?” said Prudence.
“Do you really want the government to tell you what you can eat?” he said smugly. “You’ve seen the results, you’ve all seen it. Do your friends and neighbors look harmed? Don’t they look great and smarter too you have to admit.”
There was a smattering of applause as some of the crowd moved toward the giveaway. “But,” Prudence stammered, “but what about long term affects, how do we know this stuff won’t give us cancer or something years from now?”
“My dear,” Eric replied in a loud voice, “what you call cancer was eradicated over a hundred years ago by us, as were most other diseases. Our life expectancy is hundreds of years; I myself just celebrated my one hundred sixty-fourth birthday.”
The crowd gasped and even more of them moved toward the growing masses headed for the giveaway. But Prudence held back, still not feeling right. She melted into the crowd as best she could, trying to stay out of sight from Eric and his backers. She sensed a danger about him, about the whole situation.
She wandered around the outskirts of the crowd among other stragglers who were trying to decide what to do, or looking for a spot to enter the hoards in line for their treat. She came upon a huge tent, a supply tent she figured it to be. As she went toward it, she was nearly knocked down by a small group of people, not people, creatures, running from it. It was like a scene from Star Wars, some of them had three eyes, or eyes on the side of their heads. Others had floppy ears and scaly skin. All sizes and shapes, running on two legs or four. Not far past her they were surrounded by Eric’s men and herded back toward the tent.
Prudence hid in a basement apartment entryway as she watched them march by. She followed a distance behind as they were led back into the tent. She managed to lift a flap of the huge tent, and the sight shocked her. The escapees were put in line with others like them and were being forced to enter a huge pit in the middle of the tent. Coming out on the other side of the pit were blocks of KafKakes ready to be packaged.
“It can’t be,” she thought, “is that what they have in mind for those of us who don’t change? I’ve got to find Jack.”
She ran as fast as she could away from the tent and back toward the crowd. Her attention was diverted by the sight of a small group of people chewing on KafKakes, half eaten bars in their hands. She ran to them plunging within their midst and slapping the bars out of their hands.
“Stop,” she shouted, “do you know what you’re eating?”
“Tastes pretty good,” one of them said as his body started to shake. Soon they were all shaking and before Prudence’s eyes their bodies shrunk and heads grew.
“Oh no,” Prudence muttered.
“Wow,” another one of them said. “This is wonderful, I feel…different.” He turned his attention to Prudence. “Come on, join us, have a bite to eat.”
“No,” she shouted backing away as they closed in on her. “No, I…I’ve got to find my husband.” She ran turning to see them trying to get the attention of Eric’s men.
She couldn’t find Jack in the crowd and wound up returning home alone. Later that night Jack showed up, body thin and head almost twice its size.
“Pru,” he said, “you’ve got to try this stuff, they have frozen meals now too, I brought one home for you.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, not liking his tone of voice or the look in his eye.
“Come on,” Jack said, “it’s delicious, and the changes are wonderful. Everybody’s eating it, everyone’s coming over, it will do you good.”
“Wonderful?” Prudence couldn’t help notice he used the same word the other man did earlier. This stuff doesn’t make you smarter, she thought, it makes you more compliant. “I said I’m not hungry, maybe later.”
“Sure,” he said. “We’ll have a bite to eat later, maybe with some wine. You’ll like it, you’ll see.”
“Yes, I’m sure I will,” Prudence said hiding her sadness at knowing her Jack was gone.
Three days later Prudence still hadn’t eaten. She’d left the house when the new Jack fell asleep that night. She travelled the countryside avoiding the changed people and looking for others like her so they could figure out what to do and how to eat safely. She didn’t trust the food supply in stores or restaurants. Maybe she and others could grow their own vegetables, start a farm in some remote area, with chickens, pigs or whatever. There had to be a way. Then they would need to resist, to alert others like them not to fall for the pitch, not to eat Xavier’s “food.” They would have to find a way.
It started, like most fads do lately, with a posting on You Tube. It was little more than a five minute infomercial that spread quickly through cyberspace. Within days it had been viewed more than a million times. The product and the pitch were so unusual, as was the spokesperson, that some people considered it a hoax while others viewed it with hope.
He, the spokesperson, called himself Xavier. He had a deep, almost hypnotic voice, but it was his appearance that garnered the most attention. His body was very thin, while his head was oversized. Like the creatures in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, only much taller and with more human features. The promise he persuasively made for the product he was pushing, called KafKake caught the imagination of the masses.
“Within days,” Xavier intoned, “you will be as thin as I am. But that’s not all. This amazing product is also guaranteed to increase your brain power.”
He proceeded to parade out individuals who had body and head shapes similar to his, with before pictures preceding each entrance. Both men and woman were displayed and interviewed. IQ scores before and after were posted, “verified by independent testers,” Xavier proudly proclaimed. Within weeks there were millions of “likes” on the product’s Facebook page, with an equal number of followers of Xavier’s on Twitter, hanging on all his Tweets about himself and the mysterious product.
Prudence’s husband Jack seemed to be caught up in the excitement despite her reservations.
“You remember Tom my old college roommate, remember how overweight he was?” he said to her one day.
“Yeah I remember him,” Prudence replied.
“He got this stuff and I saw him today, skinny as a rail.”
“I hope he’s smarter than he was.”
“Didn’t talk to him that long, but he seemed sharper. The way his head swelled, he’s bound to have a bigger brain in there.”
“He could use it.”
“Always the wise ass.”
“So what’s your point in telling me this,” Prudence said, “you’re not thinking of trying this stuff are you?”
“Why not?” Jack replied. “It seems to be working; you’ve seen the reports on Nightline and other news shows.”
“Jack,” Prudence pleaded, “you can’t be serious. We don’t know what’s in this stuff, long term effects, any of that. Why would you want to jump into this?”
“I could use a little more smarts to get ahead on my job. Besides, you’re always saying I could lose some weight.”
“But not like this. I don’t like it; something about that Xavier guy doesn’t set right with me.”
“How about this, he’s going to be on 60 Minutes tonight let’s see what he has to say, what they have to say about him. If anybody can get at the truth, those guys can. What do you say, let’s watch that, and then go from there.”
Little did they know that interview would shake the world. Xavier insisted it be done live, and the producers agreed sensing a huge story. That’s when he revealed he was not of this world.
“We, as your movies say, are from a galaxy far far away,” he told the interviewer, but really the camera and the millions behind it. He went on to explain that he was from a planet billions of miles away that was similar to Earth. He was vague about how they travelled here, and insisted their mission was a peaceful one. When the interviewer expressed doubt, Xavier requested the camera point skyward in a northeasterly direction. It did, and within a few seconds a huge spacecraft appeared as though out of nowhere. A minute later it flew away so fast it seemed to vanish.
From that moment on Xavier had everyone’s attention. He sent out representatives to all the major cities to promote their product. It would be given away free now that the truth was known, and would serve to better humanity. Knowledge, and the intelligence to use it, would serve mankind well, healthy minds and healthy bodies, that’s what they promised.
Prudence remained unconvinced. Nevertheless she agreed to go with Jack to the huge block party downtown that Xavier’s representative, Eric, would host. When they got there the crowd was enormous. There were thousands of Xavier’s people there, or were they regular folks who ate the KafKake? There were rumors around that the change from consuming it was even faster than before, almost instantaneous.
Prudence fidgeted, looking around, eyes wide trying to hold onto Jack’s hand as they were pulled apart by the crowd. She resisted but eventually lost her grip and was separated from Jack.
“Jack,” she yelled near panic as he was pushed away from her and toward the handout stations, “Jack, come back.”
“Can’t,” was the last thing she heard him yell.
She fought her way against the stream and found herself on the outskirts of the crowd among a group of people that were hesitant to join the rush. They were, however, listening to Eric speaking from a stage set up at the end of the block. She forced her way to the front of the stage and raised her voice to get his attention.
“Hey,” she shouted, “I’ve got a question.”
“Yes,” he said as he turned his coal black eyes toward her, “what is it.”
“Has this stuff been approved by the FDA?”
“FDA?” he said with a smirk.
“The Food and Drug Administration. Have they tested it to see what was in it, anything that might be harmful?” said Prudence.
“Do you really want the government to tell you what you can eat?” he said smugly. “You’ve seen the results, you’ve all seen it. Do your friends and neighbors look harmed? Don’t they look great and smarter too you have to admit.”
There was a smattering of applause as some of the crowd moved toward the giveaway. “But,” Prudence stammered, “but what about long term affects, how do we know this stuff won’t give us cancer or something years from now?”
“My dear,” Eric replied in a loud voice, “what you call cancer was eradicated over a hundred years ago by us, as were most other diseases. Our life expectancy is hundreds of years; I myself just celebrated my one hundred sixty-fourth birthday.”
The crowd gasped and even more of them moved toward the growing masses headed for the giveaway. But Prudence held back, still not feeling right. She melted into the crowd as best she could, trying to stay out of sight from Eric and his backers. She sensed a danger about him, about the whole situation.
She wandered around the outskirts of the crowd among other stragglers who were trying to decide what to do, or looking for a spot to enter the hoards in line for their treat. She came upon a huge tent, a supply tent she figured it to be. As she went toward it, she was nearly knocked down by a small group of people, not people, creatures, running from it. It was like a scene from Star Wars, some of them had three eyes, or eyes on the side of their heads. Others had floppy ears and scaly skin. All sizes and shapes, running on two legs or four. Not far past her they were surrounded by Eric’s men and herded back toward the tent.
Prudence hid in a basement apartment entryway as she watched them march by. She followed a distance behind as they were led back into the tent. She managed to lift a flap of the huge tent, and the sight shocked her. The escapees were put in line with others like them and were being forced to enter a huge pit in the middle of the tent. Coming out on the other side of the pit were blocks of KafKakes ready to be packaged.
“It can’t be,” she thought, “is that what they have in mind for those of us who don’t change? I’ve got to find Jack.”
She ran as fast as she could away from the tent and back toward the crowd. Her attention was diverted by the sight of a small group of people chewing on KafKakes, half eaten bars in their hands. She ran to them plunging within their midst and slapping the bars out of their hands.
“Stop,” she shouted, “do you know what you’re eating?”
“Tastes pretty good,” one of them said as his body started to shake. Soon they were all shaking and before Prudence’s eyes their bodies shrunk and heads grew.
“Oh no,” Prudence muttered.
“Wow,” another one of them said. “This is wonderful, I feel…different.” He turned his attention to Prudence. “Come on, join us, have a bite to eat.”
“No,” she shouted backing away as they closed in on her. “No, I…I’ve got to find my husband.” She ran turning to see them trying to get the attention of Eric’s men.
She couldn’t find Jack in the crowd and wound up returning home alone. Later that night Jack showed up, body thin and head almost twice its size.
“Pru,” he said, “you’ve got to try this stuff, they have frozen meals now too, I brought one home for you.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, not liking his tone of voice or the look in his eye.
“Come on,” Jack said, “it’s delicious, and the changes are wonderful. Everybody’s eating it, everyone’s coming over, it will do you good.”
“Wonderful?” Prudence couldn’t help notice he used the same word the other man did earlier. This stuff doesn’t make you smarter, she thought, it makes you more compliant. “I said I’m not hungry, maybe later.”
“Sure,” he said. “We’ll have a bite to eat later, maybe with some wine. You’ll like it, you’ll see.”
“Yes, I’m sure I will,” Prudence said hiding her sadness at knowing her Jack was gone.
Three days later Prudence still hadn’t eaten. She’d left the house when the new Jack fell asleep that night. She travelled the countryside avoiding the changed people and looking for others like her so they could figure out what to do and how to eat safely. She didn’t trust the food supply in stores or restaurants. Maybe she and others could grow their own vegetables, start a farm in some remote area, with chickens, pigs or whatever. There had to be a way. Then they would need to resist, to alert others like them not to fall for the pitch, not to eat Xavier’s “food.” They would have to find a way.
