tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11142547510276503522024-03-19T04:50:15.637-07:00Under The Bleachers The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.comBlogger362125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-73196933966508741942024-03-16T06:16:00.000-07:002024-03-16T06:16:53.412-07:00 BLACKBALLED by Cindy Rosmus<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">1979<br /><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You see that?” I asked my roommate, Juanita. “Or am I crazy?”</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As Juanita peered around the dining hall, Katie got closer.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> <span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“’Judge Baker’s daughter?’ With her fat ass? What about her?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“She’s wearing makeup . . .” I stood up. “On just the right side of her face!”</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Those tragicomic masks, I thought of. But Katie’s whole face looked tragic. On the made-up side, black tears rolled down her cheek.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Juanita dropped her fork. “That damn CUNT.” </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She meant Chi Upsilon Nu Theta. CUNT: Liberty State’s sorority for bitches.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Katie,” I said, when she reached our table. “Is it worth . . .”</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Don’t talk to them!” Sara said. Out of nowhere, she’d appeared. Katie’s “Big Sister.” Chi Upsilon’s “Queen” or some shit. And she didn’t even live in our dorm! </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I lost my appetite.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“That’s disgusting,” Carolyn said later, at the pub. “How they treat Katie.” Our friends nodded. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All science nerds; or at least, nerds. Carolyn was the coolest. Blonde, and so pretty, the Chi Upsilon bitches had invited her to pledge. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Are you crazy?” Carolyn laughed right in Sara’s face. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> Being Carolyn’s best friend got me, an English major, “adopted” by her nerdy pals. Science-wise, all I knew was that Claudius poured mercury into Hamlet’s dad’s ear to kill him. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“No excuse,” Carolyn said, “pledging for Chi Upsilon.”</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Or any sorority.” In his thick glasses, Nathan looked the most scientific. “Sadistic, power-hungry females.” </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />At the campus pub, we drank beer in the corner. On the jukebox, Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” was playing. Rico, who dug Carolyn, played imaginary sax for her. Stevie (who we guessed was gay) held two empty plastic cups over his chest, to make tits. We all laughed.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The pitcher was empty. “I’ll buy,” I said, getting up. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jack the bartender was so into some blonde chick, he ignored me. A “CUNT” sister. Figures, I thought. With her feathered hair and tiny waist.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Katie would never make it. Judge Baker’s daughter, or not.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />She’d be blackballed first.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I wasn’t the “sorority” type. Not fat like Katie; at least, not anymore. Mad, without the scientist part. Grieving over Joey, the “bad boy” poet from Professor Steele’s class. Joey, who’d never be mine, even now that I’d lost weight. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><br /></span>Joey, who’d died in a ski accident. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Jack finally saw me, I raised the pitcher. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Professor Steele’s table was empty tonight. How life had changed. I pictured us, months back, at that same table: generous Steele, with his chestnut-brown toupee and gray beard, keeping us all drunk. Loyal to our “god.” Scruffy-cheeked Joey in his leather jacket. Me, wishing Joey would grab and kiss me. Steele’s slutty young wife Lisa . . . </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Joey doesn’t want you,” Lisa had said bluntly. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And CUNT, I thought, smirking now, didn’t want you.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Jack slid the full pitcher over to me. “Three bucks.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Three?” I said.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Smirking, he took my singles. For Chi Upsilon sisters, I bet it was two.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Shelley,” Carolyn said, as I set down the pitcher. “Guess what we’re forming?” Before I could answer, she said, “A frorority!”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">“A what?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Fratority,” Nathan said. “I believe that’s—”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Just us . . .” Carolyn pointed around our table. “A new club. Guys and girls. Not a fraternity, or sorority, but co-ed! And with fun people.” Still holding his plastic-cup tits, Stevie beamed.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“No sadistic, power-hungry females,” Nathan said. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Or asshole guys. Just us.” Rico squeezed Carolyn’s shoulders.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“You mean, like an ‘official’ club?” I said. “Don’t we need permission, from the dean, or somebody?”</span><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Carolyn waved that off. “We’ll get it later.”</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Stevie’s squinted eyes said he was calculating something. “We’ll be . . . Omega Tau Alpha!”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Is that a real name?” I asked. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Who cares?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Is five enough members?” Nathan said.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Stevie poured out beers. “Think we need six.”</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>“Just to be sure,” Carolyn said, “We’ll find one more.” And got up.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Life, I thought, can be perfect, sometimes. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />In the pub doorway, Mark had appeared. This certified genius, with bulging eyes, he looked like John Belushi in Animal House. But he was crazier. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Tonight, he had a lasso. Like a cowboy, he waved and twirled this long rope higher and higher, then farther, finally encircling Carolyn where she stood at our table. “Hey!” she yelled, as he pulled her toward him.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />We were too shocked to laugh. “How about . . .” Stevie asked. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“No,” Rico said sullenly.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Jealous?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“He’s crazy!”