From: <
[email protected]>
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T M M OOOOO RRRRR PPPPP OOOOO RRRRR EEEEE V V IIIII EEEEE W W
MM MM O O R R P P O O R R E V V I E W W
H M M M O O RRRR PPPP O O RRRR EEE V V I EEE W W W
M M O O R R P O O R R E V V I E WW WW
E M M OOOOO R R P OOOOO R R EEEEE V IIIII EEEEE W W
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Volume #5 December 1st, 1998 Issue #4
Established January, 1994
http://morpo.com/
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CONTENTS FOR VOLUME 5, ISSUE 4
Editor's Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . J. D. Rummel
Editor's Notes : Chesire . . . . . . . . . . Kris Kalil Fulkerson
Film . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lori K. Ciulla
Next . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lori K. Ciulla
After the Honeymoon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Holly Day
Ireland is the Size of West Virginia . . . . . . . . . Rolf Potts
Desert Drip . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Noel Ace
Pattern Recognition . . . . . . . . . . . William C. Burns, Jr.
Slide Show . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . William C. Burns, Jr.
The Orchard . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John Durler
Bird Song . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . John Durler
Game Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . David Burn
My Power . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marie Kazalia
Wisdom/reincarnation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Marie Kazalia
The Woman and the Dog . . . . . . . . . . . . . Richard K. Weems
About the Authors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
In Their Own Words . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Authors
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
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Editor + Poetry Editor
Robert Fulkerson The Morpo Staff Kris Kalil Fulkerson
[email protected] +
[email protected]
Submissions Editor Fiction Editor
Amy Krobot J.D. Rummel
[email protected] [email protected]
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
_The Morpo Review_. Volume 5, Issue 4. _The Morpo Review_ is published
electronically on a quarterly basis. Reproduction of this magazine is
permitted as long as the magazine is not sold and the entire text of the
issue remains intact. Copyright 1998, The Morpo Review. _The Morpo
Review_ is published in ASCII and World Wide Web formats.
All literary and artistic works are Copyright 1998 by their respective
authors and artists.
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Editor's Notes
Kris Kalil Fulkerson
Poetry Editor
CHESIRE
"Your first project is always a special one," one of my coworkers said
knowingly, with the wait-and-see smile of one whose first project lies
years behind them. I had just finished explaining, rather
breathlessly, that I had just received the first chapter of my first
real editorial project--the second volume of a US history book. In
that first hour with those twelve pages, I sat at my big, bare desk,
reading through them, trying to suppress the grin that kept surfacing
to threaten the professional demeanor I assumed an editor should
exhibit. Whenever someone would stop by my office, however, I couldn't
help it. "My first chapter arrived!" I would exclaim, my grin always
answered by that same wait-and-see smile. I didn't mind.
Two weeks later, my desk is overwhelmed by an uneven strata of
reference books, encyclopedias on CD-ROM, and sheets of paper covered
with pencil and yellow sticky notes; my eyes are red and dry, with the
right eye developing a twitch; my brain is fogged with facts and a
blur of stern faces staring at me from the pages of textbooks. When
people stop by to say hello, I blink myopically at them and,
disoriented to be emerging abruptly from the nineteenth century, greet
them brilliantly with "Huh?" or, sometimes more eloquently, "What?
What time is it?" I'm still grinning, though.
I grin because it's all still wonderfully unreal to me. When I was
younger and in the Distressed Teenager stage of my life, I used to
stare in the mirror and press my hand against that of my reflection,
wishing to be pulled into that parallel universe of opposites where
all my gauches would become graces. Now it feels as if, without
knowing it, I accidentally stumbled over that threshold. Instead of
shelving and reshelving unending cartloads of books, I am a part of
the process that creates those books. Instead of paying the university
to evaluate the quality of my research and writing, I am being paid to
evaluate the research and writing of others. All of the diverse
interests that plagued me with their seeming arbitrariness suddenly
have become my greatest strengths. It's no wonder that I feel
disoriented at times. But as I contemplate losing myself in those
layers of papers and words at work tomorrow, I can't help but smile.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Film
Lori K. Ciulla
The last time I saw the naked picture of me, it was on fire in a
bathtub.
The photograph was dark, patterns of the wall paper were hazy, a lamp
in the picture blurred, my body was indistinct, no detail to my
shoulders, hips legs, my face covered by hair caught in motion
I watched the picture burn. The white basin near the drain became
smoky, smudged. Soon I washed away ash with cold water turned on as
hard as it could go - a coolness could be felt above the tub - as some
sort of self proclaimed mist.
The last time I saw the naked picture of me, I left the man who had
taken it - the unseen presence who caught my life in motion -
in its young haze. I left him for good - forever - but after I
returned the lighter to his kitchen drawer.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Next
Lori K. Ciulla
The Next time I see him
I will picture him naked - but I won�t approach him.
All the night long I will undress him with my eyes and caress him with
my memory without saying a word. I will choose a spot far away - I
will converse with others - but as I sip my wine, or check my watch, I
will roll my eyes to the corner and look and unbutton and unzip and
kiss his back madly and taste his wrists with my mouth. His jokes will
make others laugh, his friends will tell loud stories, but I will keep
half my mind occupied with his thighs, his past sighs.
The Next time I see him
I will stifle his attempts to converse with me. I won�t let him in, I
will walk away and smile mildly, dismiss him. If I let him back in, he
would be shocked, he would be happy to see what I still feel and how
strong he stands in my memory and how the taste of his gaze means more
to me than air.
The Next time I see him
will be the time I let go.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
After the Honeymoon
Holly Day
razor-sharp spiderwebs
crisscross rays of
white moonlight, broken glass windowpanes and
stained glass skin-mommy listen
listen when I tell you
he has a temper, he has quite
a temper.
razor-sharp porcelain fragments on
bloodstained linoleum, purple skin fading
to dark red, under ice-oh mommy listen
listen to me when I tell you
I have to get out of here, I have to
get out
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Ireland is the Size of West Virginia
Rolf Potts
Reyes is sitting on the couch. It's maybe three in the morning. I
don't know where he found the globe, but he keeps spinning it back and
forth. "Hey Turner," he says. "Greece is the size of Arkansas."
Most everyone has gone home, and the house has that sour post-party
smell. Like air from an old basketball. I feel like I might puke.
"Reyes, put that globe down and go home," I say.
"France is the size of Texas," he tells me.
_________________________________________________________________
Earlier, the kitchen had been full of girls. "What about Reyes?" one
of them had said. Girls are always saying this. They all like him
because he's funny and smart as hell. But he doesn't understand.