POETRY:Venice Dreams by Jason E. Hodges
It was a wonderful place to go
A time when dreams were dreams and it was okay to imagine
Okay to love
Okay to embrace all that was good
Slipping farther away from reality is the greatest vacation one can give oneself
Dropping off the side of the earth
Falling deeper into a spinning cyclone of forgetting it all
For the whirlwind sometimes whips you without warning
Then settles to a calm
I emerge to see you waiting on the other side in this strange new land
Sunbeams of crimson reflect off your hair
As the sunset lies softly on the blue water’s bay
Sparkling like crystals atop the tiniest of waves
They lap gently on your hand as it drags through the water
Hypnotizing me with your hypnotic beauty
As you sit so close
Closely we sit
Your long legs crossed with the eloquence of a Queen
Flowing into one another with perfection of length and beauty
Your hands soft to the touch
Touching with long fingers of softness, lacing with my mine with woven energy I feel
Drifting slowly our Gondola takes us deeper into the city
Deeper into my dream
Through the canal streets of Venice
Underneath arched bridge-ways of cobblestone
Roadways of water wash over our worries
As the Gondolier pushes us up onto the shoreline
An ocean of time crest in the background
We turn hand in hand to get lost in the sand
To feel time stand still and the wind in our hair
Dreaming of Venice if only for a minute
FICTION: Trick or Treat by Jerry Guarino
Joseph liked to use his lunch hour to exercise on the basketball court. On a windy, late October day, the sky was dark and threatening to rain. Colored leaves were strewn over the court and his usual group of friends had not shown up. “Must be the weather. Wimps.” As he went up for a jump shot, a buzz in his pocket disrupted his concentration; the ball hit the front rim and rolled off the court. “What now?” He punched a button and saw a text message.
Private client meeting…5pm at the Barclay Restaurant of the Ritz Carlton. Tell no one and don’t be late.
“Hmmm.” He had been courting some clients away from his former firm. Maybe this was the payoff. Joseph headed back into the showers, and then returned to his brokerage office.
Karen was in the middle of a divorce settlement negotiation when her phone vibrated in her purse. “Excuse me a minute please.” She flipped open the earpiece and saw a text message.
Meet me at the Ritz Carlton at 4:30pm. Dress for dinner. Keep confidential. A friend.
Joseph and Karen had been married for six years. Their careers in finance and law had taken a toll on their plans for children as well as their love life. Professional obligations had often disrupted dinner plans. Both turning 30, they were entering another phase of life, one filled with stress and a review of their once ideal romance.
Joseph dotted off an email to Karen before heading to the hotel. “Honey, I have a business dinner. I probably won’t be home till 8pm.” Karen paused a moment, then replied. “No worries. I’ll have dinner with a friend and see you at home.”
Karen left work early to shower. She put on her black dress, pearl necklace and earrings, then got into her BMW and left for the Ritz. When she arrived at the lobby, a concierge greeted her. “Karen Johnson?” Karen nodded. “Follow me please.” The man led her behind the restaurant to the spa area, and then handed an envelope to the woman at the desk. “Ms. Johnson will be having a treatment before dinner.” Karen was startled but excited. “I don’t have anything to change into.” The woman brought out a complimentary bundle of clothing, towels and toiletries. “We’ve been expecting you. Change into this Danskin and robe and go into the massage area at the back of the locker room.”
Meanwhile Joseph had used the firm’s shower room to freshen up and pulled out his standby suit and shirt for unexpected meetings, all pressed. He thought the meeting must be with one of his college buddies he had been trying to get to invest so a professional appearance was necessary.
An athletic girl, no more than 20, greeted Karen at the massage table. “Ms. Johnson?” Karen smiled. “I’ll take your robe. Please lie on the table here.” New age music and scented candles accented the low lighting in the spa. The masseuse gave Karen a relaxing 20-minute massage. “Please take 10 minutes in our Eucalyptus steam bath, then dress for dinner. Your reservation is waiting under your name at the Barclay at 5:30pm.” Karen was too relaxed to question the directions and happily glided into the steam room to continue her relaxing diversion.
Joseph walked up to the host at the restaurant. “Do you have a reservation for Joseph Charles?” The host was expecting him. “Certainly, Mr. Charles, right over here” leading him to a secluded table in the corner by the piano. As he sat down, he noticed the table was set for two. Joseph took the menu and looked over the entrees.
“Joseph, is that you?” said a tall brunette in a business suit. It was a woman from Karen’s law firm. “Susan, so nice to see you. What brings you here?” Susan gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Just finished a business meeting. I was going to have dinner. May I join you?” Joseph saw how this was going. “Love to” and he held out a chair for her. Joseph had flirted with Susan at the Christmas party so this was a most pleasant surprise. If she had planned this, he knew his night would be exciting.
Knowing that her husband was busy, Karen arrived at the restaurant with anticipation. “I believe there is a reservation for Karen Johnson” she told the host. “Yes, Ms. Johnson, you’re table is over here” leading her to a booth out of sight from Joseph and Susan. Noticing that the booth was set up for two, Karen continued. “My guest hasn’t arrived yet?” The host reassured her. “He will be right here. He said he had to pick up something. Then Karen saw Rick, an old boyfriend from college, holding flowers. “Karen, so nice of you to come.” Karen stood up and kissed Rick on the cheek, noticing he was not wearing a ring. “What’s this about?” Rick sat down. “Oh, there’s no harm in old friends getting together for dinner. I figured you’re working too hard in that law firm and needed a night out.” Karen stroked her wedding ring but didn’t object. “Dinner would be lovely, thank you and the spa was especially just what I needed.” Rick didn’t know anything about a spa treatment, figuring Karen came early and got a massage. “Yes, their spa is quite nice.”
Joseph assumed that Susan had arranged this all along, especially when she rubbed her foot against his leg and held his hand. Joseph hadn’t felt this kind of excitement for quite some time with Karen and he welcomed the attention. But he knew this indiscretion would have to be their secret since Susan worked with Karen. “So Susan, are you seeing anyone?” Susan made eye contact. “Not presently. Does it matter?” She said with a wicked smile. Joseph stroked the inside of her arm. “Just curious. Joseph and Susan had a most flirtatious dinner, each letting down their inhibitions, helped by champagne and body language. When it was time for dessert, Susan excused herself. She leaned over to Joseph and whispered in his ear. “I’ll be right back lover. Bring us something chocolate with whipped cream” and she blew slowly into his ear. “Waiter” Joseph called and he ordered something decadent from the dessert menu. The romantic jazz playing on the piano only heightened his anticipation.
Karen was similarly letting go. She needed a night of romance with an attentive man. “Rick, didn’t you ever get married?” Rick sighed. “Yes, but it didn’t work out. My wife was married to her work and we drifted apart. I won’t make that mistake again.” Karen was relieved by his attitude. Maybe this could be an affair without the complications. “I know what you mean” as she held his hand. “Would you excuse me a minute?” As entered the ladies room, a buzz came from her phone.
Go to the lobby and get a key for room 742. I’ll be waiting. ;)
She freshened up, went to the lobby and picked up the key. When she got to the room, she saw candles and rose petals around the bed while Diana Krall music was coming from speakers. It was dark, just the flickering of candles to see by. Karen gently undressed and got into bed, then closed her eyes.
After a few minutes, Joseph got a text from his phone. Thinking his wife was looking for him, his smile turned to concern.
I’m in room 742. Bring the dessert with you in ten minutes. Our little secret ;)
Joseph’s tension was reignited. He asked the waiter for the check and to have the dessert bagged to go.
Joseph picked up the dessert and a room key, and then got into the elevator. Loosening his tie, he decided that he deserved this fling. Karen had been paying more attention to work than to him and what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He silently entered the room, put down the dessert, undressed and got into bed. Then, like an earthquake, the two devoured each other for thirty minutes before either of them realized it was their spouse. What happened? Deciding that this was some delightful mistake, each pretended that the other had arranged for this meeting, less the dinner companion and made the best of it. “Why lover, how long have you been planning this” she said to her husband. Also, ignoring the obvious, Joseph replied. “You scamp. It’s a good thing my wife is working.”
After more champagne, conveniently laid out on the table, and dessert, Joseph and Karen continued their illicit lovemaking with each other, still pretending to have an affair, when suddenly a loud knock on the door.
“This is the police. Open up or we’ll break the door down, which they did. (Cops never wait, do they?). “Ok boys, take them away.” The couple was shocked and confused. “What is this about?” The policeman took out his pad. “So you don’t know anything about the murder of one Rick Johnson and Susan Caverly. We have witnesses that put them with you earlier tonight at the restaurant. Thought you could make this a murder scene with sex chaser, did you?” They police took them away in handcuffs.
Private client meeting…5pm at the Barclay Restaurant of the Ritz Carlton. Tell no one and don’t be late.
“Hmmm.” He had been courting some clients away from his former firm. Maybe this was the payoff. Joseph headed back into the showers, and then returned to his brokerage office.
Karen was in the middle of a divorce settlement negotiation when her phone vibrated in her purse. “Excuse me a minute please.” She flipped open the earpiece and saw a text message.
Meet me at the Ritz Carlton at 4:30pm. Dress for dinner. Keep confidential. A friend.
Joseph and Karen had been married for six years. Their careers in finance and law had taken a toll on their plans for children as well as their love life. Professional obligations had often disrupted dinner plans. Both turning 30, they were entering another phase of life, one filled with stress and a review of their once ideal romance.
Joseph dotted off an email to Karen before heading to the hotel. “Honey, I have a business dinner. I probably won’t be home till 8pm.” Karen paused a moment, then replied. “No worries. I’ll have dinner with a friend and see you at home.”
Karen left work early to shower. She put on her black dress, pearl necklace and earrings, then got into her BMW and left for the Ritz. When she arrived at the lobby, a concierge greeted her. “Karen Johnson?” Karen nodded. “Follow me please.” The man led her behind the restaurant to the spa area, and then handed an envelope to the woman at the desk. “Ms. Johnson will be having a treatment before dinner.” Karen was startled but excited. “I don’t have anything to change into.” The woman brought out a complimentary bundle of clothing, towels and toiletries. “We’ve been expecting you. Change into this Danskin and robe and go into the massage area at the back of the locker room.”
Meanwhile Joseph had used the firm’s shower room to freshen up and pulled out his standby suit and shirt for unexpected meetings, all pressed. He thought the meeting must be with one of his college buddies he had been trying to get to invest so a professional appearance was necessary.
An athletic girl, no more than 20, greeted Karen at the massage table. “Ms. Johnson?” Karen smiled. “I’ll take your robe. Please lie on the table here.” New age music and scented candles accented the low lighting in the spa. The masseuse gave Karen a relaxing 20-minute massage. “Please take 10 minutes in our Eucalyptus steam bath, then dress for dinner. Your reservation is waiting under your name at the Barclay at 5:30pm.” Karen was too relaxed to question the directions and happily glided into the steam room to continue her relaxing diversion.
Joseph walked up to the host at the restaurant. “Do you have a reservation for Joseph Charles?” The host was expecting him. “Certainly, Mr. Charles, right over here” leading him to a secluded table in the corner by the piano. As he sat down, he noticed the table was set for two. Joseph took the menu and looked over the entrees.
“Joseph, is that you?” said a tall brunette in a business suit. It was a woman from Karen’s law firm. “Susan, so nice to see you. What brings you here?” Susan gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Just finished a business meeting. I was going to have dinner. May I join you?” Joseph saw how this was going. “Love to” and he held out a chair for her. Joseph had flirted with Susan at the Christmas party so this was a most pleasant surprise. If she had planned this, he knew his night would be exciting.
Knowing that her husband was busy, Karen arrived at the restaurant with anticipation. “I believe there is a reservation for Karen Johnson” she told the host. “Yes, Ms. Johnson, you’re table is over here” leading her to a booth out of sight from Joseph and Susan. Noticing that the booth was set up for two, Karen continued. “My guest hasn’t arrived yet?” The host reassured her. “He will be right here. He said he had to pick up something. Then Karen saw Rick, an old boyfriend from college, holding flowers. “Karen, so nice of you to come.” Karen stood up and kissed Rick on the cheek, noticing he was not wearing a ring. “What’s this about?” Rick sat down. “Oh, there’s no harm in old friends getting together for dinner. I figured you’re working too hard in that law firm and needed a night out.” Karen stroked her wedding ring but didn’t object. “Dinner would be lovely, thank you and the spa was especially just what I needed.” Rick didn’t know anything about a spa treatment, figuring Karen came early and got a massage. “Yes, their spa is quite nice.”
