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Transcription

ISSN 1755-0149
CONTENTS
Fiction and poetry marked ☺ have been selected as Best of Issue.
3 …………………………….................................................... EDITORIAL
On The Verge Of 2008!
5 ……………………………......................................... FICTION: ASAMI ☺
By Richard James
26 ……………………………................................... POETRY: TWO POEMS
By Sarah Louise-Parry
28 ……………………………................................... POETRY: TWO POEMS
By David McLean
32 ……………………………..................................... FICTION: THE ROOM
By Harry L. Thompson, Jr.
40 ……………………………................................... POETRY: TWO POEMS
By Ray Succre
42 ……………………………...... INTERVIEW: ERIC S. BROWN ON ZOMBIES
Discussing The Living Dead!
48 ……………………………................................... POETRY: TWO POEMS
By Bruce Harris
51 ……………………………........................... FICTION: DOING ONE’S BIT
By Bruce Harris
59 ……………………………................................ POETRY: TWO POEMS ☺
By Rob Plath
63 …………………………….............................. FICTION: COZUMEL 1997
By Daniel Fridholm
77 ……………………………................................... POETRY: TWO POEMS
By David Byron
79 … FICTION: ELECTROCUTING THE CLOWNS (PART ONE OF TWO)
By David Byron
92 ……………………………...................................... POETRY: ONE POEM
By David Thorpe
94 ……………………………....................................... FICTION: BLURRED
By Jennifer O’Gorman
98 ……………………………....... ABOUT THE BEST OF ISSUE PRIZE BOOKS
Editor’s Notes
2 || Neonbeam
Neonbeam Issue Three | December 2007 | ISSN 1755-0149 | Editor: Sammi Leng
Website: www.neonbeam.org | Email: [email protected]
All fiction and poetry featured in Neonbeam is  The Contributors 2007, all rights
reserved, and should not be reproduced or retransmitted in any way without consent.
ISSUE THREE
Editorial
Year’s End
So, another year draws to a close. Neonbeam
has thrived in 2007. The current PDF version of
the magazine is certainly the most successful
incarnation that has ever been produced, and
there have been many! I hope the success will
continue in 2008, and look forward to providing
a home for more great fiction and poetry. As of
number three, I’m also attempting to add a few
extra features to each issue, to break up the content slightly.
Psychedelic Zombies & Issue Three Credits
And speaking of extra features… In respect of this issue’s interview
with zombie author, Eric S. Brown, the face of NB - our lovely Neon has undergone intensive zombiefication for the cover (i.e., she has
been coloured in green!). As well as this interview, we have a trio of
Davids who have contributed their work - David McLean, David Byron
and David Thorpe - plus many more stories and poems from the likes
3 || Neonbeam
Editorial || Issue Three
of Richard James, Sarah Louise Parry, Harry L. Thompson Jr., Ray
Succre, Bruce Harris, Rob Plath, Daniel Fridholm and Jennifer
O’Gorman. Many thanks to all who submitted!
Best Of Issue Selections
Fiction: “Asami”, by Richard James
(Receives “Indecent Exposure”, by Tom Sharpe).
Poetry: “bang on yr laptop in a morgue drawer”, by Rob Plath
(Receives “Zoom!”, by Simon Armitage).
First Anniversary
Issue Four will be released in March 2008; one year since NB first
opened its doors to contributions! To mark the occasion, Issue Four
will be produced as both the usual free PDF, and also as a print
magazine, which will be available through Lulu.com. The poet and
author chosen as Best of Issue for Issue Four will receive a copy of
the print book, as well as the relevant Best of Issue prize book. For
everyone else, the print version will be priced as low as possible.
Wishing Everyone A Merry Christmas…
…And a prosperous New Year! See you in 2008!
Sammi, Neonbeam Editor
4 || Neonbeam
Many thanks to Reader, Gary Clement, for his help with the poetry submissions.
ASAMI
Richard James
The moon looks bigger than usual tonight. It
hangs full and heavy in the deep purple,
casting faint traces of shadow on the rooftop.
In the streets below, the shadows are sharper
but flicker in and out of existence at the whim
of the flashing neon signs which create them.
A purple curtain flutters in the draft as the
sliding door behind it is opened. Two men spill
out into the street and walk away while their
ever courteous hostesses bow humbly from
the step. Asami watches the women turn
elegantly away as their clients hail a taxi, and
fancies she sees them grimace ever so slightly
as they retreat back inside their premises, but
from this height it is hard to tell. People often see what they want to
see.
She suddenly becomes aware of a deep silence and realises
the extractor fan on which she is perched has turned itself off. Slowly
other noises rise from the city to take the place of the tired drone she
hadn’t even been aware of until the moment it stopped. Taxis.
Scooters. Her legs are dangling over the edge of the metal casing but
she brings them up now and hugs them to her chest. A bicycle bell. A
5 || Neonbeam
Asami || Richard James
mobile phone. A light flicks on in a window opposite and she decides
it’s time to move. Automatic doors. Exit music. She hops down on to
the thin scattering of gravel which covers the roof and walks away.
***
The station was almost deserted and Asami’s clicking footsteps rang
out clearly beneath the vaulted ceiling, the harsh white light making
her straight black hair shimmer with an almost metallic sheen. She
bought her ticket from a machine and approached the turnstiles
where a pale young foreigner was attempting to find out from a
bemused ticket officer which platform his train was leaving from.
Asami spoke near perfect English but continued on her way. When
her train pulled in she was the only one who boarded. She sat down
opposite a sleeping salary man and crossed her legs. Although there
were plenty of free seats, two high school girls chose to stand by the
door whispering. They huddled close together so they could both peer
at the screen of the same mobile phone. The sleeves of their school
jumpers were pulled over their hands which they raised to their
mouths whenever they giggled. A recorded voice informed the
passengers the train would now depart, and the doors
shuddered
shut.
As the train pulled away, an empty coffee cup began rolling
haphazardly down the carriage. Asami followed its progress with
narrowed eyes until it came to rest against the trainer of one of the
high school girls. Asami’s gaze rose deliberately upwards from the
coffee cup to the girl’s knee high cotton socks, up her straight legs,
6 || Neonbeam
above her pleated tartan mini-skirt, her knitted jumper and loosened
tie, up to the hanging, dyed brown fringe, behind which were hidden
her
dark
eyes.
The girl’s glance flicked momentarily,
almost
imperceptibly, to meet Asami’s before returning to the screen of her
phone.
At the next station the girl’s friend departed, and as the train
moved off again Asami was aware of the remaining girl at the edge of
her vision. Without turning to look she saw her approach her seat
until she was standing just a foot to one side. Asami focused on the
sleeping salary man opposite her whose head rolled softly from side
to side with the movement of the train. She felt the cushion she sat
on lower as the girl knelt upon it and leaned towards her. The salary
man stirred and rubbed his nose but didn’t wake. The girl’s lips softly
grazed Asami’s ear as she pulled aside her hair and whispered in to
it.
“Tomorrow. Raison d’etre. Two p.m.”
Asami turned her head round slowly to face the girl. Their
noses were almost touching and the girl smiled salaciously as she ran
her tongue over her bottom lip. Asami stared hard in to the girl’s
eyes. She could see her own steely gaze returned to her in their
depths. This close, she could make out individual pigments of the
girl’s green eye shadow. She hated her at that moment more than at
any other. Hated her with an intense loathing she hadn’t thought
herself capable of and when the time came she vowed to make her
pay. Dearly.
When the train next stopped the girl unfurled her legs and
backed out the carriage, keeping her eyes fixed on Asami who
7 || Neonbeam
watched her go, her own stare following her all the way out on to the
platform. She continued to watch her through the window until the
train left the station and the darkness outside revealed only the
reflected interior of the train. She stared at her own blurry image,
and behind her saw the salary man spying furtively from beneath half
lidded eyes.
***
“You know why you’re here, I assume?”
Chopin played softly in the background. The waiters and
waitresses of the raison d’etre continued to glide gracefully between
the tables in their white waistcoats and pressed trousers. The gauze
curtains hanging round the walls fluttered benignly in the cool spring
breeze. Asami didn’t answer. The girl from the train stooped to light
her father’s cigarette. He sighed and fingered his neatly trimmed
beard while his daughter stared impiously at Asami before breaking
in to a coquettish half smile. The same one she had used when she
had searched her at the door.
“Tell me,” the father asked, tracing a circle in the air with his
cigarette before leaning back into his seat and taking a sip from his
wine, “why did you come? Really, I’m interested. I doubt you want to
see me but…mm, maybe…Masako said she thought you two had had
a bit of a ‘moment’ on the train.”
Asami remained stoically silent.
The laughter began with someone on her left. Singular and
stifled at first, it rose in volume as the others round the table took it
up. She stood defiantly still and her stare never wavered for a
8 || Neonbeam
moment. The others were mere faceless entities. She was aware of
their presence, their tailored suits and made to order smiles, but
nothing more. Only father and daughter didn’t laugh out loud,
although both allowed their amusement to show plainly on their
faces.
“Come now, come now. It’s okay. I can see you are in no
mood for pleasantries. In that case they shall be dismissed with. It
was never your conversational charm I needed you for anyway.”
The father stubbed out his barely smoked cigarette on the
white tablecloth until the remainder bent and twisted, then rose from
his seat. His daughter placed another in her own mouth, lit it and
passed it to him.
“I think we both already know you are going to do what I ask.
It’s…inevitable.” He walked at a leisured pace around the side of the
table until he was right next to her.
“Smoke?” he asked, and looked behind her. Asami turned to
see the daughter offering her an open packet. She eyed them
disdainfully then returned her look to the father. Inevitable? Yes, she
thought, yes I suppose it is.
“No?
Good
girl,
I
guess.
They’ll kill you
in
the end
but….hmm!…they are just so good.”
Ha. Don’t worry yourself Taiyo. It’s not the cigarettes that’ll
kill you. I’ll make sure of that, you...
“Do you know - I bet I can guess almost exactly what you’re
thinking! Something along the lines of - I’ll get you before they do,
you bastard! - am I right? Ha! Same old Asami. Silly little thing. One
can but hope though. We can’t take that away from you now, can
9 || Neonbeam
we?”
He began walking away from the table evidently expecting
her to tag along, but she merely glared at the solid back of his
retreating figure.
“Father wants you to follow him.”
The girl’s breath was warm on the side of Asami’s cheek as
she leant over her shoulder to whisper the instruction. Asami
repressed a shudder but did as she was told. Ahead of her Taiyo
gestured to a pair of waiters standing, apparently waiting, next to an
ivy entwined ionic column, and they quickly raced to set up two giant
sliding screens creating a small sealed off room in one corner of the
otherwise busy restaurant. Taiyo clapped his hands twice and from a
door two men dragged in a large green plastic box with a metal grille
on the front.
Asami started towards it with a gasp, but the girl was behind
her again and had wrapped her arms around her waist, her slender
limbs belying a hidden strength. Asami struggled against the girl’s
grip while Taiyo paced the floor in front of the box. It was dark
inside, almost black, but Asami thought she detected occasional
movement.
“Masako has the details for you. It’s nothing terribly difficult.
Nothing I don’t know you can handle. When you are finished, and if it
is to my satisfaction, then we shall arrange another meeting and by
then you will be on a much stronger footing. Do you have any
questions my little angel?….No? Good. Well, until next time then.”
He strode from the room and Asami made another movement
towards the box, but Masako continued to hold her tight. Eventually
10 || Neonbeam
the two men dragged the box away again, and as the door shut
behind them Asami allowed her body to go limp.
“No, please. Struggle. It’s so much more fun.”
The girl turned Asami round so they were face to face, then
loosened her grip allowing her hands to slide down Asami’s hips
before releasing her completely. Asami stood with head bowed
looking disconsolately at the floor, but the girl reached out one
slender finger, placed it under her chin and lifted it up. For the first
time Asami realised this girl was much too old for school. She must
be in her early twenties at least. About the same age as Asami
herself.
“You heard father,” drawled Masako as she unbuttoned her
blazer. From the inside pocket she withdrew a bulging manila
envelope.
“This
contains
everything
you’ll
need.
Date.
Time.
Location… Method.”
Asami reached for it but the girl skipped back, pulling it away
from her grasp.
“Uh uh uh. Careful. It’s sharp.”
She slinked forward again and reached one hand down to the
waistband of Asami’s trousers. She slid the package in against
Asami’s hip where it was held tight and cold against her. Asami
repressed an urge to shudder, but although she didn’t want to think
about what was pressing against her, it was the touch of the girl’s
fingers against her skin which had really unnerved her. The girl
clapped twice and the screens were brought away revealing the
restaurant.
“I’ll walk you out,” she informed Asami, matter-of-factly.
11 || Neonbeam
They walked between the tables and wine buckets and climbing
plants, and at the door Masako took both Asami’s hands in her own
and leant in to kiss her once on each cheek.
“Until next time. My little angel.”
***
Asami threw off her heeled boots and lurched in to her kitchen where
she threw the knife into the sink. It clattered and grated horribly
against the polished steel basin. She turned the tap on full power and
watched numbly as the water ran red. Leaving the tap running, she
turned and ran her hands through her hair and noticed spots of dried
blood on her white shirt cuff. She peeled it back and saw more
specks on her wrist. Tearing off her shirt she threw it in the bin. She
looked again at the splashes on her wrist. Soon the rest of her
clothes joined the shirt, but it still wasn’t enough. Taking them out
again, she squashed them in to her biggest cooking pot then placed it
on the stove. She threw in a match but all it did was singe a small
hole in her skirt before going out. She found a bottle of cheap sake,
undid the lid with trembling hands, and poured it in. Why me? she
asked the silence. Why did they need me? The lights in the
apartment were all off but the flames leapt so high they illuminated
the whole room. Asami turned to the window and in it saw her own
usually pale, white body lit with a flickering orange. Her face was
hidden behind dancing shadows.