Early on in the night, he went into the kitchen and started drawing
pictures. He handed a picture to one of the girls. "This is what your
vagina looks like," he said. The girl thought this was really funny.
She pointed at the picture. "What's this?" "That's called a pudenda,"
he said.
So that was the big joke. "How's your pudenda?" the girls would say to
each other. They were really drunk. One of the girls found some
watercolors and painted the picture orange.
The girls went home later. One of them went home with that moron
Stanton. I was there on the porch when he started talking to her. "You
have the most amazing eyes," he had said.
She acted like this was some special secret. She said: "Really?"
_________________________________________________________________
Reyes never takes girls home, because he doesn't understand them.
Girls never sit in the kitchen and say "What about Turner?" but still
sometimes I get lucky.
Reyes needs to understand this.
But he just keeps spinning that globe. "Ireland is the size of West
Virginia."
"Reyes, the party died a long time ago."
He pretends he doesn't hear me, that globe still cradled in his lap.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Desert Drip
Noel Ace
I don't mind if it rains through me. Drips like ice cubes streaming
down my back keep me looking straight ahead and beyond the downtown
traffic. My future's out there, beyond the cars, drivers fast streaming
it down the highway-their eyes pinned to the rearview mirror, minds
wondering if they left something behind. My eyes stretch beyond the slow
cars, the traffic lights saying, "Go, no stay," beyond the honking horns,
babies crying for something more to eat, a man screaming at no one
through
pinched lips while I sit on a bench sucking on raindrops.
Girl, move on, I say to myself when I get a moment. Sixteen is soon
enough to start a life beyond the shit ass streets. I'm not made up of
big dreams-just a desert, packed with sand and alive with winds that
circle through you. My desert will dry this ice on my back in no time.
Move on.
Once the light turns green, I'll be up, and the car passengers will
shake their heads, unable to understand how I walk in these shoes-like
sponges, soaked into my skin. They will only see my soles are bared in
the rain. Poor girl, they comment to car-poolers who do not care
enough to look out the rain streamed car windows.
I'm the person people look through: girl on the street, up to no good.
They don't look into my eyes burning like the desert sun, my eyes
looking beyond the streetlights, following in the same direction as
their own.
The streets run through me as if I am the passage in time you must
drive through to get beyond the black clouds sucking out the saneness
in your mind, these streets nothing but potholes, deep enough to bury
secrets.
"Do you need a ride?" asks, Jim, a familiar man in a Mustang GT-decked
out cherry red, silver sparkling rims-as if he knows where I want to
go. I look for his eyes behind his black shades, but they are just
black holes, ready to suck me into some empty vacuum. Not again, I
tell myself. Not even if you're hungry.
Squealing to the curb a little ahead of my bench, he jumps out, all
smiles and beer breath, flipping off the people now stuck in traffic
all because he wants me. Streetlights reflect off his sunglasses like
alien eyes, his shiny black suit shaking rain as he opens the
passenger door. "I'm a gentleman, don't you know that yet?" His smile
is a flash of gold and black holes he talks through. He stretches out
his arm and bows in my direction, like some sick knight offering to
take me from myself.
"I'm all right tonight. I'll just get your car soaking wet," I yell
out, putting on my own street smile, using my tongue as I laugh in
Jim's direction.
"I'll take you somewhere beyond that park bench. Find you some
action."
Jim and men like him, I'll leave behind once I leave this place-men
who see a girl alone on the street, staring into the downpour, showing
skin in torn jeans, sucking on matted hair, knees scabbed, muttering
love songs, men compelled to pull over on a Friday afternoon and
become something more than a salesman traveling the rain puddled
streets looking for love.
"No thanks, Jim. I like it in the rain today." I can sleep in the
rain, have sex in the rain, forget most things in the rain.
"I'm having desert dreams." My flesh painted golden orange, body
swimming underneath sand.
Jim speeds off, cramped in the traffic jam, alone.
Who isn't?
I am alone-by choice. Not lonely, only a lone person, with a need to
move on and beyond the wet skies of Seattle, the love pushin' Jims.
Give me a trailer in the sand, skies burning it into place, yucca
trees raising their arms to a God who is blinded by unceasing
sunlight.
Can he see me through this rain?
I've tried to let God know I'm coming home to him soon. Every chance I
get, I spray my street name to show God I'm here. CHAKKA is the name I
spray on the store fronts that block out trespassers with steel bars
on the windows and sensor alarms. Everywhere, I've gone in this town,
CHAKKA's also been there-fairy boats that crawl through the bay,
taking tourists on trips to Vancouver, taking CHAKKA with them. I move
on in my own way.
Tagger, cops call me, chasing me down, cuffing my hands behind my back
and throwing me in their car, sirens off, just for carving my name on
the skyscrapers growing above these streets. No compensation for my
time having to listen to them first scream morality into my face and
then give me a number I can call for homeless girls like myself.
"You'll die this way," they say, taking the cuffs off and leaving me
at my park bench-still hungry, still on the streets without enough
money to even think about a phone call. The cops know they can't hold
me down; they can only imprison my body with their blindness while my
name lives on in bold blood red oils-CHAKKA traveling with the speed
of freight trains while I sleep in parks at night.
I gave myself the name CHAKKA when I was five. Cave girl, my friends
called me, looking more prehistoric as my front teeth pushed forward,
teeth the size of an adult's. I am the bridge between animal and
civilized human. My words were grunts because no one was home to
listen to complete sentences. I cut off a girl's hair in school for
trying to talk like me-animal nature; brought home old men from the
playground who needed a bath-civilized human. Unpredictable calling.
CHAKKA's the privileged one. She lives beyond me, on fairy boats
traveling the bay, swimming deep in the ocean with migrating whales,
free to see the world with her beauty. I see her wave to me sometimes
from the park as I cross the street, smoking a cigarette. I watch her
dance on the grass mounds, between couples napping, enjoying the
sunshine that rarely visits Seattle. CHAKKA laughs like a child in the
wind as I make my midnight plans with street men, corporate bosses,
and female tourists wanting to get to know me better.
I sometimes follow her to railroad yards and watch her work her magic.
CHAKKA drips paint in my hair as she uses oil colors to spread her
rose colored scrawl on Amtraks that travel around the country. I
follow her to the railroad tracks and ask, "Where are we going?"
Carefully outlining her letters with deep black, she turns and smiles
at me, all teeth and long curly hair. Mexico, where it's wild desert.
She leaves her work wet and dripping in the rain, not waiting for her
name to dry.