Joseph assumed that Susan had arranged this all along, especially when she rubbed her foot against his leg and held his hand. Joseph hadn’t felt this kind of excitement for quite some time with Karen and he welcomed the attention. But he knew this indiscretion would have to be their secret since Susan worked with Karen. “So Susan, are you seeing anyone?” Susan made eye contact. “Not presently. Does it matter?” She said with a wicked smile. Joseph stroked the inside of her arm. “Just curious. Joseph and Susan had a most flirtatious dinner, each letting down their inhibitions, helped by champagne and body language. When it was time for dessert, Susan excused herself. She leaned over to Joseph and whispered in his ear. “I’ll be right back lover. Bring us something chocolate with whipped cream” and she blew slowly into his ear. “Waiter” Joseph called and he ordered something decadent from the dessert menu. The romantic jazz playing on the piano only heightened his anticipation.
Karen was similarly letting go. She needed a night of romance with an attentive man. “Rick, didn’t you ever get married?” Rick sighed. “Yes, but it didn’t work out. My wife was married to her work and we drifted apart. I won’t make that mistake again.” Karen was relieved by his attitude. Maybe this could be an affair without the complications. “I know what you mean” as she held his hand. “Would you excuse me a minute?” As entered the ladies room, a buzz came from her phone.
Go to the lobby and get a key for room 742. I’ll be waiting. ;)
She freshened up, went to the lobby and picked up the key. When she got to the room, she saw candles and rose petals around the bed while Diana Krall music was coming from speakers. It was dark, just the flickering of candles to see by. Karen gently undressed and got into bed, then closed her eyes.
After a few minutes, Joseph got a text from his phone. Thinking his wife was looking for him, his smile turned to concern.
I’m in room 742. Bring the dessert with you in ten minutes. Our little secret ;)
Joseph’s tension was reignited. He asked the waiter for the check and to have the dessert bagged to go.
Joseph picked up the dessert and a room key, and then got into the elevator. Loosening his tie, he decided that he deserved this fling. Karen had been paying more attention to work than to him and what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. He silently entered the room, put down the dessert, undressed and got into bed. Then, like an earthquake, the two devoured each other for thirty minutes before either of them realized it was their spouse. What happened? Deciding that this was some delightful mistake, each pretended that the other had arranged for this meeting, less the dinner companion and made the best of it. “Why lover, how long have you been planning this” she said to her husband. Also, ignoring the obvious, Joseph replied. “You scamp. It’s a good thing my wife is working.”
After more champagne, conveniently laid out on the table, and dessert, Joseph and Karen continued their illicit lovemaking with each other, still pretending to have an affair, when suddenly a loud knock on the door.
“This is the police. Open up or we’ll break the door down, which they did. (Cops never wait, do they?). “Ok boys, take them away.” The couple was shocked and confused. “What is this about?” The policeman took out his pad. “So you don’t know anything about the murder of one Rick Johnson and Susan Caverly. We have witnesses that put them with you earlier tonight at the restaurant. Thought you could make this a murder scene with sex chaser, did you?” They police took them away in handcuffs.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Trent Jamieson
The final book in the series, The Business of Death, has been released as an Omnibus, containing all three books in the trilogy this month. Keep your eyes out at all good bookstores for the conclusion to this exciting Australian series.
Scott: Thank you very much for taking some time out to have a chat with us at The Fringe Magazine. I’ve been eagerly waiting the final book in the Death Works Trilogy to come out this month. How did the book launch go?
Trent: Hi Scott, thanks for having me! The launch is still a few days off, so I’ll let you know. But if it’s like any of the other launches at the Avid Reader bookstore it will be all types of incredible.
Scott: Last time we spoke you were working on book 3 in the series. What have you got planned now the trilogy is done and dusted?
Trent: I’m working on a few other projects, and finishing up another series. You never know which one is going to take, but right now, I’m enjoying all of them.
Scott: It’s been great reading the Death Works series, especially with in set in Australia. What made you decide to wind up the series in a trilogy? I would love to see the series continue on longer as I’ve enjoyed it so much.
Trent: There’s always the chance that there might be more books, particularly if the trilogy does well. I know what happens next, and have even written a few chapters, so you might get your chance to see the series go on a bit longer. I guess I wanted to tie up loose ends in the last book (not all of them, but most) because, well, you never know which book is going to be your last, and I think trilogies allow for a good story arc.
Scott: Most of us aspiring authors would love to give up full time work and concentrate on our writing career. Has this been possible for you now with the release of three novels?
Trent: I wish! I work at the Avid Reader bookstore (as a casual) so I don’t really wish, I love working there. It not only helps with the bills, but keeps me sane – writing is a solitary activity, working in retail anything but.
No matter whether or not you work or write full time, it is very much about managing your time. I did write full time for a year, and that was a whole other sort of discipline. To be honest, I don’t think it’s for me. I like talking to people too much.
Scott: Do you have a favorite character in the Death Works series and what about them do you like the most?
Trent: Oh, what a cruel question! I think I like Lissa the most, I really think that she grows as the books continue, in fact, I’ve always been tempted to write a story from her point of view. She’s much stronger than Steve, and she doesn’t have his powers. I think I love her a little.
Scott: Hachette and Orbit are great local companies. How did you first form your association with them?
Trent: The same way all authors do, I guess. I sent them my work, and was lucky that they liked it enough to publish it. They’ve been a great company to work with, their editorial team is superb, actually, everyone is, you really feel that they’re behind you and the book. And it’s that confidence that can really help you get through the tough times.
Scott: If you were stranded on a desert island, what five authors would you like to have as companions and why?
Trent: Well, if they were to be companions I’d want Krissy Kneen (whose book Triptych comes out in a month) because she is just an amazing person, and would ask all the right questions and come up with the wildest escape plans. I’d want Margo Lanagan because I reckon she knows how to handle herself in a wilderness environment. Marianne de Pierres because she rocks and is tall enough to see over the horizon – I mean a ship has to come eventually. Max Barry because he always seems to have his head screwed on properly. And Christopher Currie because he seems to appreciate my dad jokes. How could we not all have a great time? OK, they’re all Australian authors, but why not, eh?Scott: Thank you very much for your time; look forward to reading your next book.
Trent: Thanks Scott, I really appreciate you taking the time to ask such fun questions!
Sunday, September 11, 2011
BOOK REVIEW: The Perfect Present
Author: Fiona Robertson
Publisher: Penguin
RRP: $24.95
ISBN: 9780670074761
Release Date: September 2011
Pages: 36
Description:
Henry has the Perfect Pet – a duck call Spot – who thinks he's found the Perfect Present for Henry's Birthday. But when the big day comes, Henry's grandparents arrive with a Perfect Present of their own – a strange and wobbling box – with something inside that could change things between Spot and Henry forever . . .
This dearly loved duo returns in a heart-warming tale about never letting good friends go . . .
Review:
The Perfect Present is a great illustrated picture book for youngsters. The story of a duck called Spot and his friend Henry is an excellent book that you can comfortably read to your infant at bed time.
The book is illustrated with beautiful and simple cartoon images that will appeal to the senses of the infant and stimulate their interest in the story. You will have some great bonding time with you little one as you read this happy little tale to them.
BOOK REVIEW: Blue Monday
Author: Nicci French
Publisher: Penguin
RRP: $29.95
ISBN: 9780718154967
Release Date: Sept 2011
Pages: 406
Description:
MONDAY, THE LOWEST POINT OF THE WEEK.
A DAY OF DARK IMPULSES.
A DAY TO SNATCH A CHILD FROM THE STREETS . . .
The abduction of five-year-old Matthew Farraday provokes national outcry and a desperate police hunt. And when a picture of his face is splashed over the newspapers, psychotherapist Frieda Klein is left troubled: one of her patients has been relating dreams in which he has a hunger for a child. A child he can describe in perfect detail, a child the spitting image of Matthew.
Detective Chief Inspector Karlsson doesn't take Frieda's concerns seriously until a link emerges with unsolved child abduction twenty years ago and he summons Frieda to interview the victim's sister, hoping she can stir hidden memories. Before long, Frieda is at the centre of the race to track the kidnapper.
But her race isn't physical. She must chase down the darkest paths of a psychopath's mind to find the answers to Matthew Farraday's whereabouts.
And sometimes the mind is the deadliest place to lose yourself.
Review:
Frieda Klein, psychotherapist, becomes concerned when one of her patients reveals fantasies that seem to tie in with the abduction of 5-year-old Matthew Faraday. As she gradually gets sucked into the investigation of the abduction, she has to deal with the dilemma of whether her priority should be the safety of the child or her professional duty to her patient.
But this book is an absolute triumph – a change of direction maybe, but surely the start of a series that can run and run. They’ve always been good at strong female characters – Frieda Klein is wonderful, weird, lovely and endearing with enough quirks and bits of hidden background slowly revealed to sustain many books to come. DCI Karlsson’s a fascinating character too, with depths you just itch to explore further.
There is an abundance of characters from the eccentric, to the downright creepy, all are seamlessly woven into the plot, and soon become an integral part of the story. Klein’s character is quirkily different, and at times she seems to be more of a hindrance to the police than a help, but her eccentricity is part of her charm , and this is certainly worth exploring in future novels, which I’m sure will follow this excellent start. The conclusion is well thought out and not quite what I was expecting.
A great read overall.
BOOK REVIEW: Against All Enemies
Author: Tom Clancy
Publisher: Penguin
RRP: $32.95
ISBN: 9780718158996
Release Date: Sept 2011
Pages: 762
Description:
The master of international intrigue and explosive action introduces a new hero for a new era of warfare . . . against a new kind of threat.
For years, ex–Navy SEAL Maxwell Moore has worked across the Middle East and behind the scenes for the Special Activities Division of the CIA, making connections, extracting valuable intelligence, and facing off against America's enemies at every turn.
When Moore arrives at a rendezvous to take charge of a high-ranking Taliban captive, the meeting takes a horrific turn that neither Moore nor any of his bosses saw coming. Barely surviving, he tries to bring to safety a Pakistani colonel with information about the debacle, only to have that mission fall prey to forces more powerful and cunning than any he has faced before. Undaunted, and with failure not an option, Moore continues his quest for the truth, leaving many dead in his wake—killed by those for whom secrecy is the ultimate weapon.
And then . . . a shocking revelation: Two of the greatest threats to the security of the United States have forged an unholy alliance. After years of planning, the Taliban has come to terms with a vicious Mexican drug cartel for which they will supply opium. For the cartel, it is a matter of money, power, and ultimate control of the drug trade. But for the Taliban, it is an opportunity long awaited: to exploit the cartels and bring the fire of jihad to the hearts of the infidels.
It is up to Moore, and his team, to infiltrate and dismantle the drug cartel, even as they hunt for those who would bring the ultimate terror and destruction to the streets of America.
In a story that races from the remote, war-scarred landscapes of the Middle East to the blood-soaked chaos of the U.S.—Mexico border, Tom Clancy once again delivers a heart-stopping thriller that is frighteningly close to reality.
Review:
Let me first start by stating that I’ve always been a huge Tom Clancy fan, since his first book The Hunt for Red October right up to his latest book. Tom’s books have always been a real treat, with well flesh out characters, intrinsic plots and great technical detail. While there may be no real surprises with the outcome of the books, they are still a damn enjoyable read.
As with many other well known authors of today, such as James Patterson, Robert Ludlum (yes I know he has passed away but his name is still used on new release books based on his creations) and Clive Cussler, Tom has started with the co-authoring lesser known authors. I’m not sure how much or how little of Against All Enemies was written by Clancy, but if you can’t tell, then does it really matter anyway?
Max Moore is a former Navy SEAL who is working with the Special Activities Division (SAD) of the CIA. He's a new warrior for a dangerous time, possessed with a skill set that combines lethal fighting abilities with a canny intelligence and an almost inhuman amphibian capability that made him a legend among his SEAL instructors. Clancy and Telep insert Moore into a battle with two fronts, resulting in a long but always engrossing tale that will keep you up and happily bleary-eyed for at least a couple of nights.
The basis for AGAINST ALL ENEMIES is a story that has circulated for several years, strongly confirmed by some and vigorously denied by others. There are variations, but the main thrust of it concerns an unholy agreement between one of the Mexican drug cartels and the Taliban, involving drugs and access to the United States at its southern border, with one dirty hand washing the other. Specifically, the Taliban would supply opium to the cartel, while the cartel would provide the Taliban with the unprecedented opportunity to bring its unholy jihad to the heart of the United States.
Moore, fresh off a disastrous mission --- times two --- in Pakistan, is itching for a bit of payback to the Taliban, and the crack team of which he becomes an extremely important part gives him the opportunity to provide just that. Clancy is known as a master of detail, and his in-the-room descriptions of everything from SEAL training to prisoner interrogation to the breathtaking opulence that drug money pays for has to be experienced to be believed. But Clancy and Telep do not get so bogged down in details that the story suffers. AGAINST ALL ENEMIES is vintage Clancy in brand-new clothes, with Moore every bit as memorable a protagonist as the iconic Jack Ryan.