She stayed in the shower for over an hour, scrubbing herself
over and over with the hottest water she could stand before
12 || Neonbeam
eventually coiling up in the corner. When the water began to run out,
she emerged in to a dense cloud of steam. She looked at herself in
the mirror but could barely make out the shape of her head, let alone
the details of her face. Instead of wiping away the mist she stared at
this formless shape for a long time and remembered.
***
You will meet your contact on Friday night at
ten thirty p.m. precisely. He will be waiting for
you outside Space Jam pachinko parlour in
Hanamiya. You will recognise him by his
Angels baseball cap and the fact he has only
one eye. He will instruct you further. Do as he
says. And bring the knife.
Your loving friend xxx
She had read the letter several times in the days that
followed the meeting at raison d’etre. She had imagined various ways
of escaping. She would kill the contact. Knife him in the street in full
view of the crowd. She would turn up without the weapon. She would
seduce him and drag out of him the location of his master and then
hunt him down. She would…she would…
She would go. She would do as she was told.
She had recognised him instantly, no one else was loitering
with such intent, and watched him for a moment from the darkened
car park. Every so often the glass doors behind him would hiss open,
13 || Neonbeam
and the insanely cheery music would increase in volume as pachinko
players hurried in or out. The digital display above the door recorded
the temperature as fourteen degrees and the time as ten twentyeight. She made her move.
There had been no spoken greeting. He had merely nodded as
she approached then indicated for her to follow him as he entered a
covered arcade and walked away with purpose. Asami had hurried
after him, sound from all sides assaulting her. The thumping bass
from a retro clothing store. The constant pinging of convenience
store welcome bells. Boisterous salary men stumbling out an izakaya.
Loud girls in loud clothes shrieking laughter in to their mobiles. A
siren letting everyone know that someone had won big. A siren
letting everyone know that someone had fallen low.
Outside a ‘mister microphone’ karaoke studio he paused and
gestured for her to enter first. In the small, brightly coloured lobby
he had conferred quietly with a young member of staff who then led
them to the lift and accompanied them to the fourth floor.
Room 423 had a New York theme. They entered noiselessly
during one young man’s rendition of I Want To Break Free by Queen.
It had taken the small crowd a moment to notice the intruders, but
when they did they filed out quietly with heads lowered. Asami had
been wondering what they were possibly going to do in an empty
karaoke booth, when she noticed a thin figure huddled in to himself
in the shadows at the end of one bench. The contact closed the door
and removed his jacket which he then spread out on the table in the
centre of the booth. The figure on the bench had drawn back as the
contact then approached him, but didn’t struggle as he was
14 || Neonbeam
manhandled on to the table and lain out on the jacket.
In the light from the TV screen which was still flashing up the
words for the next song selection, Asami had seen the face of a
frightened young man. Barely more than a boy. He wore a plain,
white T-shirt and pale blue jeans, and his smooth, black skin
glistened where it caught the light. Asami stared into his eyes which
were wide, white and wet but not a single tear rolled from their
surface.
“The knife.”
For the first time Asami heard the contact’s voice. It was a
low rasp without a trace of emotion. Although quiet there was no
mistaking it’s authority. Asami quivered as she studied the boy’s
face, but he didn’t look back, focusing instead on some point deep
within the ceiling.
“The knife,” repeated the contact, turning to look at her.
Still watching the boy’s face, she took it out from inside her
boot and laid it on the table. The corner of the boy’s mouth trembled
at the sound of the blade. Asami tore her eyes from his face and
stared at the contact who was still watching her.
“No,” he said. “No. I want you to give it to me.”
The weapon was easily within his reach, but by now Asami
knew the drill. She looked at the knife. The images from the screen
danced along it’s curve before being cut off raggedly by it’s serrated
edge. She returned her attention to the boy who was still staring
straight up. A thin lingering wisp of tobacco smoke hung in the stale
air. She reached for the handle and lifted it slowly before offering it
to the contact. His leather gloves brushed her fingertips as he took it
15 || Neonbeam
gently from her and leant over the boy. Asami took a deep breath
and tried to numb her senses. The contact raised the knife and Asami
had to summon all her resolve to stop herself from turning away.
Suddenly the contact paused. She flinched but he stayed unmoving.
Just do it! she wanted to scream. Just get it over with and let me go!
But the contact remained still. Poised, but still.
“Why do you do it?” he asked, turning his head. “Why do you
always watch them?” He spoke slowly and deliberately, drawing out
each word. Asami swallowed a hard lump in her throat and blinked
her eyes. She had never met this man before. How did he know
anything about her.
“He told me you would but…I didn’t believe him. The others…”
others? “…the others, they never watch. They never even look. They
just do as they’re told then they run home, but you…he told me you
always watch.”
Asami didn’t look away from the boy and kept her lips
pressed tight together. Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have
answered anyway. She didn’t know how to articulate this feeling deep
inside. This feeling that someone should watch, should see, should
bear witness. This feeling that someone ought to know what
happened. It would be so much easier to leave right now. She knew
she would be allowed to, but something inside just wouldn’t let her
go.
“I said I thought you probably enjoyed it. Is that it? You like
to watch, eh? I’ve heard there are some who do but…then again…I
don’t know, you don’t really look the type.” He stared for another
moment then shook his head as if clearing it of sleep. “Hff. Who
16 || Neonbeam
cares?”
He returned to the boy and once more raised the knife above
his head. Asami felt tears welling in her eyes but blinked them away.
A light whisper across her fingers attracted her attention and she
looked down to see the boy stretching out his hand to her, his eyes
staring imploringly into her own. She grasped his fingers tightly, and
as the contact gave a howl and plunged the knife down in to the
boy’s chest, she fell to her knees with a broken gasp. The orbs of the
boy’s eyes shook then rolled upwards as his body shuddered and
spasmed. Asami’s tears flowed freely as she raised his trembling
hand to her mouth and brushed it with her lips.
***
The steam had now dissipated and the mirror’s surface revealed her
face. She searched her eyes for any trace the boy might have left
there - any trace any of them might have left - but had to stop short
when the doorbell rang. Pulling on a dressing gown she went to the
door. It was the girl.
“I heard what you did,” Masako said, looking anxiously up and
down the corridor. She seemed completely different to the girl on the
train and in the restaurant. She was nervous. Almost frightened. “He
sent me to give you this. It’s important.”
She held out another envelope to Asami, and when their
fingers touched she pulled hers away timidly. Asami watched her with
a mixture of confusion and apprehension. Who was this that stood
before her now? Why was she so afraid?
17 || Neonbeam
“I have to…I lo…I love…I…I have to go.”
Asami instinctively reached forward but the girl backed away
until she collided with the wall of the corridor outside. Were those
tears? She hated this girl. Didn’t she? Masako slid down the wall and
buried her face between her knees. Not fully knowing why, Asami
went towards her and took her by the wrists, leading her back to the
doorframe. The girl collapsed again onto her knees, and buried her
face in Asami’s dressing gown. She began sobbing and pressed her
face against Asami’s thigh, choking apologetically.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t…I’m sorry.”
Asami felt warm tears roll down her leg and experienced a
strange wave of pity. She reached down and stroked Masako’s long
brown hair gently. Masako looked up with a startled, fearful hope.
Why was she so scared? Asami helped her to her feet and looked
questioningly in to her eyes. The girl’s head drooped sorrowfully and
Asami parted her fringe and kissed her softly on the forehead.
Masako raised her glance to look into Asami’s eyes. Without her
makeup on, Asami thought Masako’s eyes looked remarkably similar
to her own. Her breath was hot and sweet, and her tears had left
shimmering streaks down her cheeks.
“Don’t tell anyone about this. Please.” The girl was almost
pleading. She backed away then suddenly darted quickly forward to
give Asami the briefest kiss before turning and fleeing down the
corridor. Asami was left confused in her doorway, holding two
envelopes in one hand.
The first envelope had revealed a short typed note ordering
18 || Neonbeam
her to another meeting at raison d’etre on Tuesday afternoon. The
second was more interesting:
Asami.
Take heart. There are others. Others like you.
There are hundreds, thousands like you but…not
like you. There are some though. Some who are
like you. There are others like Taiyo too. And
others like me.
The cage is empty.
I love you.
The second note was hand written and had evidently been
rushed. The writing was small and jagged and the paper stained and
rumpled. For three days Asami thought of the meeting with an
excited trepidation, and for three days she thought of Masako with
concern and fear.
***
“You came!”
Taiyo rose from his seat and walked towards her, arms
outstretched in welcome, as she was led to the same table as before
by two heavy-set waiters.
Handel played softly in the background. The clatter of cutlery
and the chatter of polite conversation. The gauze curtains blew in and
were sucked out through the open sash windows.
19 || Neonbeam
“You know I really wasn’t sure if you would. I don’t know
why. Just a feeling.”
Asami looked across at the table. It’s edges were again
crowded with men in suits. The same ones? She couldn’t tell. Masako
was nowhere to be seen.
“So tell me Asami, what happened on Friday night? I heard
you had a little…episode. Took the weapon home with you. Most
irregular. Now why would you want to do that? You know all I ask of
you is to assist your contact and then go home. Everybody else
seems to manage just fine. But then…you’ve always been a little
different, haven’t you? Always had a…special relationship.”
There was no need to reply but she wished he would skip the
questions and get to the point.
“Anyway,
the
problem
is
that
given
your
unorthodox
behaviour I’m really not sure we can count it as a mission properly
fulfilled. But no matter! I have a new one for you. One which if you
do properly may well be your last. How does that sound, eh? But first
things first. This is not the place for our special type of business and
these spineless wretches are not men with whom we need to share
our special type of business, and so we are going to take a little trip.
Fun, no?”
Was there a certain nervousness coming from around the
table? Asami had no worries regarding her own situation. She just
wanted to get on with things. A strong gust of wind sent the curtains
high in the air and with such force that one of them knocked a wine
glass from a table on its way up. Heads in the restaurant turned at
the sound of the shattering crystal as Taiyo led the way outside.
20 || Neonbeam
***
They drove for several hours. Asami couldn’t tell exactly how long as
she had been blindfolded. At first she could feel a faint light through
the fabric, presumably from the sun, but eventually it disappeared
and then changed into a slowly alternating rhythm of dark and hints
of light, which she assumed to be street lamps. No one in the car
spoke the whole way. When they stopped she was forced to keep the
blindfold on as she was marched up a long, straight flight of shallow
stairs. She counted over two hundred, then lost track. At the top she
was made to wait and she listened intently to the various sounds.
Ck…kch
Something was slammed.
Tchshhh
mmmMMmm
Something was dragged.
Something was muffled.
Suddenly the blindfold was ripped away. Pale moonlight
barely lit the scene but her time blindfolded had helped her, as her
eyes needed no time to adjust. The grounds of a temple, surrounded
by imposing evergreen forest. To her left was a giant taiko drum.
Masako was tied by her wrists and ankles to its face. In front of her
was the main temple complex. Along its front, Taiyo was pacing
slowly. To her right a sword rack. Masako’s head hung limply but she
jerked it up occasionally. Taiyo continued pacing, seemingly lost in
thought. The sword rack glittered danger in the silver light.
“What to do? What to do?”
21 || Neonbeam
Taiyo had stopped pacing and leaned on the barrier looking in
to the middle distance. The temple rose and loomed above him. The
tiles of the curved roof shimmered silver and black like scales. The
moon was directly behind it, and Taiyo was an even darker silhouette
against the shadows. He lit a cigarette, and in the momentary flicker
of the flame, Asami saw the green box lit up beside him. This time
she betrayed no reaction. A thin mist trailed across the gravel
courtyard from the surrounding forest. The flame clicked off and the
cage was once again hidden in the dark. Taiyo strolled slowly down
the wooden stairs, his creaking footsteps echoing round the empty
courtyard. He approached Asami and cocked his head to one side.
The drum sounded deeply as Masako involuntarily snapped her head
back against it.
“What to do? What to do?”
From the shadows beside the drum a dark figure emerged.
Asami couldn’t see his face but she knew it was the contact from the
karaoke bar. He paused next to Masako.
“What would you do?” Taiyo looked Asami directly in the eyes
as he asked the question. His face was revealed ever so slightly by
the glowing ember of his cigarette end. “What would you do? What
will you do?”
He walked in a tight circle around her, all the time keeping his
gaze fixed upon her face, then stopped and held his cigarette at arms
length. Still looking at Asami he flicked it at the drum. It bounced off
the surface in a shower of sparks, just above Masako’s face. She
flinched but still didn’t fully wake.
“Choose a weapon!” Taiyo commanded, suddenly stepping
22 || Neonbeam
aside and pointing at the sword rack. “Choose a weapon and finish
it.”
Asami didn’t move, and as Taiyo lit another cigarette, a grin
slowly spread across his face. The smoke from his cigarette drifted
away to blend with the mist. He shook his head then clapped once,
and the front of the temple was suddenly lit with a blinding white
light. Two men dressed in black stood either side of the green box.
Asami couldn’t keep her gaze from flicking towards it.
The cage is empty.
But was it? Could she be sure? The two men held clubs
drooping from their grip.
I love you.
She felt the warm tears running down her thigh.
“If you won’t, I’ll do it myself.” Taiyo informed her. “It makes
no difference to me. Did you really think she was my daughter?
There are plenty more where she came from. Believe me. Plenty
more.”
Asami continued staring at the cage. Was there a sudden
tensing in the men’s grip?
The cage is empty.
Taiyo shook his head again, almost as if he was disappointed,
and moved towards the sword rack.
