.
The steam engine, while certainly small by any standard, wasn’t small enough to fit between or around any of President Lincoln’s vital organs. The doctor had considered the intestine or the liver (which, in hindsight, may have been best as it ended up being that the President couldn’t any longer ingest liquids in any traditional sense, thereby leaving the liver a sort of useless weight. The doctor consoled himself that the space the liver took up now could one day be used for further improvements). He had settled on the right lung in the end. Some of the engine’s considerable power had to be devoted in assisting the left lung make up for it’s other half’s absence but the doctor thought it was an acceptable sacrifice. A series of lead tubes snaked themselves under the skin of the President’s back, working to cycle the steam from the engine, cooling it down and removing any particles that might result from the burning of the coal. The doctor debated several methods on the eventual release of the engine’s product and eventually settled on the relatively subtle, albeit slightly rude, method of belching. While undoubtedly those around the President would notice a marked increase in this habit, no one would think to complain to the President or anyone else lest they be seen as indelicate. And it was certainly a better option than the doctor’s original, more flatulent plan.
An elaborate system of gears and pullies, the likes of which the doctor himself never thought he would see, ran up and down the President’s spine. They powered the mechanics scattered around the body; some meant to compensate for functions the President had lost to Booth’s bullet, others meant to accentuate or protect other aspects of the body. The legs were essentially pistons in a locomotive, necessary to support the imposing weight of the president’s new protective armor. A system of the War Department’s devising was grafted into the President’s left shoulder. It fed musket balls to the barrel in his forearm. His right hand was removed and replaced entirely with a mechanical substitute. Unfortunately it did not look anything natural, so the President was obliged to wear gloves regardless of the weather. The hand’s strength was adjustable though, allowing for a firm but gentle handshake for dignitaries, and a vice-like grip for defending against assailants or breaking through a jail’s iron bars. The strength was entirely dependent on the President remembering to adjust it properly. With the President’s mind not exactly what it used to be, this caused some embarrassment in the early days. A young soldier’s hand was crushed, broken in almost a dozen places, when he shook the President’s hand during a state dinner. It certainly quelled any doubts about the President’s strength after the assassination attempt, but it was not what anyone would call discreet. The President’s transformation was still very much not mentioned if it was known at all. The gloves, the belching, and the fact that the President’s iconic tophat was welded onto the armor plate of his scalp to make room for the addition mechanic that kept the pressure from building up too much in the slowly healing wound all inspired whispers and rumor. That combined with a second, public assassination attempt, this by another one of Booth’s co-conspirators, that yielded nothing more than a loud clang from the President’s breastplate meant that it was all the doctor and the President’s aides could do to keep the truth of the matter among a relative few.
It did not help that the President no longer slept, and took to leaving White House grounds on his own at night. Those who knew tried to ignore the headlines, the stories passed around pubs and brothels. About an impeccably dressed who would had bounded down Virginia Avenue, rapidly gaining on a man fleeing him on a horse. About musket fire leading policeman to a massacre of irregular Confederate saboteurs in the wood surrounding Georgetown. About locks broken at Ford’s Theatre, and a chair in the balcony overlooking the stage that at least one morning a week the owner would find shattered under the weight of something incredibly heavy.
.
Monday, November 24, 2008
"Deus ex Machina", Submission 13 by Lee Martin
How did this happen? I would seriously like to know. How Why did the industrial concrete, neon, and culture(“!”) swallow me like a giant machine?
It’s been 10 years now. I first got pulled into this place by the sheer gravity, which is directly proportional to the mass involved, the pace, and the futility. En-Why-See.
The sucking of my life was slow…so gradual I did not notice until it was too late. By the time my nails dragged against the streets and I gasped for a clean breath, I was in the belly of the automaton…crushed beneath the gears, the tires, the pizza crusts. Don’t laugh.
Nothing is impossible; I learned that once from a poster on my kindergarten classroom wall, and I never forgave that tramp of a teacher for stapling it up there. Now I’m hard-wired to hope, to expect. I can do this (?).
So I began the assembly of tools and materials. The size was poetic; slightly bigger than those suitcases the skinny business women drag across your foot in the subway.
Lights to know it’s on. A hum to know it’s working. A labor of love desperation.
You see, I kept getting pulled back into the city. At first I took off at a sprint. I woke up in Times Square with blood on my face and a fat police officer staring down at me. Up yours…help me up, asshole.
Next came a sneaky crawling…a tiptoe away. But every time I sought to leave I kept getting funneled back in, like a skinny boxer against the ropes of the ring, forever seeking escape, only to be pummeled in the face by a big black guy named Moe.
Escape…simply leaving had proven to be unsuccessful. An epiphany occurred after my 110th escape attempt, and I know not why. An angel spoke in my head. No! It was god. Maybe.
I began construction of my device at the guidance of the whispers in my ear, the impulses in my fingertips. PVC, LED. Wires, oil, gears. Ingredients Pieces Components were easy to find, there’s so much shit everywhere. Time passes. Days. Weeks. Full involvement is required for this project. It will save my life.
I still know not what this machine is for. My guidance is elusive and subtle, like the idea someone is watching you. You know they are there, but you don’t know if it’s some girl with brown hair and a lonely bed or the man with a huge knife. But you know they are there.
I trust it. I know. This time is worth it. Continued building, modification, improvement, innovation, renovation, software updates…maybe a few tubes of neon for aesthetics.
This machine will go on requiring maintenance and attention, like a child. A dirty rotten stinking child covered in LEDs and PVC piping…smoke billowing out and the outline of a reclining nude shining in glowing red neon sitting on top. Gradually the full meaning of this machine begins to form in my mind, and the betrayal is made evident; this machine exists solely to distract me from the machine I am inside…this insidious city. My machine echoes that machine. The connection between my mind and the decaying city around me is complete and conspiring. Windows and gears whispered to my mind as I slept and woke, all hours of the day, that perhaps the certain method of ensuring my everlasting prison sentence was to convince me that my machine could break my bonds. I will be forever tending my machine, my Deus ex Machina …it will be my purpose, my occupation, my livelihood, and my chains. I cannot turn back now, and I will never leave this city.
It’s been 10 years now. I first got pulled into this place by the sheer gravity, which is directly proportional to the mass involved, the pace, and the futility. En-Why-See.
The sucking of my life was slow…so gradual I did not notice until it was too late. By the time my nails dragged against the streets and I gasped for a clean breath, I was in the belly of the automaton…crushed beneath the gears, the tires, the pizza crusts. Don’t laugh.
Nothing is impossible; I learned that once from a poster on my kindergarten classroom wall, and I never forgave that tramp of a teacher for stapling it up there. Now I’m hard-wired to hope, to expect. I can do this (?).
So I began the assembly of tools and materials. The size was poetic; slightly bigger than those suitcases the skinny business women drag across your foot in the subway.
Lights to know it’s on. A hum to know it’s working. A labor of love desperation.
You see, I kept getting pulled back into the city. At first I took off at a sprint. I woke up in Times Square with blood on my face and a fat police officer staring down at me. Up yours…help me up, asshole.
Next came a sneaky crawling…a tiptoe away. But every time I sought to leave I kept getting funneled back in, like a skinny boxer against the ropes of the ring, forever seeking escape, only to be pummeled in the face by a big black guy named Moe.
Escape…simply leaving had proven to be unsuccessful. An epiphany occurred after my 110th escape attempt, and I know not why. An angel spoke in my head. No! It was god. Maybe.
I began construction of my device at the guidance of the whispers in my ear, the impulses in my fingertips. PVC, LED. Wires, oil, gears. Ingredients Pieces Components were easy to find, there’s so much shit everywhere. Time passes. Days. Weeks. Full involvement is required for this project. It will save my life.
I still know not what this machine is for. My guidance is elusive and subtle, like the idea someone is watching you. You know they are there, but you don’t know if it’s some girl with brown hair and a lonely bed or the man with a huge knife. But you know they are there.
I trust it. I know. This time is worth it. Continued building, modification, improvement, innovation, renovation, software updates…maybe a few tubes of neon for aesthetics.
This machine will go on requiring maintenance and attention, like a child. A dirty rotten stinking child covered in LEDs and PVC piping…smoke billowing out and the outline of a reclining nude shining in glowing red neon sitting on top. Gradually the full meaning of this machine begins to form in my mind, and the betrayal is made evident; this machine exists solely to distract me from the machine I am inside…this insidious city. My machine echoes that machine. The connection between my mind and the decaying city around me is complete and conspiring. Windows and gears whispered to my mind as I slept and woke, all hours of the day, that perhaps the certain method of ensuring my everlasting prison sentence was to convince me that my machine could break my bonds. I will be forever tending my machine, my Deus ex Machina …it will be my purpose, my occupation, my livelihood, and my chains. I cannot turn back now, and I will never leave this city.
Monday, November 3, 2008
A Prayer for Eric, Submission 12 by Brian Zook
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“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” said Lance.
Julia remembered something, smirked a little, then realized that it was inappropriate. But the irony was too juicy not to share. “He always liked the song Don’t Fear the Reaper,” she said, “but I’m sure he wasn’t intending to die in a stupid convenience store robbery gone awry. It’s just so senseless.”