Moore's target is a major Taliban leader whose plan to bring the war to the United States is as brilliant as it is audacious. Moore is used to playing with a team, and each member of his unit brings a unique set of talents.
This is another great thriller by master storyteller, Tom Clancy.
FICTION: The Tormented Teacher By John Kujawski
When I was in grade school, we tormented our music teacher. It wasn’t a simple case of kids misbehaving. The actions of my fifth grade class literally caused the man to retire after just one year of work.
This fact is always the topic of discussion when I run into grade school friends but it’s a story that I have struggled with until recently. Part of me felt that I should look back at those times with a sense of regret for all the bad behavior and trouble we caused. However, all my conflicted feelings were put to rest last year when I sent my friend in Seattle a very significant tape.
Some people have told me that the tape in question is truly terrible and when I sent it to my friend Anna, I really wanted to get her response. Anna actually collected bad recordings. I would go to hear bands with her when I lived in Seattle and she would heckle the ones she didn’t like. She always felt that it was okay to force someone off the stage if that wasn’t where they belonged. After all, not everyone can succeed in a band and she had plenty of bad CD’s in her collection to prove it. This cassette I sent her was another type of disaster all together. The recording was made on the last day of school in 1986. It was thirty minutes worth of unruly kids misbehaving in music class.
There were plenty of events that led to the the recording of the tape. I can remember back to the first day of school. It was still pretty hot in September, as it often is in the state of Missouri. All twenty of us survived the morning, sitting through our homeroom studies and by early afternoon, our class was taken to a small square room that I’ll never forget.
It was hot in the room and everyone, male and female, complained. It had a piano in it and some wooden chairs to match the nicked wooden floor. The main problem was that a large window was overlooking the school playground, the very place we all wanted to be.
Within a minute, an odd man walked into the room. He didn’t get much response at first, but he sure lacked confidence. He was so clumsy on his feet that he almost tripped over the piano. His name was Mr. MacDonald, a man so skinny that it looked like his arms could be snapped off without effort. He was bald and had a beard but what did him in was his tie.
I knew when I saw that tie that it was not the kind I’d wear when I grew up. This was a striped thing that was overly thick. The kids pointed at it and laughed uncontrollably. Mr. MacDonald told us to be quiet, but we didn’t stop laughing. He just had no sense of authority. I knew I was skinniest kid in the class but somehow this guy seemed extremely weak.
The first few sessions went by and nothing changed. He’d get us to be quiet for a while to teach us to sing a song and then we’d just change the lyrics or we’d sing it badly and he’d be all upset. When he wasn’t upset about that, we’d write four letter words on the wooden floor with pieces of chalk we’d find in other class rooms. Mr. MacDonald would get so upset he’d be ready to swear out loud, yet he’d always stop himself.
When he wasn’t wanting to swear at us, it seemed like he wanted to just cry. Usually, that was when he had us play musical instruments. He never gave us anything neat to play and his worst idea was having us play ukuleles. We would de-tune those babies as soon as he handed them to us. Where as my electric guitar gave me a sense of power, the ukulele was sad and weak. Of course, nothing was sadder than our schoolmusical.
When the annual holiday performance was scheduled for the year, we were actually prepared. Some of us knew the words to the song we were going to sing and we even agreed to dress up in these stupid pilgrim costumes. Right before the performance though, someone in my class had an idea. We ended up getting in front of the audience and performed horribly. We literally just hummed. Mr. McDonald was playing the piano and when the song was over, he stormed out of the auditorium.
Part of me felt bad the next day. When I saw Brad, our school custodian, I told him about Mr. McDonald and the performance. Brad laughed and said that Mr. McDonald needed to learn that there’ some things in life that not everyone was born to do. Brad said that personally, he fixed windows because he couldn’t fix cars and if he ever built a car, it would just break down. I guess on the last day of school, Mr. McDonald broke down.
That final class was the one we recorded. Three kids snuck tape recorders into the room and we all made noise for the whole thirty minutes. It was just relentless yelling and screaming. Mr. McDonald tried to get us to be quiet but he failed. After the ruckus, the tape ended with him hollering at us and saying he was finished teaching.
That may have been an odd tape to send to Anna but she played it and sent it back. She mailed it to me along with a collection of bad demos that bands had made. Soon, everything made sense. Those bad groups were simply career mistakes, captured on recording just like my teacher had been captured.
I started to laugh. I no longer felt bad. Plus, there was also another fact. Many of my grade school friends went on to become successful musicians. They even made some great CD's, too.
This fact is always the topic of discussion when I run into grade school friends but it’s a story that I have struggled with until recently. Part of me felt that I should look back at those times with a sense of regret for all the bad behavior and trouble we caused. However, all my conflicted feelings were put to rest last year when I sent my friend in Seattle a very significant tape.
Some people have told me that the tape in question is truly terrible and when I sent it to my friend Anna, I really wanted to get her response. Anna actually collected bad recordings. I would go to hear bands with her when I lived in Seattle and she would heckle the ones she didn’t like. She always felt that it was okay to force someone off the stage if that wasn’t where they belonged. After all, not everyone can succeed in a band and she had plenty of bad CD’s in her collection to prove it. This cassette I sent her was another type of disaster all together. The recording was made on the last day of school in 1986. It was thirty minutes worth of unruly kids misbehaving in music class.
There were plenty of events that led to the the recording of the tape. I can remember back to the first day of school. It was still pretty hot in September, as it often is in the state of Missouri. All twenty of us survived the morning, sitting through our homeroom studies and by early afternoon, our class was taken to a small square room that I’ll never forget.
It was hot in the room and everyone, male and female, complained. It had a piano in it and some wooden chairs to match the nicked wooden floor. The main problem was that a large window was overlooking the school playground, the very place we all wanted to be.
Within a minute, an odd man walked into the room. He didn’t get much response at first, but he sure lacked confidence. He was so clumsy on his feet that he almost tripped over the piano. His name was Mr. MacDonald, a man so skinny that it looked like his arms could be snapped off without effort. He was bald and had a beard but what did him in was his tie.
I knew when I saw that tie that it was not the kind I’d wear when I grew up. This was a striped thing that was overly thick. The kids pointed at it and laughed uncontrollably. Mr. MacDonald told us to be quiet, but we didn’t stop laughing. He just had no sense of authority. I knew I was skinniest kid in the class but somehow this guy seemed extremely weak.
The first few sessions went by and nothing changed. He’d get us to be quiet for a while to teach us to sing a song and then we’d just change the lyrics or we’d sing it badly and he’d be all upset. When he wasn’t upset about that, we’d write four letter words on the wooden floor with pieces of chalk we’d find in other class rooms. Mr. MacDonald would get so upset he’d be ready to swear out loud, yet he’d always stop himself.
When he wasn’t wanting to swear at us, it seemed like he wanted to just cry. Usually, that was when he had us play musical instruments. He never gave us anything neat to play and his worst idea was having us play ukuleles. We would de-tune those babies as soon as he handed them to us. Where as my electric guitar gave me a sense of power, the ukulele was sad and weak. Of course, nothing was sadder than our schoolmusical.
When the annual holiday performance was scheduled for the year, we were actually prepared. Some of us knew the words to the song we were going to sing and we even agreed to dress up in these stupid pilgrim costumes. Right before the performance though, someone in my class had an idea. We ended up getting in front of the audience and performed horribly. We literally just hummed. Mr. McDonald was playing the piano and when the song was over, he stormed out of the auditorium.
Part of me felt bad the next day. When I saw Brad, our school custodian, I told him about Mr. McDonald and the performance. Brad laughed and said that Mr. McDonald needed to learn that there’ some things in life that not everyone was born to do. Brad said that personally, he fixed windows because he couldn’t fix cars and if he ever built a car, it would just break down. I guess on the last day of school, Mr. McDonald broke down.
That final class was the one we recorded. Three kids snuck tape recorders into the room and we all made noise for the whole thirty minutes. It was just relentless yelling and screaming. Mr. McDonald tried to get us to be quiet but he failed. After the ruckus, the tape ended with him hollering at us and saying he was finished teaching.
That may have been an odd tape to send to Anna but she played it and sent it back. She mailed it to me along with a collection of bad demos that bands had made. Soon, everything made sense. Those bad groups were simply career mistakes, captured on recording just like my teacher had been captured.
I started to laugh. I no longer felt bad. Plus, there was also another fact. Many of my grade school friends went on to become successful musicians. They even made some great CD's, too.
FICTION: I don't love my dolls anymore by Jude C. Perera
Anjela; Jeanie and Roberta look dumb; they’ve never looked dumber. They were the pick of the lot. I had kept them, souvenirs from the past. They were my babies; I had bawled my tearless eyes out to own them; I can still remember. They had never left my bedside; but now the plastic is obvious; their dark eyes glassy and vacant; cheap stuff. I can’t believe that I fell for their hokey glamour and pretend sincerity once.
I’ve had endless conversations with these three. I am on the brink of wanting to have one now. My tears have drenched them; the plastic cuts through my chest as I cuddle all three. It feels good though and the shame that had bristled earlier had thankfully chickened out.
If only Dad was here, I wonder what he looks like. He had decamped after generously fulfilling his half of the biological contract. Here I am marooned in my room again, I have precious little time to brace for the onslaught of dusk. The three beauties are still hopelessly trapped in my remorseless clutch. It’s like losing a friend; seeing the last slivers of orange, pink, and red stage their daily swansong. Hopefully shutting the window might blot out the ordeal.
The crunch of gravel; the rough squeal of the brakes; he’s back. My nerves are on strike again; they labor as my ears strain for the front door. My heart’s running an ugly race. His steps are soft, gagged by Mom’s sloppy shuffle. I can see the shadows pass through the slit of my closed doorway, and I hope my sweat is non-toxic. I have learnt to celebrate every second of peace, but there are billions of seconds left; to occupy before those orange and red slivers make their vengeful comeback. And peace has been a notorious ally. If only I could sleep some of it away and survive the rest. But sleep had obviously spurned my overtures. I might still get away with it if I can ignore the doorknob. It’s hard too when you are straining to catch all the subtle noises from beyond the door, particularly footsteps that are gingerly negotiated.
Anjela; Jeanie and Roberta stare back empty; the plastic cuts through my chest again. But they have lost my trust, forever. The doorknob hasn’t budged, old habits die-hard. Every sound is a footstep; I can hear them still, even through the two pillows that have sandwiched my ears. My cheeks are wet and dawn is still a distant promise. The pillows don’t feel safe at all. Mummy could have helped, but our rooms are worlds apart. I so badly want to tell her that I don’t love my dolls anymore.
************************************************************************
Slim shafts of light play comfortingly on my face, they have exploited the chinks in the blinds. The sun is begging admission and the night is now a distant threat.
Author - Jude C. Perera
Other publising credits
My Mom - Hackwriters
My Niece - Hackwriters
Redemption - The Fringe Magazine
I’ve had endless conversations with these three. I am on the brink of wanting to have one now. My tears have drenched them; the plastic cuts through my chest as I cuddle all three. It feels good though and the shame that had bristled earlier had thankfully chickened out.
If only Dad was here, I wonder what he looks like. He had decamped after generously fulfilling his half of the biological contract. Here I am marooned in my room again, I have precious little time to brace for the onslaught of dusk. The three beauties are still hopelessly trapped in my remorseless clutch. It’s like losing a friend; seeing the last slivers of orange, pink, and red stage their daily swansong. Hopefully shutting the window might blot out the ordeal.
The crunch of gravel; the rough squeal of the brakes; he’s back. My nerves are on strike again; they labor as my ears strain for the front door. My heart’s running an ugly race. His steps are soft, gagged by Mom’s sloppy shuffle. I can see the shadows pass through the slit of my closed doorway, and I hope my sweat is non-toxic. I have learnt to celebrate every second of peace, but there are billions of seconds left; to occupy before those orange and red slivers make their vengeful comeback. And peace has been a notorious ally. If only I could sleep some of it away and survive the rest. But sleep had obviously spurned my overtures. I might still get away with it if I can ignore the doorknob. It’s hard too when you are straining to catch all the subtle noises from beyond the door, particularly footsteps that are gingerly negotiated.
