Spring 2010 - Grand View University

Transcription

Bifrost
Spring
2010
1
Table of Contents
Prose
Art
Droplets - Cecilia Morelli (Cover Art)
Rose - Victoria Brady (1)
He Came From Outta Space - Christopher Nelson (10)
Kids - Benton Schoenrock (4)
My Dear Girl - Meghan Heward-Easter (17)
Squid - Derek Barnette (7)
The Homunculus - Andrew Perrine (23)
Fly Away - Amelia Decker (8)
Mower Man - Cheryl Sease (26)
Green and Black Circles - Cassie Landhauser (14)
Queen of the River Rats - Jamie Scott (32)
Skeleton -Trevor Adams (15)
Cupcake? - Tracie Elder (38)
Skull with Cigarette - Shawn Sullivan (16)
Husks - Jonathan Latta (43)
Bird - Emily Stumpf (18)
Nostalgia - Amelia Decker (22)
An Unusual Picnic - Tracie Elder (47)
A
rms
Akimbo -Jolynn Anderson (23)
The Perils of Dating - Colette Hall Vander Plas (49)
Potholes - Lyssa Wade (25)
Snail - Nicole Creason (29)
Poetry
Type - Bridget Donovan (31)
Gull - Lyssa Wade (33)
Sinner’s Circus - Mike Kuhlenbeck (9)
Diner -Erin Hurdel (35)
Unwrapped - Rachel Park (16)
Urban Night - Lyssa Wade (36)
Bat Mitzvah - Kate Burnette (21)
Portrait - Erin Hurdel (39)
Roomates' Letters - Mark Kirschenman (30)
Winterscape - John Chadwick (42)
The Diner - Mike Kuhlenbeck (35)
4 Mile Creek - Alex Kelly (44)
Karaoke Crowd - Jamie Scott (37)
Save the Trees - Nicole Creason (45)
Vociferous Silence - Victoria Brady (41)
Small World - Ake Phetdavieng (46)
Combatting Beasts - Courtney Townsend (48)
Orbs of Luster - Mark Kirschenman (46)
You Look Pretty - Alex Kelly (51)
Alien Attack - Tom Berman (56)
Connected - Andrew Perrine (2)
Connected
Via twitter:
SombreroSamurai
911 agrees I am drunk. I am going to bed
3 minutes ago from web
@JohnyComeLonely No but I probably should have. Is it too late?
16 minutes ago from web in reply to JohnyComeLonely
I am home. I might be drunk.
19 minutes ago from web
let me know if you find out anything
about 4 hours ago from txt
@burlesquemonkey No I didn’t have a stroke. Going out for a while.
about 4 hours ago from web in reply to burlesquemonkey
Okay cnn sucks. Is foxnews good?
about 5 hours ago from web
@mongojerry I didn’t imagine it.
about 5 hours ago from web in reply to mongojerry
@JohnyComeLonely I think maybe it was on fire. It was going way too fast for me
to tell what was going on.
about 5 hours ago from web in reply to JohnyComeLonely
@burlesquemonkey No I wasn’t smoking anything.
No news yet. I’m taking a break. Somebody call me if you see anything.
Nothing about a crash. F5-ing
Is cnn.com pretty much the best news site?
Cable’s out. Anybody watching the news?
@burlesquemonkey There are trees over there so I couldn’t get a good look
Anybody see anything on the news?
@mongojerry Just got home. I couldn’t get across the lake from where I was.
about 6 hours ago from web in reply to mongojerry
could be a plane crash anybody know
then a big flash across the lake
bright light coming fast from the west
anybody else see that in sky just now
woah
Via watchthewatchers.org:
From The Frontlines:All Breaking News Here!!!
Page 267 of 267
Meat Ball Hero:
8/16/09 11:17 AM
I’ll give you guys an update as soon as the
sniper scope arrives.
BadAssMofo:
Yesterday 4:34 P
So I’ve been reading WtW forever but I never had anything to report... until now! There’s a big buzz around here (Calumny,NM) among those “in the know” that something big went down last night. Ham radio picked up some crazy shit, then there was some kind of explosion out east of town. I think it might havebeen one of those microwave-propelled stealth jets from a few pages back. I’m going to try to track it down tonight.
TunaSurprise: BadAss, define “crazy shit.” Did the squeal match the pattern I described, or was it steadier? I Yesterday 4:48 PM think it might have been one of those magnetic zip-jets Monkees keeps seeing, especially given your location. Those things are notorious for crashing near big bodies of water. Let us know
what you find!
3
Monkees Uncle:
Yesterday 5:02 PM
Yeah, I’m guessing magnetic zip-jet. Yawn.
TunaSurprise:
Any updates BadAss?
Yesterday 11:12 PM
BadAssMofo:
I don’t think it’s a mag-zip. I heard the squeal was more like a “weeesqum...weeesqum...
Yesterday 11:18 PM vleeeeeebzt,” which obviously makes me think microwaves. Sources also say it was glowing bright blue--classic sign of a malfunctioning stealth field.
LactoseAmbivalent: So does that mean you couldn’t locate ground zero? WatchingTheWatchers needsdetails!!!
Yesterday 11:20 PM
BadAssMofo:
Today 4:28 PM
No, my friend and his dad were going to look for it last night, but my mom was being a bitch and wouldn’t let me go with them. He wasn’t in school today so I couldn’t ask him about it.
LifeAsAClam:
Today 4:29 PM
lol wut
Via craigslist:
Looking For Zoologist/Biologist (Calumny)
Date: 2009-08-18, 22:23 MDT
Reply to: [email protected]
Looking For Zoologist/Biologist (Calumny) for consultation. Expert on reptiles/insects preferred. Familiarity with exotics a plus. Will pay well for your time. Once in a lifetime opportunity for you! Interest peaked? Please reply ASAP.
Large Aquarium Wanted (Calumny)
Date: 2009-08-18 22:34 MDT
Large Aquarium Wanted (Calumny) at least 2’ deep. Must fit multiple small animals with plenty of space to move. SECURE COVER A NECESSITY! Will pay good money, extra for delivery. I will make this worth your while!
Looking For Zoologist/Biologist (Calumny) Help ASAP!
Date: 2009-08-20, 14:11 MDT
Looking For Zoologist/Biologist (Calumny) for consultation. Expertise caring for exotic animals required. Knowledge
of large parasites a BIG plus! Share in discovery! Will pay very well, but reply FAST!
Re: Looking For Zoologist/Biologist (Calumny) DEADBEAT!
Date: 2009-08-21 16:21 MDT
Okay, I might be the only biologist around Calumny, but just in case there are others (we should get together!) I want
to warn you: don’t waste your time with Jeremy Godfrey! We agreed on a fee and were supposed to meet this morning
at his home. He said he had something “big” to show me. I get there—no answer. Wait around for a while—nothing. Tried the phone—nobody picks up, and no call back. I guess Mister Godfrey gets his kicks wasting people’s time.
Pathetic. Just a heads up for my fellow biologists! Represent! Via crankylandlords.com:
Update On My Abandoned Property
MissUnderstood:
Cranky Landlord So I took your advice and had the police present when I opened the place up. They rooted around, took some pictures, and told me I had to keep all their crap in storage for at least six months, but I’m okay to re-rent. Sending my handyman in tomorrow to do the dirty work.
LandBaron:
Cranky Landlord
Yeah, that’s how it worked for me too. So how much stuff did they leave behind? I don’t get people sometimes. At least you can keep the deposit :)
LALord:
Cranky Noob
So do you get to keep the stuff if they don’t claim it in six months? Anything good?
MissUnderstood:
Cranky Landlord
Okay, so Bob and me went in today to start hauling junk, and these people were just nasty. Both beds are streaked full of I-don’t-know-and-I-don’t-want-to-know-what stains. Carpet’s ruined too. There’s a great big terrarium all smeared with some kind of goop, and it _reeks_. Looks like they might have kept a lizard in there, but I’m worried it was rats. We both heard something moving in the walls, and Bob thought he saw something ratty run behind the baseboard heater. Any suggestions on how best to get rid of them?
5
TheRentFairy:
Cranky Elder
Ouch, sorry to hear about your rodent troubles. Once you clear things out it should get better, as the rats won’t have anything left to eat. They’ll eventually leave on their own, but if you want them out quicker, get an exterminator. Putting down baited traps or poison just means putting out more food to attract them, which is exactly what you don’t want.
Exterminator is the way to go.
LALord:
Cranky Noob
Or you could just put a cat in there for a few days. lol
MissUnderstood:
Cranky Landlord
Ugh, I really don’t want to pay for an exteriminator if I can help it. I’ll probably just wait it out. Thanks for your help and commiseration. LALord, PM me when you get a chance.
Via craigslist:
Missing cat! Grey and white, very friendly (Calumny)
Date: 2009-09-19 10:24 MDT
Please help me find my cat Silvie. She lives with me in the Turnover/Ringley area. She has not come home since
Thursday, and she is never gone for more than a few hours. Please look at the attached picture. Silvie is my best
friend. Please help me find her.
HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DOG? REWARD OFFERED
Date: 2009-09-24 13:12 MDT
MY DOG HAS BEEN STOLEN. HE WAS CHAINED UP IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE ON TURNOVER AVE IN
CALUMNY, NOW HE IS GONE. THE CHAIN WAS BROKE, WHICH HE COULD NOT DO (HE IS SMALL). THE POLICE DO NOT CARE. I AM OFFERING 100 DOLLARS IF HE IS RETURNED TO ME NO QUESTIONS
ASKED. HE IS A CORGI. HERE IS A PICTURE.
Lost English Mastiff in Calumny area
Date: 2009-09-27 17:44 MDT
My English Mastiff, Gerald, has quite uncharacteristically broken through his backyard fence and disappeared. He is
140 pounds, but extremely gentle. If you see him, please contact me immediately. Gerald has a heart condition, and it
seems that he failed to bring his medication with him when he departed on his journey. I am including a photograph,
but please note that if you see Gerald, he will most likely not be wearing the pictured sunhat.
WHERE WERE YOU MARK BISHOP?
Date: 2009-09-29 1:51 MST
I waited for you, Mark. I really did. This was your last chance, and you blew it big time. I’m tired of your games.
Tony claimed he didn’t know where you were, but I could tell he was lying. I don’t know what you’re up to, and I just
don’t care anymore. I deserve better than you, and you deserve to rot here alone in this podunk town. This is me, right
here, right now, telling the whole wide world, that you are out of my life for good. You are completely dead to me.
This is it. The End.
7
ASINNER’SCIRCUS
A Sinner’s Circus,
Thekaleidoscopeofimagination
Isdestroyedbythepassageoftime,
Arealmofinnocenceinvaded
By a gang of hypocrites,
Carnivals on the night side,
Asylum patients rotate on
Merry-go-roundsofthedamned,
Dead, hollow plastic unicorns,
Flashing lights and
Candy-colored ghosts,
The music swells,
Bells and whistles explode
Into the night,
Mirrorsmeltandslitherdown
The children’s faces,
Astheyscamperoutofthefunhouse,
Cotton Candy turns sour,
Rainbow lights burn out,
Themusicdieswiththestars,
Childrenclasptheirhandstogether, Theirticketsaresooncollected
At the front gate,
Smiles wrap around their
Young little faces,
Trapped in the pinnacle,
Betrayed by the zenith,
Everychildcomesfacetoface
With the human crisis,
Tears beg for mercy,
Revealing a fiery zeal,
Thechildrenareneverawareof
What they are confronting,
The Ferris wheel revolves
Not at first anyways,
with the fading seasons,
Never losing its wonder,
Itsmysteryprecedesitsancient Reputation,
Tobepreservedalittlewhilelonger,
Lockedbeneathduskanddawn,
It will never be long enough,
It never is,
Adults stand in gaping awe,
Smiling with the children,
Watchingdeadpantomimes,
Men juggle torches,
The next moment they begin
Pleading for their youth
Feeling the prophecies of a
Velvet Plush Armageddon,
Cushioningourfallfromparadise,
Womenlaughwithdevilishgrins, Sinuous melodies travelled
Balloonsturntohollowglass, Accoladestrulybelongtotheyoung.
