These Places

New York City

2010-09-03T12:41:00.001-07:00

Just about sixteen years ago this week, I packed up a small Ryder rental truck packed with a few bits of furniture and my clothes. On a bright morning in Memphis, Tennessee, as my mother and father stood tearfully watching, I pulled said rental truck out of my driveway and left to begin adulthood. I was twenty-one years old.

In a few days, after picking up my cousin with whom I'd share an apartment, I had arrived in New York City. The City was different back then. Any and every New Yorker, when waxing poetic about their youth will start with those words. New York was different then. But it was. The redemptive revitalization of American cities had not fully cleansed New York. This was 1994. In the years that would follow, the city would become cleaner and family-friendly. Unfortunately, it would also lose its character and anything closely resembling middle class affordability.

But in those days, a faint air of menace still hung over the city. In the first few months, I thought about leaving to go back home. Home? Where was home? This was home and I was struggling to make it feel so. My apartment would get broken into. I would struggle early on at a job that I felt under qualified to do. The city's menace lurked behind these challenges, all the while delivering a sneer.

But that first night I moved in, I was a god. I strolled down Lexington Avenue and bought an inordinately overpriced sixpack of beer. It was a beautiful night and the Chrysler Building was lit up in all its glory - and now it belonged to me. It was the absolute freest feeling I'd ever know.

Cincinnati

2009-06-06T16:54:00.001-07:00

by Glenn Haas

It's strange for me to see the church from here; this sidewalk, this place I'd walked time and time again. There's an enormous absence where a row of houses had been. This was where my Aunt Frances had lived and like all the other vanquished places of my upbringing, it still possesses an intrasigent center of gravity. Now there's this void as I stand here with nothing between me and God but a chain link fence and some gravel. Such is the way in cities and I suppose I can think of nothing more futile than my standing here lamenting.

My Aunt Frances had a foul mouth. She'd perch at her apartment window, gaze down at the street and refer to every other passer-by as 'shitlegs' or other such similar rendering. Her brother, my great-uncle Willis was mildly retarded. Frances had cared for him his entire life. Willis spent most days either fishing in the polluted Ohio River or listening to the Reds on the radio as he rolled an endless stream of cigarettes. He was a wondrously quiet and gentle behemoth of a man. I was in their care every Wednesday while my mother was at work. Though I can't recall him ever uttering a single word to anyone, I knew he possessed a love for me and for all things on our shared universe that was beyond measure.

I might look up right now but my eyes would only meet the sun. They would not, as I would wish, meet the face of Aunt Frances...looking down upon me from her perch as my mother busily whisked me homeward. Aunt Frances, at her window would regard our departure the usual muted expression that she gave to the rest of planet earth. In a matter of moments she would pull her head inside and make Willis his dinner, but not before referring to me or perhaps anyone peripheral to me on the sidewalk, as 'shitlegs'.

Carriage and Car Collide

2009-06-03T17:46:00.000-07:00

Another great contribution from Ruben Carbajal. Check him out at http://www.rubencarbajal.net/

COMMUTER: a woman in her late 40s, arm in a cast.
COACHMAN: a man in his late 40s, smoking a cigarette.
HORSE: shiny chestnut coat, bandage on his head.

COMMUTER
I hate driving in the city. I always worried I was going to kill one of those bike messengers. But this?

COACHMAN
It was a horn, I think. Spooked him. After that, I mean, it was all over for us.

HORSE
I don't remember much. I think they sedated me. But I’ve seen the pictures. The wires picked it up. Made a couple of front pages. Even went viral, I’m told.

COMMUTER
To be honest, I think it would've been better for everyone if I had hit a bike messenger. I know that sounds real shitty, but it's true.

COACHMAN
The press has been crazy. Before, we'd get a few of the PETA people on us, you know, protesters? They'd harass the tourists as we'd take them through the park. Placards, and whatnot. You get called every name in the book. But this? It's just out of control.

HORSE
I'm not going to comment on the whole animal rights issue, alright? I've accepted my lot in life. It's not easy. The asphalt gets hot. There's the carriage, which is no picnic. I drag around mostly Midwesterners who, let's face it, aren't exactly anorexic supermodels, okay? But then, you know, there are countries where horsemeat is a delicacy. I have a cousin who works a petting zoo. Sounds like a good gig, right? But the guy rides in a perfect circle all day. That's no life. I get to see all kinds of stuff. I like listening to the conversations. The oohs and ahhhs. You know, guys trying to impress dates? I'm a sucker for that kind of thing.

COMMUTER
I know it sounds cold, but do you know if I would've hit a messenger, this wouldn't have made the second to last page of the Daily News? A couple hundred of those poor bastards get squashed like bugs every year; you think anyone gives a crap? Hit a horse, and suddenly I'm one notch above a kiddie porn photographer. I've been getting honest to god death threats. I mean, the horse ran into me.

COACHMAN
There was a strange moment there, when he freaked out... All day, every day, that horse goes where I say he goes. You take it for granted. Suddenly, I'm at his mercy. Where will he take me? Where will my life go from here? Will I die?

HORSE
I was scared. I remember that. The papers said I got spooked by a car horn. Maybe. Initially, could be. But I think what really freaked me out was the realization that I was in control. The reigns were loose. I’d been handed the power over my own fate. Was this what I had hoped for all along? My whole life I've been told where to go, when to turn, how fast, how slow. Now, here I am in the middle of 5th Avenue, the storefronts illuminating the rain-soaked streets...The master of my own destiny. Where will I go from here? Where will I take my life? Will I die?