Anjela; Jeanie and Roberta stare back empty; the plastic cuts through my chest again. But they have lost my trust, forever. The doorknob hasn’t budged, old habits die-hard. Every sound is a footstep; I can hear them still, even through the two pillows that have sandwiched my ears. My cheeks are wet and dawn is still a distant promise. The pillows don’t feel safe at all. Mummy could have helped, but our rooms are worlds apart. I so badly want to tell her that I don’t love my dolls anymore.
************************************************************************
Slim shafts of light play comfortingly on my face, they have exploited the chinks in the blinds. The sun is begging admission and the night is now a distant threat.
Author - Jude C. Perera
Other publising credits
My Mom - Hackwriters
My Niece - Hackwriters
Redemption - The Fringe Magazine
FICTION: Bernie and Gerard Take a Hike By: J.M. Vogel
“Wait, what’s this?” Gerard called as he groped along the wall. “I feel something…smooth…glass like…wait, I think it’s a jar,” he said, as he fondled the object. “A mason jar maybe. Hey, bring that box of matches over here. Maybe it’s a candle or something.” He picked up the jar and awaited his comrade.
Bernie approached slowly, trying not to trip over anything unseen in the utter darkness. The lack of light was really becoming not only a bother, but source of irritation. “The least the bastard could have done was to leave us with a candle or something. Or a Bic. What kind of nut job throws two people in a dark cellar without even so much as a lighter? A sadistic nut job, that’s who. And my cell phone – what kind of person steals someone’s cell phone?” He complained a little more as he found his way to where he last heard Gerard’s voice. “Marco,” he called into the darkness.
“Seriously?” Gerard asked, directly in front of him.
“Sorry, I was getting a little tired of the ‘where are you now’ game. Ok, lighting match number two.” They’d used the first match in the small box to do a quick inventory of their position in the cellar. By their dark, stress-filled, fumbling count, the box contained seven matches. “Couldn’t he have at least given us a full box of matches?”
After the familiar scratching of the tip striking the box, the match ignited, the warm glow momentarily blinding them. “Ok, open it! Open it!” Bernie urged, as the flame continued its migration down the small wooden stick.
Gerard quickly twisted the ring around the top and removed the metal disc. “Oh holy crap! Something’s coming out of it!” Just before the flame reached Bernie’s finger and was promptly extinguished, long, hairy, spindly legs began their ascent up Gerard’s hand. “Get it off! Get it off!” he screeched, careful not to spook the amazingly large arachnid now climbing his arm. “More light! For the love of God, more light! Get this thing off me!”
Bernie lit the match in time to see the tarantula-like spider near Gerard’s shoulder. “Just hold still,” he instructed slowly. He readied his fingers in the pincher position and moved his arm deliberately toward the spider. Just as his fingers reached the spider, it turned its head and looked at him. “What the hell?” he asked as the spider’s wings unfurled and he took to flight, buzzing Bernie’s head a few times before flapping off into the darkness. Bernie continued his frantic swatting until he was sure the spiderbat was gone. All of the swatting of course put out match number three. “A tarantula bat?” he asked in surprise.
“What?!” Gerard exclaimed.
“I think…” Bernie paused, still trying to process the monstrosity he just witnessed. “That thing had the body of a tarantula, but the head and wings of a bat! A tarantula bat!”
“Where the heck are we?” Gerard asked. “I thought we were in trouble for inadvertently tresspassing, but I’m beginning to think we’ve stumbled into something far more nefarious.”
They both stood in silence while that bit of information sunk in. Hopelessness descended on them like a blanket smothering a fire.
“So what you’re saying is the police aren’t coming to haul us in for trespassing? Because I was kind of hoping that’s what was happening.” Bernie asked, praying he’d misunderstood.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We need to get out of here,” Gerard said, his voice conveying urgency. “How many matches do we have left?”
“We’ve used three, so I’m guessing four.”
“Ok, let me think. When you lit the first match, I briefly saw a stack of boxes in the far corner. Can you light one match to kind of guide us in the right direction? Aim it to our left.”
Bernie did as instructed and, sure enough, a stack of boxes stood about five feet out of arm’s reach. They both stalked toward the stack. Gerard, with his arms outstretched, felt around in front until he made contact with the stack. “Found it!” he said. “Ok, strike a match and let’s see what’s inside,” he said as he felt the lid. “It feels like a plastic storage bin,” he said, waiting on Bernie.
Bernie, after fumbling for a moment, struck the match as Gerard lifted the lid, The box was approximately two feet squared and it wasn’t until too late that Bernie noticed the air holes cut into the lid.
Gerard yelled as he saw its contents. Scurrying around in the woodchips that covered the bottom of the box was the largest rat he’d ever seen – or at least what appeared to be a rat. The fur said rat and the tail said rat, but the feet and head appeared to be that of a feline. The animal hissed at him as he scrambled to replace the lid. “Rat cat,” he gulped as the match went out. “So apparently, we have a mad scientist in our midst.”
“Well that’s just fantastic,” Bernie said. “What do you say we don’t open anymore boxes?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
They both stood there in the darkness, trying to determine their next move. In the pitch black, noises were starting to erupt from all around them – little scratching sounds to the left, a soft pinging sound to the right, labored breathing out in front.
“We definitely aren’t alone down here,” Gerard said, his voice wary. He looked toward the breathing and saw what appeared to be a faint glow somewhere off into the cavernous den. “Wait! Do you see that? Way up there?”
“Yeah.” Bernie said. “What do you think it is?”
“Only one way to find out,” he said and began lurching his way forward. Bernie followed suit. Things appeared to be going well until Gerard screamed out in pain.
“What? What is it?” Before Gerard could answer, Bernie stepped on something. Whatever it was squished and screeched when his foot made contact. He stepped back off of the bulge in the floor and was immediately assaulted with horrendous odor.
“Match!” Gerard yelled. “Match! Something just bit me!”
Bernie lit match number six in time to see a medium sized furry animal scurry away. It had the feet and coloration of a raccoon, but the tail and odor of a skunk. “What the heck is wrong with this man?” Bernie cursed before turning the light to his friend’s leg, which was now dripping with blood. “Oh man, that really doesn’t look good.”
“Yeah, well it doesn’t feel too good either.”
The flame reached Bernie’s finger and, after a wince, was snuffed out. As he jumped at the burn from the fire, he dropped the match box on the concrete floor. The thud of the box paired with the rolling sound of the last match escaping its compartment left the two with a sinking feeling.
“Smooth,” Gerard grumbled. “Now what do we do?”
“What do you think this guy’s up to?” Bernie asked, changing the subject away from his grave, clumsy mistake. “And why would he lock us down here with all of this? Surely he knows we’ll tell people what he’s up to when we get out.”
“Think about it. He trapped us in a giant net trap. He threw us down here among his creepy, Godless creations. Every time we see one of these beasts, it is bigger than the last. I think he was hunting large game. I think he was hunting for us, Bernie.”
“But why?” Bernie asked
Gerard was contemplating that when a loud, ear piercing, leonine scream echoed around them.
“He was hunting us to be food for his experiments,” Bernie gulped. I think that was a cougar.”
“And by cougar I assume you don’t mean a forty-something woman looking for a good time?”
“I wish.”
“But why the box of matches? Why didn’t he just leave us down here with nothing?”
A sick feeling turned in Gerard’s stomach as he realized the answer to the question. “The more we see, the more fear we have. The more we move around, the more we sweat. The fear and sweat make us… more attractive prey.”
Gerard heard Bernie wretch.
“Next time we go hiking, Gerard, I’m planning the route. This has been the worst excursion ever!”
“Bernie, I don’t think there is going to be a next time.”
Bernie approached slowly, trying not to trip over anything unseen in the utter darkness. The lack of light was really becoming not only a bother, but source of irritation. “The least the bastard could have done was to leave us with a candle or something. Or a Bic. What kind of nut job throws two people in a dark cellar without even so much as a lighter? A sadistic nut job, that’s who. And my cell phone – what kind of person steals someone’s cell phone?” He complained a little more as he found his way to where he last heard Gerard’s voice. “Marco,” he called into the darkness.
“Seriously?” Gerard asked, directly in front of him.
“Sorry, I was getting a little tired of the ‘where are you now’ game. Ok, lighting match number two.” They’d used the first match in the small box to do a quick inventory of their position in the cellar. By their dark, stress-filled, fumbling count, the box contained seven matches. “Couldn’t he have at least given us a full box of matches?”
After the familiar scratching of the tip striking the box, the match ignited, the warm glow momentarily blinding them. “Ok, open it! Open it!” Bernie urged, as the flame continued its migration down the small wooden stick.
Gerard quickly twisted the ring around the top and removed the metal disc. “Oh holy crap! Something’s coming out of it!” Just before the flame reached Bernie’s finger and was promptly extinguished, long, hairy, spindly legs began their ascent up Gerard’s hand. “Get it off! Get it off!” he screeched, careful not to spook the amazingly large arachnid now climbing his arm. “More light! For the love of God, more light! Get this thing off me!”
Bernie lit the match in time to see the tarantula-like spider near Gerard’s shoulder. “Just hold still,” he instructed slowly. He readied his fingers in the pincher position and moved his arm deliberately toward the spider. Just as his fingers reached the spider, it turned its head and looked at him. “What the hell?” he asked as the spider’s wings unfurled and he took to flight, buzzing Bernie’s head a few times before flapping off into the darkness. Bernie continued his frantic swatting until he was sure the spiderbat was gone. All of the swatting of course put out match number three. “A tarantula bat?” he asked in surprise.
“What?!” Gerard exclaimed.
“I think…” Bernie paused, still trying to process the monstrosity he just witnessed. “That thing had the body of a tarantula, but the head and wings of a bat! A tarantula bat!”
“Where the heck are we?” Gerard asked. “I thought we were in trouble for inadvertently tresspassing, but I’m beginning to think we’ve stumbled into something far more nefarious.”
They both stood in silence while that bit of information sunk in. Hopelessness descended on them like a blanket smothering a fire.
“So what you’re saying is the police aren’t coming to haul us in for trespassing? Because I was kind of hoping that’s what was happening.” Bernie asked, praying he’d misunderstood.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. We need to get out of here,” Gerard said, his voice conveying urgency. “How many matches do we have left?”
“We’ve used three, so I’m guessing four.”
“Ok, let me think. When you lit the first match, I briefly saw a stack of boxes in the far corner. Can you light one match to kind of guide us in the right direction? Aim it to our left.”
Bernie did as instructed and, sure enough, a stack of boxes stood about five feet out of arm’s reach. They both stalked toward the stack. Gerard, with his arms outstretched, felt around in front until he made contact with the stack. “Found it!” he said. “Ok, strike a match and let’s see what’s inside,” he said as he felt the lid. “It feels like a plastic storage bin,” he said, waiting on Bernie.
Bernie, after fumbling for a moment, struck the match as Gerard lifted the lid, The box was approximately two feet squared and it wasn’t until too late that Bernie noticed the air holes cut into the lid.
Gerard yelled as he saw its contents. Scurrying around in the woodchips that covered the bottom of the box was the largest rat he’d ever seen – or at least what appeared to be a rat. The fur said rat and the tail said rat, but the feet and head appeared to be that of a feline. The animal hissed at him as he scrambled to replace the lid. “Rat cat,” he gulped as the match went out. “So apparently, we have a mad scientist in our midst.”
“Well that’s just fantastic,” Bernie said. “What do you say we don’t open anymore boxes?”
“Sounds like a plan to me.”
They both stood there in the darkness, trying to determine their next move. In the pitch black, noises were starting to erupt from all around them – little scratching sounds to the left, a soft pinging sound to the right, labored breathing out in front.
“We definitely aren’t alone down here,” Gerard said, his voice wary. He looked toward the breathing and saw what appeared to be a faint glow somewhere off into the cavernous den. “Wait! Do you see that? Way up there?”
“Yeah.” Bernie said. “What do you think it is?”
“Only one way to find out,” he said and began lurching his way forward. Bernie followed suit. Things appeared to be going well until Gerard screamed out in pain.
“What? What is it?” Before Gerard could answer, Bernie stepped on something. Whatever it was squished and screeched when his foot made contact. He stepped back off of the bulge in the floor and was immediately assaulted with horrendous odor.
“Match!” Gerard yelled. “Match! Something just bit me!”