Just writing the name makes the travel real for me. She makes the
future seem like something possible. Mexico-tanned plated sand dunes
and landscapes painted in rusted deserted car shells; people who
became lost on their journey south, dry land with sun to crack
wrinkles on my face.
Jim pulls up to the curb and shines his brights on me. Mexico fades
into headlights. Can't see beyond the drops of rain falling before my
eyes. Jim tries to pin me down this way. Shine a spotlight, and she's
all yours. I don't even blink.
"Come on, Shirley. Let me buy you dinner. Here, take my coat." His
fake leather trench coat smothers me with its cigarette smell.
"I don't wear nothing that ain't mine," I say, pulling the coat
tighter. And my name's not Shirley a voice screams out in my sudden
silence, but Jim has already ushered his Shirley into his car, pulling
into the traffic with his hand on her thigh.
"I'm getting your car seat wet."
"Just the way I like it." He might have smiled as he turned to look
below my neckline, the car rushing forward, hitting its brakes as it
closes in on the nearest bumper.
"Where we going?" I ask, wanting him to say down south, where the
Aztecs once wore gold on their naked bodies.
"To the Space Needle," Jim says. "Make me feel like a god with you up
there," Jim says. "500 feet higher than I've ever been.
The elevator shoots us into the sky; I smile as my feet quickly
leaving the ground. Jim presses his back against the elevator wall
although we're the only two in the canister. Eyes closed, he smiles
and sweats, muttering a prayer. I pull out my paint brush and sweep
CHAKKA's tag onto the carpeted walls, the oils dripping against the
pressure of our rise to the top. I want to bring her with me, to help
me fly from here.
"You should thank me for scaring that tour guide out of here," Jimmy
says, reaching out to pull me closer to him. "Why do you have to paint
yourself tonight?"
I turn and look at him, this man who calls me a woman. "Can't forget
who I am."
"Let me remind you," he whispers, as his hand strokes my lower back.
"You're a goddess to me, sweetheart. I could give you more in life
than that street bench." His hands move up my back, fingers slightly
grazing my spine.
"That bench is my home." The place I sleep, the place I dream.
"There's more to life than a street home." He pulls me against his
chest and kisses my neck, his hands caressing my shoulders. "Just come
with me," the request he makes every time he takes me out. Wine her,
dine her, bind her and she's yours, Jim seems to think.
If you come home with Jim, and meet the twenty or so other street
girls younger than me, he'll give you enough heroin to forget your
fragile identity and abuse you often enough to scare you into staying
with him.
I always tell him, "I've got my own dreams. Thanks, anyway," and say
it polite enough so he's not offended. The man has his own animal
style that can turn on you in a second of indiscretion. He's accepted
my answer for a few weeks now; but time will one day run out on his
offer or his sweet temper used to keep me interested.
A smell of lavender slowly fills the elevator, circling around my
head, and I know CHAKKA's here, helping me to keep my mind straight
for the next hour. "God, you smell so good, Shirley." He smells
CHAKKA, caresses her, wants her to come home with him and make him
rich.
As the elevator doors open, I run out into the gift store lobby and
head for the platform surrounding the view of the city. Jim runs to
catch up, thinking I'm running from him for good. If I were smart, I
would, but I still have to eat tonight.
CHAKKA flies through the mist that falls on the city and smiles at me.
Come with me, into the sky, she taunts, taking my hand, gently pulling
me to the railing. To the clouds.
As Jim catches up to me, cigarette dangling from his lips, I want to
ask him if he sees her in the sunset-a floating apparition in the
clouds, but he is too busy searching me out-the girl he called Bella
in front of the tourists. He now wants me as an older Southern belle,
not Shirley, a young girl's name.I put on the southern accent like a
change in lipstick.
Through the Plexiglas used to block suicide missions or homicides,
CHAKKA floats in her freedom above the ground.
"Where you going, CHAKKA?" I call to her, aloud, running along the
glass, trying to keep up with her flight.
The desert over these mountains Come with me. CHAKKA melts through the
glass and into my body, her heart beating quickly, speeding up the
rhythm of my own lagging beat. I'm always a step behind.
But, he is there-pulling on me, holding me tightly by the arm, and she
disappears quickly, my spirit wanderer too strong to hold back.
Disgusted, I turn to the man who holds both my wrists and look him
full in the eye. "What do you really want, Jim? Just look at me."
He laughs. His eyes trace my dreadlock hair, soiled flannel shirt, and
follow the buttons down to my jeans-torn at the knees, muddied from
wear-white slip-ons with my big toe poking out: I am just a young girl
he found on the street.
"You know, kid, it's your charm. You have a glow about you, like
you're going places," Jim says, putting his index finger through my
beltloop.
Like CHAKKA. Going places beyond rain drenched streets and
unpredictable tempers from men who see through you.
"It's not me you see, Jim. It's her. It's the name in red."
He gently grabs me by the back of the neck and puts my cheek next to
his and looks at our reflection in the glass. "Ah, yeah, it's CHAKKA.
I know the name. I know who you are." Jim turns and looks at my
reflection in the glass and laughs softly to himself while turning
back to look in my eyes. "I see you."
Jim must be blinded by CHAKKA. He can only see her long flowing hair
and almond shaped eyes delving into his, laughter crawling sweetly
into his ear like a goddess' whisper.
"It's your essence," Jim says, his exclamation sounding like a snake's
hiss. "It's that spirit that captures my full attention."
I look into the blackness of the night and smell lavender, feel
CHAKKA's body move through mine, her legs pumping with the will to
move on. I'm still here, CHAKKA says, her voice like sugar in my
thoughts. Let's go back to those desert dreams.
"Take me home," I yell, pushing Jim away before he completely has me
bared in public.
Stumbling backwards, Jim's face spreads hatred. "Back to the park
bench?" He laughs. "Is that your home?"
"Home is where I call it." I button up my blouse and throw his jacket
to the ground, hearing its fake crunch as I use it as my welcome mat
home.
I push Jim aside as the elevator doors open and let me in.
"I know where to find you. This doesn't end just because you say it
does," Jim says, moving closer to the elevator doors now closing on
his face like a metal curtain.
I am alone.
As I feel the elevator drop back down to the street, I smile at the
tag I made, the name that is always within me, the spirit I've been
able to hold onto.
Rain continues to pound into my ears and soaks me to the bone as I sit
on the bench, but I don't care.
I can again feel the sun as the desert drips into my veins and makes
me smile. Someday, I'll go there and dance in the sun.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Pattern Recognition
William C. Burns, Jr.