COMMUTER
My husband took me on a carriage ride once. It was Valentine's Day. Snow everywhere. Traveling at that speed, the world slows down. The hoof beats transport you to a rhythm that New Yorkers are just not used to. Like your heart beat. You take notice. The bare branches carrying all that snow in their arms. Wrapped in a wool blanket, next to the man you settled for. The same view you might see a hundred years ago. Longer, even. You think about time. And the way we conduct our lives now. And it’s so quiet. You feel like you're in one of those snow globes, like the world is covered in glass. About halfway through, you get a little unsettled. You know, just over the walls of the park, the city is moving. You’re separated. From those going to their jobs. Making decisions. Participating in life. By the end of it, you're full on anxious. You want the ride to end. You want to get back to your apartment. Your life. New Yorkers are in New York because we don't like to ruminate. We don't want time to philosophize or listen to our souls. It’s just too damn terrifying. Why do you think we’ve plugged ourselves into machines 24-7? Anything, we’ll take any damn distraction to stave off an empty moment of contemplation.

COACHMAN
I don’t know. It’s basically over for me. The whole business. Good riddance, I guess. It’s just not worth it any more. Too much controversy. Too much bullshit, you know? Somone’s always got a problem with something. There used to be certain things that were always New York. Egg Creams. Smoking a joint on the street without being hassled. A decent strip club. Not any more. I got cited. Bad publicity. Company fired me. Not sure what I’ll do. My cousin has a rickshaw business he started a few years ago. He says I’ll have to start at the bottom, work my way up. Whatever. Maybe it’ll get me back into shape.

HORSE
Well, the carriage company retired me. Some upstate hippie couple agreed to take me in. I'll get some needed time off. Some of my earliest memories are of the sky. A horizon unimpeded by buildings. It'll be good to return to that. I think I'll miss the city, though. When I look at that photo, I have to admit, I’m overcome with this strange feeling of pride.

I think to myself, this is a metaphor for something.

Moment Before Impact

2009-05-20T18:06:00.000-07:00

by Ruben Carbajal

The horrible screeching of tires. SHE (Early 40’s), frozen in an expression of terror. HE(Mid-40’s), seated next to her, pantomimes a steering wheel, carefree expression.Lighting change. HE loses the steering wheel. They address the audience directly: their delivery should be impassive, pleasant but clinical.

They begin...

SHE

Moment before impact: I'm helpless to react.

(Almost jolly)I never know what hit me.

SHE

He was my best friend's husband. The one rash act of my life.

(Almost Proud)Ruining one marriage while consummating the next; at the same time, is a trick.

SHE

Terrorism. Violent Crime. Poverty. Shark Attacks. Outliving our son. Balding.

Things She Worried About. (BEAT) Impotence. The new VP of Sales. Physical Fights. Being Bad Father. Balding.

SHE

Things He Worried About.

My whole life I'm told I'm capable of great things. I bask in my potential and accomplish nothing.

SHE

I work hard. Nose to grindstone. T's Crossed, I's dotted. I'm rarely, and mildly acknowledged.

HE (Gingerly)

I slept with interns.

SHE

Things He Thinks I Don't Know. (BEAT) I'd trade him in to have my best friend back.

Things She Thinks I Don’t Know.

Final score: 15,652 Days, 46,956 Meals, 2 Marriages, 2 Children, 3 Continents,17 Lovers.

SHE

Two Children?

Things He or She Didn't Know.

SHE

Oh.

HE (Musing)

What a mess.

SHE (Correcting)

What a lovely mess. I’ll miss it. If it’s possible to miss anything now. Probably not.

THEY hold hands. Stare into each other’s eyes.

SHE (To the audience)

This is a dramatic conceit. When it happens, we don’t actually hold hands.

HE (To the audience)

There is no time for that.

Lighting change. Sound of screeching tires. SHE, frozen in an expression of terror. HE,holds the steering wheel, joyfully oblivious. Lights out.

PHOTO: Dangers of Driving in Central Florida by Tom Arthur via Creative Commons License(Link to artists work: http://www.flickr.com/photos/tomarthur/377947645/)

1923 (Coney Island)

2009-05-19T19:57:00.000-07:00

by John Biscello

In the black and white photo, 1923 written in faded pencil in the lower left hand corner, neatly scalloped perforations along the borders—my grandmother and her sister, Rose, are standing on the beach. Coney Island: I know this because the steel tower that is The Parachute looms prominently in the distant background. In the nearer background the crowd is a swell of bikinis and bathing suits and sandals and bare feet.

My grandmother and her sister are standing side by side, practically grafted at the hip, the both of them smiling wider rubbery smiles. Summertime smiles. Rose is several years younger than my grandmother, she is also slimmer and slightly taller. Her narrow beak-like nose seems, in contrast, to extend the width of her almond-shaped eyes.

My grandmother—squat, buxom, busty—has a darker complexion than Rose, and that’s how I’ve always known my grandmother: sun-baked, year-round, reminding me of an overdone potato.

I look at the writing—1923—and wonder whose handwriting it is. I try to imagine it being written in the year 1923, then try to imagine the year 1923, what it was like, try to imagine the hustle and verve and majesty of Coney Island in its heyday, try to imagine the Depression, which will come on like a plague in six years and cast a dark pall over people’s visions and dreams and optimism. I try to imagine these things and only get as far as surface thoughts, lean imaginings.

In relation to me, my grandmother has always been old, and when I see this photo of her in 1923, I feel as if I’m looking at the person who played my grandmother in the early part of her life. Not was her, but played her: the young actress who fulfilled the role until a slightly older actress stepped in, who was then replaced by a slightly older actress, and so on and so forth. Now that my grandmother is dead she is no longer played by anyone. No more flesh-animated actors are required to keep the drama alive and running: my grandmother, as a ghost, has been liberated from further participation in Life-the-Movie.