Bernie lit match number six in time to see a medium sized furry animal scurry away. It had the feet and coloration of a raccoon, but the tail and odor of a skunk. “What the heck is wrong with this man?” Bernie cursed before turning the light to his friend’s leg, which was now dripping with blood. “Oh man, that really doesn’t look good.”
“Yeah, well it doesn’t feel too good either.”
The flame reached Bernie’s finger and, after a wince, was snuffed out. As he jumped at the burn from the fire, he dropped the match box on the concrete floor. The thud of the box paired with the rolling sound of the last match escaping its compartment left the two with a sinking feeling.
“Smooth,” Gerard grumbled. “Now what do we do?”
“What do you think this guy’s up to?” Bernie asked, changing the subject away from his grave, clumsy mistake. “And why would he lock us down here with all of this? Surely he knows we’ll tell people what he’s up to when we get out.”
“Think about it. He trapped us in a giant net trap. He threw us down here among his creepy, Godless creations. Every time we see one of these beasts, it is bigger than the last. I think he was hunting large game. I think he was hunting for us, Bernie.”
“But why?” Bernie asked
Gerard was contemplating that when a loud, ear piercing, leonine scream echoed around them.
“He was hunting us to be food for his experiments,” Bernie gulped. I think that was a cougar.”
“And by cougar I assume you don’t mean a forty-something woman looking for a good time?”
“I wish.”
“But why the box of matches? Why didn’t he just leave us down here with nothing?”
A sick feeling turned in Gerard’s stomach as he realized the answer to the question. “The more we see, the more fear we have. The more we move around, the more we sweat. The fear and sweat make us… more attractive prey.”
Gerard heard Bernie wretch.
“Next time we go hiking, Gerard, I’m planning the route. This has been the worst excursion ever!”
“Bernie, I don’t think there is going to be a next time.”
FICTION: ACCOUNTING FOR AN ARTIST’S ACCOUNT By Charley Daveler
Luke’s eyes dimmed as he stared at the television set, the flickering lights of a 1970’s horror film shinning red across his pale face. His blonde hair tinted orange against the glow, his black t-shirt absorbing the light.
Michelle watched him as studiously as he gaped at the screen.
“Anything yet?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Her brows drooped with not exhaustion but agitation as she crossed her arms in an attempt to demonstrate her disdain more obviously as he was clearly not getting it.
He didn’t even look over.
“Okay, let me help,” she said finally moving to swipe away the pizza box and land on the couch.
The thing collapsed before she could realize what was happening, and an umph escaped as her seat dove into the recesses of itself, her knees now to her chin. She paused before glancing over to her boyfriend with an exaggerated scowl.
Still he did not notice.
She pushed herself up onto the edge of the seat.
“Let’s see,” the girl continued, grabbing the remote from the floor and clicking it.
The screen froze on a picture of a young, beautiful woman with threads of ribbon being pulled from her stomach. Her hair made of yarn, her hands mittens, and the attackers thousands of puppets, the actress seemed to be more comical than terrifying. Michelle stared for a moment, feigning thought as Luke slowly glared.
“I was watching that,” he said.
“Clearly…” the girl continued, making a point to ignore him. “The ribbons symbolize love, and the puppets are society; puppets because people only do what they’re told and they rip apart anyone who doesn’t.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the man replied, yanking the control back from her. “They’re puppets because there was no such thing as CGI in the 1970’s, and it’s ribbon because he’s trying to symbolize it’s theatrical. Like Shakespeare. It’s supposed to be blood.”
The video continued.
“Pink blood,” she agreed, studying it.
“That’s just our screen. We need a better T.V.”
She started, her mouth open and her body lurching, a speechless incredibility overcoming her. Several contradictions and arguments jumped to her mind, but none of them clever or even succinct. So, instead of speaking, she just dropped back into the gaping couch as demurely as she could—forgetting, of course, that it was gaping and having to recover—and decided to just be mad for the rest of the night.
He continued to watch.
As Michelle waited for him to recognize her annoyance, she gravitated towards fuel for her irritation, taking in the room with a menacing motive. It backfired a bit, because most of it just enraged her more, making her vision a little redder than the filter on the film.
Small as it was, she couldn’t expect him to have a place for all his things, but she was certain he wasn’t keeping the trash for novelty’s sake.
She couldn’t even find his camera.
“Now?”
He paused to think about it.
“Nope.”
“Oh, my God, Luke. There’s no way that you’re going find the inspiration again. You’ve watched this ten times!”
“Twice.”
“Twice after trying to remember the idea. A hundred before you got the idea in the first place.”
“I’m sorry if I can’t afford cable.”
“You’re wasting your time!”
He finally removed his eyes from the screen.
“I’m working.”
She frowned at him in amazement. “This is not work.”
His plaintive and enduring droopy look suddenly soured. “I’m trying to remember my idea! Inspiration is a big part to art.”
She paused, glancing back to a new girl now running down an impossibly long hall from a sheet hanging on a wire. Michelle nodded and Luke assumed he had won, going back to the movie.
“So,” she said finally. “Question.”
He looked at her.
“From this time last night, after the freak out as you tried to recollect your brilliant idea, to today after I came home from work, what exactly did you do?”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you couldn’t remember your idea last night, and now you’re watching the movie again to have recreate the mood. What, pray tell, did you do before deciding to do this?”
Faster than she realized he had the remote in his hand, he clicked off the T.V.
“What are you saying?”
“Do you do anything?”
“Just because I’m an artist doesn’t mean I’m lazy!”
She just smirked disdainfully.
He slapped his hands to his sides. “Do you not remember how I’ve collected your laundry from the dry cleaners? How I picked you up at the subway? For God’s sake, I went to your mother’s last Christmas?”
She ignored the raise of his voice, leaning in closely to hiss, “Excuse me? Are you kidding?”
“I do a lot around here!” he spat.
And she just started laughing.
“What? Michelle! What is your problem?”
“You do realize that everything you’ve named has been sparse within three months? And furthermore nothing included you doing anything useful?”
He threw up his arms. “Useful? Picking you up wasn’t useful?”
“It’s kind. It was sweet. It’s not productive. And considering the only person who could have done it was you because for the past three months you’ve been jobless, and the fact you had to use my car doesn’t say anything?”
He said nothing, just slammed down the remote and jumped from the couch.
“By the fact that you became angry when I asked you shows me that you know you’re doing nothing!” she shouted over the back of the broken furniture.
“Don’t talk to me about this! You’re just stressing me out!”
She just stared at the black T.V. shaking her head as he tried to get away from her. Of course, in the small studio apartment, the only “away” was the bathroom and considering the size of the cockroaches in there, he remained in the room.
Michelle got up and walked over.
“Listen, Luke. Have you written anything recently?”
“Michelle, drop it,” he growled.
“Have you done anything? At all?”
He launched himself from the bed to sit up. “Michelle, drop it.”
“I’m sorry, but I look around here and I see this mess… I get up in the morning with you sitting on the couch playing video games and I come home to you playing video games. Stop yelling at me when I ask you to actually do something.”
“I am doing something!”
“No, you’re not. You’re not doing anything at all!”
“You knew marrying an artist would make you poor!” he shouted.
“I don’t mind the money! It’s not about the money.”
“Then why are you complaining about me not having a job?”
“Because, Luke! I don’t mind that you’ve sat here for three months, I mind that you get all the time off in the world and how many films have you made? How many scripts have you written? Pitched even? None! Absolutely none! You’re living the life that all artists dream of and you’re not using your time to actually do your art! It’s making me believe that maybe you didn’t want to do it in the first place!”
“Leave me alone, Michelle! I can’t just make movies.”
“You can make scripts. You can make short films.”
“Short films are idiotic. No one takes them seriously.”
“Then I don’t know! I don’t care. Just do something.”
“I’m job hunting! I’m doing my best. I’ve applied to millions of places.”
She threw up her arms. “You’ve applied to two! When you first lost your job. Don’t sit there trying to tell me that you’re trying as hard as you can. Don’t you dare sit there and try to lie to me.”
His face contorted into a snarl, “How dare you accuse me of lying? You don’t know what I do.”
Before he was even done talking she had already strolled back to her purse and pulled out an envelope. He didn’t notice, however, continuing, “I am trying my best, and all you can do is criticize. And I don’t appreciate your lack of support. I’m trying to do what I love. It’s hard, okay?”
He stopped as she held out the paper. The man stared at it in silence, recognizing it, immediately.
“How did you get that?”
“I found it in the trash,” she said coldly.
He said nothing.
“I called him too,” she said softly.
“Oh yeah?” he muttered, suddenly avoiding her gaze.
“This seemed to be a pretty good offer,” she said. “A once in the lifetime. It also seems to be for something that you actually wanted to do. So, can you explain to me why you didn’t take it?”
He mulled it over before finally turning to her. “I’m not going to sell out, Michelle.”
She chucked the paper down, her arms slapping against her sides. “Sell out, Luke? Sell out?! This guy wants to pay you to make a documentary for him! Pay you to make movies! What the hell do you mean, sell out?”
“I’m not going to just do something for money.”
Her chest erupted. “What?! What do you mean, you’re not going to do something for money?! That’s what a job is!”
“It’s selling out!”
“No it isn’t! It’s literally a job! A job where you like doing it! How is it selling out? What are you doing that you wouldn’t normally be doing? Having money?!”
“I want to film what I want to film!” he shouted, standing. “You don’t understand. You’re not an artist. But if I take a job just for the money, I’m going against my morals! Art will be diminished! We can’t just do it for the money, Michelle. That’s how art was before the renaissance and guess what? It was terrible! Meaningless! Portraits of people in good light. People who paid for it. It was about purveying those with the money well and those without it poorly! That’s not what art is about! We need to not go back to the times where people only did what they were paid for!”
She scoffed. “Art is about having a point of view, not saying, ‘I feel like painting a butterfly today.’ Get over yourself!”
“How dare you say that to me.”
“You won’t look for a job that isn’t artistic, and when you’re giving one that is, you won’t take it! And when you have time on your hands, you don’t even do anything with it. The fact of the matter is you don’t want to be an artist because you enjoy it; if you did, I wouldn’t be able to get you away from that camera, little lone not have lost it. Just grow up.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“No I can’t,” she said finally, pushing past him to climb onto the bed, “but I can demand rent next month. And let’s see if I buy you any more of those crappy ‘indie’ films that you love so much.”
“You just don’t understand art.”
“Maybe. Too bad you’re not doing it.”
Michelle watched him as studiously as he gaped at the screen.
“Anything yet?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Her brows drooped with not exhaustion but agitation as she crossed her arms in an attempt to demonstrate her disdain more obviously as he was clearly not getting it.
He didn’t even look over.
“Okay, let me help,” she said finally moving to swipe away the pizza box and land on the couch.
The thing collapsed before she could realize what was happening, and an umph escaped as her seat dove into the recesses of itself, her knees now to her chin. She paused before glancing over to her boyfriend with an exaggerated scowl.
Still he did not notice.
She pushed herself up onto the edge of the seat.
“Let’s see,” the girl continued, grabbing the remote from the floor and clicking it.
The screen froze on a picture of a young, beautiful woman with threads of ribbon being pulled from her stomach. Her hair made of yarn, her hands mittens, and the attackers thousands of puppets, the actress seemed to be more comical than terrifying. Michelle stared for a moment, feigning thought as Luke slowly glared.
“I was watching that,” he said.
“Clearly…” the girl continued, making a point to ignore him. “The ribbons symbolize love, and the puppets are society; puppets because people only do what they’re told and they rip apart anyone who doesn’t.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the man replied, yanking the control back from her. “They’re puppets because there was no such thing as CGI in the 1970’s, and it’s ribbon because he’s trying to symbolize it’s theatrical. Like Shakespeare. It’s supposed to be blood.”
The video continued.
“Pink blood,” she agreed, studying it.
“That’s just our screen. We need a better T.V.”
She started, her mouth open and her body lurching, a speechless incredibility overcoming her. Several contradictions and arguments jumped to her mind, but none of them clever or even succinct. So, instead of speaking, she just dropped back into the gaping couch as demurely as she could—forgetting, of course, that it was gaping and having to recover—and decided to just be mad for the rest of the night.
He continued to watch.
As Michelle waited for him to recognize her annoyance, she gravitated towards fuel for her irritation, taking in the room with a menacing motive. It backfired a bit, because most of it just enraged her more, making her vision a little redder than the filter on the film.
Small as it was, she couldn’t expect him to have a place for all his things, but she was certain he wasn’t keeping the trash for novelty’s sake.
She couldn’t even find his camera.