Tell me what you think
you see
And I'll tell you
what is really there
To you
a dust devil
But can you see it
The thing inside
A whorl of eyes and fingers
and hearts
To you
a cloud
But look
just at the edge
A wind shark
Feeding on rainbow seeds
A tree
Covered with veins and arteries
Tiny coagulated clumps of luminous life parna
Breaking off
Snaking up the trunk
Heading for the leaves
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Slide Show
William C. Burns, Jr.
In this slide we see her
Wrapped around an ashtray
We speculate that she is deriving some kind
of nourishment from the decaying remains
Next slide please . . .
Yes
Notice the bizarre growth just medial
of the transverse section
Very vascular
And all those spiny quills
God that looks uncomfortable
Next . . .
Oh yeah
Here she is
being eaten by the chair
Can't really tell if she is resisting
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
The Orchard
John Durler
The long hill road too high,
muddy ruts packed in wet leaves,
lead to orchard apples
and foxfire among evergreens.
Our brook feeds hungry roots
vaulting its rushing water, sometimes
to appear as huge arches, bent and twisted,
animals use to cross, as I sometimes,
to the other side, whose hollow
holds wild things of the wood.
It beckons in the chill sweet ripple
of a robin singing.
Yet I hold to the road, apples in mind,
swing from saplings along the way,
as their sweet scent draws me,
singing "apple pan dowdies make your eyes light up.
Gimme some more of that wonderful stuff."
I walk through swarms of bees, flies, gnats.
Worms crawl or drop on silken threads
I brush away as I fill coat and shirt,
head back down the hill burdened by the
light roll of apples against my skin,
dreaming of buzzing insects, furry worms,
communal in heady contentment.
Light plays on trees.
Songs of the forest ring subtle
and pure as church chimes.
I am in awe as I hurry,
apples bobbing, back home.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Bird Song
John Durler
I look to me to find my way to who I am,
I do not like what I find.
I dream of candlesticks not yet burning,
see great furious fires in ice.
I feel a chill in a bird's song,
plug ears, look out my open doorway,
drop crumbs, inviting the bird in.
Eventually, pecking my kitchen floor,
I grab it by the throat, feeling wing bones,
hollow, fragile, feathers, soft as dandelion puffs,
able to fly free, as I never could.
I look into black bulging eyes,
feel the rapid heartbeat, and say
"Never trust mankind."
I know my power, open my hand and
It blinks, shrugs, peeps E sharp,
and flies out the doorway.
Later that night, ears unplugged
the bird's song cuts through the night,
shatters my windows,
tears down walls and roof,
and I stand in the sky---
falling, falling.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Game Day
David Burn
You only see your son once a year. Always on the same day. It's the only
day she'll let you. The day after Thanksgiving � "Game Day" in Nebraska.
Huskers/Sooners. It's a time-honored tradition. You grew up with this
game.
And if it was good enough for you, it was good enough for Jude. But, last
year the "powers that be" threw a monkey-wrench, and created a new league
with a bunch of Texas teams. The Big Twelve, they call it. Today's game
is
against Colorado, not Oklahoma. You guess it's okay since Oklahoma
isn't what they used to be under coach Barry Switzer. He doesn't get
much respect in Dallas, but he'd ruined a lot of holidays for you, and
for the whole state really. Of course, Nebraska, despite the recent
championships, isn't what they used to be either. Tom Osborne is no
Bob Devaney. Devaney never had the players pray, nor hold hands,
that's for sure.
Jude doesn't look a thing like you. You wonder if he really is your
son. And seriously, why'd you ever consent to that name? You wanted
him to be named "Johnny." Not after you, but for Johnny Rogers, the
Heisman winning return-man who helped bring back-to-back National
Championships home to Lincoln.
Lydia, your former old lady, pulls up out front in a new car. Some Jap
thing. Figures. She's done real well for herself. It's good for Jude,
but you grimace at the sight of her and her dark suits and long, fancy
scarves. She waves to you, but stays in the car. Good for her, you
don't want to talk to her anyway. Jude gets out and looks around like
he doesn't want anyone to see him. Shit, no one he knows is gonna come
down here in this �hood. It used to be nice back when Pops was at
North High, but now it's a ghetto. All black, except you and that
freak up the street. You know that guy is up to something. Probably
got body parts in the basement from the looks of him. Course, he might
be saying the same about you. But how would he know? How would any of
these people know what you've had to go through?
When you and Jude settle in for the game, your new wife, Elaine,
brings turkey sandwiches into the den and places them on TV trays in
front of you. Jude is courteous and says, "Thank you."
"Can I bring you some Tang dear?" she asks him.
"OK," he says, un-enthused.
"How about you honey? Do you want some Tang?"
What the hell does she think she's doing? So Jude's over. Does that
mean you can't have a beer? It's Game Day, for Christ's sake. "Bring
me a beer," you say with authority.
Jude asks you, "John, can I have one too?"
The kid's only twelve. But, he's never asked you for anything in his
life. You keep waiting for him to ask you for all sorts of things, but
he never does. He just sits there and watches the game and when it's
over his mother comes and takes him away. So you say, "Sure." You yell
down the hall toward Elaine, "Bring two."
Elaine brings two cans of Bud into the den and sets them down on your
tray. You pop yours, then hand one over to the kid. Elaine says,
"John, what do you think you're doing? Aren't you in enough trouble?"
"I'm his father, and I say he can have a beer during the Nebraska
game."
Jude pops his open and adroitly guzzles it, draining it on one fell
swoop. He burps and smiles then jumps straight up into the air, and
yells, "Touchdown!"
Nebraska had intercepted and run it back for a score, but you did not
see it because you were watching Jude. You look at Elaine and give her
the "get out" signal. "This is a man's thing," you told her how many
times before?
"John, what's jail like?" Jude asks you.
"It's no place you want to be. It's the worst stink-hole on earth."
"Why does Lydia send you there every weekend?"
"I wish I knew Jude. It's about money I owe her."
"You mean child support, for me?"
"Yeah, for you."
"I don't need it John. Lydia doesn't either. She's got plenty of
boyfriends to buy her stuff. And I don't need new stuff all the time.
My friend from school � Jeremy � he has to have Air Jordan's, but I
don't care about shoes."
You wonder what he does care about. You don't think he cares much for
you. But he did say he didn't want you to keep going to jail every
weekend. Still, how could he care about you, when his mother pumps him
full of her side of the story all the time? This one afternoon a year
isn't adequate for you to fight that kind of deep conditioning. You
just want to get through the game.