“So what happened?” asked Lance, turning to Eric’s now-widow.
Rose knew she would have to explain what she knew of the events many times more, and dreaded it. She would skip the details: “Eric went into the store at around 11:00 to get who-knows-what. It was him being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apparently there was a scuffle between the clerk and the would-be robber and the gun went off. The bullet hit him in the neck and he bled to death before the paramedics arrived.”
All three looked somberly at the empty table.
The silence was broken a few seconds later by Julia. “Eric’s in a better place.”
“How do you know?” asked Rose. “You know Eric wasn’t particularly religious.”
“I don’t. It’s just something you say.”
“It sounds comforting, but I’m not sure it is.”
“But what if he did happen to have a conversion experience right before he went into the store?” Lance piped in.
“Do you need a conversion experience to go to heaven—assuming that’s what you meant by ‘a better place’?” asked Rose, turning to Julia.
“I suppose not,” Julia responded. “It’s just such a huge unknown. It makes you wonder how fragile life is and what it all means—spiritually. Does life just end or does the spirit live on?”
Lance reached over and gently squeezed Julia’s hand.
“Anyway, now is probably not the time to speculate about Eric’s spiritual condition and eternal resting place,” remarked Rose. “I’m just…I can’t believe he’s gone.”
They returned to staring at the table. Julia said a little prayer for Eric.
.
“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” said Lance.
Julia remembered something, smirked a little, then realized that it was inappropriate. But the irony was too juicy not to share. “He always liked the song Don’t Fear the Reaper,” she said, “but I’m sure he wasn’t intending to die in a stupid convenience store robbery gone awry. It’s just so senseless.”
“So what happened?” asked Lance, turning to Eric’s now-widow.
Rose knew she would have to explain what she knew of the events many times more, and dreaded it. She would skip the details: “Eric went into the store at around 11:00 to get who-knows-what. It was him being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Apparently there was a scuffle between the clerk and the would-be robber and the gun went off. The bullet hit him in the neck and he bled to death before the paramedics arrived.”
All three looked somberly at the empty table.
The silence was broken a few seconds later by Julia. “Eric’s in a better place.”
“How do you know?” asked Rose. “You know Eric wasn’t particularly religious.”
“I don’t. It’s just something you say.”
“It sounds comforting, but I’m not sure it is.”
“But what if he did happen to have a conversion experience right before he went into the store?” Lance piped in.
“Do you need a conversion experience to go to heaven—assuming that’s what you meant by ‘a better place’?” asked Rose, turning to Julia.
“I suppose not,” Julia responded. “It’s just such a huge unknown. It makes you wonder how fragile life is and what it all means—spiritually. Does life just end or does the spirit live on?”
Lance reached over and gently squeezed Julia’s hand.
“Anyway, now is probably not the time to speculate about Eric’s spiritual condition and eternal resting place,” remarked Rose. “I’m just…I can’t believe he’s gone.”
They returned to staring at the table. Julia said a little prayer for Eric.
.
On Our Side, Submission 12 by Lee Martin
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A man with red skin sat at the end of an iron table covered in claw marks. His muscular arms slowly lifted his sword from its sheath an placed in on the table with a crisp metallic clatter; his hands ached and his cheeks burned. Guttural grunts pushed out of his nostrils like a bull’s. Another man glided into the dark chamber, crowned in gold with a flowing pure white robe.
“Good evening Purrós,” said the man in white bluntly as he sat at the other end of the dark table. “Still dining on blood, I see.” The red man’s eyes warmed with red light as soft bloody tears welled. “What? What has happened?” asked the man in white urgently.
“He’s dead.”
“Who?” asked the man in white gently, his strong voice the room.
“Thánatos. I just heard.”
The man in white sat with his alabaster face hardened on Purrós.
Sharp footfalls on rough hewn stone pieced the air. The two men listened as the steps approached. The ancient door groaned as it was open.
“Mélas, come. Come hear the news,” said the man in white. “Our great brother is dead.”
Mélas sat in the middle of the long table, his dark leathery skin and black armor blending into the tabletop.
“Please, eat!” said the man in white, with a smooth wave of his arm across the table, indicating the evening’s feast.
“Thank you Leukós, I think I’ll pass…not hungry,” said Mélas. Leukós let out a deep explosive laugh.
Small brown servants brought out a screaming man chained to a platter.
“Do you mind?” asked Leukós, eyebrows raised at Purrós. Red hands reluctantly grasped the hilt of the sword and slid it slowly into the belly of the screaming man. Leukós’ eyes closed in delight of the fading screams of agony. The man made one final jerk as the sword was removed, leaking rivers of rusty blood along the table.
“You were saying?” prompted Mélas, softly drumming his dark boney fingers on the table.
“Yes. Our brother Purrós just informed me of the recent passing of Thánatos.” Leukós paused to slide a white finger across a small stream of blood on the table. He brought the finger to his mouth and licked it clean. “What our brother Purrós fails to realize is that the death of Thánatos comes as no surprise to me. Oh, for ‘God’s sake,’ Purrós, eat something! You know Mélas won’t! Yes, dead. But as you both should know, dying is of little concern to us. Why, just this morning I was thinking about trying it myself before we begin! Instead, however, I thought I’d let Thánatos have the honors.”
The room was briefly filled with soft chewing sounds from Leukós’ end of the table.
“Thánatos had been sick for a while. I think it was Apathy. At first I thought to rid our brother of such malaise, but it gave his skin such a fine grayish-green hue!” Leukós smiled wide, his ivory teeth bared like hungry fangs. “And to think the kind of pestilence he spread in his final days! Ugh, I am almost jealous. I really think his passing could be an asset to this institution. You see, Purrós, simply goading men into plunging swords in each other’s bellies is but one instrument at our disposal, and you execute it marveolously. And just look at Mélas and all he has accomplished!” Leukós paused, his nose raised in the air. “Do you smell that? Ahhh…rotting flesh…disease…he smells of death itself!”
A ghastly figure limped into the room, filling the air with a putrid stench that filled the brothers with a renewed vigor.
“May I present your ‘dead’ brother, his powers of influence greatly magnified by his recent passing!” cried Leukós is triumph. The greenish walking corpse took a seat across from Mélas. Purrós smiled happily at the sight. The small brown servants clutched their throats as airborne sickness exuded by Thánatos overtook them. Their brown skin already began turning black with decay.
“Brothers! We are reunited once more. Rejoice in our company, for tomorrow our conquest will begin anew. I feel we will each die before we are done, but Death is on our side!”
.
A man with red skin sat at the end of an iron table covered in claw marks. His muscular arms slowly lifted his sword from its sheath an placed in on the table with a crisp metallic clatter; his hands ached and his cheeks burned. Guttural grunts pushed out of his nostrils like a bull’s. Another man glided into the dark chamber, crowned in gold with a flowing pure white robe.
“Good evening Purrós,” said the man in white bluntly as he sat at the other end of the dark table. “Still dining on blood, I see.” The red man’s eyes warmed with red light as soft bloody tears welled. “What? What has happened?” asked the man in white urgently.
“He’s dead.”
“Who?” asked the man in white gently, his strong voice the room.
“Thánatos. I just heard.”
The man in white sat with his alabaster face hardened on Purrós.
Sharp footfalls on rough hewn stone pieced the air. The two men listened as the steps approached. The ancient door groaned as it was open.
“Mélas, come. Come hear the news,” said the man in white. “Our great brother is dead.”
Mélas sat in the middle of the long table, his dark leathery skin and black armor blending into the tabletop.
“Please, eat!” said the man in white, with a smooth wave of his arm across the table, indicating the evening’s feast.
“Thank you Leukós, I think I’ll pass…not hungry,” said Mélas. Leukós let out a deep explosive laugh.
Small brown servants brought out a screaming man chained to a platter.
“Do you mind?” asked Leukós, eyebrows raised at Purrós. Red hands reluctantly grasped the hilt of the sword and slid it slowly into the belly of the screaming man. Leukós’ eyes closed in delight of the fading screams of agony. The man made one final jerk as the sword was removed, leaking rivers of rusty blood along the table.
“You were saying?” prompted Mélas, softly drumming his dark boney fingers on the table.
“Yes. Our brother Purrós just informed me of the recent passing of Thánatos.” Leukós paused to slide a white finger across a small stream of blood on the table. He brought the finger to his mouth and licked it clean. “What our brother Purrós fails to realize is that the death of Thánatos comes as no surprise to me. Oh, for ‘God’s sake,’ Purrós, eat something! You know Mélas won’t! Yes, dead. But as you both should know, dying is of little concern to us. Why, just this morning I was thinking about trying it myself before we begin! Instead, however, I thought I’d let Thánatos have the honors.”
The room was briefly filled with soft chewing sounds from Leukós’ end of the table.