Extravagant orbs,
Shatteringoverthechildren’sheads,
Memories fall,
Clattering to the ground,
Along with the children,
9
He Came From Outta
Space
Eve and I were walking from the hotel, navigating
the mean streets of Madison, Wisconsin in search of a
venue called the Majestic Theater. We heard them before
we saw them.
“I bet they’re in town to see that KISS guy.”
We turned around to see who was talking. It was a
couple of twenty-something ladies. One was carrying a
styrofoam food container.
“Are you guys here to see that Ace guy?”
Obviously the back of my t-shirt emblazoned with a
KISS logo wasn’t enough of a clue, nor was Eve’s vintage
Frehley’s Comet ‘87 tour shirt
“Oh! Is Ace Frehley doing a show here? What a coincidence!” I retort smart-assedly.
“We don’t even know who he is, but some guy gave us
passes to the show!” one of the ladies says cheerfully.
Eve and I exchange glances. Hmmmm...that can’t
be. We had checked to see if any local radio stations
were doing any giveaways, meet ‘n greets or anything to
promote Ace’s show. These chicks were probably working for the caterer or something. Delivering food. That’s
it. I mean, why would anyone give passes to a couple of
know-nothings when there’s die-hard fans who would appreciate it so much more?
The two pass-happy women are forgotten once
we find the theater. It’s about three hours before the
doors open, so there’s only a couple guys in line out
front. Great. That means plenty of time to find the stage
door and see if we can schmooze with any Rock Stars or,
hopefully, meet Ace before the show begins and still get
in line in time to assure we get prime real estate in front of
the stage.
The tour bus was parked outside the back door
of the venue. It’s the same one I saw in Council Bluffs
two days earlier on the opening night of Ace’s Midwest
tour. Ace had nearly fallen into the audience at that show,
bitched out a roadie for printing the set list (the sheet
of song titles taped to the stage so your fave superstar
knows which song they’re supposed to be playing and
when) too small, sang the wrong verse in a song, thrown
a guitar pick to me and shook my hand in a brotherly gesture of Total Rock Solidarity three times during that show.
Things could only get better at this show!
There was a couple of people hanging around right
outside the backstage door. Eve and I are too cool for
that, so we stand several feet away. Don’t wanna look too
eager, you know. I did my best to affect a Ramones-like
nonchalance as I leaned against the brick wall (The Ramones always leaned against brick walls.) and wait.
A diminutive figure shuffled down the sidewalk toward
us. Guy in his forties, black 1996 KISS tour shirt on. He’s
a fan, not a bum. It can be hard to tell sometimes.
“Hey man, you meet Ace?” I ask.
Shuffles steps toward me.
“No. Have you?”
“Nah. Hopin’ to, though.”
Shuffles assumes we are locals and goes on to give
us a litany of the bands he has seen recently. Forgotten
Canuck Snooze-Rockers April Wine must be his favorite
since he mentions them every third sentence. Then he
starts telling us how he’s best buddies with some local DJ
that neither of us had ever heard of. We smile and nod
politely as Shuffles says he’s going to go find this magical
mystery Classic Rock DJ and see if he can get a pass to
go inside and meet Ace.
“Well, good luck, dude,” I say.
Shuffles disappears around the corner. You meet
the funniest people at concerts. We hold our ground.
Suddenly, there he is. It’s Ace! He has about ten
feet to walk to the car that is waiting for him.
Members of Ace’s touring band begin to filter out
through the backstage door.
“Ace! Could you sign one of your show posters for
me?” I ask.
“There’s Mr. Derek!” I bellow, referring to Ace’s guitar player. He hears me and walks over.
“Okay.”
(Oh, God. He spoke to me!)
“Hey, man! What’s up? How ya doin’?” he asks.
I re-introduce Eve and myself (it’s been over a year since
we last spoke to him) and we chit-chat for awhile. Other
members of the band join us shortly. Ace is inside the theater. The band hasn’t done soundcheck yet, so there’s a
good chance we’ll get to meet Ace if we stay here. Eve was
having a conversation with Anthony, the bass player, and
I decided it was time to dash back to the hotel and grab
some items I had taken along to have Ace sign.
“Why don’t we sign over here?” Ace asks as he
continues to walk to the rear passenger door of the car.
About five of us follow. Ace sits in the backseat
and I hand him three posters. With the silver marker out
of commission, I hand him a black one. As quickly as he
started, he’s done.
Power-walking the six blocks to the hotel, I grab some of
the posters I had liberated from the Council Bluffs show (if
they weren’t hanging up an hour before the show started,
they were fair game for whoever wanted them) Thursday
night. Great shot of Ace in silhouette holding a blazing Les
Paul above his head. Ace would probably be happy to sign
something promoting his new album as opposed to some
ancient piece of KISS paraphernalia. So all the ancient
KISS paraphernalia I had brought along gets left behind.
After getting a briefing from Eve and being assured I had
not missed Ace while I was gone, we relax and listen to the
band rehearse. They plow through some old KISS tunes,
one from Ace’s new album and have a hell of a time nailing
their cover of The Sweet’s “Fox On The Run.” Seemed like
an hour was spent getting the opening three chords down.
A few more fans had joined us by now.
Soundcheck ends and I make sure I have everything ready.
Black and silver sharpies at the ready. Eve has Ace’s new
CD cover ready to be signed. The stage door opens and
people start coming out. I ask the band members if they’d
mind signing a poster for me. Since there’s only the brick
wall to sign stuff up against, I pick up a discarded cardboard box to use as a table. My marker isn’t cooperating,
so everyone shakes it to try to get it working. No dice. It’s
shot.
“He’s coming outside. If you wanna get an autograph, this is your chance.” says one of Ace’s band members. I make sure Eve heard it, too.
“Thank you, Ace,” I say and step away.
My memory is a little blurry, but at some point in all
this I had handed the silver marker to Eve. I think I told her
to shake it, which she did. Catastrophic Sharpie failure ensues, as silver permanent ink oozes all over her hand and
coat, but she was able to get a nice signature on her CD
cover. I notice what has happened and apologize profusely, feeling like a total jackass. As a result, I completely miss
seeing the next fan who has Ace sign one of her boobs.
Some people just exude class.
Mission accomplished! We met Ace! Since it was
still early, I ran the posters back to the hotel.
I walk back to the theater. Back at the stage door,
Eve was still talking to Anthony, who was lucky he had
someone cool like to talk with.. He could have very easily been cornered by some motor-mouth KISS fan saying
things like “Gee, I wish Ace was still in KISS.” (Someone
actually verbalized that comment later in the evening. How
terribly common.) Not wanting to interrupt, I slunk back to
my spot against the wall. Turns out Anthony’s band mates
had took off to get something to eat and had taken the key
to their hotel room (Three to a room. Rock Star Thriftiness.
I’m for it!). It was about time to start thinking about getting in line for the show, so we say our goodbyes and go
around to the front.
We’re fifth and sixth in line. Shuffles is second in
line. Turns out he actually did find his DJ buddy and was
able to get inside and meet Ace. Good for him! There’s still
about two hours before the doors open, so we’re at the
mercy of whoever shows up to get in line behind us. This is
always interesting.
11
A PT Cruiser pulls up, driven by a guy wearing full
Ace makeup. He gets out and we see he has the whole
Ace 1976 ensemble on (You could buy one yourself at better Halloween Outlets this year.). His wife and daughter
are with him. He’s 40 if he’s a day. He gets in line behind
me and attracts a lot of attention from the innocent pedestrians of Madison. A couple request a picture with him
and he obliges. To our amusement, his daughter informs
us that he gets a lot more attention when he’s in his Gene
Simmons costume. Astonishingly, he keeps a straight face
when he tells us that he “only wears the costume for the
boys” (meaning only to KISS or related concerts). Hooboy. What next?
A diminutive derelict with multiple missing teeth is
what’s next. A short guy in his mid-50’s sporting a dashing
“Members Only” windbreaker congeals out of the darkness
beside us. He may have lived in the cardboard box that
had served as a table a little while before. Smelled like he
lived in bottle of cheap Scotch, actually. Doesn’t walk to the
back of the line, which has grown considerably, but hangs
off to the side and begins blathering aloud to anyone who
will listen.
“I used to smoke pot and listen to KISS! They were
the biggest thing in 1975!”
Everyone avoids making eye contact, hoping that
ignoring him will make him go away.
“Yeah, my mom thought Led Zeppelin were devil
worshippers!” he announces.
Eve decided it was time to make a run to Walgreen’s
to find something to remove the ink from her hands. Shorty
overheard her speaking to me.
“Hey! Are you from New York? You sound like
you’re from New York!”
Wonderful. He’s speaking to us. Eve is actually
from England, and sounds nothing like a Noo Yawker. She
politely tells him where she’s from.
“Oooh! England! You gave us all the great bands
like The Beatles, The Stones and The Who!”
Eve deftly diminishes the man by telling him she
wasn’t born at the time. He keeps prattling on. I tell him
that the Dave Clark Five was the best band to come out
of England in the sixties (it’s true), and he incongruently
responds to with:
“Hey, hey! We’re The Monkees!”
Dear God. Where did that come from?
“Hey, Hey! We’re The Monkees!”
Eve is able to escape to Walgreen’s around this
time. Choosing the lesser of two annoyances, I turn my
attention to the faux Ace and start chatting with him about
past KISS concert glories. At that point, I’d have cheerfully
discussed the finer points of azalea husbandry or anything
to remove myself from Shorty’s tractor beam of rummy ruminations.
Having invested in a bottle of nail-polish remover,
Eve returns with clean hands. I notice she has ink splatters on her coat and apologize again. It’s an old coat, so
I shouldn’t worry about it. The doors should be opening
in a little while. I needed a sugar rush, so I darted off to
Walgreens for my traditional pre-concert Snickers bar. Five
minutes later, I’m back in line. Any minute now...
Alright! We’re inside! Having discussed the positioning issue in line, we make a beeline for the front left of
the stage. Right in front of our friend Anthony and slightly
to Ace’s left. No barriers, no security, enough of a ledge on
the stage to place the camera and drinks, great! Eve graciously heads to the bar as I check out the surroundings,
making sure Shorty is nowhere in sight. I spot him at a
table outside of the main floor. That’s a good place for him.
The guy in the Ace costume has vanished. Seems strange
that he’s a big enough fan to risk humiliation by dressing
like that in public, but he’s not down front?
Drinks in hand, Eve returns from the bar. We carry
on a conversation until the first of two opening acts begins.
The first opening act is an odd combo consisting of a longhaired male singer and a slinky blonde female singer (who
wore painted-on jeans). Four additional musicians complete this nameless group. The play a mix of classic Rock
and current Top 40 covers. I ensure myself a horrible and
deserved haunting from Bon Scott’s ghost when the singer
shoves the mic in my face to sing the chorus of “Highway
To Hell.” I can handle the four syllables. Their short set
passes painlessly.
Eve and I have made “instant friends” by this time.
She is in a conversation about the basics of roller derby
with a gal who skates under the name “Warrior.” Two
younger guys next to me tell me about how they know everyone in Madison, and if we need a place to crash-we
can stay with them. No, thanks. We’re good. One of them
generously kept buying beers for me, so I kept talking to
him while I handed Eve every other beer he’d give me.
Next up is a band from Florida called 16 Second
Stare. The singer wore two chain wallets, so I suppose
that makes them a Metal band. The lead guitar player is on
a major Dimebag Darrell worship-trip. After thirty minutes,
they’re finished.
Ace is on next, so it’s time to get serious. We’ve got
prime spots in the front row, Eve has the camera ready,
neither of us is fall-down drunk, no real creeps around us
to be concerned about, everything is cool, let’s go!