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Then, who?” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Life, I thought, can be fucked-up. Dead silence, as Katie walked in. However crudely it was made, we all knew what protruded from her face. Or, what it was supposed to be. To make it worse, she was all in gray. If she was skinny, it wouldn’t be funny.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Still, none of us laughed. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Through the pub’s glass walls, Sara and Tabitha, another CUNT sister, watched, snickering. I wished the floor would split and swallow them up.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />When Katie reached the bar, she burst into tears.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Hey, Mark . . .” Carolyn rushed to untie herself. “C’mere!”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />It happened so fast, Sara didn’t see it coming. Open-mouthed, Tabitha watched, as Mark’s lasso expertly looped around Sara’s waist. “You asshole!” Sara yelled. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Then Mark was running down the hall, with Sara in tow. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />From the pub doorway, we all cheered, especially when Sara lost her balance and fell. “I’ll kill you!” she screamed. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Seeing her dragged down the hall, legs thrashing, knowing her bony ass was nearly scraped raw, made us howl with laughter.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <br />Only Katie stayed behind. When Carolyn and I got back inside, Katie was sipping a beer at our table. The “elephant trunk” lay discarded next to the empty pitcher. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Number six!” Rico announced, when Mark came back, chuckling. As he rolled up his rope, the applause was deafening.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />For the next hour, Mark’s beers were free. When Toto’s “Hold the Line” came on the jukebox, he waved his clenched fists like a victorious boxer. Again, we cheered.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Great job, man!” Jack carried our next pitcher over, himself. “Hate that bossy bitch!”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“And Sara,” Carolyn said, “hates us!”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Katie looked down at her beer. “Guess I’m blackballed.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />With fresh cups, Stevie made a new set of tits. “Not from Omega Tau Alpha.” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />“Who’s that?”<br />Mark smiled. “Maybe us.” As he touched his cup to Katie’s, their fingers touched. “And maybe . . . you.” <br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Carolyn kicked me under the table. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Without that stupid trunk, Katie was cute. Especially with makeup on both sides of her face. When she smiled back at Mark, she even had dimples. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />She paused before raising the cup to her lips.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">THE END</span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: normal; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspJEVozEsmGxdQIOaYd3PD7soaIeEScqpsmHTIyQ-kHtSjhPGJaSPZDFRJDbV0cX0HQNledx6YVNmpVUJgIegEMmXM3PaI59pEtA7cUHnSzZ0JuQb4lU8ZsRkkpuHVZa3Ar4yJDvqw2hT8E_2iVmJ5mD4RggzNt_VPmKQZXNzFXF8RE86CJ87-dgLpfVW/s3961/Cindy%20-%20Photo%20-%20UTB(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3961" data-original-width="2356" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspJEVozEsmGxdQIOaYd3PD7soaIeEScqpsmHTIyQ-kHtSjhPGJaSPZDFRJDbV0cX0HQNledx6YVNmpVUJgIegEMmXM3PaI59pEtA7cUHnSzZ0JuQb4lU8ZsRkkpuHVZa3Ar4yJDvqw2hT8E_2iVmJ5mD4RggzNt_VPmKQZXNzFXF8RE86CJ87-dgLpfVW/s320/Cindy%20-%20Photo%20-%20UTB(1).jpg" width="190" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="white-space: normal; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Cindy originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like Anybodys from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey, Megazine, Dark Dossier, Danse Macabre, The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama and the art director of Black Petals. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>The Dope Fiend Dailyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10136327105500714877noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-51495370387964968482022-10-31T18:38:00.000-07:002022-10-31T18:38:34.785-07:00 I Joined The Illuminati By John Patrick Robbins <p><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">To get half off my IHOP pancakes I don't even bother to eat.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">So I can attend the house parties up in the Hollywood Hills.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Pissing off a balcony to hopefully hit the gardener who I caught a ride here with.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">To feast upon small children and drink vintage bottles of cheap wine.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">And get hand jobs from A-list celebrities who secretly believe I'm a D-list producer.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Snorting cocaine I cannot afford off model's tits whose names I cannot pronounce.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">And secretly plotting the world's bad choices as I invest in bitcoin and collect human organs off the deep web.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I joined to feel a part of something more screwed up and deranged than myself.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">As I write this, knowing soon they will be at my door.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Disguised as a Domino’s delivery dude who's clearly been sent to take my life.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Crystal meth is awesome when you make it at home. I just love crafting!</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">What? Did you think I was going to knit you a fucking sweater?</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Wow, you’re more fucked up than I ever imagined you to be. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hey, you single?</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Where did you go?</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Another one vanished; it appears those Illuminati have struck again.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGiGQGkth99tYUXPy5vu8vQxwD2K6brIq9qzqQa_MjNHswsDQhNbxGYrSHvyHVw9Cr7qWa8VU6jbvcpTrM9ZP8CxFz8wjDzNxTQd4_Oow5VZPztquACxz_SEML5Sj3mzi0L0Slg2ZMMiHsxCAfXo-clNMc0dMcDGYJOUWvl_3FwV8q5vQHWEFvFB5r/s1080/20191031_211442_0000.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGiGQGkth99tYUXPy5vu8vQxwD2K6brIq9qzqQa_MjNHswsDQhNbxGYrSHvyHVw9Cr7qWa8VU6jbvcpTrM9ZP8CxFz8wjDzNxTQd4_Oow5VZPztquACxz_SEML5Sj3mzi0L0Slg2ZMMiHsxCAfXo-clNMc0dMcDGYJOUWvl_3FwV8q5vQHWEFvFB5r/s320/20191031_211442_0000.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="display: inline-block; position: relative; width: 100px;"></span></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">John Patrick Robbins holds the record of holding his breath out of water and lives in a series of tunnels that lead to the center of the earth.