“Thánatos had been sick for a while. I think it was Apathy. At first I thought to rid our brother of such malaise, but it gave his skin such a fine grayish-green hue!” Leukós smiled wide, his ivory teeth bared like hungry fangs. “And to think the kind of pestilence he spread in his final days! Ugh, I am almost jealous. I really think his passing could be an asset to this institution. You see, Purrós, simply goading men into plunging swords in each other’s bellies is but one instrument at our disposal, and you execute it marveolously. And just look at Mélas and all he has accomplished!” Leukós paused, his nose raised in the air. “Do you smell that? Ahhh…rotting flesh…disease…he smells of death itself!”
A ghastly figure limped into the room, filling the air with a putrid stench that filled the brothers with a renewed vigor.
“May I present your ‘dead’ brother, his powers of influence greatly magnified by his recent passing!” cried Leukós is triumph. The greenish walking corpse took a seat across from Mélas. Purrós smiled happily at the sight. The small brown servants clutched their throats as airborne sickness exuded by Thánatos overtook them. Their brown skin already began turning black with decay.
“Brothers! We are reunited once more. Rejoice in our company, for tomorrow our conquest will begin anew. I feel we will each die before we are done, but Death is on our side!”
.
Party Over Here, Submission 12 by Charlie Arnold
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From: Sean
To: Steve, Scott, William
Dudes night this Friday. I’m talking cards, beer, shots… bars?
From: Scott
To: Sean, Steve, William
Fuck girls tonight. I just want to dance.
From: Sean
To: Scott, Steve, William
Does that mean only cards and alcohol?
From: William
To: Sean, Scott, Steve
I’m down
From: Scott
To: William, Sean, Steve
I’ve got some things to do but I’ll be there.
From: Sean
To: Scott, William, Steve
Ok. My place at 9.
From: Steve
To: Sean, Scott, William
P A R T Y ‘cause we got to.
From: Sean
To: Steve, Scott, William
Somebody got it.
From: Steve
To: Sean, Scott, William
Scott’s phone must be blowing up now with all the messages.
From: William
To: Steve, Sean, Scott
Scott couldn’t make it because as his plane was flying home over the Sea of Japan it was shot down
.
From: Sean
To: Steve, Scott, William
Dudes night this Friday. I’m talking cards, beer, shots… bars?
From: Scott
To: Sean, Steve, William
Fuck girls tonight. I just want to dance.
From: Sean
To: Scott, Steve, William
Does that mean only cards and alcohol?
From: William
To: Sean, Scott, Steve
I’m down
From: Scott
To: William, Sean, Steve
I’ve got some things to do but I’ll be there.
From: Sean
To: Scott, William, Steve
Ok. My place at 9.
From: Steve
To: Sean, Scott, William
P A R T Y ‘cause we got to.
From: Sean
To: Steve, Scott, William
Somebody got it.
From: Steve
To: Sean, Scott, William
Scott’s phone must be blowing up now with all the messages.
From: William
To: Steve, Sean, Scott
Scott couldn’t make it because as his plane was flying home over the Sea of Japan it was shot down
.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Profile, Submission 11 by Ryan Wrenn
.
The dress is flimsy, some faded floral number from probably high school if he remembers correctly. She wears it when she’s alone or just with him. It’s shear in some places from wear. The blue looks white at a distance. There are two buttons on the back that were cannibalized from another, similar dress three years ago. He had to sew it because she forgot how well before they met.
She trots down to the waves as he struggles to keep up, saying something into the wind that he cannot hear. The sun is low above the water and their shadows seem to reach up the empty beach in back of them. He raises his camera and shoots. Clicks the button to review the last photo taken. Her profile, blocking entirely the sun as it sets, fills the frame. Dark and featureless. He frowns.
.
The dress is flimsy, some faded floral number from probably high school if he remembers correctly. She wears it when she’s alone or just with him. It’s shear in some places from wear. The blue looks white at a distance. There are two buttons on the back that were cannibalized from another, similar dress three years ago. He had to sew it because she forgot how well before they met.
She trots down to the waves as he struggles to keep up, saying something into the wind that he cannot hear. The sun is low above the water and their shadows seem to reach up the empty beach in back of them. He raises his camera and shoots. Clicks the button to review the last photo taken. Her profile, blocking entirely the sun as it sets, fills the frame. Dark and featureless. He frowns.
.
Detached, Submission 11 by Charlie Arnold
.
“Remember, heads you go tails I go” said Schmitt while holding back a smile.
“How long have you been waiting to use that one? What ever it was it was too soon. You’ll know it’s not too soon when you’re on the next mission that I’m not.” Cooper locked his helmet in place with one final twist.
“How can you blame me for trying? We both went through the training.”
“It’s all about background experience. What have you done that prepared you for what I’m doing? Money, de de do do do do, get away de de do do do do. Get a good job with good pay and you’re okay. de de do do do do. Doors have opened and I’m pulling out. Money, de de do do do do it’s a gas de de do do do do. Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash. We’ve got a blown fuse. A simple replace aught to do the trick. New car, caviar, four star daydream. Shit shit shit shit shit. I have separated from the craft. Repeat, the tether has become disconnected from the craft.”
“Houston. Waiting for the word on retrieval. Cooper has already moved past the shadow.”
.
“Remember, heads you go tails I go” said Schmitt while holding back a smile.
“How long have you been waiting to use that one? What ever it was it was too soon. You’ll know it’s not too soon when you’re on the next mission that I’m not.” Cooper locked his helmet in place with one final twist.
“How can you blame me for trying? We both went through the training.”
“It’s all about background experience. What have you done that prepared you for what I’m doing? Money, de de do do do do, get away de de do do do do. Get a good job with good pay and you’re okay. de de do do do do. Doors have opened and I’m pulling out. Money, de de do do do do it’s a gas de de do do do do. Grab that cash with both hands and make a stash. We’ve got a blown fuse. A simple replace aught to do the trick. New car, caviar, four star daydream. Shit shit shit shit shit. I have separated from the craft. Repeat, the tether has become disconnected from the craft.”
“Houston. Waiting for the word on retrieval. Cooper has already moved past the shadow.”
.
AVW Complaint, Submission 11 by Michelle Mathews
.
September 25, 2008
GOD, Human Resources Coordinator
Heaven
1806 Robert Fulton Drive
Reston, VA 20191
Dear GOD,
I am writing this letter as a formal complaint against the treatment I have been receiving from one of your fellow gods between the dates of July 1, 1985 to the present. At approximately 6:00 a.m. every day, Helios approaches my dwelling in an attempt to solve the issue of warming the Earth. After some debate as to when he should blaze a path across the sky, he very rudely and forcefully wakes me up prematurely. The tone and body language he uses displays an opinion of disgust and contempt towards my nocturnal habits. After several years of discussion about the dissatisfaction he has for my working area, he leaves. In the process he has bathed everything with an abrasive and intrusive light.
The intent of this letter is to inform you of my aggravation and sleep deprivation that occurs because of these incidents. He does approach me privately. He wakes and irritates me in front of approximately one of my housemates. Professionally, it has affected my morning job performance as well as low morning morale. Personally, it shattered any illusion of personal space as well as creating a strong dependence on a drug called caffeine.
I am not asking for an apology, nor would I believe its sincerity should I get one. All I ask is that should he have any further rude awakenings, he approach them with some degree of respect if not empathy to my nocturnal choice of lifestyle. I also ask that he take the complaints through the appropriate channels by requesting communication with my direct supervisor (Loki, God of Mischief) or myself in order to give us the chance to resolve things internally within my own bed.
Thank you for you attention to this matter,
Michelle Mathews
Common Human
.
September 25, 2008
GOD, Human Resources Coordinator
Heaven
1806 Robert Fulton Drive
Reston, VA 20191
Dear GOD,
I am writing this letter as a formal complaint against the treatment I have been receiving from one of your fellow gods between the dates of July 1, 1985 to the present. At approximately 6:00 a.m. every day, Helios approaches my dwelling in an attempt to solve the issue of warming the Earth. After some debate as to when he should blaze a path across the sky, he very rudely and forcefully wakes me up prematurely. The tone and body language he uses displays an opinion of disgust and contempt towards my nocturnal habits. After several years of discussion about the dissatisfaction he has for my working area, he leaves. In the process he has bathed everything with an abrasive and intrusive light.
The intent of this letter is to inform you of my aggravation and sleep deprivation that occurs because of these incidents. He does approach me privately. He wakes and irritates me in front of approximately one of my housemates. Professionally, it has affected my morning job performance as well as low morning morale. Personally, it shattered any illusion of personal space as well as creating a strong dependence on a drug called caffeine.
I am not asking for an apology, nor would I believe its sincerity should I get one. All I ask is that should he have any further rude awakenings, he approach them with some degree of respect if not empathy to my nocturnal choice of lifestyle. I also ask that he take the complaints through the appropriate channels by requesting communication with my direct supervisor (Loki, God of Mischief) or myself in order to give us the chance to resolve things internally within my own bed.
Thank you for you attention to this matter,
Michelle Mathews
Common Human
.
Denoument, Submission 11 by Lee Martin
.
The whole city was bathed in light; a soft yellow glow ebbed from the cracks of every stone, the corners of every street, the edge of every chin. Like the closing of a book the world had taken on an epic and final brilliance for one brief assertion of purpose that would never come home again.
He walked over the ancient cobblestone roads that intersected with fresh asphalt streets. Piles of dead angels stood like cold monuments. Some had already begun turning to stone, their light all but washed away.