Thinking of the photo, 1923, I think of myself, how I’m growing older, and if I were to look at photos of myself—when I was eight, fourteen, twenty-one, twenty-six—I would see all the people who I thought I was, all the actors who played me for a while. By the time I pass away, there will exist a slide-show gallery of actors and masks to view in relation to my life, but the sum-of-all-their-parts will not equate to the definitive version of me, won’t even come close.

Absence, I suspect, holds the dearest most essential parts of us, which is why a photo of my grandmother in 1923, is a misleading speck of evidence in a much larger and more mysterious investigation.

DO NOT (Dallas)

2009-05-18T18:58:00.000-07:00

by Glenn Haas

You have to wait until a few hours past dark.

DO NOT go to the back porch via the side with the driveway. I call that neighbor Nosy Insomniac. Go the other way. There’s an old lady on that side who’s asleep by the time Jeopardy is done. If her dog barks, DO NOT panic. That thing barks incessantly, endlessly. The whole world ignores that godforsaken mutt, so you should too. Dress in dark clothes. The back porch light will be off and I unscrewed the flood bulbs in the motion-activated lights just before I left.

Now, the key will be under the flowerpot that’s shaped like a turtle. It goes to the side door that leads into the kitchen. If the key sticks a bit when you first try it, DO NOT freak. Just giggle it a bit, and it will work.

Remember to take off your shoes before you walk in. God knows the carpets are white and will be until the end of time. There’s a center hall that goes through the middle of the house. Go to the last door on the right, that’s my room.

DO NOT turn on the light. You’ll now be on the side of the house that borders Nosy Insomniac. If you turn on the light, WE ARE DONE!

Under my bed you'll find a black duffle bag. Go to my drawers and fill it with underwear, jeans, t-shirts - as much as you can pack in. Try not to make a mess of things.

The last and most important thing is this: get the chair by my desk and use it to get to the top shelf of my closet. There's a small brown paper bag hidden way in the back of the shelf to the right - that's where I hid it. DO NOT forget to get that. Once you have it, stuff it in the duffle bag with my clothes and whatnot.

Remember to go out the back, lock up the door with the key and take the key with you.

Can't wait, baby. Just wish I could see the looks on their faces...

Single and Seeking (Albany)

2009-05-09T12:11:00.000-07:00

by Natalie N. Narine

I should have known from the beginning, that my relationship with Jasper was headed for the rocks. Okay, I knew deep down it would, but at the time I didn’t care. I had been single for about two years, since ending an abusive six year relationship. I had promised myself nothing serious. It was fun in the beginning, being out there again. The thrill quickly faded after creepy, married, or gay men seemed to be my only options.

Jude’s was far from your typical dive. Outside, the building looked like an abandoned warehouse, but inside was a chic nightclub. Locals, as well as outsiders, frequented the place. Playing a gig there was considered prestigious. I was feeling a bit solemn that night. Even the ranting of my best friend’s bedroom buddies didn’t interest me. Shutting everything out, I gazed into my drink. Was I getting too old for this shit? Something sultry knocked me back into reality. My attention now was focused on the stage.

As the trumpet wailed, the humidity rose in the room. It felt like a night in Cuba. Throwing my shoes off to the side, I danced hypnotically toward the front row. My hair was drenched in sweat and covering most of my face. My clothes clung to my swaying body. His eyes were burning my flesh. It made me wild and excited. After his set, and just before exiting the club, he mouthed his name to me…Jasper.

It was a tsunami after that. Nights filled with music, lust and whatever else stumbled into our paths. It was like living the life of a character in some paperback novel. Somehow I was able to function during the day. Going to work at the old folks home, sleeping for a few hours, and then out all night. My other relationships took the back burner, somehow I didn’t think they would mind. I was in love with a man that every girl wanted. Little did I know, he loved and wanted them too.

At first there were little signs. A bit of perfume here, some lipstick there. I always forced myself to believe him. I went to less gigs. Our love nest became a pig sty for him to crash at occasionally. Why wasn’t this working? Where did it start going wrong? I started to feel defeated, but not knocked out just yet.

On a weeknight I headed to Jude’s to surprise Jasper. The motion of my hips to his horn would surely remind him of what we had. A few groups played before him. I got tired of waiting and headed down to the lounge for the performers. Maybe I could seduce him and get him hot before his set. Spiraling down the staircase into the darkness, I could hear drunken laughter. Stepping into the light, I could see my best friend with her legs wrapped around my lover.

I changed my locks. I refused his numerous calls, pleading for forgiveness. I knew I was doing the right thing, but I felt so wrong on the inside. Weeks had gone by and his persistence elevated. Showering me with sweet words. Maybe if he promised it wouldn’t happen again.

We needed to get out of the city. Away from the temptations and bad memories. I picked the perfect spot. A place I use to go to with my family on vacations when I was a child. A secluded little bungalow by the water. We hadn’t been there very long, but we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. The passion was intense, like when we first met. Oddly, the more he treated me well, the more I felt anguish. On our last night we made love, not sure where we would end up.

The morning was somber. Jasper kept himself hidden. I packed our things to leave. It was getting late, and he still wouldn’t answer or come out. This was ridiculous, I thought. If this weekend was just a joke, tell me. Furious, I barged into the room. He was naked and in bed, like the night before. His head was dented. His trumpet lay on my pillow.

I left, but not before remembering to put the key back under the matt of senile Mrs. Flemming’s home. She was always kind and cooperative during my shifts. I’m sure once all the paperwork is finished, her heirs will come to claim the property. As for me, I will always have Cuba.

Natalie N. Narine is a Visual/Expressive Art Educator, Radio Personality and Published Writer. "I was introduced to the creative craft by myfathers visions...Nurtured by inner magic andtormented by the ambitious beast...I create through my3rd eye...reaching out to the spectrum of what isbeyond plain view...given glimpses to what supposedlyparallels human nature...I am influenced by what ishidden, forbidden, and raw."