The lights go down and Ace and the band hit the
stage with KISS’ “Shout It Out Loud” (a great tune, but not
one I’d have considered an effective opening number. It’s
a nice mid-concert pick-me-up). Ace knows we all wanna
hear the old KISS stuff, and he delivers. He plays three
songs off his new solo album, the rest are KISS tunes.
None of them newer than 1979. No pretention, no onstage
fireworks, no frills. He wrangles the notes from his Les Paul
effortlessly. He’s not Eric Clapton or some guitar virtuoso,
he’s a Rock Star. The audience rocks out righteously and
heartily sings along with every song. His old band should
consider playing smaller venues sometime. The vibe is incredible. We all love him. The set ends with Ace cranking
out the uber-classic “Cold Gin” on his smoking guitar (a
surprise. He’s never used it for the encore before). We all
happily lose our minds and then it’s over.
mine most of the time so it doesn’t get damaged. Is that
what you do?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
Silence follows.
Eve thought this was hilarious and bursts into
laughter. In hindsight it is funny. My delirious ramblings
were stopped cold.
We chat until 2 AM and then we say farewell to our
friends. Eve has managed to acquire three guitar picks and
a backstage pass during the post-concert wrap up.
Back at the hotel, we ask the night manager if
there’s anyplace that delivers food this late. There is, and a
gargantuan pizza is delivered by 3 AM. For early-morning
pizza, it was pretty damn good. Tomorrow is Monday and
it’s back to reality, but the Madison concert adventure is
declared a complete success. We met a hero, made some
new friends and crammed a ton of fun in a short amount of
time. Every weekend needs to be like this.
To the stage door again! I need to get rid of some
excess cash, so I make my way to the merchandise table.
I tell Eve I’ll meet her outside.
Uh, oh! Major security! The backstage door in now
flanked by two flimsy canvas barricades! Nothing’s going
to get past those! Having already scored big game before the show, Eve and I casually hang back from the fans
that have gathered. It would be very gauche of us to try to
crowd the line, so we wait patiently. The band comes out
before Ace, so we walk the long way around the teeming
throng (about 25 people) and chat with them outside the
tour bus.
Ace’s getaway car is waiting and he makes a hasty
exit. Eve and I continue to talk with the band. I discuss the
care and feeding of vintage KISS pinball machines with
another collector who was hanging around. I’m blabbing a
mile-a-minute to this guy.
“Yeah, my machine was previously owned by a
heavy smoker, so I had to clean this sickly yellow film offa
mine. Once I got all that gunk off, it looked pretty good. Oh,
I still did some cosmetic touch ups to it. Replaced some
plastics, new playfield. Say, I keep the backglass out of
13
15
Unwrapped
I imagine the rattler alive
Full of juice and meat.
Gliding like the stroke of an artist
Carving a picture in the sand.
The rattler vibrates its tail,
A sign of danger
Please don't harm me!
I’m missunderstood
POP! Stopped dead in mid-stroke
The scene abandoned, unfinished.
Its thick and muscled body
Is ripped and peeled.
What’s left is now an artifact
for us to look and feel.
Striped skin under our fingers
Like curled pages of an ancient book.
Oct. 6th
My Dear Girl,
I hope that this letter finds you well and rested at the end of your journey. I have sent
it on ahead of you to the address in Devonshire that you left with me because I did not know
how long you would be in the countryside.
So far nothing much has happened around here that you didn’t already know before you
left. Your mother has managed to be in my office every morning, upsetting Miss King (you remember her don’t you? Pretty little Irish thing) to no end with her constant questions. Apparently you do not write her enough; though I believe I am safe in assuming this is one of the
reasons for your hasty departure. This, by association, has caused me no end of grief, as I am
the one who must then bear the brunt end of Miss King’s tongue. How is the weather outside of boring, old Hampton? Is it sunny? I am sure you are seeing some of the finest landscapes in the whole of the Christendom, as well as some fine summer
homes. Have you seen anyone in particular?
Speaking of particular bothers, your young man has been by to see me as well. Not surprisingly to ask if I had had a letter from you, apparently I am the only one you write. He asks
if you are well and when you will return, and I tell him that I do not know and that he should
write you himself.
Now, I think that I have rambled long enough, and I believe that I hear someone knocking.
Please do take care of yourself, and write to your mother and the young Mr. Philips; if for no
other reason that they stop aggravating me! Everyone misses you, especially me, and wishes you
well.
Eagerly awaiting your next post,
Prof. H.Quinn
Oct. 12th
Henry,
I stopped calling you Professor (at your behest I might add) when you stopped being my
instructor, and I do not intend to start again. Perhaps the lovely Miss King has been forging
your signature again? We are friends now, and as such we should call each other by our Christian
names, no matter what my mother says.
I am well and was delighted to see your letter waiting for me upon our taking of the house in
Devonshire. It amuses me to no end you start talking like an old biddy, gossiping like my mother
and her whist-playing friends. On the subject of my mother; she is certainly one of the reasons why
I am touring, though I left quickly because of the simple fact that my company decided to leave earlier than I had first anticipated. I do apologize for that, as I did not get to say a proper good bye to
17
you and everyone else. It also had the unhappy effect of making me pack so hurriedly that I forgot
several items, including my paints. I am so mad I could spit!
As for Daschle Philips, you may tell him to go hang! He is not my ‘young man’ as you so erroneously put it, nor will he ever be; and he is the particular reason I only gave my final address to
you.
The weather has been very fine so far, though colder than I first had thought. I suppose I
should have realized that it is in fact October, and that Hampton always seems to be the last to feel
the change of the seasons. We have seen so many lovely houses and ‘scapes that I have barely had
time to sketch them all, I wish I could send you my notebook, but I haven’t the money to post it and
I fear I would reach home before it arrived in your hands.
I fear that I have missed
you more than anything else back
at home. Everyone in my party is
so boring! None of them can hold
a proper conversation. Annie and
Grace do nothing but chatter on
and on about beaus and hair and
dress; and Asher seems determined
to treat me the same! If I try to engage him on a substantive topic he
simply looks down his nose in that
condescending manner of his and
refuses to answer me. I am thoroughly fed up with all of them!
We have not seen anyone in
particular, but have met some interesting characters along the way. I
fear that if we do not meet anyone
who can at least hold up a moderately intelligent debate I shall be
forced to do something drastic.
Oh dear, looking over this I
fear that I have gone one for far
too long. Please do not be put out,
but I think that if I allow myself to
dwell any longer on these topics I
shall become far too maudlin. When next you write you must be more cheerful!
Ever your faithful student,
Winnifred Scott Shelton
Oct. 20th
My Dear Girl,
So formal Winnie! I seem to remember someone asking to use Christian names. Of course I
am joking; I was just so humored by your last letter I couldn’t help myself.
I do believe I have never laughed louder than when I read your latest missive, I will be
sure to carry on your message to the much maligned Mr. Philips; though you know as well as I
that it will not make a bloody lick of difference, the poor boy has a head as thick as roof beams.
As for your mother, you shall have to carry your own messages upon your return, I certainly will
not. The woman scares me more than all the barristers in the whole of England.
Truly I am sorry about the company you must endure, however it is your own fault; no one
has chosen your friends for you. I will say, however, that it certainly sounds like both Annie and
Grace are living up to the legacy of their own mothers. There, was that sufficiently catty? I
should certainly like to maintain my gossip status, you little heathen.
Oct. 21th
I have news…make sure you are seated for this, my dear…your youngest sister is pregnant. Are you gasping in shock? I know all of Hampton was when the news got out. Of course
the official story is that she has gone to visit your aunt in London, but your father has confided
in me (and told me to pass the news to you). It was that old Brigadier General, you remember,
General Lucian Sands. He had been sniffing around your house for weeks after your departure.
He knew your mother for the scatter-brain that she is, and that you would be gone and unable to
look after the younger ones.
Dammit all! I meant to be more cheerful, but the entire family is up in arms. Your father
has declared to find them and force old Lucian’s hand, but no one knows where they have hared
off to. Yes, they are unwed. So far as we know anyway. Likely your sister has demanded that
they stop at Gretna Green, she is young and completely insane, but she is no fool. She will make
sure that her child is no bastard, certainly since the father is a Brigadier. I have tried, in vain
I might add, to soothe your mother’s spirit with these words; but she will have none of it. She
is terrified that the name of Shelton will forever carry the stain of your sister’s actions. It is
enough to make me want to slap the hysterics out of her, but that is your father’s place, not
mine.
Why did you never tell me of your sister’s madness? I had thought I had your fullest
trust. I now understand the wildness, the uncharacteristic anger that sometimes took you, when
you attended my classes. The frequent absences also, now, make such terrible sense. My dear
child, you should have never had to go through something like this without a friend to lean upon.
I must go now Winnie, your father is gathering men together for a search. Please take
care and hurry home.
Ever your friend,
Henry Quinn
19
Nov. 1st
Henry,
By the time that this letter reaches you I shall be long gone from Devonshire. I knew of my
sister’s plans, long before she carried them out. This is all my fault, I knew and I told no one and
now my family name will be drug through the mud, and you along with it. My advice is for you to
remove all contact with my relations, you do not deserve the stigma society will now associate you
with.
As to when I shall return, I am so very sorry to say that I lied about that as well. I have not
been traveling the countryside with my friends, they departed from me sometime ago and I continued on to Devonshire alone. I am leaving the country dear friend, I sail for America tonight.
Truly I am sorry for all of the pain my family has caused you, and I hope that one day you might
forgive me.
Ever yours,
Winnie
Bat Mitzvah
She is the daughter of the commandment
‘Tis her day to come of age, to progress
The Talmud speaks - guided by her consent
Young agent of faith, wrapped in linen dress
‘Tis her day to come of age, to progress
Fervor for Torah with loyal intent
Young agent of faith, wrapped in linen dress.
Calm - she waited for this day to advent.
Fervor for Torah with loyal intent.
New level of soul comes to awareness.
Calm - she waited for this day to advent
Cantor and Rabbi stand beside to bless.
New level of soul comes to awareness,
Through preayers and growth, new soul has been sent.
Cantor and rabbi stand beside to bless,
Neshoma* to forsake sinful offense.
*Neshoma: Hebrew word for soul
21
TheHomunculus
For now I saw that the root’s visage was fully
formed. The eyes remained mercifully shut, but now a stub
of nose protruded beneath them, and a cracked and crooked
mouth gaped wide, long tongue lapping in the bloody
sludge. The worst of this grotesquery was my own rec
I tripped in the forest.
ognition; twisted though the face was, this could be none
There was a vine across the path, but it was the other than the one I beheld each morning in the mirror. I
stone that drew my attention as I fell. White and porous realized with revulsion that this forest demon was adoptand flecked with silver, barren of moss, it jutted from the ing my aspect for its own, and I had a sudden vision of the
ground before me like the prow of some doomed ship. I doppelganger shambling away for my home, leaving only
may have thrown up an arm (I do not recall), but if so it my desiccated carcass to be broken and tumbled like leaves
was ineffective. The pain when I awoke conjured imag- in an autumn wind. I could not allow that evil dream to
es of jagged rent flesh and shattered bone, but my careful transpire, and so I summoned what meager strength I posprobing produced nothing more than a renewed intensity of sessed, and reached for the creature.
pain. I lay still on the forest path, contemplating the clouds
Its eyes opened, and I sank in to a nightmare of red.
as they rolled past the treetops, and the thin stream
of blood as it dribbled down the rock.
Eventually my gaze drifted, following that
trickle down to where it pooled in the dirt below.
There it struck a new course, away toward the ravine. But before long the current was thwarted,
running aground on a gnarled tree root. That
twisted tendril sucked eagerly at the flow, and I
imagined red-stained lips smacking and smirking and bubbling with its crimson froth. The tree
that this loathsome appendage fed was beyond the
range of my vision, but I could picture its leaves
blooming red in the canopy above, and soon the
sun itself took on that tinge, cloaking the woods
in a film of maroon. The stone face was flushed,
as if embarrassed by the atrocity it had wrought. I
looked away.