But the Husker offense is struggling to put points on the board. Scott
Frost, the quarterback involved in last year's famous Lawrence
Phillips incident, leaves a lot to be desired. And Osborne bugs you.
You don't know why. You don't have to know. You're not like those
call-ins from the talk-shows who go on and on about how Osborne sold
out for the rings he now wears. You could care less what the players
do off the field.
Jude says, "I could call a better play than that. Hasn't he heard of
the pass?"
You say, "He's a wuss," even though you realize how important it is to
establish the ground game.
Elaine pokes her head into the room and asks, "Can I bring you
anything?"
Jude says, "Two more beers."
Elaine says, "Hold on just a minute, young man."
You cut her off with, "He said, 'Two more beers.' Are you deaf?"
"John, he's only twelve."
During the commercial, you get up and find Elaine in the other room.
"Don't back-talk me in front of my boy," you say.
Elaine chokes back a laugh and says, "Your boy? You see him once a
year. And how do you know this isn't some kind of trick? Huh?"
"What trick?" you ask.
"If that kid's drunk when his mother gets here, you might be put away
for more than weekends. Honey, I'm worried."
"He's not gonna get drunk Elaine. We're just having some beers during
the ball game."
"John, he's twelve years old."
"So? When I was twelve I ...."
"You what?"
"Nothing. Elaine, look, just stay out of this. This isn't your
business."
"The hell it isn't. You're my man. You are my business."
Jude yells from the den, "Colorado just scored a touchdown."
The last thing you need today is a tight game. Aren't you upset enough
already? You go to the kitchen and retrieve two more beers. Whiskey is
what you need, but Elaine won't let you have it in the house. You have
to go down to Sal's for a real drink.
Elaine says, "No one can tell you a damn thing." That's what Jude's
mother used to say. God damn them. Why do they do this? All you want
is to watch the game with your boy, but no, they have to go and get
smart. Well fuck that. You're not going down this path today. It's a
holiday and you're free. You're home and will do what you want.
"Shut your fucking lip," you say.
"Like hell! I'm not going to stand here and take that."
You're still standing there, but inside you've left the room. Your
other personality is standing in. And he ain't gonna take any shit.
Not from some woman who doesn't know when to shut up. No way. He's
gonna take care of business. He's not gonna let you get trampled like
before. Steamrolled. Sent to jail every fucking Saturday morning at
6:30 A.M.
Your other personality, now fully surfaced, smacks her. She goes
flying into the air and lands on the range, where a pot of water
boils. Time slows. You see a hundred faces of Elaine as she gathers
herself. You never hit her before. You hit Jude's mother pretty
regular, but not Elaine. Elaine's a psycho. If you hit her, you better
finish the job, because you'd never be safe again.
She grabs the handle of the spilled pot and belts you across the face
with it. You're stunned pretty good. Then she comes at you with a
butcher knife. She lunges, but you turn away at the last second. Her
momentum carries her forward and she lands in a heap on the floor. You
pounce on her and get the knife away. Then you bash her head into the
tile floor until she loses consciousness. You take her to the bedroom
and hand-cuff her to the bed-post.
"Jesus John, what happened to your face? And where've you been?
Colorado scored again," says Jude as you sit down in the Lazy Boy
recliner.
"I uh, I burned myself on the turkey, trying to re-heat it."
"Oh."
You hand Jude his second beer. "Got any girl friends yet?"
"Nope."
Brent Musberger's voice and general lack of ability to call a game of
this magnitude is starting to piss you off. What does some eastern
asshole know about football? He sure as shit doesn't know about
Nebraska football. To Jude you say, "Just as well, they're all
bitches."
Jude looks at you like you're from Mars. He says, "I like girls John.
And I love Lydia."
"Sure you do. That's natural," you say.
"Where's Elaine?" he probes.
"Oh, she's taking a nap. Don't worry about her?"
At half-time you get up and put an ice bag on your face. You look in
on Elaine. She's still out. The phone rings. Shit. You get it on the
second ring. It's Jude's mother. She wants to talk to him. You tell
him to pick up in the den, that it's for him. Then the blood curdling
scream comes, "Help me!"
Jude drops the receiver. He's petrified. He just stands there while
the voice on the phone implores from the floor, "What's the matter?
Jude? What's the matter baby?"
You pick up the phone and say into it, "Everything's fine. Jude will
call you right back." You hang it up, then disconnect the phone from
the wall.
"I want to go home," Jude cries.
"Helllllllllllllllllllp."
"Jude, everything's cool. Elaine and I are having a fight is all. I'm
going to go in and talk to her. You just sit down and I'll be back in
no time."
"I wanna go home John. I don't care what you do. You can't keep me
here."
You say, "It's fine Jude, really. Relax. Elaine's pissed, but this
stuff happens when you get married. Now, I'm going to go talk to her
and work things out, so you just sit down and watch the game."
He obeys.
You go to the bedroom. Elaine is gyrating every which way in attempt
to free herself from the head-board. But it's made from steel and
isn't about to break. "Best stop your strugglin' girl, it's only gonna
make things worse," you say.
In the den, Jude plugs the phone back into the jack and dials 911.
"You let me go, you filthy rotten son-of-a-bitch," Elaine implores.
"I don't think so honey."
"Juuuuuuuuuuuuuude," she yells. You put a sock in her mouth, then go
to the den to check on Jude. He is ready for the third quarter to
start. The phone, you notice, is still disconnected. "I think we're
about to come to terms. I'll be right back to watch the rest of the
game. OK Jude?"
"Yeah, but I don't like the look of things. The Huskers should be way
ahead in this game, but they keep letting the Buffs hang in."
"Typical Osborne," you say.
In the bedroom, you watch Elaine squirm. You might as well go ahead
and give her the punishment she deserves. She's been a real bitch,
throwing the pan at you, and all, not to mention the knife.
She struggles, but what's the point, you think. She ain't goin'
nowhere. She kicks at you like a wild horse before it's broken. You've
been out to the ranch a time or two and you figure you've got a saddle
for this here little problem.
You enter her ass, with no lubricant.
Jude peers in the door and says, "Holy shit."
"Hey, get out of here," you yell. You make a deposit, then leave her
and go back to the den. Jude's sitting there all balled up. He's got
his arms wrapped around his knees and he rocks there in the cradle of
his own making.
"Hey, what's a matter?" you ask.
"Nothing," he squeaks.
"Listen, about what you saw ... Elaine's kind of kinky. She likes me
to hand-cuff her, and stuff."