You Don't Have To Go Home But You Can't Stay Here (Rome)

2009-05-06T21:08:00.000-07:00

by Hunter Addams

I saw Allan again today. I can't go to The Bank anymore without seeing him. Can't help thinking that the entire evening had been a Catch-22, just waiting to happen.

A few months back, (7 months, 2 weeks and 4 days to be exact) Allan and I had gone out for the evening. We hit up our usual haunts; Redline, Scavenger, Bar-Hops, etc. At The Bank, Allan had this strange feeling that someone had been following us.

He was a tall, lanky fellow. About 6' 3"; couldn't have weighed more than 135 lbs, soaking wet, with bricks in his pockets. Longest goddamn trenchcoat I had ever seen. It hung just centimeters off the ground. Had himself a black cowboy hat, you know the kind with the sides curled up. That and his handlebar mustache, this guy was unmistakable. He looked like the villain in some sort of bad western set in 2012.

Anyway, Allan said he had seen the guy at Redline earlier, and now he was here. The guy had even thrown a few looks in his direction. I hadn't noticed him myself, so I just said it was probably just a coincidence, and the guy probably thinks we're following him now. The guy just stood at the end of the bar, sipping what looked like a bloody mary, minus the celery stick.

We mingled around the club a while longer, mixing with the random folk we generally run into. Allan was fixed on that guy though. Couldn't stop looking at him. Finally I dragged him outside for a smoke. Peaches followed us out, rambling on about her cat eating her X, and how she didn’t have any money for more, but instead had to trade "favors" for it in the ladies room. She finally decided the ground was too steep for her and headed back inside.
Allan pacing like a caged animal the entire time, I grabbed him by the shoulders and told him to calm down. He swore something was up with that guy, so we waited outside to see if he followed us out. 15, 20, 25 minutes.. Nothing.. The guy was inside, and seemed to be staying there.

Refusing to go back in, we moved onto the local watering hole about 3 blocks west. If the guy came in here, we'd know he was following us. It was a little mom & pop hole-in-the-wall. Only people who came in here were the old retired Vets, sitting at the bar talking about the time Joe Louis came in.

This wasn't some hip, trendy place the club hoppers go to. Although, thinking about it, that guy would probably fit in here better than at The Bank. If not for his outfit being all leather, he'd stick out like a sore thumb in there.

We sat near the back wall, Allan turning to look out the window every chance he got. After an hour or so, he started to relax a little, but still visibly shaky. Allan gets up to order one last round for us. Glancing to his side, he sees the man standing across the street. He was so startled he would have fallen over backwards, had it not been for the octogenarian directly behind him, nursing his Tom Collins.

Now stinking of gin, the old man started yelling towards Allan. I got up at this point, not knowing what had been happening. I apologized to the old man, feverishly, trying to sop up the liquor with the world’s smallest napkin. The bartender wiping down the bar, mumbling obscenities to himself about "kids these days." Amongst all the commotion, I hadn't noticed Allan was outside already. I ran to the door to stop him, as Allan has been known to over react a bit when he's been drinking. By the time I got out, Allan was already yelling across at the guy, who wasn't moving at all. He just stood there, staring blankly, as if he was waiting for something. Allan stepped out into the street, not looking where he was going. He slipped off the edge of the sidewalk, stumbling into the street, causing himself to be plowed down by a small VW racing out of the alley. I looked around the street, but the guy was gone.

After the police finished their report, and the heavy zipper was shut around Allan, I sat on the edge of the sidewalk. With my head in my hands, shaking, I looked up and saw the man again. He walked towards me, with his hands in his pockets. He stopped over me, and I looked up asking why he had been following us all night. He said to me "Allan and I had an appointment." Then he turned and walked away. He lit himself a cigarette, with his red right hand, and disappeared about halfway down the road.

When it's your time to go, it's your time to go. But, if your fate teases you into it, is it still fate..?

Hunter Addams is the head director-editor-writer for Sedition Films. An underground horror film group based out of NYC. check us out at myspace.com/seditionfilms-

Beasties in the River (Texas)

2009-05-05T17:58:00.000-07:00

by Jared Gniewek

For my twelfth birthday, my mother gave me a pile of yellowed, gristly bones wrapped in a piece of cloth. She told me to clean the bones for a year with an old toothbrush until they were white as baby teeth. So I took to the task and by the time my thirteenth birthday came they were. She took me to where my father died and threw them in the dirt. She told me she could see what my future would be through the way they were spread on the dark earth. Two formed an arrow-head pointing South, this was where I would live. Two crossed each other, I would fall in love. Two laid next to the crossed ones, this would be the number of children I would have. Three bundled below this, my home would be large and fancy. One stood upright with nothing supporting it, this had no meaning. She had never seen it before. It stood amidst the chaos, pointing directly up at the sun. It cast no shadow because it was high noon. We cleaned up the bones and buried them beneath our back porch in the piece of cloth they came in. We never dug them up or spoke of them again.

There is a beast beneath my town. Huge as the river and meaner than the devil. It lies, sleeping, waiting for the boy with the balls to wake it. It breathes heavy and I can hear it. Sometimes it rolls in its sleep and the earth moves around it and the houses heave and sigh with it. Our house will shake when it shifts and glasses will fall from the cabinets but that is rare. I heard it speaking in its sleep before and its words were frightening to me but I understand them now. I now know why I am afraid of the supermarket. I now know why there are no churches here. I now know why the dogs all hate me.