The root now—had it always born that
strange countenance? Was it only a trick of this
strange light that limned new features on the
cracked façade, etched lidded eyes in the old bark?
My own eyes dissected the shadows around them,
searching for certainty. Yet however long I stared,
I could find no flaw, no hint of deception, only a
gnawing fear. Were those lids to open, I could
scarcely imagine the terrible gaze they might reveal. I watched and I trembled, and all the while
the root sipped away at that sweet red liqueur.
It was not long before I felt a subtle shift
in the ground beneath me, as though the root, celebrating its new vigor, stretched muscles long dormant. I shuddered at that, envisioning what form
the vile limb might take beneath the cold concealment of black earth. Still, I could do nothing, froThe sky was dark when I awoke. I had been rolled
zen as much by my fear of the beast stirring in its burrow as
by my injuries. I scrabbled weakly at the soil, to what end upon my back, and was momentarily disoriented to see the
I do not know—perhaps only to distract myself from the dim stars peering down through clouds and branches. I sat
up, frantic, and as my head swam I searched the ground
horror rising below me, the horror rising within me.
for that hideous spawn of ichor, praying that it had not yet
23
emerged from its warren. My hands found the white stone’s
pitted surface, but in the gloom I could not discern the
streak of blood that must lead to the monster’s lair. I clumsily pushed myself to my feet, and paced slowly around the
rock, eyes scanning the ground. There I made my mistake.
I was startled by a voice in the darkness, high and
querulous. I heard mockery in those shrill tones, but I also
discerned a note of fear. Perhaps I had risen earlier than
the creature had anticipated, before it had reached its full
strength. I turned toward the sound as quickly as my swirling senses could manage. I saw in silhouette that the fiend
had taken on a man’s form, slighter of frame than my own,
but of the same mold. It was even clothed as I was, the
garb of a man out for an innocent stroll in the woods. I was
not taken in; the aura of malevolence around the figure was
palpable, but I sensed that I had caught it off guard, and the
realization filled me with a sudden burst of energy. I rushed
at the thing.
The creature let out a startled mewl as I grappled it,
dragging it down to the ground from whence it had come.
Dismayed to find my power waning once more in the face
of its resistance, I grasped the beast by its spindly neck and
dashed its head against the stone. Once, twice, and then the
struggles ceased, gushing out from it in a vile flood. I cradled the limp body to my chest and felt my own strength return as I reveled in that warm flow. In time, this too ceased,
and I dragged the thing’s corpse to the ravine, watched
as it tumbled down into the deeper shadows below. I remained on that precipice for some minutes, peering into the
darkened depths for a sign of finality, some indication that
my ordeal was truly at an end, but none was forthcoming.
Strange thoughts swirled in my head as I kept my vigil:
confusion and doubt, guilt and despair, beckoning my into
the abyss. I would not heed their call. As the night grew
yet darker, I returned to the path, finally ready to begin the
long journey home.
25
MOWERMAN
**This is based on the true story of the Iowa man,
Alvin Straight, who rode a John Deere mower to
visit his ailing brother, 240 miles away, in Wisconsin.
“God bless you!”
The woman with a big-beaded necklace
with matching baubles at her ears, bleached
blonde coiffure, and hot pink capri pants stuffed
cash into his hand, then hurried back to her car on
jeweled sandals. The last thing he saw of her was
puffy ankles and red-painted toenails.
Vern hadn’t had time to refuse, even to react, really. He had the hood of the lawnmower up
and was trying to adjust a backfire out of the engine. It was a good mower, old, but with lots of
time left in it even though now and then it needed
to be babied. He was murmuring to the engine by
way of his fingertips and a screwdriver when he
heard the car slow to a stop on the shoulder on the
highway he was traveling. Probably somebody
who was seeing if he needed a hand, which was
nice. People did that sort of thing around here.
Vern ducked from under the hood and turned to
be assailed by a wave of flowery perfume that
caused him to squint and bright red lips that kind
of scared him. He blinked and the money was in
his hand.
“Uhhh….,” he said, but the car was gone.
He opened his meaty fingers with short
nails blackened from grime or a miss with a tool,
and pondered the bill in his hand. “Wha…” A
whistle slid through his teeth, and he snorted, a
smile cracking the set of his mouth. He looked
around, but there was no one to show the money
to. No one to tell, “Look here! That old bag gave
me a hundred bucks!”
Vern slipped the screwdriver into his shirt
pocket. As he resettled the John Deere cap on his
head, it revealed a horizontal white stripe on his
forehead looking like icing on a sunburn cake.
The cap was his oldest friend. The seam where
the cap met the bill was stained from years of
sweat that had bled up the front over the yellow
deer. It was smudged with Vern’s greasy fingerprints. At night, Vern hid the hat when he wasn’t
wearing it, so his wife wouldn’t throw it away
while he slept. Sweat halos radiated from under
the arms of his short-sleeved, plaid shirt. Vern
hitched up worn jeans, baggy across the back
pockets and tucked under his gut in front. He fingered the money. He couldn’t stand there all day
and wonder if it was right to take it and stuffed
the bill deep in his pants pocket, calling it a lucky
break. How would he give it back anyway? Now
the could get that new fishing rod. He slammed the hood of the mower. Another car whisked past, and it honked. Vern lifted
his chin in acknowledgment. Another friendly
stranger, but not so friendly that they were handing out dough. Vern wheezed out a laugh and settled back into the seat, hot now from being sunbeaten, and he shifted in the seat several times, so
that no one place got burnt before the temperature
of his backside matched that of the yellow plastic
and gingerly touched the steering wheel. The engine fired immediately at the turn of the key without a skip and cooed like a satisfied infant, and
Vern smiled. Nobody knew small engines like he
did, if he did say so himself. He put the mower in
gear and moved on, happy to saunter along on the
shoulder. He liked that about mowing. You could
think when you went slow, and the sound of the
engine blocked out any annoying sounds, like the
wife complaining about the porch not being painted. Now days, people were supposed to wear ear
plugs when they mowed. Not Vern. Let it roar!
Ten miles more, and he would make the
turn on the gravel. Another three miles, and he
would reach Brooke’s place. He’d sold the mower to him yesterday after a good 15 minutes’ of
dickering, but it ended in a fair price and included
the matching lawn cart, towed behind. Vern had
to deliver it. Brooke didn’t own a pickup. Vern
had pulled the distributor cap from his own truck
to prove to his wife, Grace, that it wouldn’t start,
and he had to drive the mower the 18 miles. Five
miles an hour, he would be gone a good long
time, and by the time he shot the breeze with
Brooke and had a beer before Brooke drove him
back home, it would be time for supper. Then
he’d had to fix his truck. No time to paint the
porch today, Gracie. Sorry.
A carload of idiot kids going the opposite
way slowed nearly to a stop, coasting along in
the lane, and didn’t bother to pull off onto the
shoulder. They waved like maniacs at him. They
screamed loud enough he could hear them over
the mower.
“Way to go, man!”
“You’re a saint,” the girl in back yelled.
“Yeeaaahhhhh!”
“What th…” Vern waved at them, and they
yelled louder, instead of pulling off the road like
he was trying to direct them to do. The boy driving finally gunned the gas and they sped away. Vern stopped the mower and looked around.
There was a bean field and a dangling barbed
wire fence behind him. No one else to yell to but
him, and why they found him so interesting was a
mystery. With a shake of his head, and a frown of
confusion under the shade of his cap, he went on.
Another few miles, and a sundry of blissfully oblivious drivers, and Vern passed a new
ranch house with a football field-sized front yard. It was meticulous, not a weed in sight, and it was
so pretty it almost made a guy cry. The owner
had a mower half the size of Vern’s and was doggedly making laps, the mower sputtering along as
fast as it could go. A smooth-coated, black-andwhite terrier mimed its complaints to the growl of
the engine and flitted around the mower, bobbing
and weaving. The owner’s mouth opened and
closed, and the dog darted to the porch and sat in
disgrace.
Thunderclouds forming in the west promised rain soon. It wouldn’t do to have a beautiful lawn unfinished when the rained started. The
water made the blade sticky and the cut uneven.
Then there were the tire tracks, making ridges in
wet ground that would never work themselves
out. Vern looked at what the guy had left to mow,
and dropped the deck on the mower. He punched
the pedal and whipped around the frontage, cutting in five minutes what would have taken the
owner 30.
The homeowner stopped his own mower
and looked briefly at the house, mouthing something. A woman in the doorway came out to join
him. The man pointed at Vern and waved. He
said something to his wife, and she began to fling
her arm furiously, and she jumped up and down.
Before they ran to him, Vern lifted his chin and
spun the wheel. He lifted the deck and returned
to the gravel, the lawn cart giving a bounce. Vern
glanced over his shoulder. They were still waving, and he had to wave back out of obligation.
Even the dog was wagging his tail.
A white Olds slowed next, going the same
direction as Vern, and he pursed his lips in resignation and stopped. An ancient woman rolled
down the window. She was sucked up like a
prune and sported bubbly blue-white curls on her
head. She lifted a gnarled hand at him, turning it
in a princess wave. Vern had a vision of the parade in town 70 years from now with the newest
Miss Earlyville still officiating. Vern turned the
key off to hear her.
“Just look at you! You’re an inspiration,
young man!” Her voice warbled, and she dabbed
at her eyes. The younger man at the wheel smiled
at him and nodded his head in agreement.
“Thank you,” Vern said flatly, and they
drove away. He scratched at an itchy place on the
back of his neck where his gray hair crawled out
from under his hat, then pulled a bottle of water
from a holder he’d fashioned himself and bolted
to the seat. Vern unscrewed the cap and tipped
the bottle to drink water that was warm but still
quenched his thirst. He wouldn’t have noticed
if it was gasoline. Because then a Newscenter
10 van pitched onto its nose and lurched off the
shoulder behind him with a screech of brakes and
rocks pinging against the deck of the mower.
A tall, picture-perfect blonde man gamboled from the van and approached him with an
outstretched hand leading the way. “Ryan Roth!
Newscenter News at Five!”
“Uhnnn….” Vern said, and rolled his eyes
as Ryan Roth’s cohort, a stick figure with bushy
hair and a Grateful Dead t-shirt, pulled a video
camera from the belly of the van. Vern shook his
head deliberately. “No, no, no…”
“Marty, wait! Sorry, Sir. It’s a pleasure to
meet you at last, Mower Man.”
Vern frowned. “Mower man? Uhnnn,
yeah, I’m a mower man.”
“Tell me about your journey today. How’s
it going?”
Vern looked from Roth to Marty. “Fine, I
guess.”
“A man a mile back flagged us down. He
said you stopped and helped him finish his lawn.
Why did you do that?”
Vern shrugged. “It’s going to rain soon..
Woulda been a shame to ruin it.”
“You’re really an inspiration, Mower Man.
Taking time out when you’re on such an important mission yourself plus putting yourself at risk
with a storm coming in. Do you think of yourself
as an example of what can be right in the world?”
“Huhn?” Vern said. If he’d had a few
beers, it would explain all this. He had funny
dreams all the time when he drank too much.
One time, he pushed Gracie out of bed, thinking
she was the neighbor’s dog. He’d had a six-pack
of Bud that night at the lodge and a shot of Wild
Turkey besides. He couldn’t mix whiskey and
beer, ever. But he hadn’t had a drop today, so far.
He was waiting for the first taste of a cold one at
27
Brooke’s. Ryan Roth lifted a brow when Vern
pinched himself on the forearm. It hurt, and Vern
knew he was awake then. What in blazes was going on?
A beat-up station wagon with peeling faux
wood panels stopped across the road. One tire
had a white wall and one didn’t. It was cloaked
in dust, and the back fender was adorned with a
rusted dent. A tendril of blue smoke escaped the
tailpipe as the engine clacked to a stop. Wire held
the front bumper to the frame. A young man in
faded trousers and snagged knit shirt got out. He
looked both ways down the highway before he let
his children emerge, a girl about the age of Vern’s
youngest granddaughter, maybe seven, and a little
boy about a year younger. The fresh-faced mother got out in a billowing cotton skirt and plain
white blouse with mismatched buttons. She held
a baby with a blue pacifier plugging his mouth. “Ryan, there’s a big wreck over on 40. Bob
says to cover it.”