Half heartedly he kicked over a gilded helmet that lay in the street.
The air felt like one great exhale, like the feeling of relief and resolution from crashing through the surface after holding your breath at the bottom of the deep end of the pool in the summer that melted tires and ice cream when all you ever wanted came out of the icy eyes of that girl with the golden hair from down the street.
He never expected it to end like this, but in a way, he was glad it did. He always liked surprise endings, and at least he hadn’t been bored.
It was the little things he noticed. The way the wind had decided not to blow ever again. The way clouds received their final resting place in the sky, after circling the world like a dog looking for a soft spot to sleep. The way he didn’t see anyone he knew.
Darker now. Every moment was darker than the last, but not as dark as the next. He could feel the cold beginning to flow our from the cracks now. He pulled his jacket tighter around his chest. His fists clenched, desperately holding on to the light that was determined to abandon, leave, finish.
Light crawled slowly over the bars of the gate to the park and left in small wisps. It felt warm when he pushed it open. It also felt a little sad, like the way your throat closes and your eyes freeze as you look at your dying grandma and desperately try to say with a half smile that it will be alright. The gate said its goodbye with a quite clink of metal on metal, the warmth walking away as he walked through.
That large tree that stood in the center of the park stood like a giant ember, the last of the warm places. He could almost hear the light as it dripped, slid, fell away on the many leaves. His back slid against the trunk and he felt the warmth spread through his chest as he sat. The cold succeeded the reign as he looked back toward the city.
His fists slowly fell to his side as he sat at the foot of the giant tree. One by one his fingers chose acceptance. Every fingertip briefly glowed.
It was fine.
.
The whole city was bathed in light; a soft yellow glow ebbed from the cracks of every stone, the corners of every street, the edge of every chin. Like the closing of a book the world had taken on an epic and final brilliance for one brief assertion of purpose that would never come home again.
He walked over the ancient cobblestone roads that intersected with fresh asphalt streets. Piles of dead angels stood like cold monuments. Some had already begun turning to stone, their light all but washed away.
Half heartedly he kicked over a gilded helmet that lay in the street.
The air felt like one great exhale, like the feeling of relief and resolution from crashing through the surface after holding your breath at the bottom of the deep end of the pool in the summer that melted tires and ice cream when all you ever wanted came out of the icy eyes of that girl with the golden hair from down the street.
He never expected it to end like this, but in a way, he was glad it did. He always liked surprise endings, and at least he hadn’t been bored.
It was the little things he noticed. The way the wind had decided not to blow ever again. The way clouds received their final resting place in the sky, after circling the world like a dog looking for a soft spot to sleep. The way he didn’t see anyone he knew.
Darker now. Every moment was darker than the last, but not as dark as the next. He could feel the cold beginning to flow our from the cracks now. He pulled his jacket tighter around his chest. His fists clenched, desperately holding on to the light that was determined to abandon, leave, finish.
Light crawled slowly over the bars of the gate to the park and left in small wisps. It felt warm when he pushed it open. It also felt a little sad, like the way your throat closes and your eyes freeze as you look at your dying grandma and desperately try to say with a half smile that it will be alright. The gate said its goodbye with a quite clink of metal on metal, the warmth walking away as he walked through.
That large tree that stood in the center of the park stood like a giant ember, the last of the warm places. He could almost hear the light as it dripped, slid, fell away on the many leaves. His back slid against the trunk and he felt the warmth spread through his chest as he sat. The cold succeeded the reign as he looked back toward the city.
His fists slowly fell to his side as he sat at the foot of the giant tree. One by one his fingers chose acceptance. Every fingertip briefly glowed.
It was fine.
.
Monday, September 15, 2008
The Library, Submission 10 by Ryan Wrenn
.
"What if there really are ghosts?" she says and tip toes down the mystery section, her hand lightly brushing along the spines of the books.
"What if there really are ghosts?" she says and tip toes down the mystery section, her hand lightly brushing along the spines of the books.
"It's a brand new building," I respond and watch her darkening outline reach the end of the aisle, peering around the edge into the main hall. We would've brought flashlights
"That doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't it?"
"No, it doesn't."
"Seems like someone would've had to die here for there to be ghosts."
"That's not how it works," she says and turns to face me as I slowly walk toward her. She's a shadow, slim and tall and somehow still seeming as pale as she is in the light. She practically glows.
"Well how does it work then?" I say as I reach my hand out as if trying to feel my way through the blackness, brushing against her breast in so doing. She laughs and pushes my arms away, turning again to the hall.
"The building isn't what's haunted, it's the area of space that's haunted," she begins, a whisper now that she's facing the wideness of the hall in front of her. It stretches down another twenty aisles to a set of windows that look out into the night. "So a princess could've lived in a castle that was once where this library is now, but she'd haunt the library instead of just going away with the castle."
I walk out ahead of her into the hall. She follows me out, her slippers making a soft thud with each step. "What if they had built a KFC here instead?"
"Then she'd haunt the KFC."
"Seems kind of inglorious for the likes of a princess."
"Well she still thinks it's the castle though."
"So her haunting is confined to the area of the building she died in?" I ask and turn to face her in the dark. She stops just short of running into me.
"Yes."
"So in theory she could haunt both the KFC and the Radioshack next door."
"Well there is no KFC, or Radioshack. It's just the library," she whispers. Through the light of the emergency fluorescents I can see the unblinking stare she's deployed, the utter sincerity in her face. I pretend not to notice.
"So where will we find this princess?"
"Not here. There wasn't a castle here."
"Not all princesses die in castles though," I reach around her waist and pull her closer.
She sighs but doesn't push away. "You don't get it."
"I think I get it pretty well," I say and kiss the area where her neck and shoulder meet.
"Well you think it's a joke."
"I promise that if there were a ghost princess I'd be terribly concerned for her," I say, raising my head and meeting her eyes. More like looking through them. They sink into shadow beneath the pale luminescence of her skin.
"You wouldn't be."
"And you would?"
"No. No, I guess I wouldn't be. I mean she's not really a person. Just a spectral instant replay on infinite loop. An echo. Walking the halls of her castle night after night. Why that night in particular was singled out of all the ones she lived through I can't be sure. Maybe she died before she got to where was she going and that's why she's condemned to walk the same uncompleted path again and again and again."
I kiss her softly. "And where was she going?"
"To meet her lover? To get a cup of water? To go to the bathroom? Who knows?
"Jesus I don't know what I would do if I was not only condemned to haunt the deep fryer at a KFC but also to spend eternity not being able to find the pisser."
"My sweet, eloquent knight," she smiles and leans into me, raising her mouth to meet mine.
.
When the World Was New, Submission 10 by Lee Martin
It took her almost a half hour to climb through the debris and decay of years of neglect. The city had been build so quickly, so efficiently. Obsolete locations sat buried, partitioned, sequestered. Relics lay hidden behind walls and under streets, most never to be seen again.
She was familiar with the Corridors from her days of hiding after The Breakdown. A discarded fallout shelter acted as her home for a month following it. Running from Hunters she became very adept at finding somewhere to go when the time came. The time always came.
After crawling through the trash and time she came to a great void space. She felt the palms of silence press gently against the sides of her head and imagined what the vaulted ceiling looked like now. Her flashlight beam fell sharply on the word “RECORDS” carved in marble high above where she stood. Large columns held up the word, which was flanked by a frieze of people or animals, deteriorated to form a marble mass of man and beast, neither identifiable from the other. She climbed the stairs and found the doors missing; the opening was guarded by a lazy shopping cart on it’s side.
Inside. Thousands of rows of bookshelves, some empty, some burned, all covered in several inches of dust. Her flashlight beam sparkled as every step she took kicked up flakes of dust.
She spent several minutes just walking around, looking up at the shelves. Occasionally she wiped a spine with her small hand to reveal the title. “CENSUS DATA 3DE101,” “BUILDING PLANS-AREAS 13-15A,” “Poèmes saturniens.”
About 20 of the bookcases had fallen over, and corpses of books were piled on top of each other. She walked by downed stacks and saw a map cabinet and opened the doors; a tall roll of paper sat in the corner. She took it out and spread it on the floor, placing a book on each corner. On the paper was printed a map of a very large city. Buildings and streets were labeled. Her eyes slowly traced a line that represented a long bridge over water, but could not tell where it led, for a large corner of the map had been ripped away.
The Last Period, Submission 10 by Charlie Arnold
"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players." A slim book is closed and gently slid onto the shelf in Dewey order. "If it were only as simple and beautiful as that. Tybalt fading proudly, a love known at first sight." Henry pushed his cart down the aisle to his next stop. The decades of yarns gathered here are just as strong as his favorite childhood memories. When Henry came in the next morning he saw the glances. He wished this day would never come but knew it was inescapable.