"And stuff?" the kid asks.
"Yeah, stuff. Don't pay it any mind."
Then three solid knocks on the door. You eye Jude suspiciously. "Did
you call your mother? You little prick. I'll get you for this."
Jude cries and manages to say, "I didn't call no one."
"You better be telling the truth or so help me..."
You peek out the window. A beige sedan. Shit. More knocks and a loud
voice, "Mr. Hardman, this is the Omaha police. Open up. We want to
talk to you."
"What do you want?"
"Sir, we just want to come in for a minute and see that everything is
all right. Open the door, sir."
Who do they think they're foolin', calling me, "Sir?" You open the
door and two detectives, one of them rather agitated, stare back at
you. You say, "Who called you?"
The agitated one is a big man and he puts his bear sized paw on the
door and forcibly enters your domicile. Your space. It isn't the
weekend yet. No. You are free on Friday and by god, you're gonna
defend what's yours. "Hey, you can't come bustin' in here. Where's
your warrant?"
The other one says, "We don't need a warrant Mr. Hardman. You're
already a ward of the court and we had two calls indicating a
disturbance here. Unless you want to go down to the station and..."
"What do you want?" you say.
"Like to have a look around is all."
"Go ahead."
The cops find Jude glued to the 27 inch Sony. The agitated one joins
him, and asks, "What's the score?"
Jude says, "17 to 12 us."
The cop says, "These close games give me heart-burn."
His partner finds Elaine still cuffed and gagged. He says, "Newt,
better get over here."
Elaine is naked on the bottom and the cops are fascinated by it. You
figure fast, go in there and throw the sheet up over her, then begin
fiddling for the hand-cuff keys you keep in the night-stand. You let
her loose and she flips over and pulls the sock from her mouth and
lunges full-force like a cat, but the big cop grabs her and puts a
stop to it. "He raped me!" Elaine screams.
You say, "Now honey, don't start that again." Then to the cops,
"Fellas, this is my wife. Been married for years."
The cops look at each other knowingly. Elaine says to them, "Before
you even start to think, you go in there and ask Jude. He saw." The
big cop lets go of Elaine's arm and just that quick she is on you, and
before they get her off she bites into your burned cheek and takes a
chunk, which she spits out onto the bed. The big cop gets Elaine back
and says, "You're a feisty one."
The other cop looks at you close and says, "That's going to require
stitches.�
You say, "Nah, no medical. It'll patch."
Outside the house a car screeches to a halt and footsteps go clap clap
clap on the pavement. Lydia bursts into the house and yells, "Jude!
Jude where are you?" She finds him and smothers him with her body, as
if to protect him, and shelter him from the cruel world. "Are you
okay, baby? Did he hurt you?"
"No."
"Don't be afraid, baby. Mommy's here."
"I'm not," says Jude.
The big cop brings Elaine into the room with Jude and Lydia. "And who
are you?" he asks Lydia.
"I am his mother. I'm the one who called you. That man in there is
sick. Twisted. Violent. A freaking menace. We're out of here. Let's go
Jude."
"Mom, are you crazy? We can't leave now. The game's on the line."
Elaine, in shock, mumbles, "He raped me. The piece of shit I'm married
to, raped me. Can anyone hear me?"
"Jude I don't care if the world's coming to an end. We are out of
here. The world can end in West Omaha." That did not move him, so she
says, "Jesus Christ Jude, we'll listen to it on the radio in the car."
Lydia pulls him up by the arms and drags him from the house.
"Hey, Jerry get in here," the big cop says to his partner. "There's
only two minutes left in the fourth."
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
My Power
Marie Kazalia
in 1972
I hitchhiked to St. Louis
towering curved concrete walls
wrapped around freeways
an American hot rod stopped
pulling up cantalevered
at an odd angle
on the concrete bank
door handle broken
I climbed in the passenger window
feet first
youngish middle-aged man
hunched up shoulders at the wheel
holding back
trying
to come-off as normal
I kept the conversation
friendly and sweet as possible
he seemed frightened of my power
pulled up at some barren exit
to let me out---
I climbed back out the open window
he leaning over looking up with searching eyes
sniffed the seat beside him
leering sick vibes
shocked
but didn't show it---
I waved
smiled
and said, have a nice day
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
Wisdom/reincarnation
Marie Kazalia
at times--
like that ridiculous situation
I put myself into
no excess cash
fear of taxi drivers
2 heavy bags
packed with everything I owned
clothes, notebooks, shoes
Lugging to the Taipei bus station--
To get a bus to the airport
for my flight back to Hong Kong
Staggering straining
under the weight of my luggage
Muscles-full-out bags
shoulder-strap-slung
Lifting myself and everthing
up 2 flights of metal stairs
Along a concrete & metal overhead
crosswalk--above several lanes
of traffic--letting bags drop
resting--Lifting them starting
all over again, snagging my black
tights on roughened corners of my
bags--down more stairs--dragging
hole in my tights working-way-up
Thinking about EAST-INDIAN-NEO-
HINDU-BRAHMANISM-REBIRTH-CYCLE--
repeating all this--every detail--
over & over into infinity--
That time I couldn't help thinking--
How ridiculous of me
to live this again--
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
The Woman and the Dog
Richard K. Weems
Sometimes I just sit here, making up things.
I have a company, "Writer, Ink."
I don�t write until I got the sell: fantasy, mystery, etc. Fantasy mag
wants a story with a unicorn, I write a story with a unicorn. Mystery
rag: two bodies on a train? Two bodies on a train. Ditto for porn.
The money is porn.
I write forum letters. No real readers write those letters--at least,
they�re not writing letters worth publishing. Sex in a glass elevator?
No problem. Threesomes? Foursomes? Tensomes with more entering by the
minute? Piece of cake. Midgets? Yup, we got midgets. My agent gives me
the pitch, I put it together, drop it in the mail, soon comes the
check.
Cushy.
Other times--most times, honestly--I�m on the couch in my robe,
waiting on a pitch. I watch talkies and game shows, then the soaps,
and on into the news. While my girlfriend is at work, I sit with
Matilda under my arm.
Matilda is our dog. She�s part pit bull, part other things.
Mostly pit bull.
Sometimes, Matilda chews on her rawhide while sitting with me.
Sometimes, Matilda watches the talkies.
Sometimes, I let her watch Sesame Street.
My girlfriend waits tables at T.G.I. Friday�s.
A shame, really, because she studied psychology and she�s good at it.