“Now?”
He paused to think about it.
“Nope.”
“Oh, my God, Luke. There’s no way that you’re going find the inspiration again. You’ve watched this ten times!”
“Twice.”
“Twice after trying to remember the idea. A hundred before you got the idea in the first place.”
“I’m sorry if I can’t afford cable.”
“You’re wasting your time!”
He finally removed his eyes from the screen.
“I’m working.”
She frowned at him in amazement. “This is not work.”
His plaintive and enduring droopy look suddenly soured. “I’m trying to remember my idea! Inspiration is a big part to art.”
She paused, glancing back to a new girl now running down an impossibly long hall from a sheet hanging on a wire. Michelle nodded and Luke assumed he had won, going back to the movie.
“So,” she said finally. “Question.”
He looked at her.
“From this time last night, after the freak out as you tried to recollect your brilliant idea, to today after I came home from work, what exactly did you do?”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you couldn’t remember your idea last night, and now you’re watching the movie again to have recreate the mood. What, pray tell, did you do before deciding to do this?”
Faster than she realized he had the remote in his hand, he clicked off the T.V.
“What are you saying?”
“Do you do anything?”
“Just because I’m an artist doesn’t mean I’m lazy!”
She just smirked disdainfully.
He slapped his hands to his sides. “Do you not remember how I’ve collected your laundry from the dry cleaners? How I picked you up at the subway? For God’s sake, I went to your mother’s last Christmas?”
She ignored the raise of his voice, leaning in closely to hiss, “Excuse me? Are you kidding?”
“I do a lot around here!” he spat.
And she just started laughing.
“What? Michelle! What is your problem?”
“You do realize that everything you’ve named has been sparse within three months? And furthermore nothing included you doing anything useful?”
He threw up his arms. “Useful? Picking you up wasn’t useful?”
“It’s kind. It was sweet. It’s not productive. And considering the only person who could have done it was you because for the past three months you’ve been jobless, and the fact you had to use my car doesn’t say anything?”
He said nothing, just slammed down the remote and jumped from the couch.
“By the fact that you became angry when I asked you shows me that you know you’re doing nothing!” she shouted over the back of the broken furniture.
“Don’t talk to me about this! You’re just stressing me out!”
She just stared at the black T.V. shaking her head as he tried to get away from her. Of course, in the small studio apartment, the only “away” was the bathroom and considering the size of the cockroaches in there, he remained in the room.
Michelle got up and walked over.
“Listen, Luke. Have you written anything recently?”
“Michelle, drop it,” he growled.
“Have you done anything? At all?”
He launched himself from the bed to sit up. “Michelle, drop it.”
“I’m sorry, but I look around here and I see this mess… I get up in the morning with you sitting on the couch playing video games and I come home to you playing video games. Stop yelling at me when I ask you to actually do something.”
“I am doing something!”
“No, you’re not. You’re not doing anything at all!”
“You knew marrying an artist would make you poor!” he shouted.
“I don’t mind the money! It’s not about the money.”
“Then why are you complaining about me not having a job?”
“Because, Luke! I don’t mind that you’ve sat here for three months, I mind that you get all the time off in the world and how many films have you made? How many scripts have you written? Pitched even? None! Absolutely none! You’re living the life that all artists dream of and you’re not using your time to actually do your art! It’s making me believe that maybe you didn’t want to do it in the first place!”
“Leave me alone, Michelle! I can’t just make movies.”
“You can make scripts. You can make short films.”
“Short films are idiotic. No one takes them seriously.”
“Then I don’t know! I don’t care. Just do something.”
“I’m job hunting! I’m doing my best. I’ve applied to millions of places.”
She threw up her arms. “You’ve applied to two! When you first lost your job. Don’t sit there trying to tell me that you’re trying as hard as you can. Don’t you dare sit there and try to lie to me.”
His face contorted into a snarl, “How dare you accuse me of lying? You don’t know what I do.”
Before he was even done talking she had already strolled back to her purse and pulled out an envelope. He didn’t notice, however, continuing, “I am trying my best, and all you can do is criticize. And I don’t appreciate your lack of support. I’m trying to do what I love. It’s hard, okay?”
He stopped as she held out the paper. The man stared at it in silence, recognizing it, immediately.
“How did you get that?”
“I found it in the trash,” she said coldly.
He said nothing.
“I called him too,” she said softly.
“Oh yeah?” he muttered, suddenly avoiding her gaze.
“This seemed to be a pretty good offer,” she said. “A once in the lifetime. It also seems to be for something that you actually wanted to do. So, can you explain to me why you didn’t take it?”
He mulled it over before finally turning to her. “I’m not going to sell out, Michelle.”
She chucked the paper down, her arms slapping against her sides. “Sell out, Luke? Sell out?! This guy wants to pay you to make a documentary for him! Pay you to make movies! What the hell do you mean, sell out?”
“I’m not going to just do something for money.”
Her chest erupted. “What?! What do you mean, you’re not going to do something for money?! That’s what a job is!”
“It’s selling out!”
“No it isn’t! It’s literally a job! A job where you like doing it! How is it selling out? What are you doing that you wouldn’t normally be doing? Having money?!”
“I want to film what I want to film!” he shouted, standing. “You don’t understand. You’re not an artist. But if I take a job just for the money, I’m going against my morals! Art will be diminished! We can’t just do it for the money, Michelle. That’s how art was before the renaissance and guess what? It was terrible! Meaningless! Portraits of people in good light. People who paid for it. It was about purveying those with the money well and those without it poorly! That’s not what art is about! We need to not go back to the times where people only did what they were paid for!”
She scoffed. “Art is about having a point of view, not saying, ‘I feel like painting a butterfly today.’ Get over yourself!”
“How dare you say that to me.”
“You won’t look for a job that isn’t artistic, and when you’re giving one that is, you won’t take it! And when you have time on your hands, you don’t even do anything with it. The fact of the matter is you don’t want to be an artist because you enjoy it; if you did, I wouldn’t be able to get you away from that camera, little lone not have lost it. Just grow up.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“No I can’t,” she said finally, pushing past him to climb onto the bed, “but I can demand rent next month. And let’s see if I buy you any more of those crappy ‘indie’ films that you love so much.”
“You just don’t understand art.”
“Maybe. Too bad you’re not doing it.”
FICTION: A Writer, A woman, an apartment by Ricki Shiers
He wasn’t much of a human; the last time he left the apartment was about a week ago. He loaded his house with food and supplies so he could stay inside his apartment incessantly.
The apartment was a one-bedroom dungeon. The only source of light was a single, luminescent beam of afternoon light lighting the couch.
He was getting ready to work on his new book that he hadn’t started yet, although, sometimes, to feel like writer, he would pretend that the book was started and he was getting paid per chapter that he submitted. It was just a pipe dream though.
He walked from the bedroom to the living room. He remembered that he hadn’t locked the door yet because he had to sign for a package of books he ordered.
He locked the slider, doorknob, and door guard. He then dragged himself over the, to the corner of the room. There lied a desk, a pad of paper, and a Waterman pen. Next to this inexpensive word processor rested his bookshelf. Various authors were present: Hubert Selby Jr., Edgar Allen Poe, Anne Rice, H.P Lovecraft and most importantly, his own five books he had written twenty years ago.
He sat, stared, contemplated, and finally picked his pen up. The words weren’t flowing like they did before his life spiraled into a deep, dark hole. Twenty-one years ago, his wife died. She died of a heart attack which attacked his hard as well.
He became agitated so he stood up, out of his chair, and went turn the heat off; although it was 50 degrees in the apartment. He didn’t want the heat interrupting the beautiful season and its cloudy weather.
A nap sounded nice, sleeping in the cold with a warm blanket helped him sleep as opposed to the hotter seasons.
He tumbled onto the couch. His mind drifted away and his conscious mind transformed into an open space where a dream would’ve been place if he hadn’t lost his creativity.
The nap lasted a few minutes. When he woke up, he almost burst into a frenzy of tears. He held it back like he did all the other times in the past twenty-one years. These frenzies had been constant for twenty years.
He walked to the mini-kitchen to his left and poured himself a bowl of Corn Flakes for dinner. He walked back out and stood, stared, and dropped his bowl and coffee on the ground.
What he saw was unreal to him; he saw a woman sitting on his couch, peacefully reading a book that he appeared to be his. She turned around and asked, “Why’d you do that, silly?”
She radiated a burst of beauty: she had black hair down to her chest; a red bow lay on the top.
The dark hair mixed with her azure eyes, white skin, and perfectly shaped made her the second most beautiful person he had ever seen.
He ignored the question and walked to the front door; it was still locked. He turned around and asked her, “um, wh-, who are you?”
She said in a very womanly voice, “oh, jeeez, you made a mess.” She smiled and pointed at his shirt, there was a coffee stain do the front of his shirt.
She instantly got up and went to the kitchen. When she got up, he saw the body that could belong to and angel, to him at least.
She came back with a rag and started wiping his chest. Somehow, after a few minutes, the stain disappeared. He didn’t pay attention because of the questions that need answering.
He was getting ready to ask a question but she interrupted and asked, “so, what do you want to do tonight.”
“Well, I was, um, going to write but---.”
“That sounds fun.” She smiled and continued “you should write later and we should cook some dinner; I’m hungry.” She was still smiling. He gave up asking questions and asked hesitantly, “all right… what should we make?”
“Spaghetti would be lovely.” Her smile increased even further.
“Ok…”
She hopped into the kitchen.
There were so many questions he needed answers for, but at the same time , he wanted to leave it anonymous because it excited him and at this point of his life, any amount of excitement, was life altering.
He walked into the kitchen placidly.
“So, who are you? How did you get into my apartment?” he realized immediately that he may have sounded overbearing but he didn’t think much else of it.
The woman looked over at him and asked, “Do you want rigatoni noodles? Or angel hair?”
That was the end of the questions for him; there was no getting through to the woman. He decided to retain the questions inside his head and go along with the awkward situation.
Although, they didn’t know each other at all, he was starting to like her; she was mysterious and that was a trait he had always loved. Maybe she would even make his misery disappear.
He began helping her cook the spaghetti, her made the sauce; she cooked the noodles. A smile landed on his face, which hadn’t happened for a notably long amount of time.
Once the spaghetti was finished they put it on plates and he walked to the couch, she followed.
He thought that she might have noticed that he was staying away from her so she asked, “why are you ignoring me.” She gave him a childish, fake pouty-face.
“Because I don’t even know you.” He said calmly.
Her smile re-appeared, “Well, does it matter?” she rhetorically asked “why don’t we just ignore all the details and have fun.”
He almost started laughing because she thought her facial expressions were so quirky. Before his could say anything she said “Hey, your book is really good so far.”
He was hypnotized, by that sentence. It had been at least two decades before he heard those words.
In an instant, he forgot all the questions and wonder he had.
“Did you really like?” he asked in pure wonder.
“Well, I haven’t finished it reading it yet, but I was going to finish reading it while we eat.
He was sp ecstatic that someone enjoyed his book that he said, “all right, you can stay here, eat, and do whatever, as long as you let me work on my book in peace.”
“Don’t you mean start your book?” She asked, almost laughing. Usually that remark would have irritated him but he didn’t say anything, he just let out a laugh.
They sat on the couch and she started reading his book until they started to talk to each other. He was amazed by how much they had in common. The things she said made him reminisce about how abusive his wife was. He laughed before he could think anything else of it.
The helplessness he had before they met evaporated into a mist of hope. The smile he had earlier hadn’t faded.
Something else that he thought was impossible happened after they ate their meals. He wrote; She helped. The words flowed from his new resource: Her. Before, he couldn’t pick up the pen without wanting to throw himself out the window.
While he was writing, he fell asleep. It had been years since he dreamt. The dark spaces of his mind lightened with images and dreams.
In the dream he awoke in his apartment and he was sitting at his desk. The women walked out from the back in a robe with two coffee cups. She walked one over to him. He gave a faint smile and took the cup.
He scooted the chair back and looked at an ocean. A blue land of salty liquid stared. The woman touch his shoulder, he looked back. Her mouth moved and shaped as if she was talking. The words weren’t vocalizing.
The writer pulled his head up from the desk, ending his dream immediately. The woman yelled from the kitchen, “Wooo! You’re awake, I’ve been waiting.”
The writer cracked his back a walked towards the woman, “so, ya’ stayed all night? Huh?’
She scratched her head and straightened her bow. “Yeah, hehe.” She giggled.