“Wait.” Asami flicked her head and stared at him. He turned
slowly and his teeth shone white in the shadows. “I’ll do it.”
It was a grin of victory. He didn’t move aside as Asami
approached the rack and selected a cloth handled sword in a red
scabbard. The sound of steel scratched the air as she removed the
23 || Neonbeam
blade in one flowing motion, and marched towards the drum and the
assassin in waiting. As she approached, she seemed to cut a clear
path through the mist. She could see a thin trail of dried blood
running from Masako’s nose. Her breath was coming slow and heavy,
but she was conscious. The contact held out his hand for the sword
expectantly, but Asami hesitated.
“Give it to me.”
It was that same low rasp. Masako rolled her head and raised
her eyes. When she caught sight of Asami, her mouth twitched in to
a twisted smile. Some of her teeth were missing.
“Give. It. To. Me.”
Asami could feel the tension in the air. She took a step
towards the drum. Masako’s dilated eyes found hers.
“I…I…bbb,” bubbles of frothy saliva gathered at the corners of
Masako’s lips as she tried to speak. “I…I knew…I knew you…”
“Give it to me.” The assassin took an aggressive step forward,
his foot crunching in the gravel.
“Give it to him.” Taiyo’s command hissed from her rear.
“I…I love…”
Asami stepped forward so she was just centimetres from
Masako. With some last remaining effort, Masako raised her head and
stared imploringly at Asami.
“I love you.”
Asami leant in and kissed her deeply. She heard desperate
footsteps crunching behind her. The blood in Masako’s mouth was
like bitter rust. She drew the sword back. Masako opened her eyes
wide and Asami saw a strange peace in them. Peace coupled with
24 || Neonbeam
determination. Not fear. Not doubt. She was aware of the shadow
beside her lurching forward. She was aware of Taiyo’s bulk closing
from behind. The mist around them seemed to disappear. The very
trees of the forest appeared to back away. She pulled her mouth
from Masako’s, but their eyes remained locked together. A thin trail
of saliva still connected them, glistening in the moonlight.
“NooooOoOoooOOooo!”
Taiyo’s scream pierced the air as the skin of the drum burst
open behind Masako’s ribs. Her eyes stared empty now, and Asami
stared back as she was tackled to the ground by the contact. She felt
no pain as they crashed into the gravel.
The burst drum played a deadened beat as Masako’s body
shuddered against it. Blood pooled beneath her. Black in the night.
The crash of metal. Something was attacking the grille of the cage.
Taiyo ran towards it in a frenzy. Asami tried to raise herself up. The
moon was reflected in the puddle of blood. Taiyo made it to the cage
too late. The grille burst outwards. Hundreds of green fireflies
swarmed in to the night. Fresh drops rippled the image.
25 || Neonbeam
Richard James wrote Asami several months after returning from a stay in Japan, and in some respects it reflects
his experiences of that country. He is twenty four and has recently moved from Scotland to Poland.
SARAH LOUISE PARRY
Poetry
_______________________________________________________
One Night Only
A haze hovered overhead
like barbaric morning breath
flattening the crisp of the dew.
You stomped downstairs straight from bed
a muddy trail in your wake
and a dozy drunken head.
Toast crumbs curdled in your beard
vodka-drawn halos: long gone
you looked stubby, stout and harsh
morning light made you: weird.
The cold frost rattled my bones
shaking me free from daydream
your feet under the table
frightened me more than the frost
my wits warbled in complaint
the kitchen sunk, soaked, sable
thrusting you from its warm arms
and back into your worn slot.
26 || Neonbeam
Poetry || Sarah Louise Parry
Trollied
Barfly - Friday, Saturday 'n' Sunday.
Ironed my skinny jeans,
my tight t-shirt motif'd with Steve Mc Queen
and I'm out to blow all my week's worth pay
on fun and magic beans
like Jack, and the fit girl that I'm gonna lay.
Maybe Walkabout on Wednesday evening.
Trashy. Pseudo Aussie.
Orange girls, teeth - white as piano keys.
I pick these girls up. Have sex. No meaning.
In someone's Ford Capri.
Or staring at someone's foreign ceiling.
Student nights clogging your youth with cheap shite,
seem to spill into weeks;
lavish lasses with drinks for a love bite,
often their perfume reeks, counterfeit chic,
(words aimed at their twin peaks)
then the Burberry Boys will pick a fight.
Lights Out.
Sarah Louise Parry is currently an undergraduate Journalism, Film & Media student at Cardiff University. Since the
days of her A-Levels, she has been publishing her poetry pieces after falling in love with a Seamus Heamus
27which
|| Neonbeam
anthology,
was kindly included on her English Literature syllabus whilst at college. Ever since then she has
been conjuring up couplets and summoning up sonnets non-stop, leading her slices oif scribbled-down street
culture to be featured in an array of literary zines, magazines, collections and various other texts.
DAVID MCLEAN
Poetry
_______________________________________________________
abyss
this is an abject
abyss we live
the depressive
position
as were we all
women, and just
reflections, the
muddy
cunt's blood wherein memory
materialises as man
though we re-member us
better
for this seedy polis
is policed greedier
than need
be
by news media schools and
28 || Neonbeam
Poetry || David McLean
the TV that
directs love and
devils
in the veins, unjudgmental
prejudices and amnesiac
memories of the nervous
tensors,
racial tensions and raping
ravenous nature like
wolves, like motherfuckers
for this is an abysmal
abjection, and salvation
is just their heaven
rejected
reason's introjection is
the devil's
defection
29 || Neonbeam
falling false
the clouds are falling
false, and all
the dying are falling,
all the dead
this world is a charnel house
we built on an earth
built on a dream
when nothing turned in its sleep,
and the children are falling
though their eyes are dry
today, the dying
children fall,
no tears in their disillusioned
eyes, like autumn, like memories
or flies tonight, to decay and
the dying, fall like autumn's tired
leaves, falling to the slaughter
they are memory, motion
and forgetting, death's
stasis is all that they have left them
30 || Neonbeam
leaves that fall, the life
behind the eyes, dry as
leaves, a memory that
dies
David McLean was born in Wales but has lived in Sweden since 1987. After submitting for about a year he has
around 330 poems in or accepted by 143 publications, as of November 2007. A chapbook “a hunger for mourning”
with 52 poems is available from Erbacce press and Lulu at, http://stores.lulu.com/store.php?fAcctID=1277957.
31 || Neonbeam
More information at: http://www.myspace.com/david_mclean
And a blog at: http://mourningabortion.blogspot.com/, where there are links to various online publications.
THE ROOM
Harry L. Thompson, Jr.
Victor sat quietly in his room
accompanied by a large, aged
book and an oil lamp. The
room was dark and filled with
shelves of books which bowed
with the weight they bore. Books
were piled in tall columns on his desk
and on the floor; Victor’s life was filled with books like most men’s
lives were filled with smiles. A huge tome before him was all that
Victor wanted, and in fact was all that he had. Ten years before,
there was a tragic accident. The loss of Vivian had driven Victor into a
deep depression from which he only occasionally emerged. Every
action he took required a great expenditure of energy and an even
greater amount of motivation. At first, the books provided a
diversion, but now they had become an obsession.
With two fingers, he gingerly grasped the corner of a yellowed
page that crackled as he turned it. Silently, he transcribed the old
text onto a clean, white sheet of paper. The moon hung invisibly
outside of the study’s window. Victor looked up at the black sky and
was glad that none of Heaven’s light shone upon him. The task which
he undertook was one unfit for the Lord’s light. He had meekly
wrestled with the indecency and immorality of his long contemplated
32 || Neonbeam
The Room || Harry L. Thompson, Jr.
act; he decided that any price would be worth paying if he could see
Vivian one more time.
A harsh knocking broke the sullen silence of the study.
Startled, Victor turned away from his window and walked to the
study’s portal. Opening the mahogany door just slightly, Victor saw
before him a lean, young gentleman with sharp features. Adrian’s
hair, long and limp hung about his face; still in his dressing gown,
Adrian had come with news of a dream. Victor did not want to hear of
it until Adrian mentioned that the dream was of Vivian.
“I saw her standing on a rocky shore; the ocean was clawing
relentlessly at the rocks.”
“Do you think it is a warning? Is there something wrong?”
interrupted Victor wildly. Casting the door open, Victor bid Adrian to
enter. Adrian stood motionless outside of the room, unwilling to cross
the threshold. Brushing the hair from his face, the young man
continued.
“I do not know if it is a sign; I know that in the dream she
stood upon the rocks. She seemed to be waiting. She waited for a
while, and then she turned away to leave.”
“Turned to leave! Turned to leave?” screeched Victor as he
stumbled to find a chair. “She is gone from me, Adrian! She has no
need for my work. All that I’ve done…” Victor began to sob as he
tossed himself into a chair.
“Victor, it is just a dream,” assured Adrian who still stood at
the room’s threshold.
“A dream, yes, but a dream of the other world! You have
seen beyond the veil Adrian! You have seen what I cannot! All of my
33 || Neonbeam
work is lost!” raged Victor as he kicked over a pile of books that
collapsed with a cloud of dust.
“I should not have told you.”
“You should never hide such a thing from me!” said Victor. He
looked at the pile of books strewn about the floor. Calmly, he said, “I
know that it was just a dream, but I cannot help myself. Any news of
Vivian is more than I know now. I need to know what is happening to
Vivian and this dream may be affording me a look into the world
beyond.”
“Even if she has forsaken you, you would still do this work,
wouldn’t you?”
“I do not know.”
“It is for my sake as much as yours,” said Adrian as he turned
away, closing the door with a quiet click. Victor looked upon his desk
and the book that sat upon it. Has it all ready been more than a year
since Adrian brought him the book? thought Victor. He wondered how
Adrian had come across such a wicked tome; thousands of brittle
yellow pages held spells of untold power, and it took Victor weeks to
find the spell he sought. He needed to see his wife again, if only for
the most brief of moments. He had no portrait to remind him of
Vivian’s face. He thought of the day they first met, and he found that
his memories were becoming hazy.
She had brown eyes and a soft face. She was gentle and
always had kind words for Victor. He had found most women to be a
trial; he found no interest in their droning about social gatherings and
fashion. Vivian was different. She knew about history and philosophy
rather than sewing and knitting, and that was what caught Victor’s
34 || Neonbeam
heart. He loved how he could converse with her for hours.
Sometimes, they would debate heatedly, which made Victor feel
alive. In his view, no other woman was like her.
He would hear her voice again and see her face. The spell
said that it would afford him with only one meeting with his beloved.
To weave the spell, he was required to write the words once a day for
a year and a day. He knew them by heart, yet always made sure to
check his transcription against the original. He would not let
something as simple as a misspelled word keep his Vivian from him.
Another knock came upon the door. The rapping was loud and
sharp; it was Leah, the serving girl. Each night, she brought him a
new bottle of oil for his lamp.
“Come in,” commanded Victor disconsolately.
“Sir, you know that we may not enter your room,” replied
Leah as she opened the door slightly. She stooped low and placed the
oil bottle just inside of the room. Victor glared at her with disgust. It
had been like this since he started weaving the spell. Adrian said that
Victor would need no great disturbances; the more peacefully he
rested, the greater effect the spell would have.
“I forget myself, and my position here. I am a prisoner,”
stated Victor.
“If you do not mind my saying, it was your choice to be here,”
responded Leah meekly.
“How could I have chosen otherwise? I cannot bear a life
without my beloved.”
“You may not have liked the alternative, but is this what you
truly wanted?” Victor listened to the girl’s soft, lilting voice. He looked
35 || Neonbeam
at her, but she would not look upon him. He wondered if she had
someone that loved her as much as he loved Vivian. He thought of
the day she had awoken him; it was after the accident. Adrian had
found Victor lying unconscious by the roadside after Victor had been
thrown by his horse.
For weeks, Victor had slept and it was Leah
who woke him, telling him that he was forever sundered from his
love.
“I would give anything for her,” said Victor sharply.
“But what will you take from her?”
“You don’t know…” started Victor. He could feel anger welling
up inside of himself, blooming like a poppy. He stood up from his
chair and took long strides towards the door. He felt his fingers curl
into a fist; he could not stand the insinuations the serving girl made.
That he would take something from Vivian was a concept both
foreign and repulsive to Victor. He was nothing but loving to Vivian.
When he reached the threshold, Leah was looking up at him. Large
brown eyes, watery and wide, stared up at him. Her eyes! Her eyes
are like Vivian’s! thought Victor. His wrath stymied by the reminder
of his wife, Victor reached for the bottle of oil.
“You don’t understand,” he said, “I love her.” Leah simply
looked down and closed the door.
“I love her,” he said to the air. “I need to see her once more,
to emblazon her image in my mind so deeply that I may never forget
her face.” The books watched him as he spoke to himself futilely.
They were here long before him, and they would remain long after.
Outside of the room, he could hear clocks chiming the midnight hour.
He used his lamp oil to light a second lamp and began writing again.
36 || Neonbeam
His time here had blurred together into a haze of dreams and
work. At first, he tried to repair his life, but nothing was the same
without Vivian. It was around then that Adrian arrived bearing his
collection of books. Adrian was a magician, a necromancer, who could
speak with the dead. He had come to Victor because he was the son
of one of Victor’s worried acquaintances.
“I will have none of this,” was Victor’s reply when Adrian told
him of the spell.
“But this is the key to all you have ever wanted! My father
told me that you wished to see your wife again, and he asked that I
go to you and make this possible. Now you rebuff me?”
Victor told Adrian that he would think about using the spell,
but until then, the books were to remain off of his property. Each
day, Adrian came by to speak with Victor. Adrian would talk not only
of magic and mystery, but also of the world. He had traveled much
and had much to share with Victor, but whenever Victor looked upon
the gaunt youth, he could not help but think that this man held the
potential to allow him to see Vivian once more. It was through this
friendly seduction that Adrian convinced Victor to use the book and
its spell.