For instance:
She�s good at dropping hints about commitment. Every now and then,
she�ll tell me out of the blue how long we�ve been living together,
how many months now. She never counts in years--she always opts for
the bigger number.
"You know we�ve been living together twenty-six months?" she�ll say.
She would probably count it in weeks, even days, if she took the time
to do the math.
Also, she calls Matilda our �baby.� I�m Daddy, she�s Mummy. Sometimes,
she makes like Matilda can talk.
"Can we go out now, Daddy?" she�ll say, a childish lilt to her voice,
when Matilda is standing by the back door. Or, "I�ve been a good girl,
haven�t I, Daddy?" when Matilda stands expectantly by the cupboard
where we keep her dried pig ears and rawhide bones. "Don�t good girls
get treats?"
Or, when Matilda is licking my face after my girlfriend kisses me:
"It�s okay, Daddy, let me get Mummy's smell off you."
My girlfriend probably thinks me dense for not getting her hints.
She�s got a good case for it: only now do I realize just how many she
drops.
All this, and the only work she can find right now is Friday�s. I�d be
humiliated. She has to wear all kinds of buttons on her work apron.
Stupid buttons. Buttons with stupid things on them.
Check these out:
SMILE PATROL
WHY BE NORMAL?
BIBO ERGO SUM: I DRINK, THEREFORE I AM
See?
When she first got the job, they grilled her until she could recite
the desserts and sing their birthday song at a moment�s notice.
Sometimes, she hums the song without knowing it. Then I do, also
without knowing it. Then she yells at me, "Stop," as if I�m teasing
her.
Then, my agent calls with a new pitch: �a woman and a dog.� My
girlfriend, smelling of burger grease and smoke, figures I�m already
doing the research (that is, research on zoophilia), might as well get
paid for the effort.
My girlfriend thinks I�m fooling around with the dog.
My retort: "Hey, they want a woman and a dog."
Doesn�t faze her.
Matilda sticks her face between ours, her tongue forcing its way
between our lips, when me and my girlfriend kiss. If I give my
girlfriend a kiss first when she comes home from work, the dog won�t
touch her face. If it�s my girlfriend who kisses me first, Matilda
launches on my face, licking all over.
My girlfriend says it�s proof. I got plenty of opportunity...that�s
her other proof. I�m around all day, so�s the dog, and with my
girlfriend out working, what�s to stop us?
With my girlfriend, it�s all cause and effect--the clear, rational and
empirical breakdown of events in linear time, the effect being this
aforementioned attraction the dog has for her daddy, the cause either
nature (Elektra complex) or nurture (me).
Also:
My girlfriend says Matilda licks mostly the spot she just kissed.
I can�t tell. All I know is, I got dog slobber everywhere: my glasses
slimed, my beard sticky.
"I think the dog�s too old for this kind of complex to be natural,"
she�ll conclude.
The dog is eleven months old.
So this is how I figure the woman and the dog story:
She comes home, and the dog is all into the flour and the sugar and
the cherry syrup. The dog is a bulldog with a penis like a lipstick
tube, she�s seen it. He�s strong and protective of her, always
checking out her latest man. Rarely approving. She�s always felt that
the dog is looking out for her best interests, so when he doesn�t
approve, she doesn�t put out. Hence, she�s gone without for months.
Remember this--this is important.
The dog is all dirty and sticky and syrupy. (Cherry syrup is a big
thing in porn--for your average porn reader, cherry syrup let loose
upon something, anything, male, female, animal or mineral, is almost
guaranteed arousal.) She takes him upstairs and gives him a bath. She
feels slight arousal at running her hands over his strong shoulders,
burly chest and strong, wiry legs. His long, red penis appears, though
it is not hard. Still, she notices. What a man this would be, she
thinks...but no, she can�t, this is a dog after all.
Suspense for the reader: she wants to, she wants to, but she�s not
giving in yet. This is porn, after all, so what the readers expect is
men wanting to, girls wanting to, hot and ready no matter what they
say, so why delay it much?
Bait.
Everyone knows it�s going to happen, so what good porn does is delay
it, keeps your average porn customer baited, waiting, the erection at
half-mast, ready for the big plunge. That�s why you have long stints
of a guy walking up the stairs, checking his shirt, smoothing his
mustache in all the better movies, or a couple in bed, talking about
nothing in particular (actor improvisation, I�ll bet) when you know
you�d rather see them doing something else.
But, you can�t hold it off too long...
She can�t believe it! This canine penis mesmerizes her--so manly it
is, so energetic. It would give her so much more than what she�s not
been getting, she is sure.
And, as if he knows what she�s thinking, the dog suddenly thrashes
around in the water, drenching her to the skin, and she goes to her
room, takes off her clothes, is about to put on a bathrobe, when...
She�s aroused. Damn it to hell, but she is, and she knows what she
wants and it doesn�t matter anymore if she�s not supposed to have it.
She takes the peanut butter jar on the table by her bed (I�ll explain
earlier that she likes to snack on peanut butter before going to
sleep) and starts coating herself with it, an area sensitive to her
touch right now, excitable.
Here�s the lead in:
"I can�t believe I�m doing this, but yet I can, and somehow I can�t
believe I never did this before, because it seems so easy to me now,
such an easy way to have what I really want, and I start back towards
the bathroom, walking with my legs apart so the peanut butter will
remain thickly coated over my hot, anxious, pulsating passion, and I
call out, �Skippy, come get your peanut butter...�"
My girlfriend has a few problems with my story. The main thing is that
the peanut butter idea is stolen. Worse, it�s stolen from her, kind
of.
Before Friday�s, my girlfriend worked for the city courts, typing up
transcripts. Once she transcribed a case where a newlywed husband and
his family decided to throw a surprise party for his wife. They all
hid in the basement with the lights off and took the dog as bait.
Surely, she�d come looking for the dog down there, and the party would
be sprung.
So the wife comes home. They get the dog to bark a couple times. The
wife makes some commotion, then comes down into the basement.
"Fido" (or Spot, or whatever, I forget), she says, "come get your
peanut butter."
Then the lights fly on.
She skipped town that night. The case was a divorce hearing in
absentia--no one had heard from her in months. To this day, as far as
I know.
My girlfriend has trouble believing things happened that way. She
thinks this is just a story the husband and his folks concocted to
cover up something rather nasty.
Who knows, she�ll muse sometimes, maybe even something sinister.
What don�t let her buy it are the following:
1). Why would the party have only the husband and his relatives? None
of her friends? Her own family? What kind of a party is that?