"Could I get everyone's attention?" voiced Vaughn. "I have to break one of my most sacred rules speaking in this loud of a voice but today is an event worthy of such a rare occasion." The few gathered work a smile at the tried joke. "In my time I have never met someone who has appreciated the written word more than my friend Henry. I'd be surprised if any here have walked in without seeing him heading somewhere with a book in his hand. And with this last day I would like to present you with this watch to commemorate all those years of diligence. Congratulations Henry." Vaughns' extended hand was accepted by Henry. This is the most time he has ever spent with his boss on any day. Maybe even the first hand shake. Neither can recall the events of the first day they met. Probably the second thinks Henry. Helen and Lela also give their congratulations. They at least had pleasant conversations in the morning or would mention unusual occurrences after a busy day. To them he will be missed. "
"What are you going to do with your time now?" asked Helen. Henry looked down at his hands. The right empty, left clutching the watch. "I don't know."
"Could I get everyone's attention?" voiced Vaughn. "I have to break one of my most sacred rules speaking in this loud of a voice but today is an event worthy of such a rare occasion." The few gathered work a smile at the tried joke. "In my time I have never met someone who has appreciated the written word more than my friend Henry. I'd be surprised if any here have walked in without seeing him heading somewhere with a book in his hand. And with this last day I would like to present you with this watch to commemorate all those years of diligence. Congratulations Henry." Vaughns' extended hand was accepted by Henry. This is the most time he has ever spent with his boss on any day. Maybe even the first hand shake. Neither can recall the events of the first day they met. Probably the second thinks Henry. Helen and Lela also give their congratulations. They at least had pleasant conversations in the morning or would mention unusual occurrences after a busy day. To them he will be missed. "
"What are you going to do with your time now?" asked Helen. Henry looked down at his hands. The right empty, left clutching the watch. "I don't know."
The Library Mouse, Submission 10 by Brian Zook
The mouse had always wondered why the humans insisted on keeping that light on all night. He saw that the light served no practical purpose because nobody ever came into the cavernous interior of the library a few hours after it became dark, and it was well light outside before people would start coming in again the next day.
Still, it did mean he didn’t have to strain his already perfectly good eyes to scour the floor for crumbs and scraps of food that people had dropped during the day. His nightly routine of crisscrossing the library floor for something to nibble on had served him well over the years. Every now and then he would strike it rich: an entire Oreo cookie wedged between a desk and a bookshelf; a sandwich crust that had missed the garbage can and landed on the floor; a piece of cheese, nearly dry but still perfectly edible, fallen under a chair.
It struck him as funny that, on the few occasions that he saw humans eating in the library during the day, they seemed to do so furtively, glancing this way and that, as if to make sure nobody was watching. Were they afraid other humans would eat their food? Were they watching out for predators? He couldn’t imagine predators big enough to eat humans.
On this particular night, the food selection was not as abundant as other nights. The cleaning staff was less haphazard about their duties: perhaps there were complaints about their unthorough performance. All the mouse could find were a few crumbs of tortilla chips and several small fragments of pretzels.
He paused as he finished the last piece of pretzel, pointed his nose in the air and sniffed for any remaining morsel of food in that vicinity. He then scurried off to his hole in the wall, where he had saved part of the Oreo cookie for a slow night.
Monday, July 28, 2008
'Nevermind how you get the answer", Submission 9 by Charlie Arnold
Papers never come easy. If my teachers only knew the creativity in my writing was from Saturday nights 87.3 midnight LP run and a little help from what my friends like to call post-its. The worlds those two paint seems never ending.
I don’t know how my teacher can accept this kind of work. Sure everything makes sense then as words drip off my fingertips. And that’s not me trying to say it’s easy. One time I watched the words as they fell onto my keyboard. When they played Hello Goodbye I was praised on “my insightful satire into happy Sun shine hippie beatniks.” I barely had time to fix spelling and the larger of the grammatical errors.
It’s going to start in about an hour; time to get ready. Can’t forget the speakers. Bose sound reducing headphones really work. Outside antics, even the party down the hall, can’t penetrate these bad boys. God I’m tired of all this writing. I’ll be happy when it’s all over. I must be 30 minutes in; things are starting to get strange. Hungry, I should eat one of those frozen burritos. I wonder what they’re going to play tonight.
“And here we are tonight. We’re going back to the early 90’s. Our man of the hour helped lead the grunge scene from the garage to the stage.”
I don’t know how my teacher can accept this kind of work. Sure everything makes sense then as words drip off my fingertips. And that’s not me trying to say it’s easy. One time I watched the words as they fell onto my keyboard. When they played Hello Goodbye I was praised on “my insightful satire into happy Sun shine hippie beatniks.” I barely had time to fix spelling and the larger of the grammatical errors.
It’s going to start in about an hour; time to get ready. Can’t forget the speakers. Bose sound reducing headphones really work. Outside antics, even the party down the hall, can’t penetrate these bad boys. God I’m tired of all this writing. I’ll be happy when it’s all over. I must be 30 minutes in; things are starting to get strange. Hungry, I should eat one of those frozen burritos. I wonder what they’re going to play tonight.
“And here we are tonight. We’re going back to the early 90’s. Our man of the hour helped lead the grunge scene from the garage to the stage.”
"Untitled, Unknown Artist, Red Period", Submission 9 by Lee Martin
Days. It had been days since he’d slept. That’s not true; it just felt like days. Days of flinging himself around his apartment, scribbling on notebook paper and napkins, punching the drywall. Then sleep. Broken, unrestful sleep admittedly, but sleep none the less. The guitar had a nice dent in the back where he’d kicked it.
Fuck you, muse
Your face in my mind I cannot use
To dream of you just isn’t right
I’ll sleep alone but broken tonight.
Crumple. Punch. His hand swelled where he’d driven it through the walls several times. Why did she have to do this to him? Show up out of nowhere and mess everything up! Beautiful, yes; perfect, maybe; inspiring? Only of thoughts of longing and frustration.
Shit. FUCK. DIE.
Crumple. He’d paid the price of his devotion; the least she could do was instill in him some seed of creativity…nurture the ability to become great, if she was unwilling to be with him. DIE. FUCK.
The second eviction notice showed up…the past due rent was one matter, but the other tenants disliked his fist coming through the wall in their living room.
The metaphors wouldn’t come; no hyperbole, simile, comparison, devotion, eloquent language to compose into a nice little package and drop like a bomb on the world. Oh, how they would have praised him! “Perfect expression!” “How inspired” They would gather around in hordes to listen to his plight…his young voice quivering on the notes that needed stress, and sliding over the rest like water.
Nothing. Void. Blank. Dark, like night. No, blank like a canvas. SHIT! Crumple. Punch. His hand was clearly becoming infected now, but it wouldn’t matter soon. Enough was enough. He had decided the score for his magnum opus would consist of one simple percussive note, like the period at the end of a sentence. So refined, so complete…ending almost before you knew it had begun. He opened his 10th story window overlooking the park and smiled. She briefly raised her head at the sound of the shot, then laid back down on the park bench.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Something in the Air, Submission 8 by Brian Zook
The Nicaraguan sun was just about to set when Daniel arrived in Chinandega in his dusty Jeep after a long day of avoiding potholes. As he approached his home village, he noticed an eerie emptiness. Not even the occasional stray dog scrounging in the roadside garbage.
“That’s strange,” he thought. “Usually around now there are at least a few people out and about. And who was that asleep on the sidewalk back there?”
He made his way down the cobblestone streets to his parents’ house. As he turned the corner onto his old street, he noticed a pair of legs sticking out the front door of a neighbor’s house down the street.
“Huh. Carlos must have passed out again after one too many beers,” he thought. “Poor Juana, having to deal with that drunkard of a husband.”
Daniel finally got to his parents’ house, parked the Jeep across the street, and made his way to the front door. His parents were expecting him, along with his sister. So where were they and why weren’t they answering the door?
He located the spare key under the flower pot and made his way into the house. Then he saw his father’s lifeless body slumped in the living room sofa. Frantic calls for help remained unanswered. He ran to the kitchen to call for an ambulance, only to find his mother and sister lying on the floor, their lifeless bodies frozen in an embrace. Nobody answered the local emergency number.
“What the heck is going on?” he muttered.
He ran to his neighbor’s house next door for help, only to find that all in that family were either on the floor or in their beds, dead. He ran to the neighbor across the street. Again, their lifeless bodies were in various places around the house. From the relative warmth and limpness of the bodies, he could tell that none of them had been dead long.
Suddenly he felt mildly nauseous. He could tell there was a ever-so-faint odor in the air that he couldn’t quite place.
“That’s it,” he thought. “It must be the volcano spewing something in the air again.”
He tried not to take deep breaths as he ran out to his car to get his cell phone to call his girlfriend in Managua, but he could tell the nausea was getting worse. As he opened the door to the car, the nausea overtook him. He lost consciousness with his arm outstretched for his cell phone.
Mid-Life Crises, Submission 8 by Charlie Arnold
“More like zen and the art of my ass going numb. If I do this again I’m picking a land with smooth paved streets. I don’t even see anyone on this crappy road.“
Countryside was rolling by as Will took his second hand Harley on a three week vacation to ‘find’ himself. A life in the office has left him single with his two sons Arthur and Walter lost to his wife in a custody battle. He knew he could put up a good fight financially but those same long hours that build a career don’t show an attentive father.