The night Victor began the process, he found that come
morning, he couldn’t stand the sight of the sun. The sun, thought
Victor, watches me like an enormous, glaring eye. It is as though
God were a great Cyclops that would witness my every sin. To Victor,
the night was the only proper time to work his spell. Each night, he
would count the sheets of paper he had thus far copied. Then, he
would begin copying the spell again. He would recount the pile of
37 || Neonbeam
papers and fastidiously check each sheet for any errors. When the
night came that he counted three-hundred and sixty-six sheets and
three-hundred and sixty-six perfect copies of the spell, Victor fell to
the floor. His exhaustion did not take away from his feeling of
contentment as his eyes slowly closed.
When he awoke again, he was in his own bed. He did not
know how long it had been since he slept on the comfortable feather
mattress. He looked about the bedroom and saw no sign of Vivian.
Victor wondered how successful the spell was.
“Where
is
she?”
he
asked
of
his
reflection
when
he
approached a mirror. His reflection was as still as ice and seemed
unfamiliar to him. Had it truly been a year and a day since he had
been sequestered to that room to work the insidious spell? His
countenance seemed to mark a great deal more time. Deep wrinkles
marred his complexion and a long matted beard hung limply from his
chin. His eyes were hollow and sunken, almost lifeless. His clothes
were tattered and smelled dirty. A vast confusion settled over Victor.
“Adrian!” he called out as he left the bedroom. The house was
silent and still as the grave. A thick dust had settled over much of the
furniture. Had Leah been so lax about the housekeeping that she
would allow such a profuse amount of dirt to manifest? As he
pondered the state of the house, he heard the front door open. He
scrambled to it, hoping that whoever it was could shed some light
upon the dismal state of his home. His heart was still for a moment
when he saw her entering the door. She had a slight limp and was
older, but he knew it was her.
Vivian’s dress was simple, yet elegant. A straw hat with a
38 || Neonbeam
wide brim and a ribbon about its crown topped her head, while a
smile gleamed upon her face. Victor rushed to see her, to hold her,
but his legs stiffened and his strides ceased when he saw Adrian
following her. He was the cause of her laughter, there was no doubt.
He continued jesting with her even as his eyes caught sight of Victor.
Adrian smirked at him, and that made Victor’s fists contract into tight
balls.
“Vivian!” demanded Victor, but Vivian did not turn. “Vivian!
What are you doing here? Why are you with him!”
Vivian seemed to be ignoring Victor entirely. Even when her
sight fell upon him, it was as though he was not there. A ghastly
thought passed through Victor’s mind.
“No, it is impossible!” said Victor out loud. Adrian, whose eyes
had not moved from Victor, just shook his head as though he were
watching a buffoon’s antics.
“Darling,” said Adrian, “Would you like to go to the library and
await me as I bring in our things?”
“That was always Victor’s place,” she said solemnly, “I don’t
know if I am ready yet.”
“It is Victor’s place no longer, my love,” replied Adrian.
Harry L. Thompson, Jr. is a writer who hails from Woonsocket, RI. His tales often explore notions about body
39 || Neonbeam
image, the occult, and religious beliefs. His work is often reflective of his quiet manner; terror and fear often give
way to confused emotions rather than fight or flight responses. His characters, rather than becoming like animals,
become wrapped in their own humanity, flaws and all.
RAY SUCCRE
Poetry
_______________________________________________________
Yearly Illustration
Thirty years to the day, the very hour.
Drawing a man on a page, his enjoyments, a page
of the quintillion moments lauded by his self,
while in him the grasp of simulated lands,
his loves thwipped from the world, centuries;
but I can not draw well as worms across grass,
or those most lovely mouths that turn upward to speak.
This is no single drawing, but a diagram of death.
The page, too, is but itself in the ream of itself.
His years along the sea are a glint raked up
with a too young, birthday mind.
The drawing is given my face, roughly sketched
and dragged over in scratches too numerous.
My years are in them, in my hairs and limbs,
even shortly in as my tongue.
It is a page in the free fashion of but a day.
40 || Neonbeam
Poetry || Ray Succre
A Karaoke Ruinous
It's supposed to be smooth when he sings:
Here on the fairway of imminent song,
and often the lane of tender delay,
his lips slim and voice married to euphony...
He can't sing, however.
High notes trickle from his tits and the low notes
flop from his belly like gorged bulltoads:
Here in the swelter of singer's maw,
cracked and blitzed gore of chorus,
flat bread tongue and piked pitch,
bitch retro country, decade-pinioned,
his vocals ruckled in a whirring machine
like rocks in a tumbler, teeth in a rubber cup.
I wince when he smiles from a throw-rug face,
and begins another song:
This next lap, his wobbling croon is a plugged sink.
Someone should tell him in a melody.
Ray Succre currently lives on the southern Oregon coast with his wife and baby son. He has been published in
Aesthetica, Small Spiral Notebook, and Coconut, as well as in numerous others across as many countries. He tries
hard.
41 || Neonbeam
For enquiry, publication history, and information, visit Ray online at: http://raysuccre.blogspot.com
INTERVIEW
Eric S. Brown on Zombies!
Neonbeam talks to zombie author, Eric S. Brown, about writing
influences, his new book, and how to avoid becoming zombie lunch!
NB: Your new short fiction collection,
Zombies II: Inhuman [opposite], is
now available to buy. What made you
choose zombies as the protagonists for
your works?
Eric: I am almost always writing about
zombies. They’re kind of my “thing”, so to
speak. I fell in love with the zombie genre
when I was much younger and watched
Dawn of the Dead for the first time. Since then I have been hooked. I
enjoy the fact that you can do almost anything with zombies and still
have a wonderful end-of-the-world story.
NB: The introduction of your new book mentions a love of
horror films. What are your thoughts on cross-genre horror
(e.g. Shaun Of The Dead, as a horror-humour zombie film)?
Eric: I love humorous zombie films, from Night of the Creeps, to
42 || Neonbeam
Interview || Eric S. Brown
Slither, to Return of the Living Dead. I could never really write that
kind of fiction though, as I am rather a dark person and I just don’t
think it would come out right. As I said, one can do almost anything
with zombies, from humor, to serious drama, to action tales.
NB: How did you start out writing horror fiction, and have you
always written this genre?
Eric: I have wanted to be a writer since 2nd grade but I didn’t start
trying until I turned 26. I sold my first story that year and just kept
going. When I first picked up the pen, I wanted to be a SF writer but
that first sold tale was a zombie story. During the early part of my
career I wrote everything from Military SF, to Fantasy, to Crossgenre war stories and general horror, but as things progressed I
noticed that I was writing more zombie stuff than anything. So
somewhere around 2004 I just decided to go pretty much all zombie,
and it’s been kind to me.
NB: Zombies II: Inhuman features superhumans, as well as
the undead. How were you influenced to take this direction
when writing the book?
Eric: Zombies are one of the two great loves of my life, the other
being comics. I have read and collected comics since I was 4 years
old, or younger. I have a near complete run of the Fantastic Four
series and am a DIEHARD fan of The Legion of Super-Heroes. I was
looking for something fun to do that I hadn’t tried before, and it hit
43 || Neonbeam
me, why not combine my two loves? Thus, Zombies II was born, and
thanks to the success of Zombies: The War Stories it was picked up
almost instantly by that publisher.
NB: Recently, I've come across some horror fiction magazines
which clearly state they don't want any vampire / werewolf /
zombie style stories sent in to them. Why do you think some
publishers are against printing traditional horror characters,
and do you think the horror genre is changing?
Eric: It’s always been that way to me. Most people think zombies,
vampires, etc. are overdone and cliché’ in the horror world. Everyone
is so taken with being original and different that I think the world
forgets you can put an original spin on anything. When I started
writing, it was super hard to sell zombie stories because they were
“uncool”, and vampires were the rage of the moment. Brian Keene’s
The Rising and 28 Days Later changed that though, and put zombies
back on the map. How long the current zombie fad lasts - and it may
already be dying - doesn’t matter to me. I know I will keep writing
zombies no matter what.
NB: In the past you have written novels, novellas and short
stories. Do you have a preference, and how do you determine
which material is right for each format?
Eric: Honestly, I have only written one novel and it nearly killed me.
It took eight months. I prefer to write short stories like H.P. Lovecraft
44 || Neonbeam
spent his life doing, and they are my preferred format for my fiction,
but I have been trying hard to reach a point as a writer where I feel
comfortable with the longer form, and my novellas are my stepping
stones to that. I never really plan how long something is going to be
and I don’t always know, I just write and let the story lead me.
NB: Have you ever written yourself as a character in your
books? If not, what role would your character play if you were
to do this?
Eric: No, I never have, though I have used friends, family, and even
my wife in stories. Of course, without knowing them, you’d never
realize. I imagine if I wrote myself I would be much like Dr. McKay
from Stargate Atlantis, or the new Dr. Who. I love characters like
that, who rely on thinking rather than big guns to solve problems,
despite the fact that I write military stories and love guns (in fiction)!
NB:
You have a new novella, The Season of Rot, due for
publication in 2008. Tell me about that.
Eric: The Season of Rot is a zombie tale and one that actually took
me longer than my novel to finish. It’s in some ways a very
traditional zombie tale, in the sense of that “trapped” Night of the
Living Dead feeling, but it certainly has some new genre bending
stuff in it as well. I don’t want to say too much and spoil it, but I
think it’s my best written book I have done. I think my novella, The
Queen, was my masterpiece so far in terms of an idea, but The
45 || Neonbeam
Season of Rot [opposite] has a lot more effort
put into it. It’s due out late next year from
www.nakedsnakepress.com,
and
will
be
available through Amazon, Fictionwise.com,
etc.
NB: Do you have any future projects lined
up? More zombie fiction, or do you plan to
change theme?
Eric: I am currently back to writing short stories at the moment, and
working my way towards a sixth collection of my stuff from
magazines. I have a two year old son and simply haven’t had the
time to commit to a larger project post The Season of Rot yet,
though I hope I will again sometime in the future. I just had a tale in
The Undead: Skin and Bones anthology from Permuted Press, which
has done insanely well here in the states, and I will be featured in
New York Times’ best selling author, Jonathan Maberry’s, Zombie
CSU next year. I will also have a tale in The Magazine of the Dead’s
zombie antho and have zombie stuff coming out all over the small
press, in magazines ranging from The Hacker’s Source and Black
Petals, to Midnight Horror and The Mount Zion Literary Journal. I
have some non-zombie stuff coming out soon too, including a tale in
the Winter issue of Down in the Cellar.
NB: Finally, and perhaps most seriously, as you are something
of a zombie expert, what survival advice could you give me in
46 || Neonbeam
the event of a zombie attack?
Eric: Read Max Brooks’ Survival Guide, tune into the Library of the
Living Dead podcast, etc. Of course, in a more literal sense, just
“Don’t Panic!” as Douglas Adams would say. I can’t give a better
answer than that without knowing if we’re talking slow, fast, or smart
dead people. The tactics would change based on what one was
dealing with.
NB: Many thanks to Eric S. Brown. You can buy his books
online at:
www.amazon.com
www.fictionwise.com
www.nakedsnakepress.com
His zombie themed books and chapbooks include: - Zombies
II: Inhuman, Cobble, The Queen, The Wave, Zombies: The War
Stories, As We All Breakdown, Still Dead, and the upcoming
novella, The Season of Rot.
47 || Neonbeam
NB would like to thank Eric S. Brown for his time!
BRUCE HARRIS
Poetry
_______________________________________________________
Espanashire
Such uncomfortable heat now, right through southern Spain,
that, by the summer holidays, it really is a pain
and all the local people are off on searching tours
to find some easier living on friendly foreign shores.
In the merest blink of time, investigation reaches
the big blue skies and sweeping sands of East Anglia’s golden
beaches.
Two successful seasons put thousands in the know
that this part of Inglaterra es muy fantastico;
and very soon, the tourists talk to local mortgage lenders
and all along Great Yarmouth front, they’re building haciendas;
the people rather dubious, being generally the sorts
who always reckoned finkas were people lost in thoughts.
There’s tapas in Hunstanton, and all the catering sellers
are stopping on the fish and chips and starting on paellas;
in afternoons in Cromer, the people take a rest as
what used to be their forty winks have now become siestas
and many people really feel it’s a presumptuous liberty
48 || Neonbeam
Poetry || Bruce Harris
to build a big bull-fighting place right in Wells-next-the-Sea.
The English say the annoying thing, the aspect that’s so wrong
is the failure of the tourists to learn the local tongue;
waiters would sometimes like to serve chips and not patatas
and just occasionally say hello instead of ‘buenos dias’;
they’ve come to be too well aware they’ll not sell a single cola
unless they’ve summoned up a smile and a loud and cheery ‘hola’.
The Spanish argue simply that what they really like the most
is sitting in the sun for hours without becoming toast;
Burnham Market now, they say, just try a day trip there
and you could be on Valencia beach, except with cooler air.
The English may not like it, but that’s the way it goes;
los bandidos inglesos are fond enough of euros!
And very soon we’ll integrate; you won’t ever think the less
of a family moving in next door called Gomez or Fernandez;
we’ll put an imitation Gaudi on a central Norwich square
and a puzzling great Picasso right next to Lowestoft fair;
the visitors will keep on coming, each year more and more;
so much nicer now, they’ll say, than what was there before.