When I was fifteen I convinced some local jocks to let me summon a demon at their kegger down by the river. They thought it would be good for a few laughs to let the town weirdo make an ass out of himself. I knew I could do it. it’s phonetics really. Just the proper patterns of syllables can make anything happen. The beast told me how to do it. So I summoned a demon and no one could see it but me. They were too drunk to care anyway. It flew around their heads and gave them bunny-ears and laughed maniacally and then disappeared back into the bonfire. I got my ass kicked later by six or seven of them and I just let it happen. I fell quick and let their kicks wash over me like a wave. The beast didn’t even skip a breath it just stayed asleep, dreaming of evil and such. I never summoned a demon again.

The beast sleeps in a lake of fire surrounded by eyeless black fish that sometimes escape into the river and bite. The bite hurts more the day after, venomous I am sure. The wound begins as a small welt with tiny tooth marks that bleed a bit. Later, the welt grows into a boil, full of burning ooze. When the boil bursts, the surrounding area breaks out into hives which itch. Scratching that itch, which few can resist results in open sores in the affected area. Sometimes the initial welt fades with the rest of the pox. Other times it scars. My father had a scar from one of them fish in the center of his forehead. They say he should have been blinded by the rash but it all faded quick, leaving a black slice which never closed and bled when he got pissed.

Once, I dreamed I was the beast. Our heartbeats were linked in syncopation. I breathed with it, inhaling its noxious breath with my own. We were one beast and I could feel the coiled might beneath my skin.

Daybreak

2009-05-05T17:55:00.000-07:00

by Christopher Woods

At night, they came from around the county to see Vivienne Lee. Nights, her light would be on. If you saw the soft yellow glow, she was receiving. And the men, from farms and from the small town, would find a way to leave their homes to visit her for an hour or two. They came in the night like shadows to Vivienne Lee’s light. Hungry moths, looking for comfort, for her touch. And she received them again and again, making them feel like never before, unless of course it had been with her.

None of them ever spoke about Vivienne Lee, not to the other men they sometimes crossed paths with outside her house or in the hallway outside her bedroom, not even to friends, and certainly not to their wives. The men left their beds and wives at all hours to visit the house on Main Street. Sometimes the wives never awoke. Other times the wives, with looks of worry on their faces, would part the curtains and watch their husbands disappear in the night, on foot or by truck.

Years flew by. Then one night, Otis McKay was with Vivienne Lee. He had been tired to begin with, but being with her so passionately had drained him completely, so much so that he had fallen into a deep sleep. At first light, he awoke. He could not believe he had slept with her through the night. He wondered what he would tell his wife. But as he pulled back the quilt, he saw something that shocked him to his bones. In the early morning glow he saw Vivienne Lee nude. At that moment he could feel his heart all aflutter. He saw Vivienne Lee’s tiny penis, taped to her groin. And he realized he had been with a kind of man all along. All those nights. He got dressed and left.

Soon the men, all lovers of Vivienne Lee at one time or another, began to talk and to grumble to each other. It was all about the lie they had been told over the months and years. No, Vivienne Lee had never told them she was a man. She had tricked them, hadn’t she, and in the worst way. They swallowed their long silence and came up with a plan.

It was on a Tuesday morning, at daybreak, when they gathered outside Vivienne Lee’s house on Main Street. Some stood and waited at the picket fence while three men went inside for her. They brought her outside, still in her nightgown. They pushed her into a truck, and then the caravan of trucks drove slowly down Main Street, heading north, then turned on Hunter’s Moon Road. The stones alongside that road were large, and at the end of the road the brush was tall and very dry, almost begging to be set on fire.

Christopher Woods is the author of a prose collection, UNDER A RIVERBED SKY, and a collection of stage monologues for actors, HEART SPEAK. His photography can be seen in his online gallery - www.moonbirdhillarts.etsy.com. He lives in Houston and in
Chappell Hill, Texas.

Can you come up with a story for one of these places?

2009-05-04T18:32:00.000-07:00

If so...send your 250-750 word story to Slimbo3000@gmail.com and I'll feature it on this blog!! (Let me know if you'd like your name featured of if you'd like to be anonymous.)

Springfield

2009-05-02T03:36:00.001-07:00

by Kelly Drew

Reverend Clayton came in most mornings. He'd walk in and give out this big, "Well, hello everybody and God Bless on this fine mornin'." Then everyone who'd just been mumbling into their eggs till that point seemed to come alive and said hello back. It's like the sun didn't shine in that place till Reverend Clayton walked in.

After making that entrance, he'd come swooping behind the counter to help himself to a cup a coffee. And just after doing that he'd take the pot and walk around the tables topping off everybody else's coffee. By the time he'd be back behind the counter, the coffee pot would be empty. So he'd come right to me, grab my ass and say, "Marly darling, I think daddy needs a fresh pot".

So about three years ago, Reverend Clayton had an aneurysm blow up in that damn horny head of his. He was in a coma for about a year before passing. I have to admit, although that's an awful thing to happen to a person, I didn't miss his little morning ritual. We were without a pastor at Union Street Baptist Church for some months. Then Pastor Danny came to us.

He was such a sweet man, always so shy in person but when he'd be preaching - a house on fire.

Unlike Reverend Clayton, Pastor Danny would only come into the cafe when no one was here. Seemed at first like he liked to just sit by himself and read. Then I figured it out.

One day I was bringing him a refill and as I was about to walk away he grabbed my hand. He said, "Marly...I must tell you. Each night for the past two months, God awakens me at 2:30am - the same time every night."

And I think I muttered something like, "uh...okay."

He continued, "..and it was last night, I realized that He's wanting me to talk to you."

Well, it had been a long time since a nice young man had made me feel special like that...looking into my eyes, holding my hand. I suppose everything was a blur between the time I got him that refill and ten minutes later when we were having at it in the pantry.