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He can speak fifteen different languages and is fluent in idiot, which makes him great at running E-zines.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He runs a writer's retreat in Hell where all are welcome. Just please sign the guest list and remember: you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He is currently the curator for the Great Tits of History Museum in Vatican City.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He has been published in the Yellow Pages and is currently starring in a documentary about his life called:</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Who Gives A Fuck? The Life & Times Of A Non-Ballet Dancer.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He enjoys collecting corpses from the cemetery, which he will bring back to life to forge his Viking zombie army to fight the Disney Corporation to gain control of their vaults and see the rare film Daisy Duck Does Scooby-Doo.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.3800000000000001; margin-bottom: 0.0pt; margin-top: 0.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He currently is not on any prescription medication.</span></span></p><br />The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-80933965077228317522022-10-31T17:41:00.000-07:002022-10-31T17:41:04.232-07:00Exposing the Soul by Shithead<div><span style="font-size: large;">Being a poet is being an artist of pure expression.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">And it’s also my excuse for walking around naked a lot. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Because now I’m an eccentric genius instead of a pervert. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Who simply allows the universe to flow in and out of his body.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Then forgetting who was giving the input or the output halfway in.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">And end up in a sea of ultra deep spiritual cum and caca. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">There’s a profound lesson somewhere in this write. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">But I’ll let you know whenever I figure it out </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRqE9jAvS4nxKE9PtFgFs_QWxan_qQ5eJEFhk47sMz_4GI3JVSdH0L7uW7WB0CW0UBECD0CU_3gaBja7s2aAqZAyJPrlCvK0js05qNZcilVTmBTYBjS8qvqChXxRoi4D0s2YShHODbMku_F-dm1iBXyM_DxwqX92DfSqqwzq44_YBOh-5BLyzUzUVu/s1920/meme-gefdfb6355_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRqE9jAvS4nxKE9PtFgFs_QWxan_qQ5eJEFhk47sMz_4GI3JVSdH0L7uW7WB0CW0UBECD0CU_3gaBja7s2aAqZAyJPrlCvK0js05qNZcilVTmBTYBjS8qvqChXxRoi4D0s2YShHODbMku_F-dm1iBXyM_DxwqX92DfSqqwzq44_YBOh-5BLyzUzUVu/s320/meme-gefdfb6355_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Shithead is 24 years old and likes to poop in front of a live studio audience. After years of his artistic solo career he was voted the number 1 writer in the Midwest in 2022 despite not living on this planet or being liked by anybody in general. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-120535975385318922022-10-31T17:29:00.000-07:002022-10-31T17:29:20.750-07:00Stuck by Susan Isla Tepper<span style="font-size: large;">Today before the store was even open, the general manager Stu called a meeting for after hours. When he finished his spiel and walked away everyone got totally pissed. <br /><br />“He means after work!” Vinny yelled. <br /><br />The store was a low level discount operation adjacent to the Mall but separate from it. We were only getting minimum wage.<br /><br /> “They should pay us for the extra time,” Vinny went on.<br /><br /> “It’s over-time!” Rochelle was in a screechy rage, her bulging eyes from her condition seemed more bulgy when she got upset like now.<br /><br /> I was pretty upset, too. I had an early dinner date at Cookie’s Steak House. Sure, it was only a Mall restaurant but the food was really good. After Stu’s goddamn meeting there wouldn’t be time to go home and freshen up and change into something nice. Now I had to phone my date, and maybe he’d cancel and I’d been looking forward to those lobster tails with the melted butter you dunk in all week. <br /><br />I stood near the George Forman Grill weighing the possibilities. Should I not stay for Stu’s meeting, would he make an example of me and maybe can me? On the other hand I was desperate for those tails. They gave you three on the plate, plus salad, fries, and a dessert of your choice. Their cheesecake was to die for. As a starving actor it wasn’t the sort of dinner I could afford on my own.<br /><br />Apparently small appliances were going missing. Stu mentioned things like electric hand-beaters and compact coffee makers. Things thieves could stuff into a big shopping bag. Most of the security cameras no longer work. The pros knew and scampered around stealing stuff. <br /><br />“Keep an eye out for large women with bulky coats and shopping bags,” was the last thing Stu said. <br /><br />Rochelle began fuming again since she was a plus-size woman. “That’s plain discrimination!” she snarled.<br /><br />“Well it can’t be one of us since they already treat us like thieves.” I held up the see-through plastic wallet-purse where we had to keep our money, keys, etc, etc. No personal purses or wallets of our own allowed on the floor. <br /><br />It was bad enough working here, what with the low, water-stained acoustical tile ceiling that often let go in places during heavy rain. Once right over my register. I almost quit that day. Should have! I can get a better job with better pay. Why do I stay here? Am I stuck? I went to a psychic who told me I was in a stuck mode. She got her info off the Tarot cards. When I asked if I could see the particular stuck card, she quickly turned it over and went on to the next.<br /><br /><br />At lunch break I phoned Tad. I explained the situation. I heard him taking an annoyed breath. <br /><br />“Well,” he said. “The thing is, it’s hard to get the later dinner slots. I’ll try… but I can’t promise. It’s a very popular eatery,” he said. “I was really looking forward…”<br /><br />I broke in with gusto, “I was so looking forward!” Not to him, to the tails. To the whole schmear. To the fresh strawberries that topped their cheese cake. Cookie’s Steak House was a major Mall player in great food served with simplicity. I pictured the waiters carrying the big round trays heaped. I almost started crying.<br /><br />“I’ll phone you on my break to see what happened,” I told him. “Good luck.” But somehow those words came out hollow because I didn’t feel lucky. Not lucky for a long time. <br /><br />When I got back from my 15 minute break I phoned Tad. The line was busy. I tried repeatedly but couldn’t break through. My next shot at getting him on the phone was the end of the day. This made me even more blue and hopeless.<br /><br /><br /><br />Naturally when I phoned him at 5:30 it was bad news. “We’ll have to reschedule,” he said. <br /><br />“Sure.” I put on my good sport voice. Then I went to Stu’s meeting in the cramped crummy beige room. <br /><br />When everyone had gathered, Stu began: “Today we lost 3 typewriters.”<br /><br />Typewriters! People looked stunned. How could anyone possibly steal a typewriter? The size and weight being a natural deterrent. It would crash through the bottom of any paper shopping bag. It would be a noticeable heist. I’d started thinking of all this in terms of a heist.