“What I wouldn’t give for a sizzling steak and a cold beer. I’m so hungry I’ll even eat the damn garnish.”
“Man am I glad I found you. I nearly flipped over my bike when I caught your open sign. I’ll take anything cold.”
“I’ll take care of you in just a sec.” The man gets up from a stool behind the counter and steps into the back room. Will picks up a paper from a news stand that makes The Post look like Dune. “Families flee in fear of a power struggle turning violent when local La eMe leader dies from multiple shots to the chest. Sources believe this was an inside job…”
Untitled, Submission 8 by Nina C
A light breeze meandered through the back alleyways, rustling dry leaves, softly caressing the water on the street down into gutters. In a delightful fluid movement it would gain momentum, jetting up each telephone pole and shaking the lines that loosely hung connecting each cottage.
Despite the beautiful day and the cool crisp wind, Joseph sat in his house. He would remain in his house for weeks, only to briefly suspend his activities for a stroll down to the corner shop to buy more film or a few cans of beans when he would run out. Beans were easy enough to cook on the stove, and since the death of his wife, he found the only energy he could muster up was for his daily photograph and to warm this sustenance.
Daisy had passed away twelve days prior. The morning she had died, Joseph woke to the aroma of a savory cheese and potato casserole. Each morning, Joseph rose to the redolence of breakfast wafting into the bedroom....eggs florentine on crisp english muffins, roasted potatoes with fresh mozzarella cheese, waffles were always accompanied by homemade syrup and orange juice was fresh squeezed. Daisy appeared capable of taking what little money he gave her for groceries and providing a variety of not only nourishing, but gourmet meals.
After she tended to his needs over breakfast, Daisy would accompany him into the bathroom to help him bathe and shave his face. Carefully, she would drag the razor his jawline and down his chin. Slowly, pulling the handle from middle of each ear to the side of his neck, she was always careful not to cut him. She would see him off at the front door and finish her duties around the house until he came home that evening.
Theirs was a simple relationship, very few words were spoken and throes of passion were devoid. A light touch on the hand or a brush of her hair on his face in the night was the extent of their physical relationship since he lost his penis in the war. The town eerily emulated their relationship. They had moved there soon after the accident and at once both of them felt comfortable in the place that so easily mimicked the inner turmoil of their marriage. Full of secrecy and dark corners, simultaneously it appeared so sunny, light and breezy. The quiet streets each day so much resembled the utter silence that suffocated Daisy and Joseph each night they lay to sleep.
Each day, after Joseph left for work, Daisy would dress herself and walk down to the market. The grips of silence left her as she quickly jaunted on the cobblestone pathway. Joseph was always naive, never understood that it would have been absolutely impossible to obtain two potatoes on what he gave her each week for groceries, let alone the feasts she provided him, but Mr. MacEnroe was a sweet old gentleman, and Daisy knew every man had a price. She would slip in the back door of his store and undress down to her slip in his office each day to provide the services his old wife was unable to in exchange for free reign through the market. In addition, Mr. MacEnroe would prepare meals and freeze them for her so all she would have to do was pop them in the oven. MacEnroe loved to cook, although to admit so would imply a level of homosexuality no one in the small town would have been capable of appreciating. Furthermore, Mr. MacEnroe was a simple man, unable of appreciating the untouched softness of her skin, unable to hear the pleasure he afforded her by the simple act of closeness, but he did enjoy the five minutes of sex she brought him each day.
But today, and for almost two weeks, none of this had transpired. While walking home from the market earlier that month, the wind blew down the corridor, up the telephone pole, through the lines, and down came a squirrel, hitting Daisy in the face which startled her into the street where she was run over by some Italian on a motorcycle passing through the town.
Joseph would come home from work immediately that day, but never shed a tear for his deceased wife. The injuries she had sustained must have been internal, because she did not have a scratch on her. Curiously, there was little difference between dead Daisy and the walking corpse of a human being she had been in the five years of their marriage. Sure, he had no one now to dress him and resorted to eating his meals from cans, but ultimately silence continued to permeate the house and sometimes the cat would brush up against his leg, providing as much affection as Daisy ever was capable of exhibiting towards him.
Despite the beautiful day and the cool crisp wind, Joseph sat in his house. He would remain in his house for weeks, only to briefly suspend his activities for a stroll down to the corner shop to buy more film or a few cans of beans when he would run out. Beans were easy enough to cook on the stove, and since the death of his wife, he found the only energy he could muster up was for his daily photograph and to warm this sustenance.
Daisy had passed away twelve days prior. The morning she had died, Joseph woke to the aroma of a savory cheese and potato casserole. Each morning, Joseph rose to the redolence of breakfast wafting into the bedroom....eggs florentine on crisp english muffins, roasted potatoes with fresh mozzarella cheese, waffles were always accompanied by homemade syrup and orange juice was fresh squeezed. Daisy appeared capable of taking what little money he gave her for groceries and providing a variety of not only nourishing, but gourmet meals.
After she tended to his needs over breakfast, Daisy would accompany him into the bathroom to help him bathe and shave his face. Carefully, she would drag the razor his jawline and down his chin. Slowly, pulling the handle from middle of each ear to the side of his neck, she was always careful not to cut him. She would see him off at the front door and finish her duties around the house until he came home that evening.
Theirs was a simple relationship, very few words were spoken and throes of passion were devoid. A light touch on the hand or a brush of her hair on his face in the night was the extent of their physical relationship since he lost his penis in the war. The town eerily emulated their relationship. They had moved there soon after the accident and at once both of them felt comfortable in the place that so easily mimicked the inner turmoil of their marriage. Full of secrecy and dark corners, simultaneously it appeared so sunny, light and breezy. The quiet streets each day so much resembled the utter silence that suffocated Daisy and Joseph each night they lay to sleep.
Each day, after Joseph left for work, Daisy would dress herself and walk down to the market. The grips of silence left her as she quickly jaunted on the cobblestone pathway. Joseph was always naive, never understood that it would have been absolutely impossible to obtain two potatoes on what he gave her each week for groceries, let alone the feasts she provided him, but Mr. MacEnroe was a sweet old gentleman, and Daisy knew every man had a price. She would slip in the back door of his store and undress down to her slip in his office each day to provide the services his old wife was unable to in exchange for free reign through the market. In addition, Mr. MacEnroe would prepare meals and freeze them for her so all she would have to do was pop them in the oven. MacEnroe loved to cook, although to admit so would imply a level of homosexuality no one in the small town would have been capable of appreciating. Furthermore, Mr. MacEnroe was a simple man, unable of appreciating the untouched softness of her skin, unable to hear the pleasure he afforded her by the simple act of closeness, but he did enjoy the five minutes of sex she brought him each day.
But today, and for almost two weeks, none of this had transpired. While walking home from the market earlier that month, the wind blew down the corridor, up the telephone pole, through the lines, and down came a squirrel, hitting Daisy in the face which startled her into the street where she was run over by some Italian on a motorcycle passing through the town.
Joseph would come home from work immediately that day, but never shed a tear for his deceased wife. The injuries she had sustained must have been internal, because she did not have a scratch on her. Curiously, there was little difference between dead Daisy and the walking corpse of a human being she had been in the five years of their marriage. Sure, he had no one now to dress him and resorted to eating his meals from cans, but ultimately silence continued to permeate the house and sometimes the cat would brush up against his leg, providing as much affection as Daisy ever was capable of exhibiting towards him.
The Mountain, Submission 8 by Lee Martin
“I don’t like going there,” said Maria Anna, pointing at the mountain with her head bowed. She tripped along barefoot on the cobblestones lining the street of Heraklion.
“Why?” asked the tall man limping next to her.
“I don’t like seeing the dead ones,” she replied, “but we have to. What’s you name?”
“George.”
“Jor?”
He laughed as he took the hat off his head and wrung it out like a washcloth, leaving small puddles of salty water on the road. “George. Frederickson.”
Maria Anna laughed hysterically while she spun around in the street holding the waist of a small doll.
“Is this Nags Head?” he asked.
“What?”
“Or the Cape? I was just off Cape Hatteras. I think this is Nags Head.”
“We live in Heraklio,” she said, with an air of authority that belied childhood. “I better take you to George.”
“Huh?”
“Oh!” she giggled behind her doll. “Not you, the other George. George Carow. We all know him.”
“Where is your father?”
“The mountain. Everyone is there. It’s the Day of the Waves. It’s my sixth.”
They walked down the narrow road for a few minutes before coming to a small blue house. An old grey bearded man sat outside in a rocking chair, and he stood when they approached.
“Who have you there, Maria Anna?” he asked.
“This is George. Another one! And he’s like you!” she replied.
George Carow walked toward them, his left arm in a white sling.
“Which ship?” he asked.
“Sir?” said George Frederickson.
“Which ship?”
“Uh, Monitor, out of Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn…nationality?”
“What nation? The United States of America.”
“America…incredible. What year?”
George Frederickson stood in disbelief. The girl had taken him to the town lunatic.
“My good sir, 1862. Well, it should be 1863 by now…”
“1863…incredible. My son, I am Sir George Carow, of King Henry VIII’s navy, from Portsmouth, England. 1545.”