Marty held a cell phone in one hand and the
camera in the other like a suitcase.
Ryan Roth took Vern’s hand and shook it
again. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Straight. I
wanted to finish the interview, but unfortunately,
I have to prioritize. Good luck to you. I hope
you can get out of the rain.” Roth glanced at the
building cloud bank.
Vern lifted his chin. Wait a minute…
Straight?
Marty backed the van up and spun more
gravel as he left. Dummy will probably cause
his own wreck Vern thought. The family had
crossed the road and was approaching him. The
young man stuck out his hand.
“Hello, Sir. My name is Jeremy Martin.”
He shook Vern’s hand with gusto and sincerity
Ryan Roth hadn’t possessed. “This is my wife,
Beth, and our children, Michael, Jessica, and Andrew.”
“We’re on a mission like you.” Beth held
out a newspaper and Vern took it. It was the
Gardner Gazette, this morning’s edition. MOWER MAN SIGHTED NEAR EARLYVILLE. Alvin Straight, whose story has captivated the
nation, has been seen passing through our county.
Straight, a retiree from Laurens, is traveling to
Wisconsin on a John Deere riding mower to visit
his ailing brother.
“We’re on our way to see my mother,”
Jeremy explained. “But we’re headed to Ohio.
She’s got cancer, but the doctor says she has a
good chance.”
“You’re such a wonderful man,” Beth said,
“to make a trip to see your brother, when all you
have is a mower to get there. You must love him
a lot. Is there anything we can do to help you?”
Vern looked at the picture in the paper at a
man with a kind face and a battered cowboy hat.
Crinkles of white showed on his neck where his
skin had escaped the sun. He wore a plaid shirt.
Straight stood in front of a John Deere rider that
looked similar to Vern’s, but it was a different
model. Straight’s mower was pulling a monstrosity of a trailer that had no hint of resemblance to
the lawn cart hitched to Vern’s mower. Vern lifted
his eyes, but not much. He looked at the Martins
then, in worn mended clothes, the children spanking clean in clothing just a little too big for them,
a mismatched shirt and skirt on the little girl. The
children’s tennis shoes were in tatters. The family
looked at him in adoration, the only shining thing
about them, and Vern couldn’t destroy it.
“Yes,” Vern said. “I do love my brother,
very much, and I’ll get to see him by and by.
Just a little slower than you kids will get to your
mother. Tell you what, that Dodge of yours burns
a lot more gas than this mower, and I don’t really need this.” Vern pulled the crumpled, damp
hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and pressed
it into Jeremy’s hand. “A nice lady gave me that
just awhile ago, and before I could give it back,
she left. I’d rather you had it.”
Jeremy looked from the money to his wife,
and Beth’s eyes became blue pools.
“We can’t take this, Mr. Straight!” she said.
“Heh. Sure you can. I won’t have it otherwise. Now go on and find yourself a safe place
off the road. That storm will be here before you
know it.” Vern turned and plopped into the mower seat, a sagging bedraggled superman.
“But, Mr. Straight,” Jeremy said through a
rent in his voice.
Vern turned the key and smiled widely at
them, showing crooked teeth that gapped in the
middle. He wrapped himself in Alvin Straight
and wore him like a cape. He drove off but
looked back and waved. The Martins were smiling, even the youngsters, and the baby sucked
furiously on the pacifier. “God bless you,” he called to them. Vern
Miller gunned the mower and hightailed it. He
turned onto the gravel as the first drops splattered
the green John Deere hood and the clouds roiled a
warning.
29
Roommates’ Letters
An orange Shamwow
Blocking the door
To create an entrance
For visitors
A black beanbag
Thrown across the floor
Video games sprouting
Popcorn and pop bottles
A white fridge
Nothing inside
Dishes piling high
A note of blame
Fellow Roommates, (mark)
Minnesota Vikings
Hung high
Loud shouts
From this room
A loud NOOOO!
Or WHHOOOO HOOOO!
A dedicated fan
Back in the TV room
Someone sleeps
Wrapped
In a blue snuggie
It is 12:37 p.m.
A shower running
Steam dripping
The sound
I know we are all grownass men (mark) and
An aged man hoarsely
therefore we all know how to do dishes. So cut
Singing in the shower
the B.S. and do your dishes (mark) This will
Yet he is not elderly
cut down on the smell and bacteria.
Another paper
Thanks all
Stuck to a wall
Scissors stuck
Through Styrofoam
Golf flags
And football posters
Lining the wall
Around the corner
A solitary vacuum
It’s cord stretching
The hall
On one side
Two locked doors
No one inside
An adjacent opening
A fan blowing cold air
Mason,
NEVER EVER Go above 70 degrees in
here. It’s Hotter than a Cat’s ass in here.
End of story. –Roommates
A response pinned beside
To whom it may concern,
After doing some intensive research, I have
found that a cat’s normal rectal temperature
is 100 to 102 degrees. This means that we
need to turn the temperature up approximately 30 degrees in order for it to be truly hotter than a cat’s ass in here. This also proves
that Ben over exaggerates any story he tells.
A door cracked
Disorder continued
Inside
A guitar
Laying on a bed
A poster
Confused chimpanzee
This is my void
31
Queen of the River
Rats
The solid double doors swung and slapped
in announcement to the saloon patrons that they’d
been graced with the presence of the roué. He
slowly crossed the room rattling his spurs with
each stride. His lecherous eye rested on the barmaid for a moment, assessing. Settling on a stool,
hands spreading on the craquelure of the polished
wood bar, he called out for a pint and a shot. He
slammed the whiskey followed by a less hurried
quaff of the ale, then stood and faced the poker
table. Shuffling the dog-eared deck was a fubsy
dealer with sweat stains yellowing the collar of
his thinning shirt.
“Got any Cubans?” he asked the idle bartender who gestured toward the humidor at the
end of the bar. With a clip of the tip and a flick of
the light, he was on his way to fleece the locals
gathered around the table. It always helped that
he came with a roll of dough that brought out the
covetousness in everyone. Today, the table was
occupied by what looked like a muscular grizzly
bear of a man, two lanky cowboys and a redheaded minx with a sizable chip stack teetering in
front of her. The Grizz looked to be in a permanent bad temper and the Cowboys were drunker
than skunks. He hoped the money was rolling as
high as those boys.
The girl soughed out her bet and the boys
groaned, hoping for a free look apparently. It
didn’t take long for her to scoop another pile of
chips closer to her ample cleavage with a wicked
giggle. She shot him a depraved glance under her
thick false lashes as the Roué tipped his black
Stetson and pulled out a seat with a chirr on the
saw dusted floor. Deciding that the drunk skunks
were no threat, and that the Grizz would never
show a tell, he narrowed his sights on the Minx.
His first few hands were inconsequential.
Having bought five grand in chips, he seemed to
do nothing but donate for a while. Trying to put
up an aggressive front, he found himself in the
showdown with several pair that didn’t measure
up to higher pairs, sets of three, or straights. His
tactics were having the desired effect though. The
other players enjoyed taking his money and the
Grizz began to take the lead with the highest stack
of chips. The Cowboys were paying more attention to the Minx’s tantalizing exposure of skin
than to the Grizz’s growing advantage, and they
unwittingly folded several winning hands.
The group spent occasionally complacent
rounds, quietly collecting their two pocket cards
and watching each step as the dealer lined up
cards in the middle of the table, face-up. The first
three, the flop, prompted quick decisions to fold
as they each waited patiently for a better hand
with which to procure chips. For a few hands, the
pot was abandoned before the fourth turn or the
final river card, leaving the meager winnings to
whomever chose to place a bet. Soon, the Grizz
and the Roué began taking liberties and found
themselves well matched. The Cowboys hemorrhaged chips due to their liquor compromised
judgment, but seemed content, jovial even, celebrating the honor of playing at the same table as
the cute, coquettish Minx.
Peeking at her pocket, the Minx felt safe
betting with an off-suit ace and queen. With everyone in, the flop gave her three clubs to match
her queen, with the ace of clubs pairing her ace of
diamonds. The flush draw would be a chase, but
the pair of aces made for good backup.
“One hundred,” she said as she slid her
chips to the center of the table.
The Roué held the king of clubs and reraised her once, then again after a useless turn.
The Minx held the queen tightly as she prayed
for one more club on the river, and there it was.
Suppressing a giggle, she laid a thousand out this
time, confident that she had the edge.
The Grizz read her easily, and, without a
flush, quietly folded. The Roué held his chips
back just long enough to get everyone’s attention,
and then bet the pot. He knew he had the nut flush
and could double up on his chips. The Minx’s
fingertips blanched from the pressure of her grip
on the cards. There was only one card that could
beat her. The Cowboys weren’t too drunk to
know when to fold.
‘What are the odds?’ She thought to herself and raised him all in, knowing how vulnerable she could be with the few hundred chips she
would have left, but not ready to abandon her
queen.
He pushed all his chips in and turned the
king slowly, relishing the way she crumpled under the truth. She was beat, bad. Tears filled her
vision as she calculated the proper time to look
away in shame. The gathering audience consoled
her, murmuring phrases meant to sooth while the
Roué stacked his winnings stoically.
she found herself facing the Roué again, she was
only out stacked by about five hundred, and considered her pocket carefully. The gathered spectators held their breath as she confidently bet on
each card. The Roué, on her heels, quickly called
each bet. Then, to everyone’s dismay, the Roué
folded quite unexpectedly before the showdown.
Even the Grizz, for more than his own selfish reasons, was wishing she would take him out.
“Chicken,” one of the Cowboys mumbled.
The audience’s noise level rose as they speculated
that he’d been chasing something that didn’t pan
out. Now the Minx was leading the table to the
“Looks like the man’s a little bit richer,”
one of the Cowboys snarled, clearly taken with
the girl. The next few hands found her doing better, but not without a few charitable folds from
the Cowboys. The Grizz got into a run of bad
cards and lost his lead. The Roué counted seven
hands till his next move, as planned, quickly folding before any attention was paid. Then it was
time for the show.
Onlookers had begun to encourage the
Minx as her chips stack made a rebound. When
delight of the crowd.
The next hand found the Grizz and Roué
struggling for the upper hand. The Cowboys were
basically out of the game with only a few blinds
worth of chips. The Grizz got a pair of aces, drew
a full house on the flop, aces full of tens, and decided this had to be his moment. Both men turned
on the heat, betting heavily. At the showdown,
the Grizz was all in. He showed the Roué his aces
and smirked.
33
The Roué let his face fall, for just a breath
of a moment, to let the Grizz feel superior before
he slapped him with the truth. The Roué smiled,
sinking the hook and showing his pocket tens.
When the Grizz realized that he’d lost to four of
a kind tens, he threw his cards at the dealer. Taking his resentment with him to the bar, he ordered
tequila and glared in the direction of the table,
seething.
Now the crowd gave their sympathy to the
Grizz while the Minx and Cowboys continued to
battle the Roué. The boys ran out of chips rapidly
and got seats nearby to watch the sultry girl go up
against the despot. They traded blinds for a while,
once again waiting patiently for the right hand
With matching stacks, they both waited
for the right cards. The audience declared their
support for the girl with whispered phrases like
“atta girl” and “take him for all he’s got.” Even
the Grizz grinned when it started to look like she
might have the upper hand.
At the beginning of the hand that would
ultimately end the game, the Minx had control
of the betting first. She caught a queen and bet a
bold two hundred chips before the flop. The Roué
called it with a suited king and queen. The flop
brought a king and two queens for the community, giving a set of queens to the Minx and pairing
the Roué’s king. The fourth turn offered an insignificant nine of hearts. The Minx bet, the Roué
raised and she re-raised, building an immense pot.