<br /><br />“It’s a popular item,” Stu said. “Retro and all that. First I noticed the antique-looking one was gone. The shiny black one. It was just after the lunch breaks when less of you are out on the floor. I started to roam the store, but I couldn’t nail anything down. Of course I couldn’t detain anyone without sufficient reason. Law suits and all that. You don’t want to get into that.”<br /><br />Several people were shaking their heads in agreement.<br /><br />All I wanted to get into were those lobster tails that I pictured flying through the store on patrol. <br /><br />“Anyways, I grabbed a quick bag of chips from the machine,” Stu said, “and continued to roam the floor. And all of a sudden I spot this woman in a long winter coat almost to her ankles, and she’s kind of hobbling. Like maybe she has a crippling disease. I felt sorry for her. She had no shopping bag just a small purse.”<br /><br />People could be heard murmuring about the woman’s condition.<br /><br />“I decided to approach her and see if she would like to use our golf cart to get around the store. Make things a little easier for her.” <br /><br />So nice, Stu, that’s so nice, people were saying. <br /><br />“When all of a sudden there’s this crash and we both look down. Me and her. And the red Royal typewriter had landed on the floor between her feet.”<br /><br />In the cramped room there was a moment of stunned silence. <br /><br />Then Vinny said, “Are you telling us she was carrying the typewriter between her legs?”<br /><br />“That’s about the size of it.” Stu slapped his palms together like getting off dust and told us we were free to go home.<br /><br />“What about the woman?” I said.<br /><br />“I let her go.”</span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCIOYr2YnDu0UPcAopWTBixlbJ_bI48ns8n2b59m1F3HjC7MEMjHOps8g8QUxGARMvCu9gzO91lNyybmsRtFrx2VewseRXf94UfEEEUnq4j-fpd9lokEKPZe3k8MO08WR6gsLp9ZJ2MyCrVxiakuu052ZjbSuaAKWbp9zduHTNqyJXo-Lm7K_rUrkU/s2048/IMG_0617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCIOYr2YnDu0UPcAopWTBixlbJ_bI48ns8n2b59m1F3HjC7MEMjHOps8g8QUxGARMvCu9gzO91lNyybmsRtFrx2VewseRXf94UfEEEUnq4j-fpd9lokEKPZe3k8MO08WR6gsLp9ZJ2MyCrVxiakuu052ZjbSuaAKWbp9zduHTNqyJXo-Lm7K_rUrkU/s320/IMG_0617.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.</span></div></div></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-19295071705884991322022-06-02T08:52:00.000-07:002022-06-02T08:52:24.325-07:00Greetings From Your Favorite Lit-Dick By John Patrick Robbins <p><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Me and a girlfriend at the time were at a party, when a dude bragged he could suck his own dick. And in a true moment of genius some dumbass shouted, "Prove it."</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The room went silent, and most everyone watched in awe as this nutcase proceeded to kick back on the couch and do just that. I didn't view the whole show. In fact, I was headed out the door the second this nutcase dropped his pants and started off his one-man act.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A friend looked to me and said, "Dude, can you believe that shit?"</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Well, considering Steve is in his late thirties and never dated and still lives at home, I'm not all that shocked. But at least that finally answers the question how he keeps his teeth so white."</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Billy cracked up as I headed out the door. And as me and Jules were on our way home, the conversation continued. </span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Baby, do you ever wish you could do that?"</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Suck Steve's dick? Naw, I'm good, sweetheart."</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jules shook her head. "You know what I meant, smartass."</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Suck my own dick? Nope. I never had a hankering for cock, honestly. And besides, what do you think I keep you around for?"</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The joke had crossed the line and I ended up bunking with my old mutt Boozer on the couch.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes it's best to stop while you're ahead.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But being unfiltered has its setbacks, and sometimes we pay the price for a cheap laugh and find ourselves alone; penning lines or reading quasi-invite-only lit mags.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, wait. Sorry. Seems I've crossed that invisible line again. </span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The pun was truly intended.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Prosit.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: large; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnP46pj-0Wi2AlIUmRuMZ1Bl6abQGkWqYBhQ7R5flkvaxiHxfXEffKc_wLTntwaWVBt9bNhC-BVBbM8uAxy1TqJ55Od7IlRYbZwKbpjmpuvAboqbGRo1tDXIwdIgMCCoEYniLyKGzklale0TQYxvrkM-13nClR8q_5NVh_gf7Ac-oeBxbZtUk4hd5y/s1080/png_20220317_134837_0000.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnP46pj-0Wi2AlIUmRuMZ1Bl6abQGkWqYBhQ7R5flkvaxiHxfXEffKc_wLTntwaWVBt9bNhC-BVBbM8uAxy1TqJ55Od7IlRYbZwKbpjmpuvAboqbGRo1tDXIwdIgMCCoEYniLyKGzklale0TQYxvrkM-13nClR8q_5NVh_gf7Ac-oeBxbZtUk4hd5y/s320/png_20220317_134837_0000.png" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The Mad Editor, is currently curator of the Gen X museum in a basement in Seattle.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">He was voted most popular person amoungsnt his imaginary friends.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">He is often copied yet seldom amused by the efforts.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">He is no longer under house arrest.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">His work has been described as mediocre by people who cannot write and once dated him.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">He is planning on selling his stock in Whiskey City Press and retiring to Stockholm Sweeden to start his own Viking settlement and casino slash indoor Waterpark.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">He once visited a museum and was normal in another dimension.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Chao.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-74487245108582410132022-02-16T11:09:00.003-08:002022-02-16T11:10:50.156-08:00FOOLS AND DRUNKS AND ME AND YOU by Cindy Rosmus<div style="text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br id="docs-internal-guid-48f56049-7fff-da57-a4ab-2f116d2a24b4" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">The summer of ’83, I was never more conscious of being broke as shit. Broke, drunk every day, and—I didn’t realize it till now—pretty happy.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There we were—me, Freddy, Francine, and Nicky—full-time students who rarely went to class. Part-time workers who hardly went to work. Fourth-floor neighbors in this shit building up the block from Liberty State College. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Needless to say, Liberty State was a shit school. They’d let anybody in. It was the era of the “foreign student,” and if you spoke English, you were a genius, right there. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Me, I was an English major. A writer, yet. Back then I scrawled stories in notebooks, jammed them under my bed. Why would I type them? Who’d want to publish them? Who’d want to read the ravings of a needy, drunken slob?