49 || Neonbeam
Poetry || Bruce Harris
Plastic Toys in Cereals - Marketing Possibilities
A small George Bush in the Cheerios, so we can all say cheerio;
hold him under the surface of milk and watch the bubbles blow;
A Schwarzenegger in the corn flakes, newly cereal keen
getting high on the organics and slowly turning green;
Oasis in ensemble form, done up as cuddly teddies;
dip them in the honey jar and drop them in the Shreddies;
Ian Paisley in the muesli, where he shouts and moans and tuts;
blow away his flakes of grain and twist his Alpen nuts;
Donald Rumsfeld in the Nesquik, lying on his back;
pour him in a landmine and post him to Eye-rack.
A set of red fox hunters, dropped in one by one;
chase them round the Weetabix and see them bloody run;
some pretty little footballers, lips fixed in snarling curls;
drop them in freezing Frosties till they all turn into girls;
a few inflated oil-men, in Puffed Wheat for an outing;
squeeze them upwards from the feet and watch their bald heads
spouting;
some bankers in Rice Krispies, in milk up to their hats;
live on five grains of this a day, you greedy, grasping twats;
and some model runners of the guns, adrift in little boats,
to eternally float and shout for help across the porridge oats.
50 || Neonbeam
Please see Bruce Harris’ short story, “Doing One’s Bit”, for his contributor bio.
DOING ONE’S BIT
Bruce Harris
Of course, it was probably the good
intentions road to hell from the
very start, but I had seen quite a
lengthy documentary and it did
emphasise
in
uncompromising
terms that the entire planet is
going to hell in a hand bucket and
something needed doing. One does
have some sense of responsibility.
I wrote out a check list of general areas where action might be taken,
and off we went.
First target, inevitably, had to be Giles’s huge hummer, or
whatever it’s called, which simply eats petrol like a ravening beast
and has even had a few scruffies in town absolutely waving their
fists. Giles, of course, was not impressed.
‘O.K., Belinda darling, my bloody vehicle is first in the line of
green fire. Predictable. Perhaps you might consult the kids re. the
school run; you might perhaps see the colour green in a rather
different light.’
I couldn’t think what he might mean, but in any case I
decided to put it to Simon and Jen fairly and squarely, choosing my
moment just before Catherine Tate, when they’d be feeling chirpy
51 || Neonbeam
Doing One’s Bit || Bruce Harris
because they’d shortly be able to say bloody bovvered every
two seconds.
‘O.K., Mummy, and replace it with what?’ Jen said, in that
rather confrontational tone she’s adopted lately. I don’t want to
actually forbid Catherine Tate, but assistance towards a suitable
teenage level of stroppiness really is not needed.
‘Well, I don’t know, darling. Something incredibly fuel
efficient, I suppose, one of those tiny city cars, perhaps; wouldn’t it
be fun for us all to squeeze in?’
Immediate confrontation with Simon, who, a propos of
nothing, suddenly issues an invitation to do something incredibly
rude to him which is a little inappropriate for a fourteen-year-old, in
my opinion. After a brisk exchange, Jen returned immediately
to the attack with a succinct summary of her position.
‘If I arrive outside school in some ghastly trike thing and
Jocasta Martin and chums see me, Mummy, I shall quite simply, like,
die on the spot?’
Another set-to, of course, because she will keep doing that
ridiculous question voice, only because she’s heard it on Neighbours.
It’s a little galling, honestly; I mean, she’s twelve, she isn’t actually a
bloody teenager yet.
‘When Nicholas Bates saw me first time in Daddy’s new car,
he was absolutely choked. Wonderful moment’; this from Simon.
‘Yes, but then that cow Jessica Hobson’s old man has a bloody
Roller. I just, like, hide my face?’; this from Jen.
And I saw Giles’s point with great precision, my daughter
almost greening before my eyes. Where they get this dreadful
52 || Neonbeam
materialism from, I simply can’t imagine.
Still, live to fight etc., true Brit grit. School run lost cause;
let’s now try on air travel.
Giles works himself to a frazzle, of course, but I’ve felt for a
while that seven holidays a year is a little excessive. I never can feel
comfortable sitting there emitting. It really would be sensible, if we
have to go away so often, to drive or even take the train. I
put it up to Giles, again trying to pick the moment, this time just
after rumpy-pumpy, when there’s a sort of window of good mood
before he drops off. It looks for a moment as though he hasn’t
heard; he’s lying there stroking his chin – he never has properly
adjusted to losing the post-coital ciggie.
‘Darling, now listen, please, for a moment’.
Heart sinking time; this signals Giles about to launch into his
awful know all mode.
‘Some of these places we go to, darling, especially third
world, how do you think they’d get by without tourism? Buggered,
absolutely, pardon my French. Got nothing else, you see? Not much
use having lovely air if you’re sitting in a mud hut’.
This connection was rather obscure for me, and I was
immediately accused of having one of what he calls my ‘didsy
moments’. All slowly revealed; under-developed countries want to
become developed countries, is the gist, and in order to do that,
they need money, and to do that, they need tourists. Otherwise, they
have lovely pristine air unpolluted by aircraft but remain absolutely
destitute.
My suggestion that perhaps train travel might work was also
53 || Neonbeam
horse-laughed off; ‘darling, we’d spend the entire holiday getting
there. Anyway, remembering Mexico last year, we can hardly
take a train across the Atlantic. Common sense, sweetie, come on’,
and reproachful look. Whole conversation probably now locked in his
memory banks for hilarious recital with ghastly City drinking chums.
So, initiative two bites the dust, and I begin to feel a lonely
furrow is being ploughed.
Still, I am nothing if not persistent, jolly good stayer, Belinda,
they used to say at school, so attempt three looming, though the two
previous duds were as nothing compared to the outrage this one
precipitated.
All the same, it did seem entirely reasonable to me, bearing in
mind the house is absolutely awash with computers as if the bloody
things are reproducing, thereby costing us a minor fortune in fuel
bills and hogging more than our fair share. I arranged a veritable icecream orgy for Simon and Jen for their dessert, Giles working late as
usual, and then hit them with my idea that they might use the same
computer and sort of take turns, I suppose. Simon visibly paled.
‘Not really on, Mummy, to be honest. I’ve got a fair bit of
stuff stored there that perhaps is a bit advanced for Jen – educational
material, of course’.
‘Educational big tits, he means’, says Jen.
Once again, business suspended for admonishments, I’m
afraid, but all this achieves is a frightful family set-to, Jenny
resenting admonishments – ‘it’s not me who’s obsessed with boobs
and things, Mummy, really’ – Simon turning crimson
and counter-attacking by labelling his sister ‘Chat Room Charley’
54 || Neonbeam
because ‘she spends absolutely hours chattering online to odd
people’, which is quite disturbing, actually, and causes me to insist
that I be allowed to watch what they’re doing.
After a less than edifying session of shouting at each other,
rooms are retreated to, doors are locked, they are getting up to God
knows what with God knows whom and Giles is nowhere to be seen
as bloody usual. Communal computer notion well and truly
down the pan if anything like family harmony is to be preserved. By
this time, I confess I am getting more than a little cheesed off, quite
frankly, and heading rapidly for the conclusion that if this is what
saving the planet is going to do to my peace of mind, the bloody
planet can sod off.
However, light bulb goes off in the head again, one is nothing
if not resourceful, and the notion that the main headache involved
with all previous attempts is that they actually required other people,
and if I could simply concentrate on doing something on my own the
whole thing could be brought to fruition without further contretemps
with all and sundry.
So I decide on recycling and set up the necessary containers
in the kitchen and utility area, which is almost exclusively my
province, neither Simon or Jen ever venturing in unless their food is
six or seven microseconds late being put down in front of them, or
they want money. As for Giles, he’s not really chauvinist, more not
there most of the time, poor lamb; I know I moan, but after all, he’s
slogging away for hours and hours to make us quite a formidable
amount of filthy lucre and no-one’s arguing about that, though
perhaps he shouldn’t be sloshed quite so often.
55 || Neonbeam
So we have separate containers for glass, plastic, paper and
tin, and when they all forget, as they do, of course, constantly, I
jiggle things around into the right places.
After a couple of weeks, everything seems to be going along
quite nicely. We’ve all accepted, (a) that this is just one of Mummy’s
Deranged Things and we’ll do our best to humour her, and (b) cooperation might just keep Mummy’s nose out of our bloody
computers, cars and holidays. So far, so good; the planet fights back.
Then along comes a do with Malcolm and Phyllis Harrington.
Now, these are nights I absolutely detest. Malcolm Harrington
is one of Giles’s senior colleagues and occasionally, it seems, we have
to entertain him at home, some sort of bloody Office Etiquette. Why
we can’t just taxi out to a decent restaurant I really don’t know;
however, loyal wifey and all that, meaning that Iana the au pair and I
slave away for hours and hours in the teeth of my modest culinary
skills and Iana’s unfailing tendencies to decorate the entire kitchen
with destroyed Pyrex, the clumsy bitch. In addition to that, Malcolm
Harrington is a total lech and embarrassing to be anywhere near, his
hands wondering everywhere given the slightest opportunity. Phyllis
Harrington qualifies for the bovine in almost every respect bar
actually mooing and will pick on anything that isn’t absolutely perfect
to whinge on about in her ghastly nasal whine.
It being the Harringtons, nothing but a vat of Bolly will do,
Giles unloading crates of the stuff. Iana and I get cracking and a few
hours in, all is well; she hasn’t despatched a solitary gravy boat into
the domestic beyond as yet and everything’s on schedule. Simon and
Jen have been packed off to sleepovers, though Simon was giving
56 || Neonbeam
vent to some highly suspicious chortling on the phone to that evil
Adams child earlier.
Unfortunately, the abundance of Bolly has tempted me to
perhaps over indulge a little and I begin to realise how much when I
find myself doing no more than grin stupidly at Phyllis’s little jabs
about the soup. The meal wears on, and as I regularly run to
the kitchen to escape Malcolm’s bloody tentacles, I notice that my
neat system is a little awry, Bolly bottles among the tins, tins in the
paper, even some food remains in the bottles. I set about putting
things right with the best of intentions, but the mists multiply and the
more I sup at my tumbler of Bolly, the mistier it gets. Downfall finally
comes when I step on some food remains which have actually found
their way on to the bloody floor and I find myself absolutely toppling
into the containers. Seconds later, I am a gruesome cocktail of
various substances, animal, vegetable and mineral, and about a
million containers of different kinds are rolling around on the floor.
At this point, of course, Giles appears in the bloody doorway
with both Harringtons looking over his shoulder. Initial mortification,
then I find their open mouths and haughty expressions incredibly
funny and I simply roar. And of course, Giles chooses this moment to
approach me and does an absolute somersault over some
further remains until he looks like a dinner in evening wear. What
finally loses it for me is the gravy slowly trickling down his forehead;
I absolutely hoot until my ribs ache. Only Phyllis announcing with that
bloody smirk of hers that Simon is outside chundering energetically
into the begonias eventually breaks the spell.
That was all the day before yesterday. Beyond a few cryptic
57 || Neonbeam
remarks on divorces and marital agreements, Giles has not spoken.
My headache is still hovering in the background, Simon has been
gated
and
de-computered
until
further
notice,
and
if
any
environmentalists even consider knocking on my door and going on
about the bloody planet, I shall personally bounce seventeen empty
Bolly bottles off their heads, one after the bloody other and then tell
them to go and recycle the bloody pieces.
Bruce Harris was brought up in the north-east of England, mainly Sunderland, before starting teacher training in
Nottingham. He taught English and Drama in secondary schools for twenty years before moving into educational
research, where 24 of his research-based articles were published in the Independent, the Guardian and the Times
Educational Supplement, and some educational magazines.
From 2000-2004 he was director of the educational charity Exam Aid. He began writing poetry again after a long
lay off in 58
2000
and so far has had fifteen poems published in five publications, three printed and two online. He is
|| Neonbeam
now aiming to develop his writing in various ways, including short fiction. A proportion of the work is comic fiction
and verse, and this submission comes from that genre.
ROB PLATH
Poetry
_______________________________________________________
the alphabet bleeds only after the scabs
there are no photographs of me
sitting at the poetry machine
even at a desk
w/ an armful of books
i was never captured on film in a library
but there are plenty of images of me
w/ a cigarette in my mouth & in a little
cloud of smoke
there are plenty of images of me
w/ a glass in my hand, leaning on
the thick lip of the old wooden bar
or stabbing the air w/ my middle finger
59 || Neonbeam
Poetry || Rob Plath
somewhere outside of walls
or making masturbatory gestures at
the camera's eye
& i prefer it this way
i prefer it that the poems are secondary
to the living
that the words are always at the heels
of the beads of hangover sweat that roll
off my arms
that the streams of sentences only dilute
the already standing puddles of beer & whiskey piss
that the alphabet bleeds only after the scabs
form on my flesh
anything else is bullshit
60 || Neonbeam
Poetry || Rob Plath
bang on yr laptop in a morgue drawer
people even lack
candor when scrawling
on bathroom walls
most poets' work
lay dying from tumors
of inauthenticity
their books like vegetables
hooked to ventilators
they make me want to
press the hot orange coils
of a car cigarette lighter
against my eyeballs
uncamouflage yr contradictions!
break out yr blasphemy!
quit shrinking from
confrontation
like a little pink scrotum
dunked in icy water
topple yr totem
of self-trickery
61 || Neonbeam
Poetry || Rob Plath
write poems
from a pay phone
within the walls
of an asylum
bang on yr laptop
in a morgue-drawer
yr a murderer
if you've killed yr
demons
& yr dead if
you killed yr
defects
the itemized list
of yr illusions
resembles a long
length of used
toilet tissue
flush 'em
fool
Rob Plath is a 37 year old poet from NY. He has published around 300 poems in 80+ magazines and journals both
62 || Neonbeam
nationally and internationally. He has one book of poems out and five forthcoming. He was once a student of Allen
Ginsberg's for two years. His latest chapbook acceptance is from pudding house publications. They accepted his
book 'whiskey and clay.'