For a week after that I felt a horrible guilt, having made love to a pastor in a diner pantry. And every time Pastor Danny came into the cafe after that, I guess I couldn't look into his eyes. When I did catch his gaze, he'd just give me that beautiful tender look he could give. And I'll tell you one thing, nothing in the world could keep me out of that pew every Sunday. Golly, how his words could just roll over you like a hot sunset. I'd be hypnotised, honest I would. And it got so, that he'd come to parts of his sermons where it felt like he and I were the only ones in that church, and his beautiful eyes and warm voice seemed like they were only reaching out to me and me alone. God, I could've sat in that pew forever when Pastor Danny started up.

Well, seven months after the pantry, Pastor Danny was gone. Seemed I didn't have the only pantry in town. And I'll tell you one thing - I don't know who'll come next down the pike for old Union Street Baptist - but I'm for certain going to steer clear of the son-of-a-bitch.

Duluth

2009-04-23T15:16:00.001-07:00

by Glenn Haas

John, you there? Pick up! Pick-up-the-phone, John.

Listen to me – I’m getting pretty goddamn tired of leaving these messages two-tree times a day, ya’understand?

Now, this is how it’s gonna be – you’re gonna get your ass over here and get this goddamn camper out of my driveway, ya’ get me?

Lydia’s got her mother and her goddamn brother coming next weekend and I can’t have your piece-a-crap sittin’ dere no longer. Between Lydia’s bitching about it and you doin’ nothing, so help me God, John, I'm about two-tree beers away from makin' this camper a pile of ashes!

You there, John?

Goddamnit.

Brown University

2009-04-23T15:13:00.000-07:00

by Matthew Paisner

It was a beautiful place. At least that's how I remember it, but maybe it wasn't the place that was beautiful so much as the feelings. I remember the quad as wide and green and lovely, but maybe it's only because of those endless days I spent out on it playing soccer or throwing a frisbee before the endless injuries and disappointments robbed these games of their innocence. I remember the common room as bright and cozy and full of laughter, but maybe that's only because of the nights we spent playing poker for dimes and talking for hours as only the young can talk, with a reckless, vibrant passion for this life and the world we live in. I remember it all as a long, carefree, perfect summer...but we were very, very young. Maybe the sun was always bright, maybe the stars were always beautiful, and maybe every day was exactly what it should have been. But maybe I was just seventeen.

Of course, the quad and the common room and the sun and stars aren't really what I remember about that summer. I remember what it's like to talk to someone ceaselessly from dawn to dusk and wish only that days lasted forever. I remember the frightening immensity of a first kiss, and the joyous relief the second one brings. I remember what it was like to walk home that night with my feet never touching the ground, and to know, in a rare moment of prescience, that this was the very best that life had to offer. I remember what it was like to sing love songs to someone, and realize little by little that I meant every word. I remember that falling in love with someone who loved me in return was the only thing I've ever found in this life that was truly beautiful.

When I think of that summer and that place, I know I should take things with a grain of salt. The grass was probably a lot like any other grass, the stars probably moved in the same constellations, and the common room was probably as dingy as any other. After all, the world was new, it was summertime, I was seventeen, and beauty fades with age in more ways than one. Maybe the sun didn't shine as brightly as I remember; I was very young. But young or old, there is one thing I do know: when she looked at me, no sun ever made shone as brightly as her eyes.

Balarat

2009-04-16T18:59:00.000-07:00

My uncle will, at times, come and spend a month with me. He does this from time to time, without any warning of his pending arrival. He spends these spells of time in my basement, mostly reading, writing in his notebook or listening to the radio. For the most part, he is a quiet private man, which is good as I work out of my home and a house guest can be unintentionally distracting. But not my uncle. His unobtrusive stays seem to go quickly and he ends up leaving with an exit as sudden and mysterious as his arrival.

My Uncle Bill is an intellectual ex-hippie. He's never fit into any aspect of society that might enable him to settle down and hold a conventional job. For the past twenty years he's been working on a manifesto on personal empowerment through organic foods and enemas. I've never read it. He's largely self-educated and is incredibly well travelled, if one is to believe he's actually visited all the locations he's boasted. I imagine he must have many stations such as my home, around the country (or world) that enables this ceaseless wandering. And so, every six or seven months, if I haven't seen him, I always give the road a second look to see if today might be the day.

After his last visit I got lost in my work and the improved weather. And then my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Yes, hi. I'm looking for Bill." It was a woman who sounded she might be my uncle's age, maybe a bit younger. She seemed to have a husky edge to her voice, possibly from a life lived hard, or perhaps due to a cold.

"I'm sorry, he was here about a month ago, but he's gone now."

"Oh, I see. Did he say where he was headed?"

"I'm sorry he did not. He usually doesn't. May I ask who's calling?"

"This is his sister." Now my Uncle Bill had one sibling, my father. I didn't want to relay this information just yet. There was no menace to this woman and if anything, I felt a need to help her.

"May I ask how you got my number?"

"Oh, well Bill had given it to me. Said he likes to get out west and gave me a whole bunch of numbers where he likes to go. Say, you wouldn't know how to get in touch with him would you?"

"I'm afraid I never have."

"Oh, see it's real important. See, I made some real important discoveries that he's going to need for his work. I've been doing some experiments. I got to give him my research, you know?" she spoke with the dazed agenda of an infinitely stoned person, convinced that all of humanity is tuned into the bizarre conversation rifling through her brain. Then she asked, "how do you know Bill?"

"I'm his nephew...which I suppose would make you my aunt?"

Pine Bluff

2009-04-16T18:50:00.000-07:00

Dear Trent,

I'm sorry to be putting all this into a letter, especially one you got to read after a long shift working. I guess its just the best way to say all I got to say.

Sis is coming by in a bit. Looks like she took daddy up on that offer of his. She's up and broke up with Tanner so now she's got herself a car.

Anyway, what I got to say is that when she comes by, me and Kyle are headed with her. I'm real sorry to do this on a letter and not to your face. I guess there just isn't any good way to say things sometimes.