The two men stood and stared at each other. Finally, George Frederickson turned to the girl.
“You better take me to someone in charge,” he whispered.
“We will. But we have to go to the mountain.”
“Oh, there, there young Maria Anna,” said Sir George. “You understand why we do what we must. The kids will find any others down here…your father will be so proud you found this man!”
“Yeah…” she said.
“She found me,” said the old man, winking at the younger.
At the foot of the mountain the three found stone stairs. With a sigh Maria Anna took the hand of the younger man, and the older George followed slowly. They made their trek up the mountain until they reached a clearing full of people. A small stream trickled out of a fissure in the rock mountain face.
“Pateras!” called Maria Anna. “I found another one!” The people turned to face them.
“Wonderful! Is this him? Hello, and welcome! I apologize if she hasn’t been very friendly. My little girl does not like seeing the dead men.” The man pointed to a row of men, all in similar uniforms, all soaking wet.
“What is this?” gasped George Frederickson, running toward the row of corpses. “Campbell…Lewis…I think that’s Cook…my God.”
A bright light began to grow within the rock face. The onlookers turned to face the light as a tunnel appeared and the small stream became a river pouring out, soaking the feet of the audience. A man was washed onto the ground, face down. The water subsided and the townsfolk stepped forward to carry him to the row of fourteen others.
“Will Allen,” said George Frederickson, closing his eyes as the body was turned over to reveal the face of the drowned man.
The light faded and the water stopped flowing all together.
Maria Anna’s father walked forward to address the crowd.
“Friends! The mountain has brought us these men, valiant all, who perished in the waves.” He spoke as though he had spoken the words countless times, but his emotion was still strong. His arm raised toward George Frederickson, and he beckoned him forward. “Your name?”
“U-uh, George Frederickson, acting Ensign, USS Monitor.”
“MON-EE-TOR!” repeated the crowd. They bowed and walked forward.
“My friend, welcome,” said Maria Anna’s father as the crowd began picking shovels and started digging graves. “Tonight is the feast for the memory of your friends. You will be the guest of honor. You are the last of the Mon-ee-tor, and this site will always be remembered as the resting place of your friends.”
It's Far Too Early For This Kind Of Thing, Submission 8 by Jay Johnson
"I won't deliver."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that: I… will… not… deliver… your expectations, I mean. It isn't that I don't want to. Nothing would make me happier than to live up to your fantasy – I want you to know that I will not, cannot deliver the construction you've built. And just so there's no confusion, I want it to be clear that nobody can deliver your expectations. It's not a deficiency in me… it's just an impossibility."
Just for a second there, just a second – something slid off her face and she looked, I don't know – flat. Like soda-pop gone stagnant in a sticky cup, abandoned on the counter. Her eyes were glassy and hollow, instead of sparkling and full. Her smile was plastic and forced instead of genuine – as if it never had nor ever would, reach her eyes.
And, I feel so much. I feel myself splintering, like a tree caught in an ice storm – sap frozen and expanding until the trunk bursts. I don't know how to handle my splintering. I am too many shards. Before a tree and now only tinder.
And, God, I loved you. I loved you so much. Too much. I don't think a person can handle that much love. I 'm not even sure a person deserves to be loved that much. I'm not sure that we fickle, oscillating, petty people deserve to be loved like that.
It's chilly and the breeze off the Pacific chases rubbish down the street. It's too early for much in the way of signs of life. There is a motor scooter parked on the street, only now revealed because your car has pulled away from blocking its view.
Conditions, Submission 8 by Ryan Wrenn
He reaches behind the bar, searches for a moment and finds the bottle opener. He lets the cap fly, arc in the air, and fall on the hardwood floor.
“The key to any relationship,” he begins, his voice sounding unfamiliar to his ear, “whether it is among friends, lovers, family, whoever.” He pauses to swig his beer and look across the empty tables and chairs of the lounge to the couch where his companion, half asleep, peers at him listlessly. The beer tastes musky but so had all the rest. He winces and swallows. “…is that there needs to be one thing…one singular phrase, word, utterance…that could end it all. At any moment. You might be in the middle of an embrace, passionate, alive,” he says and mimics the act weakly, closing his eyes, “and these string of words will end it.” He breaks and cuts his hand across the air wildly, almost losing his balance in the act. He stumbles back into a plush red chair, finds himself satisfied and sets his beer down on the floor beside him.
“It’ll end that and everything after it, everything before it. Which isn’t to say that those words existing is reason enough to say them. No, no, no. God forbid one should ever have to say those words. The point is that they’re there. Idle, ready, waiting,” he slurs and drags his fingers through his long hair, getting caught in knots along the way and pulling them loose.
“You can’t have it be about dependence. You can’t…you can’t have it be unconditional. Conditions. Conditions are what we need. A list of things that one will not stand for, from whoever it’s coming from. And too many people believe,” he stops and turns suddenly in his chair toward the open front door, as if expecting someone. Nothing. Outside a black motorcycle sits parked. “Too many people believe that we live in a world…lived in a world…where the ideal is unconditionality. Where if we are ever to succeed we must have blind trust, blind faith, blind dependence on some…someone.”
His hands lazily search for the beer next to his chair. Not finding it, he stands and walks behind the bar to the ice box, dark and warm.
His companion sits up and stares at him expectantly.
“I know what you’re thinking and the answer is no, I won’t tell you what I know will make you walk out that door.” He points to the door and the empty street beyond. “You’re all I got left. But maybe that’s it? Me saying that? That you’re all I got left? Pity’s as good a reason as any to leave I suppose. Do what you gotta do.”
Jumping down from the couch, his companion waddles on stubby legs over to the bar and behind it, sitting gently at his feet. It lets out a low growl and then begins to pant.
“I don’t have any food, boy. Well I got what we need, and you don’t need it now. Thought whoever owned this place might have left some food back in the pantry, but nah. Nothing. Guess they were in a real hurry after…well no use digging that up again. Curious thing to do though, leaving the beer. You’d think that’d be the first thing they take.”
He steps over his companion and moves toward the balcony that runs the length of the back wall. Beyond it the town spreads over the valley floor. Unmoving, breathless. Flooding with inky shadows from the growing dusk.
“So where to tomorrow? North? East?” He turns around and leans against the balcony. The room is empty.
“Boy?” he says and leans to peer behind the bar. Nothing. He grunts softly and stares down at the floor.
“South then.”
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Music ^ 2, Submission 7 by Charlie Arnold
“No! It’s not too late to change majors.” Chet angrily left the room after telling his family that he’s giving up the free ride for applied mathematics for a new interest. It was the first time his grades have dropped his academic career. Late nights were being taken up at a local bar with a piano that was once only used for novelty.
It started with a dare. The argument was simple enough, not everything was derived from math. This kind of thing happens when outnumbered by friends from the psychology department.
“Come on. You can’t really believe everything is numbers.” slurred Carl. Fritz was quiet because he could see the scientific method in his work. He usually was the quiet one letting ideas have time to roll around before making a conclusion.
“Of course it is. It can be applied to all arts. Fractals were only the beginning.”
“So you can learn how to be a master pianist simply by creating formulas?”
The challenge was set. Chet was given two weeks to learn and create music from math. All classes were missed for this. It wasn’t just a challenge to him but to his craft. At the end of the two weeks he début his formula of sound. Every one was so surprised that the bar tender asked him to come by next weekend. The deal was sweetened with free drinks.
Chet showed up and put on a show. The crowd wanted an encore but he couldn’t go on. There was nothing left of that formula. It takes too long to make the calculations eliminating the ability to improvise. After another month he realized there was nothing that could be done about this.
Thanks to the past time of reading and contributing to science posts he was contacted with an unusual opportunity. There was another university where they discovered how to record a map of a brain in digital form. They wanted to help his goal. He wouldn’t be improvising but creating the formulas as he played.
It was a success. Chet sat playing in a bar as empty as it started. He had removed the human element and was left with only science. This made his music faster with a precision never before achieved. But that wasn’t what the people were coming to see.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Cyborg, Submission 7 by Lee Martin
“Let’s play Catalyst!” said Jane.
“No, I am tired of that game. Besides, you always cheat,” replied Billy.
“I do not!”
“Let’s play Cyborg. You can even go first.”
“Ok,” said Jane agreeably.
“I’ll get the board.”
Billy ran to the closet, stepped up onto the first shelf, reached up and pulled down a brushed aluminum box. He walked it back to the living room smiling. The colored lights on the side had already started blinking. It had a pulse.
He pulled the lid off the box and laid the board and pieces out.
“Go get the tools,” ordered Billy.
Jane folded her arms. “You go get them, bossy. I’m older.”
“I’m setting up!” replied Billy, waving his arm across the electronic board.
Jane sighed and left the room, flipping her hair in annoyance while Billy continued with the plugs and cables.
“IT’S ON! HURRY UP,” said Billy.
“Here,” said Jane, shoving the box of tools into Billy’s arms.
Jane pressed her palm to the sensor pad, and after a series of beeps and flashing lights, her piece, which resembled a shopping cart with off-road tires, advanced three spaces.
“NEXT PLAY-ER,” replied the board.