2). If the woman came home and heard the dog barking in the basement,
she would probably think something�s wrong, and far be it from any
woman to get naked and spread peanut butter on herself when there
might be danger in the house.
3). Besides, my girlfriend will add, if they were in the basement and
she was at the top of the stairs (there�s no way she could have gotten
much past the first stair without noticing all these people in her
basement), there�s no way they could have noticed peanut butter
between her legs before she retreated.
"On her breasts, maybe," she�ll add to that.
Funniest thing, though--in all her logical arguments against the
likeliness of such an occurrence, she never once dismissed it all in
her knowledgeable, studied demeanor with a: "Besides, no woman would
ever go and do a thing like that."
What really bothers her, I gather, is that she suspects that I use us
to write porn quite often.
Even when I write love scenes for fantasy mags (often involving
beautiful, seductive elfin women or dryads or passionate, desperate
love right before a hopeless battle with Orcs), to me it�s me and my
girlfriend there. Granted, the names are changed and the acts
exaggerated, so it might not be all that obvious, but in my mind,
there�s me and her, swapping with another couple after a party that�s
gone a bit too far, or unbuckling our scabbards to reach unhinderedly
at our quivering, excited flesh, etc. It�s so obvious to me, I get
nervous when she goes reading my stuff.
Most of the time, though, she doesn�t seem to make the connection.
That, or she thinks my sex scenes are all being acted out with other
women.
Then again, maybe she does put it all together; she�s pretty smart,
after all. Maybe what she�s trying to figure out is which came first.
When we try something new in our relationship, is it because we are
inspired on our own, and then I write about it, or is the reverse
true?
To tell the truth, I don�t have an answer.
All I know is the woman and the dog story was a hit, and now I�ve got
more offers--some dog, others others. One�s even for a scene with a
bull: how cruel, how mythological.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
about the authors
** Noel Ace (
[email protected],
http://home.earthlink.net/~noelace/ )
I write down the voices in my head. It keeps me sane. I also teach
high school English, writing at night. I admire Melanie Rae Thon, Toni
Morrison, and Kurt Vonnegut as writers. They inspire me to look beyond
the ordinary and search for the inexplicable.
** David Burn (
[email protected] )
David Burn is a native Nebraskan. He was educated at Franklin and
Marshall College in Lancaster, PA. He's an advertising copywriter,
currently working in Denver. This is his first published story.
** William C. Burns, Jr. (
[email protected] )
William C. Burns, Jr. (Millennium Artist) phased into existence in
Washington DC circa early 1950's putting him on the trailing edge to
the beautiful people of the late sixties. Clearly he watched way too
much Dobie Gillis and idolized Maynard (Shaggy from Scooby-Do for
those under thirty). Bill is a strange confluence of degreed
Electrical and Biomedical Engineer, graphic artist, actor, playwright,
poet, father and husband, but his first love is poetry (OK, the kids
are more important than poetry, but it runs a close second).
"I am calling for a balance between a balance between Art and
Engineering, Rhyme and Reason, Yin and Yang. Other than that I like to
hike, do set design and act in plays (currently prepping the the
performance art production of Alien Playground) and drive on the
Blueridge Parkway."
You can visit his personal web magazine at
http://members.tripod.com/~Rukesayer/index.html.
** Lori K. Ciulla (
[email protected], will be forwarded to Lori Ciulla )
This is the first time she has been published. She sells books for a
living.
** John Durler (
[email protected] )
John Durler is published in The Long Island Quarterly, and anthologies
such as Live Poets of Long Island, and Performace Poets of Nassau and
Suffolk's 1st Annual Anthology. He also edits and publishes
Performance Poet's Anthologies. He also has a BA and MA in English
Literature and loves writing poetry and short stories.
** Marie Kazalia (
[email protected] )
Marie Kazalia was born in Toledo, Ohio but has lived her adult life
primarily in the San Francisco bay area, with the exception of four
expatriate years in Japan, India, & Hong Kong. She has a BFA degree
from California College of Arts and Crafts.
** Rolf Potts (
[email protected] )
Rolf Potts teaches English at Dong-Eui Technical College in Korea. He
is a frequent contributor to Salon Magazine's Wanderlust department.
** Richard K. Weems (
[email protected] )
Richard K. Weems lives in New Jersey, works in Philadelphia.
Sometimes, the opposite is true. He has work appearing in Eclectica,
StoryBytes, a couple issues of Mississippi Review and even more than
that in Pif Magazine. He once went to the University of Florida, where
Padgett Powell fed him red meat.
You can visit Richard's website at
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Atrium/9007/welcome.html.
+--------------------------------------------------------------------------+
in their own words
** Ireland is the Size of West Virginia by Rolf Potts
"If I could explain this story, I wouldn't have had to write it."
** Desert Drip by Noel Ace
"I found this story idea one rainy night as I sat in traffic and
watched a homeless man sit on a park bench, letting it rain on him. I
wondered how he could sit there--without shaking from the cold,
without moving into shelter, without blinking. My questions led to
trying to understand the blank stares I would see in other homeless
people. I kept wondering what they saw beyond the horizon ..."
** Pattern Recognition by William C. Burns, Jr.
** Slide Show by William C. Burns, Jr.
"Pattern Recognition" occurred on one of those really clear, sharp
lucid spring sunsets where the carmine light cut slantwise through the
leaves and you get those weird deja vu feelings. I would tell you
where "Slide Show" struck me but then she would have to kill me. Both
pieces are part of a larger collection of performance art pieces from
"Alien Playground".
** The Orchard by John Durler
"The way to the orchard, and it, was my playground as a child, my only
friends school friends miles away. I remember the two miles up the
hill, short cuts on animal paths through the woods, the road's high
embankment on one side, saplings on the other, and the smell of apples
long before sight of the orchard. Our cows and deer found it a
favorite spot as I did."
** Bird Song by John Durler
"I wrote Bird Song reminiscing about the farm outside Walton, a small
town in upstate New York, where I spent my early childhood years. I
once, when nine years old, shot a wren with a BB gun. I walked over to
it and picked it up. Small drops of blood lay on the trail it made
trying to crawl into the brush. I felt it's heart beat and knew I had
killed it. It haunts me to this day at fifty eight years old. I never
used that gun again. I broke it on a granite rock."
** The Woman and the Dog by Richard K. Weems
"The Woman and the Dog was a story that came from a single sentence I
wrote late one night, intending just to get this one idea down and get
to bed. I stayed up another two hours getting together a first draft.
I did have a girlfriend and the time, and I also had a dog. The dog's
name, however, was LizziBeth."
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