COZUMEL 1997
Daniel Fridholm
1. The Island
Son: There are only two things that
I can imagine. That I can see
when I close my eyes. One is a
plain wooden figure without any
colour or features, like one of
those Russian dolls before it has
been hollowed out so more can fit
inside.
The
other
is
some
fuck
who
looked at me weird last night.
Father: There is only one thing I can see when I look at you.
Myself.
There are the half finished buildings of Cozumel, seventies tower
blocks that are now skeletons and rubble piles with free bricks and
concrete for whoever can prise them from their foundations. Not a
hard task should you need to build a home for three children and a
wife in a hurry. People can be prone to bouts of superhuman strength
if there is a need for survival underlying their aim. Sometimes they
form bands to help each other collect the rubble. Sometimes not.
63 || Neonbeam
Cozumel 1997 || Daniel Fridholm
There are the street vendors selling fish or beef tacos and
tamales. The tourists stay away from these pedlars, completely
oblivious to what their carts hold, they have a fear of parasites or
dysentery or e coli and prefer to eat somewhere at least vaguely
American looking. Possibly somewhere with a coca cola sign or
somewhere that has waiters who dress in black. But these aren't the
best places to eat.
There is seemingly one petrol station on the island, you can
see first time visitors desperately cruising on fumes in their rented
jeeps asking confused looking Mexicans where to find gas. The
Mexicans just shrug and shake their heads. The tourists mutter and
drive off, in a vain attempt to find someone who speaks English.
When they are gone the Mexicans burst into a chorus of an American
pop song and laugh spiritedly to each other. You must realise when
visiting Cozumel that there are those that can't speak English, and
those that wont.
There are the drunks.
There are the tourist hotels and there are the non tourist
shacks. The tourist hotels have swimming pools with bars integrated
into their design so you can swim right up and get a cocktail without
ever leaving the pool. The shacks are cheaper, friendlier (the kind of
friendliness that does not expect a tip for every smile) and have no
air conditioning. The tourist hotels have organised fiestas with big
grins and tequila by the gallon, all white faces. The shacks have a
bottle of mescal with a white worm floating at the bottom.
There is the jail.
There are the deep sea fishing boats who take tourists out
64 || Neonbeam
and work day and night. You can even eat the fish you catch.
Sometimes there will be nothing. Sometimes there will be a
barracuda slapping on the boat, with huge teeth and rolling eyes and
a desperation that rivals that of the men amongst the rubble.
There is a father and his son, returning to the island after six
years, they have been many times before, but they are still tourists.
Those people who have holiday homes or villas in the south of France
or Italy or Spain are always tourists, however long they stay,
however friendly the people are and however well they learn to speak
their language. The place belongs to the people who were born there,
who have seen buildings being built, half finished and abandoned,
who know that the street vendor beats his wife but makes the best
tamales, who have seen children grow old and die, trees grow and
wither and marriages and families fall apart.
That is what some people forget.
2. The Drunk
Two men walk into a bar, they look similar, they could be brothers
but their difference in age is too much. They are father and son. They
know the bar and used to frequent it long before the son could ever
drink legally. It has been six years. The drunk is still there.
"That drunk is still here," the son says.
"I think he'll be here forever," the father replies, without
looking up from his beer.
"They still taunt him, still even after all these years" he goes
65 || Neonbeam
on, visibly agitated.
"What, did you think they were suddenly going to stop?" the
father says, finally looking up at the old drunk wistfully.
"Doesn't he realise? He talks dirty to those underage sluts
that come in, doesn't he?" says the son, not stopping to hear an
answer from his bi lingual father. "Does that make him a paedophile I
wonder? They taunt him, he doesn't know that they're fifteen or
sixteen. Girls didn't dress like that when he was younger. I wonder if
he was married? Or is married? And later on, when the men with
those moustaches that they comb come in, he'll eat a cigarette for
those fucks. They'll say: 'Eat a cigarette old drunk and we'll buy you
your next mescal', and he'll do it and they'll laugh. I think it makes
him feel wanted in a way, maybe he was the clown in school or
something. They tell him to walk the shore wall outside, don't they,
when he's really drunk. They find him entertaining. Well one day he'll
fall off of the fucking wall, you pricks.”
The son ends abruptly, seething at his cold beer. The father
says nothing.
The pair sit in silence for a moment before they are disturbed
by shouting from the door of the bar. The drunk is bowled over by a
man rushing towards the father and son, he is wearing a green golf
shirt, shorts and sunglasses. He is struggling to carry four cans of
American beer that have obviously been detached from a six pack.
"Holy fucking shit! Who would have thought!" the man
bellows maniacally at the father. The father rises nervously and the
son notices the sweat suddenly form on his face and cover his hairy
arms like dew.
66 || Neonbeam
"Whitey, what are you doing here?" he says with much less
gusto than the golf shirt wearing man managed to pour into his
greeting.
"Aaah you know, I went to Cancun for spring break and just
sort of hung around since then."
It is nearing the end of summer.
"Why were you in Cancun for spring break? You must be
nearly fifty man," says the father accusingly, running his hand
through his hair as if to show the lack of grey to match the others
salt and pepper crop.
"Never too young to get college girls drunk now is it" replies
Whitey without a shred of guilt in his voice.
"This is my son," says the father, obviously trying to steer the
conversation onto a new, more tasteful route, noticing the men that
comb their moustaches coming through the door as one rowdy mass.
"Well would you look at that, he looks ex-fucking-actly like
you man!" he says without offering a point at which the son might
introduce himself, but continues and goes into great detail about the
various college girls he has corrupted this time round.
Throughout this the son has been regarding his father’s old
friend and has already made up his mind about him. Not only has he
made up his mind about this overbearing stranger but he has some
questions for his father on the subject of why he would be friends
with such a man-child.
Suddenly there is a commotion from outside and people start
running out from the bar screaming, and to the shore wall. The drunk
had fallen forty feet to the rocks.
67 || Neonbeam
3. Whitey
It turns out that "Whitey", the fathers old roommate and drinking
partner had come into a lot of money after dropping out of Utah state
due to a dead father and a publishing firm, and hadn't had to do
anything with his life whatsoever. Indeed, he felt no desire to. He
had frozen his life, he lived a sort of stasis. He drank with people
thirty years younger than himself. He went to Florida or Cancun for
spring break and ogled sloppy drunk girls on the beach.
He had a boat, he had a sports car, but bans on each licence.
And now he was intruding on the father and son's trip to a place that
they thought of as sacred. As they spoke with Whitey they found out
that he had been to all the "off the beaten track" places and non
tourist parts of the island that they had. Whitey seemed to have been
blessed by massive amounts of good luck all his life, and men who
are blessed by luck for almost fifty years often meet a watery end.
The father and son, upon returning to their shack with a bottle of
mescal and some Mexican junk weed bought from a twelve year old
boy, decided to lose him the moment they could and planned a trip
into the mountains the other side of the island. They had talked
about taking this trip since they first started coming to the island. It
was said to be beautiful and untouched by the American hotel
business, there were scarcely any Mexicans who built there as it was
so mountainous and covered in forest. Only farmers, trees, the odd
beach bum and those who wanted to get lost for a while. Whitey had
insisted that they meet in the morning for beers and then they would
make their excuses and leave him.
68 || Neonbeam
They drink their beers, rent scooters and make ready to go, collecting
some food and some mescal in backpacks. It is as they leave the
very outer edge of town that they see Whitey. He is riding a scooter
himself, with a very beautiful, young girl.
He stops and says: "Jesus Fucking Christ, we have to stop
meeting like this! We're going up into the mountains for a bit of an
exploration session boys, you fancy it?"
The son examines the girl. She is a small, dark haired
Mexican girl, but her skin is not as dark as the people who live on the
island. She is wearing a white beach dress that contrasts her skin and
she has a scar on her neck that shows up bright white. Somehow, to
the son, this only makes her more desirable. Along with the fact that
she has a small amount of cocaine around her left nostril, the son
decides that she is the most beautiful girl he has ever seen. He used
to lust after women, but now he just seems to complain and not
actively seek them out. He finds this much less of a strain and until
now, doesn't believe that he has found a girl who can excite him.
She smiles at him and says, in an American accent that
seems to be in defiance of region, "Hello boy."
The son is suddenly and acutely aware of his semi-middle
class British accent and colloquialisms and tries to erase them from
his sentences before he says anything. This proves to be difficult as
he babbles a string of unconnected syllables and ends up settling for
a conspiring nose rub and eyebrow lift, to let the girl know about her
remnants of drug use. She simply smiles and rubs the white dust
away and returns the glance. Luckily the two men are chatting idly
69 || Neonbeam
and don't notice the exchange.
The foursome head out of town and begin the mountain trail
on their scooters. While the son rides he decides that he must have
the girl who called him boy. He decides that he feels no indignation or
hurt from that remark, even though he is clearly now a man, because
he is resigned to the fact that she is more than him. She knows all.
They ride their scooters past the marijuana farms, with goats
keeping watch, perched on broken tree trunks or corrugated iron
huts, sometimes five or six at a time. They occasionally catch sight of
the sea through broken sections in the tree line as they climb the
steep trail. They see one car, one scooter and one person walking.
The father stops and asks the slight man struggling up the hill if he
wants a ride on the back of his scooter. The man hisses and looks
disgusted. He spits on the ground and waves the father away. The
father is not hurt by this; the mexicano is a very proud man and he
can see why he refuses, but he leaves a bottle of beer a hundred
metres up the trail. He knows the mexicano will drink it once he is
out of sight.
Once they start to move down the other side of the mountain
they stop and begin to drink. The fathers tongue is now loose with
mescal and beer and begins to become nostalgic. He and Whitey
recall tales of debauchery with women, drugs, narrow escapes from
the police and parents, and seem happy in their revelry.
The son asks the girl her name. She replies with a curt and
flirtatious "no!", stands up, takes the sons hand and says, "we are
going to race down to the beach on these scooters and swim, it will
be dark soon."
70 || Neonbeam
Whitey points at the son and says, "if you fuck her…"
threateningly before bursting into laughter along with the father and
slapping the son on the back, immensely proud of his own joke.
The son looks at Whitey, nods at his father and says, "if you
fuck him…"
This time there is no laughter and the son smugly grins as he
and the girl get on the scooters and race down the sheer incline of
the mountain trail. They do not swim when they get to the beach.
They snort lines of cocaine that she produces from her shirt and then
remove their clothes and roll in the sand in an embrace. The son
mutters something about a condom and the girl says, "don't worry
boy." He realises soon enough that she is on her period as the white
sand is flecked red. There is more blood than he imagined, having
never had sex with someone whilst on their period, and the flecks
seem to fill in to become almost solid, he absent-mindedly notices as
they roll to change position.
After, she plays with the sand that is red. First she draws a
heart in it with her finger, and then removes the red sand around it
and turns it over so that it seems like there is a tiny red heart just
painted on the beach.
"I hope nothing ever disturbs this, not even the weather," she
says seriously. "It's ours."
4. The Street Vendor
Whitey and the girl return to their separate hotels and the father and
71 || Neonbeam
son return to their shack. Whitey doesn't seem to suspect, although
the father does and he reprimands his son about it, but is secretly
pleased. Whitey once slept with one of his girlfriends in college and
the father gained revenge by sleeping with Whitey's.
The son wants a night away from his father and decides to go
into town alone. The father agrees that this would be good as it has
been a week since they were alone. The son goes to a bar he has
never been to before and is disgusted by its faux Mexican décor and
service. He just loves Mexico, not the Mexican experience ladled to
fat Americans by the tourist board.
He moves on to a tiny but clean bar, with an elderly man
serving tequila and beers. He notices the street vendor who works
the patch of pathway outside his room, who he knows speaks English
and he decides to sit with him. The vendor is wearing a faded and
filthy blue Nike t-shirt that hangs around him like rolls of skin, and
some shapeless brown trousers that have holes in. He is drunk. The
vendor recognises him and shows no disdain for the son sitting at
with him. He begins to speak in fluent English.
"I used to own this bar. People would come to me for my tamales
from all around the island. The fishermen would come in after they
had sold their fish to eat them. They were the best on the island.
Sometimes news spread as far as Cancun on the mainland and
tourists would come and eat my tamales. I have a wife you see. I
used to live in America, I worked at an American restaurant, I
couldn't cook my tamales but it was ok. I saved up lots of money and
came back to Cozumel to start my own restaurant here, so
72 || Neonbeam
everybody could try my tamales. I already knew that they were the
best. But I have a wife you see.
Well, we were doing well, we had lots of customers and even
if they weren't eating tamales they were drinking beers or tequilas.
We never had any trouble with drunks or men who fight. Occasionally
we would have a cockfight outside at the back and men would bet
and say, 'Barman, you are alright, let me buy you a drink.' I always
refused of course. This bar was my life, I spent every day cleaning
and decorating and cooking and thinking up new ways to make it
better.
You see that man over there serving drinks. He is my brother.
He is my older brother. I was always frightened of him, he used to
beat me when we were younger. But I forgave him. One day a few
years ago he came to me saying, 'Brother! Oh Brother! I have
nowhere to live', and I said, 'You can live with me Brother'. The next
day he said, 'Brother! Oh Brother! I have no money!' and I said, 'I
will give you some money Brother'. The next day he said, 'Brother! I
need more money!" and I said, 'Here is more money Brother'.
On the next day he took my wife. On the day after that he
kicked me out and told the town that I beat my wife. The day after
that he took over my shop and stole my tamale recipe. I never
stopped him. I just forgave and forgave. I come in here every day
when people don't want any more of my food and think about this
wonderful place. He lets me."