The last card, the river, was the king of
diamonds. The Minx slowed her breathing and
calmly pushed the rest of her chips toward the
middle for an all in bet, then raised her eyes to
his, knowing what would happen next. The Roué
studied her face, looking for something to tell him
what she had. To redirect attention, he shuffled his
chips, took his time, contemplated his move, drew
out the hushed tension, and then called her bet.
“Full house,” she smiled sweetly as she
flipped her queen over.
His shoulders dropped and he mucked his
hand before anyone could see the king he had. He
let her exult in her victory and excused himself
from the table, thoroughly beat and empty handed. The spectators congratulated her excessively
while she cashed in her chips. The Cowboys offered her drinks to commemorate her coup, and
the Grizz grumbled his approval.
New players gathered around the dealer for
the next hand as the Roué crept out. After enough
celebration, the Minx left the busy saloon as
well. The Grizz lingered with the rabble rousers,
watched a few more hands of poker, then gathered
himself to take his leave. He calculated his substantial losses, but didn’t mind so much when the
minx had been so pretty to watch. She’d earned
her winnings with that incredible rebound.
“’sides,” he said to himself, toasting a small
victory, “least that damn dandy didn’ get it.” With
a violent thunk of his beer mug, he swallowed the
last dregs before pushing his way out the swinging doors and heading for the small town’s only
hotel to find a room for the night.
The next morning found the Grizz breakfasting in the warm dining room of the hotel. He
got his fill along with several cups of coffee to
mitigate the morning after effects a little too much
tequila. As he was leaving, leaving a negligible
tip, he headed out the door just before he could
see the Minx and the Roué, together, engaged in a
toast, to another successful scam.
THE DINER
I silently gaze around,
Observing the other souls
displayed in the diner,
Statuesofthenocturnalhours,
Istudyeachmemberofthegallery
with experience and caution,
SoonI realizethat each oneis
the artist of its own existence,
their works are presented
in a museum of the damned,
Every line and wrinkle
on their face is painted on,
The desperation in their eyes
reveals their hunger,
Any lack of depth or meaning
is by their own cowardice,
Any sense of cynicism
signals their endurance,
Despite the many different
worksandselectionsaroundme,
Only a few of them will
stand.
35
Karaoke Crowd
Where the civilized world ends
And the air is perfumed with
I was a karaoke star once
Eyes focus on the lyrics
A waft of stale beer
And it all disappears
Where the guys still piss in a trough
I float on each note
And call out for
“The Salt,”
“The Salt,”
“Where’s The God Damn Salt!”
Among brave bimbos
And crooning cowboys
Applause; inflated egos
“Idol” wannabes
Except for the song
Fill the air with my voice
Rise to the heavens through the chorus
Dance among the clouds
With the lyrics as my partner
And come back down
Aware, once again
Of this place
At the end of civilization
Where any random bar skank
Can convince some horny guy
To sing a “Picture” perfect duet
Just like Kid Rock
Where the microphone pops
An indelicate crackle
Stirred by the bass vibration
Specialty shots circulate
Launching a drinking binge
That will impair another morning
Where bright electric dart boards
Tempt itchy fingers and unspent frustrations
To throw something, hard
Where waitresses wish for deaf ears
Off key
Off beat
37
Cupcake?
People must be kept on their toes to force
them truly to think about and consider the world
around them. It is always important to the unexpected. After attending several concerts, several
of which were my boyfriend’s punk rock band,
Playing in Traffic. I realized that the people in the
band and the usual concert-goers would forget
about eating because they were too wrapped up
in setting up equipment and various things like it.
Some of the people who came to every concert
were trading their grocery money to support the
bands and we all knew it. I had to do something
to help these people who failed to know when
their lack of support could have been forgiven:
like when it was a choice between the show and
milk.
be a big one because they were playing with The
Unseen, who actually tour the world. Despite baking all morning on the day of the show, I took the
time to frost each cupcake carefully with bright
red frosting to spell out PIT painstakingly on top.
I ended up with more frosting on me than on the
cupcakes. When it was time to go, I loaded up the
car with over two dozen cupcakes and even a few
friends and we headed out to see how this cupcake adventure would go over with the crowd.
Arriving at the venue, I was shocked to
see that it was the worst one yet. As far as seedy
concert halls go, this one was impressively run
down. Chipped paint and broken boards coated
the façade. One lone flickering light bulb lit the
sign proclaiming the address. Climbing out of the
car, nervous as usual, it seemed like I couldn’t
have put myself in a more awkward situation.
Everyone outside was just staring at my group of
friends as we looked for a safe way to cross the
Concerts were the place where everyone
road with armloads of cupcakes. No one seemed
could feel at home, like they belonged, no matter familiar or friendly and I was starting to worry
their situation in life. Needless to say, concerts
that I had made a mistake and alienated myself
can become their escape button. The people, regu- from this usually accepting crowd.
lar attendees, become family and families help
This bulky guy was leaning against his
each other out. Being too obvious about wanting
van, entirely clad in black leather and spikes,
to help these kind-hearted people would get me
with an even more immense two foot, electric
nowhere. If punk rock kids are anything, they
apple red-colored mohawk. He spotted us with
are proud to be able to take care of themselves.
trays full of cupcakes and started walking over
The whole crowd easily carries a do-it-yourself
with a huge scowl on his face. He was instantly
mentality, while maintaining an attachment to
making me nervous, as I had no idea who he was
each other. I wasn’t going to offend my family
and he looked very angry about my existence.
by offering money or anything else. The more
As he stomped up to us, he asked “What are you
I thought about it, the more I knew I would just
doing?” I am pretty shy anyways, so what came
have to bring food to them. But who brings a casout was something like, “Concert… cupcakes…
serole to a concert? That is far too far from pracmumble…”
tical. It was quite a dilemma. The food must be
He then asked, with an even angrier scowl,
easy to carry, quickly edible, individually sized…. “You made these for the concert?” An even meekCupcakes?
er, “Yes,” escaped my lips. With a beautiful smile
Checking in with Playing in Traffic, they
suddenly dawning on his face, the next thing he
thought cupcakes were acceptable for accomasked astonished me. “Can I have one? Please?”
plishing my goals while not insulting my proud,
Put at ease that he didn’t hate me for some
colorful people. At their next show, I was deterinexplicable reason, I exclaimed, “Of course!!
mined to set things into motion. It was going to
39
That’s why I made them!” He turned around to
walk back to his van but only gets about two feet
before he turned around with a sweet expression,
“Can I have one more please? I haven’t eaten yet
today.”
“You can have as many as you want,” I
said. He was very grateful and then sauntered
back to his van with quite a happy smile. From
that moment, I knew that this cupcake plan was
going to be great.
As we walked into the venue, people started grabbing cupcakes off the trays left and right.
Our mohawked greeter had broken the ice. Playing in Traffic took the stage first, then a few other
bands, and finally The Unseen was next. The
cupcakes long gone, I was just in happy-go-lucky
concert mode, dancing about, being lost in the
seemingly infinite crowd. Who should walk on
stage next but the large man with the brilliantly
cherry red mohawk! As it turns out, he was the
lead singer for the last band going on.
The people swelled together for one last
dancing fiasco. The Unseen took the stage and
played one song before saying hi to the crowd.
The man with the mohawk bounced around
while saying, “You guys have been awesome
tonight with these other bands, we are glad you
stuck around to hear us and we really liked being
in your town. There is one thing that tops it all
though. The Cupcake Girl, wherever she is, I have
never seen anything like what she did today, she’s
awesome!” Though he caused me to turn nearly
as red as his mohawk, his declaration marked the
beginning for the Cupcake Girl.
Vociferous Silence
The Grim Reaper of watery darkness is vicious,
It’s uncompromising. Steel-hearted. Malicious.
It slams down its fists of death and disaster,
Now picking up speed, moving harder and faster.
This monster of water has taken its toll.
Who can surmount this malevolent soul?
The tsunami keeps hurling its waves to the shore,
Consuming the land as its new ocean floor.
Water is rising, inhabitants trounced.
Homes are taken away, unannounced.
Regardless of pleading, of begging or prayer
The threatening waves are wreaking despair.
A vociferous silence is soon to descend
To signify hope that the anguish will end.
A reminder, no life is secure.
And remaining, a question:
For what do we endure?
41
Husks
younger brother starts to convulse in Susan’s
arms, and Aaron doubles over in pain.
“Aaron! What is going on?”
“It hurts! Fuck it hurts!” Ripping his shirt,
Sat. 11:14 am – Adel, Iowa
Aaron claws at his stomach. “Fuck!”
“Come on everybody…it’s time to open presThere is a look of pain and terror in each of
ents!” Susan beamed.
their eyes.
Today was her oldest son’s sixth birthday.
“Call an ambulance! Hurry!”
Colorful animal balloons moved gently in the
breeze. The backyard was filled with little chilOne of the other mothers runs towards
dren chasing each other. In the center, a picnic
the house to get the phone. The crowd gathers
table was piled up with treasures concealed in
around the scene unsure of how to help while they
brightly covered boxes.
wait for the paramedics to arrive.
“You heard your mom, Kenneth, let’s tear
Subdermal tremors are seen underneath
into those gifts!” Aaron’s son looked up at him
Aaron’s skin. There are what appear to be small
with a giant smile.
larvae inside. They are rapidly undulating and
growing. A
flutter of wings starts to stretch out “I want that one first!” Kenneth points at a
just
below
the
surface. Just like his two sons,
large blue one.
Aaron begins to convulse. The transformation “Okay buddy. Go grab it.” Letting go of his becomes more rapid; their screams more severe.
father’s hand he runs to the table. Aaron leans in The flesh around Aaron’s navel peels back. Then
everyone sees them.
towards his wife. “What’s in that one?”
Locusts.
Whispering back, “I think that’s the clothes your
mom bought him.”
They are eating their way out of Aaron and
both
of
his children. There is a low humming.
“Think he’ll be disappointed?” He said
As
the
pitch
increases, the locusts swarm out of
smirking with a half-laugh.
the three through their core and into the crowd.
“Probably…you know she only gives him Susan is still holding her baby in shock as the
those awful sweaters she finds at craft expos.”
locusts fly out of him. They drive into Susan tearShe replies with a wink. “Give me Jimmy for a
ing viscously into her skin boring down into her
while; he is starting to look cranky.”
body.
“Gladly, this one is starting to get heavy.
The crowd tries to run for safety, but there
You would think that a three year old wouldn’t
are too many of the creatures. Bodies are thrust
weigh a ton.” Exaggerating his movements he
into the air. Like papier-mâché piñatas being
hands Susan the child.
ripped apart their insides are splattered across the
yard. Drippings hang from the brightly colored
“Mom! It’s clothes!”
packages and red now covers the white tablecloth
“I know, I know. Aren’t they nice?”
on the picnic table.
A grimaced pout forms on Kenneth’s face. “No!”
From the kitchen window the woman who
Grabbing a different box he starts to tear it open,
ran
inside
can only watch as everyone is debut stops suddenly and puts his hands over his
voured.
No
one is spared.
ears.
She drops the phone.
“Susan, do you hear that?” Nudging her,
The swarm breaks through the glass.
Aaron plugs his ears.
“Hear what? All I hear is this baby crying.”
The three year old has started to wail.
“Why are they testing the tornado siren this Sat. 7:45 pm – Des Moines, Iowa (Homeland
Security Mobile Site)
early?” Aaron yells.
“Quit shouting! There is no siren? I don’t
hear anything!” Susan looks at her husband con- “Look, we are still getting reports from
fused.
the Pentagon…something similar happened over
many parts of the globe.” An exasperated doctor
“What! No siren? It’s so loud!”
All of the parents in the backyard are look- tries to explain to General Harrison.
“What exactly are we facing here? How
ing at Aaron bewildered. A buddy from work
can
the
same thing happen to people around the
grabs him by the shoulder.
world
at
the same time? It sounds like an act of
“Dude, are you okay?”
terrorism to me.” Harrison said with very little
A glazed look has come over Aaron.
emotion.