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Me,” Freddy told me. “Like, what else would I read?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Not his media arts text, that’s for sure. The week before, he’d sold it back to the college store. So much for summer school. For spite, his dad was late sending Freddy’s check. We needed money for beer now.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Also, he’d been fired from Shop Rite . . . for shoplifting! That was at Path Mark, but the fuckers at Path Mark figured they’d really fix Freddy and call his boss. So Shop Rite would look bad. Man, did they!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">All Freddy had stolen was a half-pound of salami. He’d stuffed it down his pants, but was gonna pay for the two Portuguese rolls. “I stole it for you!” he’d told me, so I’d feel guilty. Big deal. This time I’d got stuck buying all the beer. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Worse yet, my mom was wise to me. She’d been sending me money like mad, till she finally realized I owed her. A vicious circle, you know? As fast as she sent it, we drank it. I hated going to my work-study job. Why work just to pay somebody back? Somebody who’d give you even more money, if you played sick, or sad. I was great at both.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Shelley, I got an idea!” Freddy said. That always meant trouble. “Lemme use your phone.” His was cut off; guess why?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">When he hung up with his dad, he was giggling like a lunatic. “Two hundred bucks, he’s sending!”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I had to sit down. That was more than Freddy’s rent. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I got you pregnant,” he explained. “You need an abortion.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What?” I yelled. “You never touched me!”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He sneered. “He don’t know that!”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I got up, paced around the coffee table. “That’s terrible!”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Worked in high school.” He was trying to justify it. “Said I knocked up Roseanne Massi. Never touched her, either.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What about Francine? Can’t she lend you money?” Francine actually had some saved. Her boyfriend Nicky had let it slip.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“She’s not that stupid!” Freddy said. Then, real indignant, “What’s up your ass?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You used me! Not Francine. Or anybody else. You lied about me!” I couldn’t stress that enough. He was more than a drinking buddy. Freddy was my best friend, the brother I never had. Just the thought of us doing it was…well, incestuous.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Too late now.” He headed for the door. “I’ll just have to drink alone.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I beat him to the door, blocking it. “My ass!” I told him.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">The night I met Freddy, the September before, it was 2AM. No, later. The bar had closed at 2, but I was making out with Mike Cassidy in the foyer for so long, you heard birds chirping outside. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Do you think,” I asked him, “We’re in love?” Like a fool!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Uh-huh!” He was even drunker than me. A short Mick Jagger, he looked like, with the same lips, but these slanty eyes, like he was part Chinese, or just real stoned. “I’ll bet we are!”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">If I wasn’t so dumb, I’d have brought him upstairs, and fucked him senseless. But back then, I thought guys wanted more than just sex. That they had souls, watched sunsets and shit. Could love you for real, at first sight.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I left him in the foyer with a rock hard-on and a look of such disbelief, I can still see it. With this shit- eating grin, I waltzed my drunk ass up four flights of stairs. What a fool I was! And so bombed, I was scared to let go of the banister. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the fourth floor landing, I weaved, almost fell backwards down the stairs.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey!” I heard, from across the hallway. This skinny guy with wild red hair. Freddy. Though by now I saw two of him. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He ran over and grabbed my arm. “Four-o-four,” I tried telling him, but I was slurring so bad, it sounded like “Boy, oh boy!”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“S’all right,” I think he said. He was slurring, too. If you’re both fucked up, there’s no hope, period. It was like we were two non-skaters on roller skates for the first time. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He lived right next to me. Since 2AM he’d been trying to unlock his door, which was actually mine. When he realized his mistake, he smiled, wisely. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nice meeting you, Red, I swore I told him. But it came out, “I-she-you-dead.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Either way, he was delighted. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“In this heat?” Freddy asked Francine. “You gotta iron now?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">She smirked. Freddy, Nicky, and I were sprawled on her bed, under the silent a/c. A few minutes ago, it was nice and cool. Now, thanks to her, sweat beaded on our faces and arms. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Can’tcha hurry up, or something?” Nicky’s voice was pleading. The look she gave him shut him up fast.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was the hottest day yet, and only she had a/c. Miss Perfect. She was pretty, sensible, and actually paid her bills. She was sick to shit of us, but who cared? In an emergency, you shared with your friends. Your last cigarette, can of beer, or a cold blast of air. No matter. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As the iron heated, we tried to lay still. Outside, you heard water rushing, and kids yelling. Somebody had busted open a hydrant. Lucky them, I thought, glaring at Francine. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Figures she’d be the one with the air. It took her an hour to iron her jeans. First she had to crease them. Then she ironed the pockets, and between the belthooks. Then she did everything all over again.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hot as it was, Nicky reached over and grabbed his guitar. The acoustic one, since we were fucked if we blew a fuse. For a long time, he strummed the guitar without singing. For a Liberty State music major, he was pretty spiritual. Despite his punked-out hair, he wrote songs that were closer to hymns.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“So,” Francine said, picking up the iron at last, “What’ll we buy for our big barbecue?” Before we could answer, she added, “With the money Freddy stole from his dad!” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I didn’t steal it!” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You lied,” she said smugly. “That’s just like stealing.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Beer and wine,” I said. “We can get a whole shitload for that kind of money.” The guys nodded. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I mean food!” Disgusted, Francine actually stopped ironing. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Food?” Freddy sounded horrified. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What kind of meat?” She picked up the iron again. “Steaks? Ribs? There’s a sale down at…”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“We don’t even have a grill!” I said.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“One of those little ones, we’ll get, from K-Mart,” Francine said. That’s where she worked, as a cashier.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Okay. A pack of dogs, and a few cans of beans!” Freddy said. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I’ll make a nice big salad,” Francine said in this hypnotic voice. Only she could sound dreamy about making a salad. And stop ironing on top of it. “With beefsteak tomatoes, and nice crisp lettuce…”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">A drop of sweat landed on the guitar. “Put on the air, damn it!” Nicky said, finally.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t yell at me.” She went back to ironing, slower, if you ask me. “No, really,” she told Freddy, “Give me the money, and I’ll shop.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“How much?” We were both suspicious.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Instead of answering, she said, “Nick . . . You’ll help carry everything, won’t you?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">What could he say? He had no job and was living with her. It was her apartment. Everything in it: the orange tweed furniture, the a/c, even the hated iron, was hers. Only that guitar was his. You could tell he hated looking up from it. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">But he loved her. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">That smile was his answer.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Home. The most beautiful four-letter word. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mine was the worst. I hated to clean, and pick up after myself. Everywhere you looked were crushed beer cans, books, clothes, silverware. If you needed a fork, try the night table. My kitchen table was so cluttered, Francine wouldn’t sit at it. </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Looks fine to me.” Freddy felt right at home. His kitchen was painted lime-green. The ceiling leaked tar from the roof, which made the olive rug stick to the floor.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Who,” Francine said distastefully, “Puts a shag rug in their kitchen?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Not me!” Freddy was insulted. The previous tenant had done it. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">And brought roaches. Thanks to him, we all had them. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Even Francine. The cleanest one of us, and that bugged her the most. “You,” she said to Freddy, “never wash dishes! Leave filthy pots on the stove. You deserve roaches. But me . . .” She started to cry. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">We hated that. She was our Rock of Gibraltar. Like Wendy in Peter Pan, she was our mother, almost. When Freddy got a splinter, who did he run to? When Mike Cassidy never called me, it was Francine who said, “Don’t worry, Shel. He’ll be back.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">You’re better off, Freddy had told me, without that fucking drunk!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Roaches or not, the four of us lived at Francine’s. Even without a/c, it would’ve been our group home. The talks we had, we might’ve been hippies.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“If there’s a God . . .” Freddy cracked a beer. “Why’s there so much suffering in the world?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“ ’Cos you’re in it!” I joked. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Suffering?” Francine said. She was rolling a joint. Occasionally we could afford a dime bag. “What do you know about suffering? You cut your finger, and Daddy writes you a check!” Freddy laughed. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Free will,” said Reverend Nicky. “God never said life would be easy.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">We all sat for a while, just nodding. Nicky could do that to you. If we were hippies, he’d’ve been our guru. Deep down, we all believed the same stuff. Even Freddy, who just liked playing Devil’s Advocate.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I sipped my beer, felt nice and high. In my own fridge, a couple were stashed, so I wasn’t panic-stricken. I could actually think.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">People talked about changing the world. But how? All we could do was live our own lives, try not to shit on anyone else’s. But I guess if we all thought that way</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">. . . .</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I brightened. A spiritual awakening, I guess this was. We could share, too, I thought, as Francine passed me the joint. But didn’t we already? </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Not enough, I realized. In my mind, those beers behind the mayo reminded me of something wild. The miracle, I was thinking, of the loaves and two fishes.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Amen,” I said. But by now they were stoned.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Avoiding Dolly, the super, wasn’t easy. She didn’t miss a trick. Maybe being legally blind helped her smell trouble. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The roof was the only place we could barbecue. The one place she never snooped. We’d have to sneak the grill up there.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Frederick!” she’d said, the day before. “Is this yours?” In the hallway she’d found an empty V-O bottle.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Hell, no!” Freddy sounded disgusted. “I don’t drink whiskey.” Then he snickered. “Can’t’cha read?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“You fuck!” Dolly went to smack him, but I grabbed the bottle.</span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dolly looked like Lucille Ball with thick cat’s eye glasses. Freddy looked more like her than her own son Billy did. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He was the culprit, Billy. Always drunk in the building somewhere. She just couldn’t see him. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">If anybody creeped me out, it was him. Ice-blue eyes, he had, like those aliens from sci fi flicks. Aliens who married you, but only you knew the truth. You always felt Billy was lurking around. Or under your bed, or something. . . .</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“You’d better be good!” Dolly warned Freddy, who laughed all the way down the hall.