The son says, "why do you forgive so easily?" But the vendor doesn't
speak. The son says, "I don't forgive readily enough, every small
73 || Neonbeam
injustice done to me I seem to note down behind my eyes and hold it
against the person until it all comes out. I wish we could combine, we
would be able to forgive in perfectly suitable doses". But the vendor
still doesn't say anything and looks wearily up at his brother who is
staring directly at him. The vendor stands up and wheels his cart out
the door in a familiar routine.
5. Cozumel 1988
Sun, surf, sand, sex, drugs, booze, fights. Everything for a good
holiday. I think we did a pretty good job, especially with a kid in tow.
6. Cozumel 1990
"I'm not stupid dad, I know you go out, get shitfaced, fight people
and take drugs, you are a fucking mess. Why did we come here.
Couldn't you have done that at home?"
7. Cozumel 1991
…
8. Cozumel 1997
74 || Neonbeam
The son says to the father the day before they are due to leave, "I'm
glad we came. I'm glad you didn't end up like Whitey. I'm glad I'm
you because I know its going to get better eventually. I spoke to the
tamale vendor and now I can forgive you."
9. The Tamale Vendor
The father goes for a walk very early on the morning that they are
set to leave and head their separate ways, one to America, one to
England. He sees the tamale vendor that he has seen every time he
has come back to the island.
"Could I have a tamale please?" he says.
"Yes you can, I see you've become a man finally," the vendor
says as he opens his cart and reaches in to find the choicest tamale.
"When we talked, six years ago, that was when I changed.
I've been making up for lost time since then being a man."
The tamale vendor smiles and nods and passes him his food.
"Free of charge my old friend, I spoke to your son also you
know, this trip. He will become a man someday, but do not rush him.
Have you ever seen those Russian dolls? You take them apart to find
another doll inside, and another doll inside that one until you are left
with a solid doll at the end. Your son hasn't even began to take apart
his first doll. I'd be surprised if there was even any paint on his doll.
Ha! But do not rush him."
The father nods.
75 || Neonbeam
The vendor says: "Next time you pay. Ha! Goodbye."
He ambles off and the father starts walking towards his shack
and his son, to pack up his clothing and a bottle of mescal to remind
him. He will never open it, he has many. The worms at the bottom
just staring from their piss coloured liquid longingly.
The tamale vendor shouts from down the street as he heads
towards the bar.
"By the way. I've stopped beating my wife! Maybe I too am to
become a man!"
76 || Neonbeam
To find out more about Daniel Fridholm, please visit him at: http://www.myspace.com/danfridholm
DAVID BYRON
Poetry
_______________________________________________________
Purgatory
An icy chill races to my heart,
beckoning me to death's door.
My blood runs cold,
my veins throbbing with fear.
Is this not death's high gate?
Who holds the key?
A lost and forlorn soul,
seeking redemption?
Or a master of lies?
Is this trickery,
or is it the truth?
I knock at the gates,
anxiously anticipating an answer to my inquiry.
The gates open,
a furnace blast takes my breath.
I wait forever now, licked by flames.
77 || Neonbeam
Poetry || David Byron
RESURRECTED
BY: ''DOC BLOOD''
{The hissing, the breathing...}
As I lay sleeping on the grave's cold damp floor,
{Wet tongue lapping, dancing over my skin.....}
As I sleep forever more.
{My eyelids heavy, your face a secret...}
As I long to see you once again,
{nothing but darkness, shadows....}
As the ritual begins.
{Now arteries of color, a swelling crimson tide..}
As your fingers split me open, my body spreading wide,
{Twisting, grotesque images....}
As you devour me back to life.
{Now, the awakening....}
As I slowly open my eyes,
{To see my bloody saviour...}
As you wave away the swarm of flies.
78 || Neonbeam
Please see Part One of David Bryon’s short story, “Electrocuting The Clowns”, for his contributor bio.
ELECTROCUTING THE CLOWNS
(PART ONE OF TWO)
David Byron
“I don’t like clown dolls,” Melly said.
“When I was a kid I thought at night
they could come alive and eat you.”
“You’re psycho,” I said.
“Hey, I’m over it,” she said.
“Then what’s with all this?” I
asked, waving my arm in front of
the wall opposite the headboard
where four full-length rows of clown
dolls were staring at us. A strip of black tape was fixed across their
eyes as though they were actors in a clown doll porn movie, and each
clown was stuck to the wall by a nail through its chest.
Melly leaned back on the bed, brushed her hair away from her
face, and grinned.
“This is Death Row, clown style,”
she said, “and I’m the
sixteen year old warden.”
She was wearing jeans and silver chains, a ragged open shirt
held together with safety pins, and a tight color-blurred t-shirt that
was more red than anything else. I followed the line of her legs to
where they ended in black ankle-high boots with rolled-down tops.
79 || Neonbeam
Electrocuting The Clowns (Part One Of Two) || David Byron
She looked good in boots.
“Where’d you get them all?” I asked.
I wanted to sit down on the edge of the bed, but I wasn’t sure
how she’d take it.
“Him,” she said.
I knew who that was. Nobody that went to our school had to
ask who “Him” was.
I didn’t like the green highlights in her hair, I decided. I liked
it better pink.
Melly and I had met outside the psychiatrist’s office. I had
seen her around school a few times, hanging with Him- the clown
giver.
He was tall and wore a black trench coat, dark glasses, and
he looked pretty scary for being in the tenth grade. He called Melly
his “familiar”, like she was one of those cats that hung around
witches. Once she wore a dog collar to school for him. It had silver
spikes sticking out from it, and her teacher hauled into the school
office and got her booted out. His name, before he had a brain
aneurysm and blew a head gasket, had been Collin.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
“Why’d he give you all these clowns? I mean there must be
like a million of them.”
They watched me. All in a row. All nailed to the wall.
Never piss off a girl with a hammer.
Even in broad daylight, I didn’t like them.
I had taken my
medicine in the morning, and I felt calm except for being alone in her
80 || Neonbeam
house with Melly, so I shouldn’t have felt paranoid. When my dosage
is off, I can usually tell.
I feel hot and I start to sweat.
I hear a
repeat or an echo in my head sometimes. When my dosage is off, I
can hear voices, but not too often.
I could go to school, though,
because I was on a treatment program. Not a lot of kids hung with
me. Girls usually kept their distance.
That’s why I couldn’t believe it when Melly called. I thought it
was a joke at first. We began to talk a lot. I kept waiting for her to
hang up. She could have dialled the wrong number and got me by
mistake and decided to just keep talking.
I asked a lot of flipped
questions, but I tried not to ask the same ones twice. I worried now
that it was none of my business about why he gave her all the
clowns.
She squinted her eyes at her bedroom window.
“Kind of bright in here, isn’t it?” she said.
I checked my watch.
“It’s two o’clock,” I said back at her.
“My mom won’t be back until eight,” she said.
She twisted a bit of her hair and looked at the ceiling. The air
conditioning was on, but my forehead was oily, and started feeling
wet. It was the way she moved, or lay there, or breathed, or just
the way she looked at me that did it. Melly Brooks wasn’t the best
looking girl in school, but she definitely had the best body. I was the
same age as she was, and I’d never seen a naked girl yet, except on
videos.
“She’s working, right?” I asked.
“Posing it,” she said.
81 || Neonbeam
“You know- anything to keep from
being a housewife. At least when my jerkwad stepdad was here she
hung around a little more.”
“Why did he leave?”
“Why don’t you sit on the edge of the bed?
Don’t get any
ideas or anything, though. Not yet. ”
“I can drag that chair over from the computer desk,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” she said, and pulled her shirt out from her
pants and began to rub her stomach. “Fat,” she said, patting it.
“No way,” I said.
When I’d moved the red metal chair over from the computer
desk to a spot next to her bed and was about to sit down, she asked,
“So, are you going to close the curtains, or what?”
“What about the neighbors?”
“You care about the neighbors?”
“No, I just meant that I didn’t want you to get in trouble. You
know what I mean. People look up and see the curtains closed and
say something to your mom and all. Maybe she won’t let me come
back over.”
Melly started to laugh at that.
“I can close them if you want,” I said.
She kept laughing.
Her fingers dug into the comforter like
she was afraid of laughing so hard that she would fall on the floor
and hurt herself.
“I’m closing them right now,” I said.
“Do you like me?” she asked, and stopped me before I could
move by grabbing my wrist.
I looked straight down into her dark eyes, and felt a warm
82 || Neonbeam
buzz humming through my system.
“Yeah,” I said. “I like you a lot.”
“I’ll do something for you if you do something for me.”
I sat down as slowly as I could, and at least I didn’t knock the
chair over doing it.
“I have a hard time thinking when I’m around you,” I told
her.
“You like that?” she asked, and propped herself up on both
elbows again.
“I don’t know,” I said, leaning back in the chair.
“You think I’m bizarre, don’t you?” asked Melly.
“I think you’re different,” I said.
“Yeah, well you’d be different if you had to sleep with them
every night,” she said, jerking her thumb at the small stadium of
clowns lining the wall.
“So what’s the story with the circus?” I asked.
“I told you, they’re from Him.”
Collin again.
It was creepy.
White make-up and Mardi Gras outfits. Big floppy shoes and
orange hair.
Most of them happy, some of them sad. All of them
with round red noses and painted mouths, and each of them with a
nail hammered through their little clown hearts.
“That why you hammered them into place?”
She sat up and patted the edge of the bed, inviting me to
leave the safety of my chair. Her black fingernail polish made it okay
even though it was afternoon.
83 || Neonbeam
I was too nervous to move.
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” she asked.
“It’s hard to think around you,” I told her again.
“And?” she prompted.
“And it gets harder when you’re closer.”
“What gets harder?” she grinned.
“Thinking. Thinking gets harder. Oh, I got it. I didn’t mean
that. I meant-.”
“You can quit talking now, Orin,” she said.
I shut up.
She moved a little closer to me and touched my hand.
“Orin, a lot of people think we’re crazy, you and me,” she
said.
“I’m not crazy,” I told her. “Not when I take my medicine.”
I looked away and over at the clowns.
I could hear them
whispering to each other, but I couldn’t see them move. They were
playing it cool. There was one I saw, a little bigger than the rest, and
it was the only one that had its hands in front of it and its wrist wired
together. Its head seemed to move a little to one side, as though it
were angling for a better look at me.
“Do you like my clowns?” she asked.
“Are you afraid of them?”
“They scare the shit out of me,” she said as she brought her
face within a few inches of mine.
“Why am I here?” I asked.
She leaned forward and kissed me on the tip of the nose.
I leaned back in the chair, pulling away from her, my stomach
84 || Neonbeam
tightening and my groin muscles locking up.
“Why, Melly?”
“Because I like you. I like you a lot.”
“Why really?”
“You don’t think I like you?”
“I’m skinny, I’ve got big ears, and I’ve got too many pimples.
Why am I here?”
She sat up straight and swung her legs over the edge of the
bed so that our knees were touching, even though I was leaning
back. Her hands moved forward and she placed them on my knees.
“I need some help, Orin, and I think you’re the only one crazy
enough to help me.”
“You like me, though, right? Maybe just a little bit?”
I felt safer with my chair leaning back and away from her.
With her hands on my knees, though, it was a lot harder for me to
breathe. The heat from her palms went right through my jeans. It
was like my thighs were being microwaved.
“Sure I like you.
I figured you liked me too.
That’s why I
thought you would help me do it.”
“Do what? What do you want me to do?”
“I want you,” she leaned forward and whispered, “to help me
electrocute some clowns.”
“That’s murder,” I said.
“Those clowns,” she said, pointing at the wall.
The chair fell backwards as I stood up and backed away a few
steps. Maybe she was making fun of me. Maybe we weren’t alone in
the house.
85 || Neonbeam
From the corner of my eye I saw one of the clowns, a
little one in a green polka-dotted jump suit with a circle of red around
his mouth, lean his head forward like he was agreeing with me.
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “Why are you doing this
to me? Inviting me over here with your mom gone. But we’re not
alone, are we?
I bet you’ve got lots of your friends in here
somewhere, waiting to come in and laugh at me. I didn’t do anything
to you. You think just because I take pills I must be crazy. It’s just
some kind of a chemical imbalance.
That’s all.
I’m normal, I am.
I’m right in the head.”
“Hey, you’re fine.
I take pills too.
And what’s wrong with
being a little crazy?”
She was off the bed and walking towards me.
I wanted to
push her back onto to the blanket and hold her down.
She was
trying to use me.
“What’re you thinking about, Orin?” she asked.
“We are all
alone, you know.”
Melly was so close, so close, and she put her arms behind my
neck and started to stroke the back of my hair.
“I was…I was…I was thinking that I…. I was thinking that I
wanted to push you back down on the bed and hold you down.”
“You can do that, you know. Is that what you want to do, to
push me back on the bed and hold me down?”
“I can’t think,” I said.
“All you have to do is help me fry some little clowns. I’m so
afraid, Orin. They’ve been tormenting me ever since Collin died. I
don’t know how he does it. You knew what he was, didn’t you? You
86 || Neonbeam
knew that he messed around with some nasty black witchcraft, didn’t
you?”
“I was afraid of him. He could be very bad.”
She was pulling my head forward, and I put my hand
between us to keep her back, but I could feel that I was pushing
against her breast.
“Do you want to push me there?” she asked.
“I was just-.”
“Then you’ve got to help me get rid of Collin.”
“Collin’s dead, Melly.”
She pulled my head closer, and I had my hand still on her
breast when she kissed me.
“He’s not dead,” she said, pulling me down lower and
whispering in my ear. “Collin is in one of those little clowns.”