I know you were never too thrilled about having Kyle around, even though he's a good boy and loves you like you was his own daddy. I guess that and all our fighting we been doing just made me figure my clearing out would be for the best. So Trent, honey, don't be mad, I think you know if you look into your own heart, you'll see you want this too.

You should know that I'm always going to be grateful for what you did. And I promise once me and Sis get settled and I get some work, I'm going to start paying you back just as best as I can.

I know you'll be all right, Trent. You're a good man and I really do want good things to come your way. Remember to get those brakes checked on your truck, honey. You keep forgetting and I always worry for you.

Talk to you soon,

Jenni

Keatsville

2009-04-09T18:35:00.000-07:00

I told my daddy straight away that it was Ellard Simms. And then daddy didn’t say anything after that. He just kind of frowned a bit and went round back and got to fixing that window screen. Ellard’s daddy owned the Hardware store in Keatsville. Ellard always known that the store was going to be his someday and that gave him a real chip on his shoulder, especially back then when we were all young and didn't know any better.

Ellard had told me he was coming by at ten and that I should be ready. Course, he didn’t tell me what 'ready' meant but I had a good idea. I knew what he was all about, always going from this girl to that one. He was good-looking, had a car and his family had money. And I do suppose all us girls were over the moon for him. So when he told me he was coming that night, I didn’t think nothing but that Ellard Simms thought me something special.

I couldn’t tell my folks I was going to meet him as he hadn’t asked me on a proper date. From the time I was creeping out the back window till the time Ellard’d brought me home, I guess I couldn’t believe a single thing of what I was doing. Looking back, I suppose I don’t remember too much of what happened. Don’t remember what we talked about. I suppose we’d just gone down to the park by Junction Reservoir and parked. And that was that. I do remember Ellard driving me home though. He never talked much so I just rolled down the window and let that hot summer air hit me in the face while he played the radio. I have to admit to thinking that everything was different now. I suppose I had my silly-girl mind all fixed up with me and Ellard in little house with a white picket fence, kids and all that.

I don’t know why I’m thinking of all this now. Ellard’s been dead ‘bout ten years. He’d gone to Vietnam and came back in one piece. They said he didn’t do nothing there but mind a supply station. When he came back, of course he got his daddy’s store. But maybe ten years after that, the interstate extension came through just twenty miles north, and it opened up a whole new world for Gaynor. Soon one of those big name hardware store chains opened up there and next thing you know, everybody between Keatsville on up just went to Gaynor for their hardware or anything else they'd want. In fact there isn’t much left to Keatsville at all now.

Ellard worked for the railroad after that. He died sitting in his car, I heard.

Yonkers

2009-04-02T19:52:00.000-07:00

I started by writing down all the street addresses of all the places where I’d lived for at least six months. There ended up being twelve. I set that six month threshold with the exception of this place where I am now. I’ve only been here for three months but I imagine I will be here longer. Each location got marked on my map of the country. I wanted to see what pattern would emerge. Nothing discernibly obvious has revealed itself but I’m still looking. This leads me to the next phase: annotating each day of my life. I am thirty-three years old which means that I have lived about twelve thousand days (and change). I had to use a spreadsheet for this. Each day uses two cells of the spreadsheet: one provided for the date and one provided for a brief description of what happened on that date. This was all easier than you might think. Certain days will stand out: holidays where you visited family, vacations, days you graduated, days you remembered because you the one you were dating made monthly celebrations of the day you met. Then there are other days: days you started a job, days your sports team won milestone games, days you recalled where you were because people always say ‘where were you when such-and-such happened?’. You fill in these days and you’re suddenly surprised that you’ve filled out perhaps several hundred of these lines. In between these major demarcations, you’re soon able to fill out the spaces in between. You remember what you would have done on a Friday when you were in school and you write that in. Most Sundays will begin with “Church” and then some weekend ritual will follow, but you realize there may be several Sundays where you missed church and some reasonable estimating and discounting will be required. You recall going to the museum as a child at a specific age and must make some reasonable estimation of what Saturday that was and your ability to recall what season it was will help you make the best estimate possible. And if you keep at it - this filing process, an almost time-machine-like ability to recall forgotten memories will begin to unfold. The Thanksgiving Day parade, 1983. Sunny. Bitterly cold. The pom-pom on the top of my hat fell off. I cried about it. Her birthday, 1999. We went to the park. We fell asleep looking up at the giant oak trees. The sun danced through the leaves like stained glass in a Cathedral. You pinpoint things on a map. And you look for patterns.

Corcoran

2009-03-29T14:08:00.000-07:00

A man named Wipple was on medical disability because of work-related injuries. I should say that these were alleged injuries as his employer became suspicious and thus hired me. This is what I do for a living. I lay in wait and snap photos of people chopping wood or climbing ladders, doing all the things they shouldn’t be doing if they’re missing work due to an injury.

But Wipple lived out in the middle of nowhere, way out past the towns, the dairy farms, anything. Cases like this are hard because I can’t just idle behind a neighbors car and wait. I can’t do anything without indicating my presence.

So after driving past his house a few times I held back, pulling my car over about a quarter of a mile from his house to sit and think of what to do next.

But then without any warning, there were suddenly three men looking at me through the passenger side window. I hadn’t seen them come up from behind or in front. They seemed non-threatening and pleasant enough. After I caught my breath, I calmed down figuring that they’d just come from working at one of the dairies.

I picked up my map and held it up to them. They didn’t react. I rolled down the window. I pointed to the map and told them I was looking for a town I knew to be a few miles away. “Estoy perdido…este pueblo aqui?”

They all simultaneously gestured in the direction of Wipple’s house. They did this in a way that neither was an invitation to me but rather seemed a statement of resignation. Fortunately, as they walked away, it was the last of the three who turned back towards my car and indicated that I should follow them.