“Mommy!” Grabbing his stomach, Ken
“It seems likely. The locusts seem to have
neth falls to the ground crying out in pain. His
been altered somehow.”
43
“How? Can we stop it from happening
again?” Harrison did not have time to get into
specifics. He had a feeling that another attack
was imminent.
“Locusts aren’t carnivorous, but these…
these look to have killed approximately 2,235,666
people.” The doctor wondered how the general
could be so calm.
“The victims were found in pockets all over
the world. There was little left of the bodies and
then the locusts just seemed to die.”
“Has your team been able to identify the
trigger of the event?”
“No.”
“Have you done anything besides figuring out a
tally of the dead!”
“Yes.” Who does he
think he is? “It would appear that the deaths are
linked.”
“Explain. Quickly!”
Patience was absent from the
general’s voice.
“In each report we get,
there are a few remains that
are different. They still
have…” The doctor pulls up
several pictures on his laptop. “They still have most of
their structures intact.”
“It looks like they were
hollowed out, but not consumed.”
“Exactly, we are gathering data from everyone and
at it seems that at least in
the United States that each
of these victims have something in common.”
“What is that?”
“They all come from the
same bloodline, even stranger though is…only the males
seem to be the ones that end
up like this.”
“You had better hurry
and figure this out! If you
hadn’t noticed people aren’t
exactly waiting quietly for
any answers.”
Monitors in the background show news broadcasts from around the world.
People are beginning to riot.
A sergeant runs into
the command station pointing outside. “You have to see
this!”
“What is it now!?”
The general glared at
the sergeant.
“Just look!”
Stepping out of the station they follow the
sergeant and look into the sky. Pillars of red could
be seen rising upon the horizon. Rolling out
like waves into the atmosphere turning it a bright
purple hue.
“What in the hell?” The general says as he
stumbles back, falling to the ground.
45
Orbs of Luster
Cars passed
Rain chattered potholes
Yet he sat
Waiting
On a small green bench
Between the buzz of traffic
And the foggy city
Huddled inside an old coat
A musty smell
Of old man and liquor
Drenched in rain
His back ached
His head was balding
His finger shook
The bottle rose
To his craquelure lips
Taste no longer fazed him
Droplets became denser
A gray curtain arose
Hiding the man
Like a ghost inside shadow
Yet he sat
Waiting
Behind the Smoky haze
Mist was parted
In thunderous whistling
Two orbs of luster
One increasing
One diminishing
The clamor
Honk
Screech
Thud
Sirens
Unusual sounds
Each day a wreck
A hum
A slight whisper
Voices of great beauty
Ringing in his eardrums
Twin lights blinded him
The old man stood
Stretching his arms into a T
Opened his eyes
To a white glow
Flooding his view
A chirr arose
The car struck a light pole
Saddened
The man cursed
Spat on the ground
Drank his bottle dry
Lights flickered in darkness
An Unusual Picnic
One year, while camping in Yellowstone,
all my cousin Jeff could talk about was snapping a close up picture of a buffalo. On and on,
he plotted how to get the best shot. The family
decided to picnic by a placid river on one of the
last days we were there. We hiked down a hill, off
the road to the water where the wooden and worn
tables sat in a beautiful, peaceful area.
While we were eating, marveling at the
trees and small wildlife, two buffalos came to get
a drink on the opposite side of the river. My dad,
sarcastic as usual, was making a joke of shouting
to the buffalo. “You’re not so tough,” he said, “I
could take you, come on!” This silly joke would
have been altogether harmless, except we were
unaware that buffalo could swim. In fact, they
swim quite a bit faster than their massive bodies
would suggest. It took them about half a minute
to cross our river barrier. The buffalo came to a
stop about twenty yards from our picnic table,
dripping wet and staring at us.
I was only eight years old, and failed to see
the seriousness looming over us. My mom threw
me up onto the picnic table. It was the only defense she really had to offer in a buffalo situation.
To be fair, it wasn’t a scenario she would have
thought to prepare for.
My dad looked around for Jeff. “Here’s
your chance, take your picture quick!” Jeff didn’t
answer as he had already darted up the hill and
bolted for the car. Making it there in record time,
he then slammed and locked the doors with the
rest of us still down in the picnic area. The buffaloes continued to stare down the remaining
family. They turned their gigantic heads toward
my father and snorted at him with a huge heave
of air. The pair seemed to stare at him for hours. I
started to worry that they were considering hurting him. Unbelievably, in the next moment they
turned in unison and simply walked away as
though they were thinking, “We have proved our
point; we are obviously dominant.”
The family was too unnerved to finish eating lunch. We packed up our things and ended
our vacation. Jeff had to leave in disappointment
without his picture. Our early departure never
stopped the family from teasing my dad about
antagonizing the buffaloes at every family outing
to this day.
47
ThePerilsofDating
Before running out the door, Bob splashed
his neck with cologne so to hide any lingering
odors from the difficult client he’d had that
afternoon. He was eager to meet his date and he
didn’t want her to think that he usually smelled
like rotten potatoes. That wouldn’t go over well.
He had a hard enough time getting women to take
him seriously.
Bob was a skinny six foot six, with short
brown hair and remarkably good eyesight. Aside
from his beanpole-like stature, he was an average
looking guy, but by virtue of his lifestyle and
profession, he was a complete freak.
He made sure to grab his briefcase before
leaving. He knew that carrying a briefcase when
he was just meeting a woman for dinner made
him look a little silly, but it had gotten so he just
didn’t feel comfortable without it. A few people
had, in the past, told him that it made him look
more professional. He hoped that this woman
would feel the same way, because he’d been
alone for far too long and if some even marginally
attractive woman mistook his obsessiveness for
professionalism, so be it.
Valerie was already waiting when he got
there. He recognized her immediately and not
just because she was wearing the red blouse
she’d described in her last email. She looked
just like the photographs he’d seen posted in her
on-line personal ad – blond, petite and slightly
pug-nosed. Adorable. She was sitting quietly at
a table for two, just next to the fish tank. A small
white candle in a glass globe was burning in the
center of the table. Bob slipped the briefcase under the table and leaned over to give her what he
hoped was a firm handshake before sitting down.
“Valerie, it’s wonderful to meet you. I’m
Bob.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s great to finally
meet you in person.”
“Likewise,” Bob said. They’d only exchanged three or four emails in the past week
and they didn’t know much about each other. He
remembered that Valerie had a five-year-old son,
as well as a cat, so he asked about them. She
told him about the trouble her son had gotten into
at school that morning and then she told him all
about how Bongo, who was seventy-seven in
people years, had a weight problem. Before she
had a chance to change the topic, Bob quickly
asked about her interest in gardening, which was
the only other thing he could recall from her online profile. The wine and bread came while Valerie
was still listing all of her favorite kinds of flowers and Bob hoped that he could make it this time.
Maybe she wouldn’t bother asking him what he
did for a living. Maybe it could wait for at least
the second date. He pondered some possible
strategies for distraction, if the question did arise.
In the past, he had tried things like saying, “No,
no, that’s enough about me. Tell me about you,”
or even, in a more desperate situation, accidentally/on purpose lighting part of the tablecloth on
fire.
If he could put it off till the second date,
that would be good. He really hoped there would
be a second date. He almost never met women he
found attractive and interesting through on-line
dating sites. All the horrible dates with random
women would be worth it if this one turned out to
be a keeper.
Valerie finished telling him about her
problems with aphids much too soon. She took a
sip of her wine, smiled and said, “So, Bob, what
do you do for work?”
He knew that he couldn’t lie. He couldn’t
take the risk of making up a story or bending the
truth or even making some vague allusion to a
religious calling or freelance social service jobs.
Yet, he couldn’t bear for Valerie to know so soon.
Chances were, the date would be over immediately. Occasionally some women found out and,
considering Bob a morbid novelty, was willing
to keep seeing him for a few weeks. However,
these were never the kind of women he’d actually
be interested in pursuing a long-term relationship
with. Bob was looking for a woman with values
and class, someone who saw him as more than an
amusing story to tell her friends.
His only hope was distraction. And it
came, in the form of the waiter. After they had
both requested fettuccini alfredo and an extra
bread basket, Bob was quick to change the subject.
“So, did you vote in the presidential election last week?” he asked, cringing at how inappropriate the question sounded. What could he
do? It was the first thing that came to mind.
“Why should I tell you?”
He hurriedly looked up from the piece of
bread he was buttering.
“What?” he asked, wondering if his ears
were playing tricks on him.
49
“Nothing,” Valerie said, coughing. “Must
have gotten something stuck in my throat. You
asked if I voted? Yes, I did.”
Bob took a sip of wine and began to relax
again. His work day must have been more taxing
than he realized. Being on a date that was going
well was just too simple. His mind had to go and
make things up, just to complicate the situation.
“I voted Democratic for the first time in
my life,” he told Valerie as he put my glass back
down on the linen tablecloth. “I could not in
good conscience vote for anyone on the Republican ticket. It was a difficult decision for me,
though.” He hoped this made him sound like a
free-thinker. In reality, he could have cared less
who was elected. If not for the fact that he had
already been down at the polls on official business, dealing with his arch-nemesis Greg for
what seemed like the hundredth time that year, he
would not have bothered voting at all.
“I voted third party,” Valerie said. Bob detected an unpleasantly haughty tone in her voice.
“Have you heard of Gertrude Cracklinbran?”
“No,” he said with feigned interest, leaning
forward. “Who’s that?”
Valerie leaned forward as well and then
growled, “Idiot!” in a voice that seemed just a
touch too low and creepy to be her own. Bob
jumped.
“Oh, sorry,” Valerie said, giggling nervously. “Hiccups.”
“I see.” Bob was getting suspicious now.
There was no need to make hasty assumptions,
but it was obvious that something wasn’t right.
“Gertrude Cracklinbran was strictly a
Maoist until a few years ago,” Valerie explained,
smiling. “That was before the religious experience that caused her to switch to the Libertarian
party. She’s a huge supporter of the abolishment
of private property.”
“That doesn’t sound very Libertarian to
me.”
Valerie’s face flushed red. “That’s the
problem with all you pseudo-liberals!” she
growled viciously. “You think you’re so smart!
You think you can beat me at my own game!”
Bob stood up so fast that his silverware was
knocked to the floor. He fumbled for his briefcase.
“You’re always so concerned with freedom!” the terrible voice intoned. “I’ll show you
freedom!” Valerie’s face was now hideously
contorted. Other people in the restaurant were
beginning to stare.
The latch on the briefcase sprung open under his fingers and he grabbed the size large silver
crucifix from inside. He held it out before him
like a shield.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Tell me
who you are!”
“You know me!” the voice growled. “You
know! Don’t pretend you don’t know me, Bob!” A large glob of spit flew from Valerie’s mouth and
landed with a splat on one of the bread plates.
“Greg? Is that you?” He should have
known. This was no mere coincidence. It was
personal. Greg had chosen his victim very carefully. Bob may have been empowered with faith,
stronger than the demon would ever be, but Greg
had always known how to kick him where it
counted.
“Greg, what are you doing here? I’m on
a date. Couldn’t you have at least waited till the
meal was over? You know you don’t stand a
chance.”
Glass shards flew everywhere as the candle
holder on the table top exploded. The demon,
now fully in control of Valerie’s corporeal being,
seized the bread basket and flung its contents into
the fish tank. The young couple at the next table
shrieked and raced for the door.
“Don’t worry!” Bob called out to the other
patrons. “I’m a professional! Just stand back!”
The restaurant began to fill with the
odor of burned scrambled eggs and the demon
began to babble ceaselessly – cursing Bob and
the other people in the room, howling like a
dog and demanding his fettuccini alfredo. Bob
advanced on him, still holding the crucifix in his
outstretched hand.
“Greg,” he shouted over the noise. “Greg,
I cast you out! In the name of the Lord, I implore
you to leave Valerie’s body.”
“Yes!” Valerie’s voice faintly gasped.