Before the doctors found meds that worked for me, I used to have
nightmares while I was awake. Some of the psychiatrists said that
my waking nightmares were primal terrors and aggressions that
broke past my inhibitions.
Others said other things.
All of them
thought that I was crazy. None of them said quite that. What I was
doing with Melly was real, and as I strapped the first clown into the
wires and straps and metal that she called “her little electric chair”
after we pulled the drapes, I knew that what I was doing would
classify as nuts. But Melly felt good.
She had put her electric chair on a rubber mouse pad, and
wires ran from the device to a switchbox that was plugged into the
wall.
87 || Neonbeam
“You take them off the wall one at a time,” she said, “and
put them in the chair and strap them in. I don’t want to touch them.
But I’ll throw the switch.”
“Why don’t you want to touch them?” I had asked.
“I just don’t,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because they’ll try to hurt me.”
“What about me?” I asked.
“They’ll hate you,” she said back, “but they can’t do anything
to you. Most of them are just… half alive. One of them is him. I just
don’t know which one.”
“It wouldn’t be the one with the little handcuffs, would it?” I
asked.
“I think that’s a devil.
It might be Collin, though.
I’m not
sure. But I’m not taking any chances.”
“Why did you put the black tape over their eyes?”
“I got tired of them watching me,” she said. “And when we
do it, you can’t take the tape off their eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because their eyes can make you do things.”
“This is crazy, Melly.”
“So?”
“Maybe I should leave.”
“You chicken?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Go get me a prisoner.”
88 || Neonbeam
I removed the nail from the first victim with the claw end of a
hammer, and it must have been nailed into a stud, because either
the wood or the clown doll shrieked as the nail came out.
There were tears painted onto the doll’s ceramic face. They
were red and made me think of blood. I saw one drop of red at the
corner of its lips that I wasn’t sure was there before I had pulled out
the nail. I tried not to look at it while I did the reverse-stake thing.
“Hurry,” she said. “Put it in the chair before it wakes up. It
takes them a while to start moving because they’re still in shock.”
When I had wired the first one in, I stepped back, took one of
a few amber bottles from my pocket, and shook out a med. I wasn’t
sure if I was following the schedule, but I was feeling stressed. As
Melly squeezed a little water onto the clown from a washcloth, I
swallowed the pill dry.
I thought that it was the one to keep me
calm, but the label had fallen off the plastic bottles and I wasn’t sure
which one was which. With what was going on, I wasn’t sure that it
made a difference what type of drug I took.
Melly said something in Latin or some other language with her
eyes closed and then threw the switch.
The sparks must have
bounced the clown up in the chair before it started to smoke,
because it jumped enough that if it wasn’t the sparks, it was the
clown arching its back.
“It’s going to burn,” I said.
“In Hell,” she replied.
“This is crazy, Melly,” I said.
“Next clown,” she said back at me.
89 || Neonbeam
By Clown number five, we had to put a fan in front of her
bedroom window and blow the smoke out. Each clown that she juiced
puffed a gray-purple cloud. It wasn’t that there was so much of the
smoke; it was just that when she threw the switch, there was an
awful smell that came from them; the puff clouds had the kind of
nasty odor that you’d expect if you lit a skunk on fire. But the fan
cleared the smoke out enough to breathe without gagging.
Outside, it was a day as bright and clear as freshly cleaned
glass, but inside we were killing inanimate objects.
The lights would dim for a sec when she threw the switch, like
they do in the Death Row movies; there would be the snap, crackle,
and pop when the electricity fried their fifty percent cotton, fifty
percent rayon hearts, and always the fan sucked the air from the
room and blew it outside. We were running a clown death camp on
the second floor of a suburban bi-level.
People have asked me if they were alive, and whether or not I
thought that what Melly and I did was killing living things.
always answered that I was just following orders.
from the history channel.
I have
I learned that
Whenever that doesn’t work, though, I
remind them that I’m not right in the head, and tell them that I can’t
imagine why they would be looking for a straight answer from me
anyway.
But when I pried the nails from their chest with the claw
hammer, as I held them against the wall and yanked on the
hammer’s handle, I know that I felt them squirm. I mean it.
And I could not take my eyes away from the black tape that
blindfolded them. I wondered about their eyes.
90 || Neonbeam
Little clowns with little clown hats and two teenagers who
were electrocuting them one at a time.
I hoped that Melly was right.
I hoped that they couldn’t hurt me.
Melly had brought a black garbage bag into the room, and when they
had been executed with her saying her enchantment as each clown in
succession met Mr. Electron, the bag was filling up with their rag doll
bodies.
By the third clown execution, I had begun to shake and
sweat. Half way through the lot my T-shirt was soaked. Two thirds
of the way through I had taken three more pills, and the room
glowed with bright, oscillating colors.
I heard whisperings in my
head. One part of my mind argued with the other. The rational with
the part that was possessed by fear and lust.
“Take that you little bastard,” she told a fat little clown that I
had barely been able to squeeze into her homemade electric chair.
“There’s nobody here but us,” I reminded her.
I had never been alone with a girl in her bedroom, but
somehow I had imagined it differently.
To be continued in Issue Four…
David
Byron
is
aged
91 || Neonbeam
47.
He
is
a
http://www.freewebs.com/deadletteroffice48,
published
and
the
writer.
website
David‘s
for
his
website
horror
can
be
magazine,
found
at:
Twisted,
is:
http://www.freewebs.com/dwvideo59. His last publication was City Of The Dead at www.midnightinhell.com. He
has an upcoming novella at www.pikerspress.com, due November 26th.
DAVID THORPE
Poetry
_______________________________________________________
Hearts and Stones
What lies inside is often not belied
By the exterior. Moreover if it is revealed
It is interior no longer. This stone,
Which rests in my palm like a hardened buttock,
Solid with uncommon weight of reality,
Veined with history, is not an object
Which you'd expect would teach a moral subject.
Its surface, brown and freckled like my mother's face,
Is smooth, cool and soothing like my lover's hair,
And all that can be seen, a product of environmental wear.
Yet beneath it lies an older story; secrets
Of its creation in earth's subsurface belly.
Now, a secret published is a secret lost,
Like escaping gas, unreclaimable; and if
I should take a mallet, cleave this common rock
In two, to loose its mystery to the common world,
Though inside should become outside, yet by some
Strange Zenotic paradox, each half retains something within.
92 || Neonbeam
Poetry || David Thorpe
Now the hypnotic recession begins. I could smash
And shatter for all eternity, it would not matter.
Each halved piece would still retain its inner realm.
My learning might well progress item by item,
But my yearning would remain, ad infinitum.
Thus this stone is like a face and mind,
Even one that tries to know itself, gazing
Proudly into a mirror; but let us never
Be deceived: the heart shall differ.
Stones and brains be solid. Walls of a secret too,
But that red ichor, once spilled from its
Membraned pump, even running thicker,
Cannot be said to have outside or in.
Which might explain why folk try to turn their hearts
To stone, and in doing so roll stonelike on their own.
David Thorpe is the author of Hybrids, which won the 2006 HarperCollins contest to find a major new children’s
writer. You can visit David at: http://www.myspace.com/david_thorpe. Hybrids is available to buy from
93 || Neonbeam
www.amazon.co.uk.
There will be an interview with David Thorpe in Issue Four of Neonbeam.
BLURRED
Jennifer O'Gorman
Imagine a small girl aged three years
old, sitting at the top of a series of
twelve steps, wearing a white, cotton
nightgown. She has hair that doesn’t
seem to suit any definition of colour;
it is both light brown and dark
blonde simultaneously. Her skin is
smooth as only a young child’s can
be and bears the slightest hint of a
suntan. In her left hand she clutches
a soft, much-loved, brown teddy
bear; the right hand is balled into a fist and she is sucking her
thumb, biting down on it, apparently oblivious to the pain of her
teeth pressing into the flesh.
Her feet are bare, her toes clutching at the edge of the hard
step, barely comforted by the worn and rough, grey carpet; and with
her green eyes wide, she is staring towards the bottom of the stairs.
Beside her is her little brother, in a plastic baby carrier. He clutches a
grubby toy rabbit to his chest, held tightly in his chubby hands. His
blue eyes are scanning the area, taking in every aspect of his
surroundings. The girl has dragged his carrier roughly from the small
room they both share, and now they are in the hallway. The boy is
94 || Neonbeam
Blurred || Jennifer O’Gorman
chewing innocently on his lower lip. His name is James, and the girl is
called Katie. This is a memory.
It’s not hard to find the reason for their presence at the top of
the stairs, nor what Katie is looking at; in fact, it would be correct to
assume that they are alike. Their parents are in the hall at the
bottom of the stairs. The father is tall, with thinning blonde hair, and
is neither fat, nor is he thin. In Katie’s eyes, he appears very big and
strong, and occasionally scary. At the moment his face is very red;
his blue eyes look almost ready to pop out of his head; his nose is
twitching as it always does when he is angry, and his mouth is
hideously deformed as he shouts at the children’s mother, who
stands before him. She is quite short, barely over five feet tall, and is
of an average build. Her hair is dark brown and her green-blue eyes
seem to be blazing as she yells furiously back at her husband.
The two adults are standing about two feet away from one
another, yet they are shouting and screaming at each other as
though kilometres separate them. The shouting is why James and
Katie are awake. Everything looks sharp and appears to be made up
of a series of straight lines. Katie’s eyes are only seeing in black and
white for a moment, but they soon clear. She takes one hitching
breath, before steadying herself. As the yells grow louder, the air
seems to thicken with a mixture of fear, unbreakable tension, and
viciousness. It is a vile stench, and one the children are unlikely to
ever forget; Katie almost gags against it several times, but
desperately fights back the wave of nausea threatening her throat.
Tears come to her eyes and she blinks them away, hoping against
innocent, childish hope that they will simply disappear, but they spill
95 || Neonbeam
from her eyes, trickling down her cheeks. Katie raises the arm
bearing her teddy and wipes the back of it over her face, smudging a
dirty mark where the tears had made their tracks. The rain is pelting
down outside, hard against the window.
Katie averts her eyes to look out at the darkness, but fresh
screams inside the house attract her attention; it is not her parents,
but James, disliking the noise of the argument. His face is contorted
and ruddy as he screams and cries, but their parents aren’t listening;
either they can hear him and are just ignoring it, or their own yells
are obstructing their ability to hear, but either way neither of them
seem to care. Katie puts down her teddy, takes her thumb from her
mouth, and pulls her brother out of his carrier, trying to rock him like
their mum does. He’s heavy, but it’s agonizingly painful for her to
watch him cry, so Katie tries until she can’t hold him any longer and
has to put him down.
She looks back at her parents, who are still shrieking, and
feels herself crying again. Her body shakes with each sob, but this
time she can’t stop. She is surprised when James’ small, cold hand
grasps her own, but Katie rubs her fingers over his, barely noticing
how cold her feet are. She digs her toes into the thin carpet and
manages a smile, but nothing has changed. There comes a loud
crash, and she jumps, looking downstairs. The big mirror hanging on
the wall in the hallway is broken; there’s a jagged spider’s web of
broken glass near the bottom-right corner, and a wiggly line runs
from there to the top of the mirror.
Her mum and dad have stopped shouting now; he’s just
standing there, breathing hard, and looking furious, and her mum
96 || Neonbeam
has moved to sit at the bottom of the stairs. Her head is in her hands
and she’s crying. Katie feels angry, and a powerful rage builds up
within her. Her mum didn’t deserve that, which means her dad was
to blame. His eyes flit, apprehensively, to his wife, then to James and
Katie, to a large, muddy-brown suitcase near the base of the stairs
that Katie hadn’t noticed before, and finally to the white door. His
eyes dolefully scan the flaky paint, the boarded up window he never
fixed, and the brass letter box Katie had once gotten her hand caught
in. The fear has gone from the concoction of emotions in the air, only
to be replaced by a kind of mixture of sadness and regret. Lifting her
face from her hands, Katie’s mum tells him to get out, repeating the
phrase three times in succession, her voice rising hysterically, and
Katie’s father leaves.
97 || Neonbeam
Jennifer O'Gorman is a second-year Psychology and Counselling student at Roehampton University. She is
nineteen years old and loves to read anything and everything. She has been writing since the age of five and has
a very active imagination.
ABOUT THE BEST OF ISSUE PRIZE BOOKS
Editor’s Notes
POETRY
I came across contemporary poet, Simon Armitage,
as part of the National Curriculum for English Lit,
and was lucky enough to see him at reading a few
years ago. Armitage has a Yorkshire background,
and this, I think, is apparent in his poetry. His
words
are
accessible
to
everyone,
minus
unnecessary frills, and he writes frankly, often with
touches of humour. Of all of Simon’s books,
“Zoom!” remains my favourite, if only for the presence of “It Ain’t
What You Do, It’s What It Does To You”, a poignant poem that I
remember fondly from my battered AQA anthology!
__________________________________________________________________
Perhaps most well known for “Porterhouse Blue” and
FICTION
“Blott On The Landscape” (which were adapted for
TV), and the “Wilt” series (the first of which is also
a film), Tom Sharpe has a bibliography bursting
with farcical black humour. “Indecent Exposure”
was the first book of Sharpe’s I read, and, in my
opinion, is still the funniest. With comic writing that
never seems to date, and characters so loveably
eccentric, this is a must-read for anyone who needs a laugh. But be
sure to stay on guard for exploding ostriches!
98 || Neonbeam
Thank you for reading
Neonbeam Issue Three
December 2007
Website:
www.neonbeam.org
General e-mail:
[email protected]
Submissions:
[email protected]
All work in this issue of Neonbeam is
 The Contributors
Submission Guidelines for Issue Four are available at the website

NB3 Cover.wps - Abstract Jam

Transcription

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