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally. . . . </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Beers in coolers, wine in my fridge. The meat and stuff was in Francine’s. And what cool shit she bought: burgers, dogs, Italian sausage. Even a London Broil! Too bad she liked it burned to a crisp. But on the grill, anything tasted great. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“No chicken!” Freddy had warned her that morning. We were sick of chicken. For months we’d live on baked chicken legs and canned potatoes. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“And just one tomato!” His voice echoed in the hallway.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Shut up!” I told him. “Nobody else’s supposed to know.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">We weren’t greedy; we just never had much to share. Not food, anyway. It was disgusting how we hid beers from each other. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Okay,” I said, feeling guilty. “Invite who you want.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Dolly!” he said, and snickered. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I opened the fridge, looked longingly at the wine. “That’s all we need.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Up on the roof, burgers and dogs sizzled on the tiny grill. We’d brought up </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">my ancient coffee table, and set the grill on that. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Freddy and Nicky carried the table out, one of its legs fell off. I carried it up after them. That no roaches were on the table, I hoped was a good sign.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was so hot out, the tar felt warm and soft beneath us, like sand at the beach. Francine and I lay down blankets: my crummy Budweiser one (with real sand stuck to it), and her fluffy pink one. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">While Freddy impatiently worked the grill, Nicky was our DJ. Right now “Hungry Like the Wolf” was blasting. Duran Duran. My favorite. “Good song!” I said, trying to smooth out my stiff, sandy blanket.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Put on ‘Thriller!’ ” Francine saidd. Her favorite. We all groaned. We were sick of that tape. But she always got her way, at least with Nicky.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Instead of buying batteries, they’d used extension cords to hook up the boom box to Freddy’s bedroom outlet. If Dolly saw that, we were fucked, for sure. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Still, Michael Jackson or not, we were all in great moods. We laughed at everything, no matter how stupid. Took turns drinking beer at the edge of the roof, enjoying the “view.” The city at its sleaziest: the park with its bums, and junkies. But even they looked happy, today! Down the block, another hydrant had busted open. Kids and even grown-ups leapt through the gushing water.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t jump!” Francine told each of us in turn.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Like we were married, I stood behind Freddy, holding a beer for him to drink while he cooked.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Aw, how sweet!” Francine would’ve loved it if we hooked up.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Gimme your plates!” Freddy said finally. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">For a good half hour, we stuffed ourselves. Our paper plates were piled so high, it was obscene. Burgers, dogs, sausages. Plus pickles and salads and shit. The oily plate almost burned a hole in my leg.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Good!” Freddy kept saying, through mouthfuls of food. “Good!” Frankenstein’s first word.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Don’t let that burn,” Francine warned him. Meaning the London Broil. Already it looked like an old black boot.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I thought you liked it like that,” I said.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"> She glowered at me, then went back to eating. Only she would bypass a pile of burgers and dogs to savor a green salad. She looked so delicate, so out of place, sitting on a blanket on that roof. Like Natalie Wood, in West Side Story.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“I can’t believe nobody crashed this thing,” Nicky said. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Maybe nobody’s home,” I said.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">It hit Nicky first, how full we were. Eyes wide, he was all bent over, like he would puke right there. “Oh, man!” he said.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was next. Bloated and sick, I was scared I would die. I’d drunk too much beer before eating, and that made it worse. I wasn’t drunk anymore. And that’s sad.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Freddy was still putting it away. Like he was going to the chair, at midnight. “You fag!” he told Francine, who leisurely speared the last hunk of tomato.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Are you watching that meat?” she asked him. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">That’s when it hit him. Suddenly his eyes were twice their size: way bigger than Nicky’s. Somehow he got up. Holding his gut, he started pacing back and forth.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“ ’S’ your own fault,” Francine said smugly.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I managed to get up, too. “I’ve . . . gotta go downstairs.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">The building was so quiet, it was eerie. Not like everybody was just out, but. . . dead. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">From the stairs, my place was the furthest. So when he came up behind me, I freaked. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Hey,” Billy said. Out of nowhere, he’d come. Sloppy drunk, clutching a beer in a brown bag. He could hardly stand.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“What’s up?” I tried to sound casual. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">My door was unlocked. As I rushed in, he shoved me, so I fell. He was right behind me.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">It didn’t seem real. In my own house, I was laid out, with this…thing looming over me! Weaving back and forth, leering at me. “What?” My teeth chattered, I was so scared. “What do you want?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He shrugged. “I don’t know . . .” He leaned against the doorframe. “A blow job?” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">All I’d eaten was ready to come up. “No!” I spat out. “I’d die first!” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">He looked sad. Like he was really so drunk, he didn’t know what was up. He held out the paper bag. “Give you some of my quart.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I just stared at him. When he moved toward me, I yelled, “Get away from me!” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Shel!” Freddy yelled, from the hallway. “What’s wrong?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Help!” I said, and rolled over toward the bathroom.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Bill?” Now Freddy was in the doorway. “What’s up, man?” They slapped each other five!</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Nothin’,” Billy said. “Thought maybe she’d blow me.