“Ha!” said Billy, pressing his palm to the pad. His piece, shaped like a cartoon football player with guns, advanced four spaces, onto a silver square that began flashing blue.
“YESSSS!” said Billy. Jane rolled her eyes.
“AUDITORY AUGMENTATION,” replied the board.
Jane rolled up her sleeves and connected a black wire and clip under her left elbow and a red wire and clip under her right elbow. “Ok, try it.”
Billy pulled a scalpel from the tool box and slid it lightly across her extended index finger. He quickly looked up at her face. “Anything?”
“No, I can’t feel it. Go ahead.”
With the help of the board Billy slowly cut around Jane’s right ear. An articulated arm reached up from the board to collect the blood. The installation only took a few minutes. Jane unclipped the wires from her elbows. “It tingles!” said Jane smiling.
“How’s your hearing?” asked Billy.
“Wow! I can hear your heart beat! And I can hear Ms. Jones next door…she’s with someone else…I think they’re exercising or something. I can’t tell. It’s my turn, right?”
“Yep.”
Another three spaces.
“DEXTERITY DEVELOPMENT.”
“Coooool,” said Billy.
After a few minutes Billy examined his new hand. Having run out of supplies from the game board, they resorted to using pieces of nearby appliances.
“I wonder if mom will notice that your new hand slightly resembles pieces from the coffee maker,” said Jane.
“She never notices anything,” said Billy angrily as he folded his arms and scowls.
“Yeah. All she cares about is this house, with the stupid gadgets and sensors.”
Billy quickly typed some commands into the game board with the aid of his new hand.
“I have an idea,” said Billy.
“Me too,” said Jane, smiling in understood agreement. “I’ll get connected again; you find all the gadgets you can.”
The entire process only took an hour, and Jane only lost just over a pint of blood. New eyes, arms, a new leg, some brain enhancements, and of course, the new ear.
“This is cooool,” said Jane slyly. “Watch this!”
Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked up as Jane lifted the remains of the couch up over her head.
“Wow,” said Billy.
Jane set the couch down and punched the air.
“I wonder what mom will think of her gadgets now!” said Jane.
“Yeah!”
“Hi-YA!” she said, then kicked with the new leg and made contact with the lamp, which blew apart into a million pieces.
“Oh no!” said Billy.
“Oops! I didn’t mean to do that!” said Jane.
“What’s wrong?” asked Billy. Jane stood with her head in her hand. Billy noticed some blue sparks emitting from a small tear in Jane’s leg.
“Ow. Billy, something’s wrong. I don’t feel ok.”
Jane ran into the kitchen and began crashing into appliances.
“What are you doing?” screamed Billy.
“I don’t know! I mean, I am not doing it! It’s the gadgets! The gadgets are doing it!!!” said Jane, who then crashed into the kitchen wall which, exploded outward and rained onto the hundreds of vehicles on the courseways. She fell backward through the hole. “BILLY!!!”
“Oh crap! Oh CRAP!”
Billy hastily scribbled a note to his parents. He considered writing “this is your fault, mom!” but thought better of it. He left the note on the kitchen table, then crawled to the hole in the wall and looked down, wondering where his sister was and how long he thought he should let her have all the fun.
Rebuilt, Submission 7 by Ryan Wrenn
There was a commotion outside the door, voices scaling the stairwell and apparently having some trouble with it. Dr. Scaldwell rose from his desk and faced the door expectantly. But no man entered, nor knocked. Just shuffling outside the door. He walked closer and leaned his ear toward the door. Two men, it sounded like, arguing in harsh whispers.
“Well he’s fallen out of the sheet now.”
“It’s no matter, we’re not on the street anymore, just help me get him on his feet.”
“Shall I knock?”
“Not yet! Let me get his top hat on.”
Before the men could finish, the doctor reached for the knob and cracked the door open just the faintest sliver. A military man in the blue dress of the
“Mary Mother of God!” screamed the finely dressed man much too loudly for the situation, staggering back almost to the edge of the stairs but catching himself just in time.
“Sir, you really must try to stop screaming so loudly. This is meant to be a discreet operation,” said the military man, exasperated. He did not pay any mind to the doctor though; he simply pushed the limp man forward quickly and into the doctor’s small office. Reaching the examination table at the center of the room, the military man dragged the man on top of it, ever careful to keep the top hat secure and in place.
“What is the meaning of this?” the doctor asked as he made room for the finely dressed man to enter before shutting the door behind them.
“You are Doctor Scaldwell, I presume?” asked the finely dressed man, wiping the sweat delicately away from his brow, cheeks, mouth, and neck with a handkerchief.
“Yes, yes that is me but I’m strictly by appointment only and I…I’m afraid I must know what’s going on this instant. Who is this man?” he asked though he most certainly knew.
“This,” began the military man, “is no simple man. This is the half dead body of your President, Mr. Abraham Lincoln.”
A pause that should have been longer was interrupted by the finely dressed man loudly sighing in such a way as to sound much more in peril of dying than this man who lay unconscious in front of them.
Refusing to believe or to give into the obvious cries for help emitted by this sad, impeccably dressed man, the doctor approached the examination table. The man certainly was dressed like the President. A fine black suit and his signature top hat. His face, though, was wrapped tightly in cloth bandages.
“Are you confident that that bandage is not obstructing his breathing?” he said be felt above where the mouth should be for the heat of the man’s breath.
“No we’re not. That’s part of the reason we’re here.”
The doctor looked up at the military man, who stared back in cold sincerity.
“Remove the bandage.”
“Fine,” he said and removed the top hat, set it aside, and began the process of undoing the bandage. As he did so the doctor could see how it was bloodied from the back of his head.
“What has happened to him?”
“A man, some actor type, shot him at the theatre.”
“I see. How long ago?”
“Thirteen hours.”
“Thirteen hours? Why have you waited so long to see a doctor?”
“He has been with doctors since he was shot. That is not the concern.”
“Have you removed the bullet? Has the bleeding stopped? What has been done?”
“Mary Mother of God!” screamed the finely dressed man, again, only louder and more finely punctuated with a stumble over a chair and a fall to the floor. The doctor and military man looked to see what had startled him so.
“Fuuuuucckkk,” he utterly deep in his throat, and promptly collapsed back onto the table.
“He’s been getting up and saying that about once an hour.”
Baffled, the doctor retrieved the chair the finely dressed man had just feinted over (and not regained consciousness from, so deep was his shock) and sat.
“And what do you require of me?” he asked and looked up at the military man.
The military man seemed as confident as ever. He folded the President’s former bandage neatly into a square and set it next on the doctor’s desk.
“The man behind you, on the floor,” he began, turning toward the doctor as he leaned on the desk, “is from the President’s personal bodyguard. He has issued instructions to me, and only me, to bring the President here after he was falsely pronounced dead by another doctor, paid off by us. We are to ask you to enact the President’s dying request, as detailed in his Last Will and Testament.”
“Which is?” the doctor asked, almost too afraid to hear the answer.
“We need you to revive him, and rebuild him.”
“’Rebuild him’? My apologies, sir, but I am not quite sure of your meaning.”
The military man stood up straight, reached into his coat, and retrieved a small, yellowed parchment. He began to read.
“On the evening of July the third, in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and sixty three, a Doctor Scaldwell accepted a severely wounded soldier into his office in the town of
“That boy died!” the doctor exclaimed, shocked into remembering that desperate night and those desperate machines.
“And you must not let that happen to Mr. Lincoln,” spoke the finely dressed man as he slowly rose to his feet. His hand found the doctor’s shoulder and gave it a quick, too-friendly pat before the hand and the man backed away, across the room to the military man’s side.
“To what end must I do this?”
“The President’s will was very clear about that,” the military man said, gently putting the parchment back into his coat.
“Yes? Well? What is it?”
“The President would like to be rebuilt in order to find and kill the ones that killed him, and then to fight crime ever thereafter,” the finely dressed man said, no trace of doubt in his voice.
The doctor sighed the same sigh the finely dressed man had sighed early, his head in his hands.
“Would he not want to continue being President? That is if I can even do this absurd thing you ask of me.”
“The President’s will was very clear, Doctor Scaldwell,” repeated the military man.
“Yes, you said as much. And what if I refuse? Or accept and fail? What will happen to me?”
“It will be assumed that you are co-conspirator in the plot and you will be tried accordingly. Mrs. Lincoln will also not be very pleased.”
“The First Lady knows about this?!”
“It was her idea,” the military man said calmly.
The doctor looked up to the same blank and coolly serious faces.
“I suppose I do not have much of a choice,” he lamented and sank back into the chair, limp as the President’s body on the examination table.
“I am very glad to hear it, Doctor. We must be returning to the President’s…ahem…death bed now to avoid suspicion. But please do what you can for the President now. And prepare a list of material you may need. I will return with the President’s ink drawing of how he imagined his re-born self would look like so that you may use it as a reference. Good day, sir.”
With that the two men made for the door quickly, shutting it loudly behind them. Doctor Scaldwell stood and looked about the room, trying to will away the President’s body not two feet to his right. It was no use.
In his head he made a list of what he would need. A waterwheel, a musket, a spyglass, and the makings of a small steam engine.
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