“Leave…me..aloooone!”
“Never!” the demon boomed, using Valerie’s arm to overturn the table. “You will never
be free of me!”
Everyone but two of the cooks had fled
the restaurant. They watched from the kitchen
doorway as Bob prayed, shouted and sweated
uncontrollably. It probably appeared to them as
though Valerie were undergoing violent seizures.
Her body rolled back and forth on the floor. The
demonic moans issuing from her mouth were
chilling.
“I will not return to Hell!” the demon cried
out.
“Man,” one of the cooks said to the other.
“I’ve totally been on dates like this before!”
“Not me,” the other one said. “Thank
God.” To Bob he called out, “Are you a priest,
mister?”
“No,” Bob shouted over his shoulder, holding the demon at bay with the size large crucifix. “I’m just an exorcist by calling.”
“I told you that was his date, dumb ass,”
the other cook said. “Priests don’t go on dates.”
Bob could tell that Greg was close to giving in. He might be persistent, but he was not
the strongest of demons. Back in April, when
Greg had possessed an amateur psychic in Centerville, Bob had been able to banish him in only
ten minutes. This was a mixed blessing, because
people didn’t usually like quickies. They were
often unwilling to pay the full fee when you don’t
put on a good show. It was the eight-hour long
ordeals, with fainting and vomiting and ceaseless
wailing that really impressed. Still, Bob preferred
the clean, easy jobs. They took less out of him.
“Greg,” he said sternly. “I command you
by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion,
resurrection, and ascension of our Lord, by the
descent of the Holy Spirit, by the coming of our
Lord for judgment, to leave this woman’s body.
I command
you to obey
me to the
letter. I
command
you not to,
in any way,
harm this
child of
God, or the
bystanders,
or any of
their possessions.”
He was just
about to add
in the part
about never
coming
back, about
permanent
deliverance, about
banishment,
about never
ruining one
of his dates
again, when
Valerie’s body rose, puppet-like, from where it
had been twitching on the floor. Bob heard Greg
chuckle weakly and then, with a rushing sound,
depart her body. He tried to catch Valerie on her
way down, but only managed to stop her from
hitting her head on one of the table legs. Barely
conscious, she opened one eye and fixed him with
an accusing glare. Ashamed, he backed off.
“That’s it?” one of the cooks asked. “That
didn’t take so long.”
Bob staggered from the restaurant, shirt
soaked in sweat.
“With God’s will, I have dispelled the
demonic entity,” he announced to the waiting
crowd. Under his breath he added, “For now, at
least.”
“Great!” one woman exclaimed. “I’m
starving!”
As the restaurant’s patrons and waitstaff
stampeded back inside, Bob slumped against the
side of the building. He felt very lonely and rather cold as a steady breeze began to dry the sweat
on his body. He knew he should go back inside
and see if Valerie needed a ride home, but he also
knew she would feel just like the others always
did. She would cry and beg him not to come near
her. She would never consider going on another
date with him; she would want to forget this night
as quickly as possible and if he remained in her
life he would only serve as an unpleasant reminder.
He waited another ten minutes, then, exhausted and limping, began the slow trek back to
the car, briefcase clutched
to his side.
When
Bob reached
his car, a tasteful blue Ford
sedan with a
small dent in
the driver’s
side door,
there was a policeman sitting
on the hood,
one hand on
his gun, foot
tapping out a
rhythm on the
bumper.
“Bob,”
the policeman
said.
“Yes?”
Bob peered
into the man’s
face, trying to figure out if he’d ever met him before. The cop was young and so clean shaven that
his skin glowed pink. “What can I do for you,
officer?”
The policeman stood up.
“We need to talk, Bob.”
“How do you know my name?” Bob was
gripping his briefcase with both hands now.
“Could you just put your kit down for one
damn minute?”
“What?”
“Put the kit down and get in the car. I’m
not going to hurt you.”
When Bob did not move, the officer drew
his gun.
51
“We can do this the hard way, Bob,” he
growled. “Get in the car. Now.”
Bob sighed, shuffling over to the driver’s
side.
“Haven’t you had enough, Greg? You must
be pretty drained right now. You don’t want to
fight with me again tonight.” Bob slid into the
car, setting his briefcase on the floor.
“No, I don’t,” Greg said in the young cop’s
voice, getting in beside him. “It occurs to me I’ve
been going about this the wrong way all along.
You can’t blame me, really. I am, after all, a demonic entity.”
“Greg, you’ve ruined almost every date
I’ve been on in the past year. Every time I think
I’m going to have a day off, you possess some
psychic and have them start putting curses on all
their clients or you possess some poor old man
who’s volunteering at the polls on election day
and have him burn down a voting booth, then
chew the flag to pieces and spit the threads back
out on the people waiting in line to vote. Now
you’re here, you’ve obviously taken over the
body of some poor rookie cop and I’m just sick of
dealing with you.” Bob looked sadly at his hands.
“Things could have worked out really well with
Valerie. She was a nice woman. Can’t you just
back off?”
“It’s not going to work out, Bob. No
woman is going to stick with you. You’re a freak.
You’re almost as much of a freak as I am.” Greg
looked earnestly at Bob. With the young cop’s
face, he looked innocent and friendly. His blue
eyes were large and bright. “You know what I
want, Bob.”
“No, Greg. I won’t do that.”
“I told you I’d make your life miserable if
you refused,” Greg said. “I’m giving you a second chance. A last chance. Or I pull out the big
guns. So to speak.” He chuckled and patted the
cop’s weapon.
“I can’t believe this,” Bob said.
“I know you have feelings for me,” Greg
said. “If you felt nothing, you’d have banished
me to the depths of Hell long ago. I’ve seen you
take out some pretty powerful entities. I’ve seen
you take out hoards. It was hot, in all honesty. It
was totally hot.”
Bob blushed.
“I can make myself very attractive,” Greg
said. “Any woman you see, anyone at all. Just
say the word and I’ll take their body. No one will
even know. We can move away from here, get
married. You can keep working as an exorcist, as
long as you leave those crucifixes in the garage at
night.”
“Greg, I know you,” Bob said, shaking his
head. “You’ll get bored. You’ll be bored in a
week and you’ll be inciting riots, torching buildings, possessing dogs and biting the mailman. All
kinds of stuff.”
“No way,” Greg said. “I could never be
bored with you. I’d give it all up. I’ll get a part
time job. I’ll volunteer. I’ve always wanted to
get seriously involved in politics. I’ll run for selectman or something.”
“I am lonely,” Bob said to himself, sadly.
“I’ll be the best wife you could ever have,”
Greg said. “I’ve loved you for years, ever since
we first met in that elementary school principal’s
office. I thank the powers of evil for that day, the
day I randomly decided to possess that little boy
and you showed up to deliver the evil from him.
And I know you felt it too. Bob, we were meant
for each other.”
Bob was touched by this speech. He
thought he saw tears in the cop’s eyes.
“Come on,” Greg said. “Let’s go find a
lady to possess right now. What do you want?
Tall? Big boobs? Blond? Brunette? Red head?
I like red heads myself, but it’s your call.”
Bob started the engine.
Bios
Ake Phetdavieng is a sophomore majoring in
physics. His photo contribution was Small World
Alex Kelly is a Junior in English literature
as his story shows, enjoys a humorous take on his
favorite band.
Colette Hall Vander Plas is a student in Grand
View’s nursing program. She is originally from
Massachusetts and has previous degrees in animal
agriculture and English. She lives in Ames with
her husband and their very loud cat, Edie.
Amelia Decker loves working with children,
Courtney Townsend is a junior mass comm phoplaying music, and planning her graduation!
to major and enjoys photographing naked animals
This is her last semester and she is ready to fly the
coop.
Derek Barnett hails from Crystal, Minnesota.
He doesn’t enjoy ice fishing or curling (well only
Andrew Perrine once meant the homunculus in a with cans). His major is Graphic Design; his
shady bar. Luckily, he was drunk.
minor is mining.
Other than that (and the weird pronoun issue),
Andrew is a Computer Science major
Emily Stumpf starred on Project Runway, where
who enjoys dabbling in complex equations and
she was a semi-finalist creating a casual outfit
narrative lines.
made of gum wrappers. They said the design
would never stick. She left the program and came
Benton Schoenrock once dated Madonna, but
to Grand View to earn her Graphic Design degree.
had to quit her (like a bad cigarette) when he decided to finish his Graphic Design and Visual Arts Erin Hurdle loves Coke, Farmville, and Mafia
degrees.
Wars. She’s allergic to bullshit.
Bridget Donovan is a junior in Mass Communication. Her photograph, Type, is of letters and
numbers for a printing press at Living History
Farms. The photo was taken September 2009
Cassie Landhauser is an Art Education major.
Once, before she was famous, Cassie met Girl
GeeGaw. This was before she changed her name
to Lady Gaga.
Cecilia Morelli is a Senior, duel major in English
and Theatre
Cheryl Sease is a recent graduate of the English
Department - Writing pursuing a career in fiction.
She hopes someday to win a Pulitzer, but until
then will keep her day job. She will also soon be
persuing her MFA.
Christopher Nelson is a Senior majoring in
English and minoring in Magazine Design. He,
Jamie Scott is a recent student of Dr. Brooke, and
enjoys writing poetry about any number of things,
including her lovely kids.
John Chadwick, pastor of Good Shepherd Lutheran Church, Knoxvile, Iowa. Enrolled in Advanced Creative Writing Class by Dr. Paul Brooke
and flourished. Today his sermons are evn more
exciting.
John Latta is a junior majoring in Psychology.
He enjoys delving into the psyche of the Soul to
illuminate the shadows within: these ideas help
him cope with the writhing Demons. Also, puppies are cute.
Jolynn Anderson or as she likes to be called Ms.
Anderson since she designed all the costumes for
the Matrix. In her spare time she enjoys Graphic
Design and Visual Arts as we all do.
53
Kate Burnette is a sophomore from Peoria, Arizona. She came to Grand View to play volleyball.
Her majors are Secondary Education with English and Spanish endorsments and I am currently
a student leader on campus with positions in the
Admissions Office, Multicultural and Community
Outreach program and Viking Brigade.
Shawn Sullivan was in the band Slipknot until
he quit due to skin reactions to latex. Instead
he returned to the University to pursue Graphic
Design.
Lyssa Wade is a Senior majoring in Communications.
Tracie Elder is an English major with Spanish
and Photography minors. She borders on obsessive when it comes to music. At any given moment, she could be listening to AFI or any number
of other bands.
Tom Burman is a Graphic Design dude, who
enjoys growing facial hair and sketching pain.
Mark Kirschenman sophomore at Grand View.
He is on the golf team and has been playing since
he was very young; the same goes for writing. He
has always enjoyed twisting words on paper to
Trevor Adams, a duel major in Graphic Design
tell some kind of story.
and Visual Arts, discovered a new species of slow
loris in the rainforest of New Guinea. He named
Meghan Heward-Easter is an English major and dennykavenish procenium.
a Junior. She enjoys writing, so much so that her
husband hasn’t seen her in nearly a week and is
Victoria Brady is in her final year of journalism
considering sending out a search party.
and is minoring in English and photography. Born
and raised in Des Moines, she is a fan of HawkMike Kuhlenbeck, 20, is a Des Moines native
eye football and is forever indebted to her Savior,
and Journalism Junior.
Jesus Christ.
Nicole Creason is a Mass Comm/Photo Junior.
Rachel Park is a junior majoring in English. In
her spare time she likes acting in the Grand View
Theatre Department and playing the piano.
55
Acknowledgments
A big thank you to all the artists, photographers, writers, and poets who submitted work, we wouldn’t have a journal without you!
To Dr. Brooke, my advisor, who pushed me to make this publication the best I could. And to Josh Ryther, of the Art Department for chasing down the most elusive prey of all...art students.
And a special thank you to my husband Benj, who puts up with all my insanity on a daily basis.

Spring 2010 - Grand View University

Transcription

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