I slowly pulled up alongside them and offered them a lift, “Quieres una vuelta?”

The three got in my car and in about ten seconds I was pulling into the loosely defined dirt patch that constituted Wipple’s driveway. There were five other cars already there and none could bear strong evidence of being operational.

Once out of my car, the men entered a side door of the house seeming to forget that I had been brought along. I followed them inside and as my eyes accustomed to the dark interior, a smell hit my nostrils. The air was dense with bodies and the meals being prepared for them.

In the kitchen, two women whose bodies were unidentifiably short and round were cooking something amid a sea of dishes, pans and food packages. Their conversation slowly ceased as they began to notice my presence. Additionally, another conversation ceased from people I couldn’t see but knew to be in a room just peripheral to where I was. The only sound that sustained was a television which at the time had been broadcasting an afternoon rerun of Archie Bunker.

Again I held up the map. “Perdido.”

The younger of the two rotund ladies ushered me to follow her towards the back of the house. The two rooms into which I followed her had been subdivided into smaller rooms by sheets and blankets that had been nailed to the ceiling. Among the men lying upon the floor of these makeshift dwellings were the three men whom I’d driven down the road. The density of all the hanging fabric and the people cocooned within made these rooms jarringly hot.

At last I was taken to a third room, the last in the house. This was Wipple’s room. There were lace curtains on the walls that gave the room an incongruous elegance and a sense of tranquility. This man I could only assume to be Wipple was lying on a bed motionlessly listening to AM talk radio. The woman who’d led me in said something to him I couldn’t make out. He moved only his eyeballs to take me in. He was in some sort of pain and I could now assume and conclude on behalf of my employer that it was real.

I leaned over him to ask my question. I pointed to the map. “Where am I?”

Cleveland

2009-03-29T13:57:00.001-07:00

She had said that the guy followed her home from the bar. She ran into her house and woke up her dad. By the time he came out with his pistol, the guy was gone.

This is what she said. But I just met her, I don’t know her. I don’t know what I can believe or not believe. It takes a while to figure a person out, to know their lies and know when they’re being straight with you. Maybe this guy didn’t ever exist. I don’t know. Could be that her old man doesn’t even own a gun. I think back now and suspect that she could’ve made the whole thing up. She could see how much I liked her, how bad I was for her. She could’ve whipped up a story like that, knowing that the thought of some sleazeball going after her would rile me up really bad. Again, I don’t know her. I just can’t stop thinking about her. And this.

Paris

2009-03-29T13:54:00.001-07:00

What kind of man lets so much time go by and then allows himself to think such things? Without any marginal foothold to logic, he thinks yes, yes I can go back. I can go back and it will be there. It will be there and will neither have been touched nor taken away. I just need to be there and all will return.

Then it is a fool who goes back twenty-three years later, looking for that which he left behind. It is a fool who will sit at the spot where he was all that time ago, waiting and watching for her to come around the corner, unaffected by time, expectant. He thinks that she will be wearing the blue dress with the sweater tied around her waist, and a slight breeze will then arrive right behind her and cause the strands of hair on the right side of her head, the side where the hair was not tucked behind the ear, to gently gesture across her eyes. He thinks that this episode, this transcendent arrival, this oracle of his heart, will then morph into the next series of scenes: a centrifugal pull of her face as she smiles across from him at the table, the sweeping absorption into his arms as they ascend the stairs, the final peaceful moments. Those are the moments that have called him here, when the afternoon still gave light and the window open to the back courtyard brought in that gorgeous Parisian orchestra of car horns, arguments and laundry flapping in the wind. Those moments where her black hair fell across his face and she answered:

“bien sur, cheri, bien sur…amour eternellement.”

Ithaca

2009-03-29T13:52:00.001-07:00

I hated being a bank teller and now that they let us go, I probably won’t bother becoming a bank teller again. In a world of ATM’s and on-line banking, the only use for a bank teller is to deal with the little old ladies who don’t trust ATM’s and can’t use a computer.

I’m not complaining. It was a crappy job and I hated it. It was a small little bank that now has been swallowed up by some other local bank which is slightly larger and slightly less insignificant. I got the job a few days after we moved in. That was the plan. He would get his masters and I would work. His masters, his thesis… But I’m not complaining.

I don’t complain about our apartment, the second floor of this drafty ancient timber box. I don’t complain about the smelly hippie undergrads on the first floor that have to play ‘Sugar Magnolia’ every fucking day.

I don’t complain about being upstate, even though Manhattan was our initial plan. I don’t complain that I passed on a rotational analyst position because Stephen had to be in the program up here. He’s getting his master’s – his thesis is on early Twentieth Century Belgian literature and the program here at this little upstate New York version of Siberia was where we had to be.

I will complain about Natalia though. Natalia is what met me when I walked into the apartment at 1:45pm, approximately fifty minutes after our branch manager told us we were shutting down. I’d opted not to ride out the two weeks they were giving us. I figured I’d head home. Take a nap. And I figured that when Stephen would get home from class, he’d take me out to dinner at one of the few restaurants around here that doesn’t repulse me. I figured he’d be sympathetic and supportive. I’d have a few glasses of bad wine that we could afford and Stephen would be Stephen, the Stephen that makes me laugh, the Stephen who makes me feel like the only girl in the world. Stephen who still makes me feel like a girl.

But instead I get Natalia. Natalia, holding a glass of wine in my kitchen. Natalia, in our kitchen, smiling at me. And then I get Stephen coming out of the bathroom and upon looking at me says quickly and nervously, ‘This is Natalia…from class…she’s from Belarus.’

It was as if her ability to survive an early childhood of getting run over by Soviets was supposed to divert my attention to her being there.