“Hmmm, how long are you plannin’ on staying?” he asked causally. She frowned, “I can leave now if you want.”
The writer’s heart clenched, “No, no, no, no, that’s now what I’m saying, I actually want you to stay.” He truly meant those words.
The woman opened her arms and hugged him amorously as if they had known each other for an extended amount of time.
She looked past him towards the window and said, “Depressing outside, isn’t it?”
“I’ve had worst,” he said laughing lightly. She joined in the laughter.
The rest of the day was mellow but he was excited nonetheless. For most of the day, the writer worked on his book and she continued helping him write it. The book was going well; they finished about one-hundred and fifty pages of it. After he stopped writing, they wrapped around each other tightly on the couch and talked about a variety of things. They made dinner soon after, ate, and fell asleep on the couch, holding and protecting each other from the cold.
The next day was equally fantastic for him; he finished his book. She praised it with a glory like no other person had ever done before. With her around, his life was perfected… until evening hit.
Once they unlatched from each other, he checked his pantry; it was depleted of anything edible. Usually, he would starve himself so he wouldn’t have to leave the house, but his this time it wasn’t a big deal.
The writer said goodbye to the woman, kissed her on the cheek lightly and left to the store.
He got a bit of food; there wasn’t any need to stockpile food anymore.
He arrived back at his apartment an hour later. He attempted to turn the knob, it was locked. Maybe she was scared someone would walk in, he thought.
He unlocked the door and walked in. It was vacant. She was nowhere in sight. He dropped the groceries and ran towards his-their- room, no one. He ran towards the bathroom, no one. The kitchen showed no further results.
The writer walked over and sat down, letting the facts sink in. A bit of hope returned when he looked at a note on the coffee table. It read:
Hi, I’m sorry about this but I need to get out for a while. I might not come back, I haven’t decided though. The reason this is happening, is because I need a place to stay, and your house looked empty, so I decided to stay, and then you walked out and it all went to hell. I got in before you locked the door and hid in your room until you woke up, and then surprised you when you got your coffee. As you can tell I’m pretty good at making people like me. The reason I’m leaving is because I started to like you more than I wanted to, and I’m sure you liked me just the same. I don’t know if I’m returning, so goodbye… for now…maybe. –Love, Anonymous
His body felt dead. The seemingly nameless women that gave him a hope and a sense of meaning, left without warning. Instantly, he ran over to his desk, grabbed his nearly-finished book, and tore it every way possible.
He stayed door for hours, hoping, and praying someone would knock, and that someone would have blue eyes and a bow in her hair. He finally came to the realization that she wasn’t returning.
The next day, he felt as useless and miserable as ever. He stood at the window, looking towards apartments and weighed down clouds set in a casing of, bleak, grey skies. He imagined the blue land of water and smiled.
He toppled over the window sill and the wind consumed him. The moment he fell, he heard a knock at the door, a smiled landed on his face for a before he was splattered on the concrete below.
The woman continued knocking at his door, regretting that she ever left his house, she opened the door since it was unlocked. Once she saw the curtains flapping in the ferocious breeze, she hustled to the window and looked won below, seeing bloody mess, she knew it was him.
Not knowing what to do next, she fell down onto the couch and dreamed of looking out the window and seeing an ocean of salt and sapphire blue.
The apartment was a one-bedroom dungeon. The only source of light was a single, luminescent beam of afternoon light lighting the couch.
He was getting ready to work on his new book that he hadn’t started yet, although, sometimes, to feel like writer, he would pretend that the book was started and he was getting paid per chapter that he submitted. It was just a pipe dream though.
He walked from the bedroom to the living room. He remembered that he hadn’t locked the door yet because he had to sign for a package of books he ordered.
He locked the slider, doorknob, and door guard. He then dragged himself over the, to the corner of the room. There lied a desk, a pad of paper, and a Waterman pen. Next to this inexpensive word processor rested his bookshelf. Various authors were present: Hubert Selby Jr., Edgar Allen Poe, Anne Rice, H.P Lovecraft and most importantly, his own five books he had written twenty years ago.
He sat, stared, contemplated, and finally picked his pen up. The words weren’t flowing like they did before his life spiraled into a deep, dark hole. Twenty-one years ago, his wife died. She died of a heart attack which attacked his hard as well.
He became agitated so he stood up, out of his chair, and went turn the heat off; although it was 50 degrees in the apartment. He didn’t want the heat interrupting the beautiful season and its cloudy weather.
A nap sounded nice, sleeping in the cold with a warm blanket helped him sleep as opposed to the hotter seasons.
He tumbled onto the couch. His mind drifted away and his conscious mind transformed into an open space where a dream would’ve been place if he hadn’t lost his creativity.
The nap lasted a few minutes. When he woke up, he almost burst into a frenzy of tears. He held it back like he did all the other times in the past twenty-one years. These frenzies had been constant for twenty years.
He walked to the mini-kitchen to his left and poured himself a bowl of Corn Flakes for dinner. He walked back out and stood, stared, and dropped his bowl and coffee on the ground.
What he saw was unreal to him; he saw a woman sitting on his couch, peacefully reading a book that he appeared to be his. She turned around and asked, “Why’d you do that, silly?”
She radiated a burst of beauty: she had black hair down to her chest; a red bow lay on the top.
The dark hair mixed with her azure eyes, white skin, and perfectly shaped made her the second most beautiful person he had ever seen.
He ignored the question and walked to the front door; it was still locked. He turned around and asked her, “um, wh-, who are you?”
She said in a very womanly voice, “oh, jeeez, you made a mess.” She smiled and pointed at his shirt, there was a coffee stain do the front of his shirt.
She instantly got up and went to the kitchen. When she got up, he saw the body that could belong to and angel, to him at least.
She came back with a rag and started wiping his chest. Somehow, after a few minutes, the stain disappeared. He didn’t pay attention because of the questions that need answering.
He was getting ready to ask a question but she interrupted and asked, “so, what do you want to do tonight.”
“Well, I was, um, going to write but---.”
“That sounds fun.” She smiled and continued “you should write later and we should cook some dinner; I’m hungry.” She was still smiling. He gave up asking questions and asked hesitantly, “all right… what should we make?”
“Spaghetti would be lovely.” Her smile increased even further.
“Ok…”
She hopped into the kitchen.
There were so many questions he needed answers for, but at the same time , he wanted to leave it anonymous because it excited him and at this point of his life, any amount of excitement, was life altering.
He walked into the kitchen placidly.
“So, who are you? How did you get into my apartment?” he realized immediately that he may have sounded overbearing but he didn’t think much else of it.
The woman looked over at him and asked, “Do you want rigatoni noodles? Or angel hair?”
That was the end of the questions for him; there was no getting through to the woman. He decided to retain the questions inside his head and go along with the awkward situation.
Although, they didn’t know each other at all, he was starting to like her; she was mysterious and that was a trait he had always loved. Maybe she would even make his misery disappear.
He began helping her cook the spaghetti, her made the sauce; she cooked the noodles. A smile landed on his face, which hadn’t happened for a notably long amount of time.
Once the spaghetti was finished they put it on plates and he walked to the couch, she followed.
He thought that she might have noticed that he was staying away from her so she asked, “why are you ignoring me.” She gave him a childish, fake pouty-face.
“Because I don’t even know you.” He said calmly.
Her smile re-appeared, “Well, does it matter?” she rhetorically asked “why don’t we just ignore all the details and have fun.”
He almost started laughing because she thought her facial expressions were so quirky. Before his could say anything she said “Hey, your book is really good so far.”
He was hypnotized, by that sentence. It had been at least two decades before he heard those words.
In an instant, he forgot all the questions and wonder he had.
“Did you really like?” he asked in pure wonder.
“Well, I haven’t finished it reading it yet, but I was going to finish reading it while we eat.
He was sp ecstatic that someone enjoyed his book that he said, “all right, you can stay here, eat, and do whatever, as long as you let me work on my book in peace.”
“Don’t you mean start your book?” She asked, almost laughing. Usually that remark would have irritated him but he didn’t say anything, he just let out a laugh.
They sat on the couch and she started reading his book until they started to talk to each other. He was amazed by how much they had in common. The things she said made him reminisce about how abusive his wife was. He laughed before he could think anything else of it.
The helplessness he had before they met evaporated into a mist of hope. The smile he had earlier hadn’t faded.
Something else that he thought was impossible happened after they ate their meals. He wrote; She helped. The words flowed from his new resource: Her. Before, he couldn’t pick up the pen without wanting to throw himself out the window.
While he was writing, he fell asleep. It had been years since he dreamt. The dark spaces of his mind lightened with images and dreams.
In the dream he awoke in his apartment and he was sitting at his desk. The women walked out from the back in a robe with two coffee cups. She walked one over to him. He gave a faint smile and took the cup.
He scooted the chair back and looked at an ocean. A blue land of salty liquid stared. The woman touch his shoulder, he looked back. Her mouth moved and shaped as if she was talking. The words weren’t vocalizing.
The writer pulled his head up from the desk, ending his dream immediately. The woman yelled from the kitchen, “Wooo! You’re awake, I’ve been waiting.”
The writer cracked his back a walked towards the woman, “so, ya’ stayed all night? Huh?’
She scratched her head and straightened her bow. “Yeah, hehe.” She giggled.
“Hmmm, how long are you plannin’ on staying?” he asked causally. She frowned, “I can leave now if you want.”
The writer’s heart clenched, “No, no, no, no, that’s now what I’m saying, I actually want you to stay.” He truly meant those words.
The woman opened her arms and hugged him amorously as if they had known each other for an extended amount of time.
She looked past him towards the window and said, “Depressing outside, isn’t it?”
“I’ve had worst,” he said laughing lightly. She joined in the laughter.
The rest of the day was mellow but he was excited nonetheless. For most of the day, the writer worked on his book and she continued helping him write it. The book was going well; they finished about one-hundred and fifty pages of it. After he stopped writing, they wrapped around each other tightly on the couch and talked about a variety of things. They made dinner soon after, ate, and fell asleep on the couch, holding and protecting each other from the cold.
The next day was equally fantastic for him; he finished his book. She praised it with a glory like no other person had ever done before. With her around, his life was perfected… until evening hit.
Once they unlatched from each other, he checked his pantry; it was depleted of anything edible. Usually, he would starve himself so he wouldn’t have to leave the house, but his this time it wasn’t a big deal.
The writer said goodbye to the woman, kissed her on the cheek lightly and left to the store.
He got a bit of food; there wasn’t any need to stockpile food anymore.
He arrived back at his apartment an hour later. He attempted to turn the knob, it was locked. Maybe she was scared someone would walk in, he thought.
He unlocked the door and walked in. It was vacant. She was nowhere in sight. He dropped the groceries and ran towards his-their- room, no one. He ran towards the bathroom, no one. The kitchen showed no further results.
The writer walked over and sat down, letting the facts sink in. A bit of hope returned when he looked at a note on the coffee table. It read:
Hi, I’m sorry about this but I need to get out for a while. I might not come back, I haven’t decided though. The reason this is happening, is because I need a place to stay, and your house looked empty, so I decided to stay, and then you walked out and it all went to hell. I got in before you locked the door and hid in your room until you woke up, and then surprised you when you got your coffee. As you can tell I’m pretty good at making people like me. The reason I’m leaving is because I started to like you more than I wanted to, and I’m sure you liked me just the same. I don’t know if I’m returning, so goodbye… for now…maybe. –Love, Anonymous
His body felt dead. The seemingly nameless women that gave him a hope and a sense of meaning, left without warning. Instantly, he ran over to his desk, grabbed his nearly-finished book, and tore it every way possible.
He stayed door for hours, hoping, and praying someone would knock, and that someone would have blue eyes and a bow in her hair. He finally came to the realization that she wasn’t returning.
The next day, he felt as useless and miserable as ever. He stood at the window, looking towards apartments and weighed down clouds set in a casing of, bleak, grey skies. He imagined the blue land of water and smiled.
He toppled over the window sill and the wind consumed him. The moment he fell, he heard a knock at the door, a smiled landed on his face for a before he was splattered on the concrete below.
The woman continued knocking at his door, regretting that she ever left his house, she opened the door since it was unlocked. Once she saw the curtains flapping in the ferocious breeze, she hustled to the window and looked won below, seeing bloody mess, she knew it was him.
Not knowing what to do next, she fell down onto the couch and dreamed of looking out the window and seeing an ocean of salt and sapphire blue.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)