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the bathroom, I got up, shut and locked the door. “Get . . . out!” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Come on up the roof.” Freddy’s voice was muffled, as they left. “Got beer, and . . .” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">For a long time, I sat on the shower ledge, trying not to cry. Why was Freddy so nice to him? He might’ve raped me! What kind of friend was Freddy, anyway? </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Guys stick together, a little voice told me. Plus, it wasn’t like Freddy was my boyfriend. If it had been Francine, Nicky would’ve kicked Billy’s ass. If I’d only fucked Mike Cassidy . . . .</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">The tears gushed down. Why, I asked myself, didn’t guys want me? ‘Cos I was a slob? One glance around my grimy bathroom made me cry harder. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">A drunk? Well, too bad. After what just happened, I couldn’t wait for my next beer.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">A . . . pig? I’d just eaten enough for a family of four. I was lucky my shorts hadn’t split. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">I got up, wearily. The saddest part was, if Billy had offered the beer up front, he might’ve had me. I was that down on myself.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Nah, I realized, as I trudged back out. He was just too creepy. . . .</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Shelley?” Behind me, the voice was reedy, ghostlike.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I swung around. In the hallway, Dolly was creeping along, like she was smelling for something. “Shel?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yeah.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She kept sniffing around. “You seen Billy?” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“ ’S’ up on the roof.” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then, whatever she’d been smelling, I smelled, too. Like something was burning.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This crazy smile lit up her face. “Maybe . . .” she said, “He’ll jump!”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I backed into the stairs. “Are we on fire?” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Billy!” I heard Francine yell from the roof. “That’s disgusting!” Then drunken laughter.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The smell had gotten worse. I was so confused, I didn’t know what was happening. Wasn’t sure where to go.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ran upstairs. Behind me, Dolly was feeling her way up. “That fuck!” she said. “He’s burning the house down! That miserable, drunken . . .”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sizzling, we heard, right off. As we reached the roof, I stopped dead, so Dolly bumped into me.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Legs spread, Billy stood before the fiery grill. . . peeing! </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Good aim,” Freddy told Nicky, who was trying not to laugh. They’d gotten twice as drunk since I went downstairs.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“The grill caught fire,” Francine told me. “Say goodbye to your coffee table.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With that, the broken leg crumbled, fell off. The whole thing collapsed, with the grill on top of it. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Billy!” Dolly yelled. “Where are you?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Billy was done peeing. Without zipping his fly, he loped away from the mess. I looked away. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“My London Broil!” Francine wailed. On the roof, the charred meat blended right in with the tar.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Billy!” Dolly was still yelling.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But he’d disappeared. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The music was blasting. Freddy and Nicky were making up their own steps to the “Stray Cat Strut.” I went up to Freddy. “Thanks for nothing!” I said.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Huh?” I bet he saw two of me.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Watch out!” Francine screamed.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some things seem to happen in slow motion. Take forever instead of the actual few seconds.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One moment Billy was standing on the edge of the roof. Looking down, like he owned the whole world. Beer in one hand, arms spread out, almost eagle-like. For like a second, he tottered, then went over the side.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not sure if I screamed, like Francine. I swore I didn’t, but remember yelling all around me. And music. The music never let up, seemed to get louder.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">When the cops finally got there, the Clash were still rocking the Casbah. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For a long time, Dolly kept yelling, “What? What happened?” </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Above all, I heard my heart pounding.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * *</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“She didn’t mean it,” I said, later that night, at Francine’s. “Dolly didn’t really want him to jump.”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“But did he?” Nicky asked. We were all whispering.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“I’m not sure,” I said. I really wasn’t. It felt like I had dreamt it. In my head, I kept seeing Billy go over the edge, but couldn’t believe it had really happened.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“He jumped.” Francine sounded mad.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It had cooled off, some. We sat in the dark living room: me, Francine and Nicky on that orange tweed couch, Freddy on the floor, closest to me. We’d all sobered up by now. Between talking to the cops, and trying to make sure Dolly was okay. . . .</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Poor guy,” Nicky said. “Probably depressed.” He leaned over, stared into space. “Who knew?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Weren’t you pissed at him?” Freddy asked me. “What’d he do?”</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Real crabby, he was. We all were. Probably the first time we were all together, not drinking. My own nerves felt raw. It felt like we were standing on each other’s.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What could I say? Without being nasty?</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nobody cared when I didn’t answer.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For a while we were all silent.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then Francine said, “Nicky . . . Would you make me coffee?” Tonight her voice was like a circular saw. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Make it yourself,” Nicky said.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">THE END</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 2.4; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgn9SYqoXRpNwkkB0pynvQNHeXQW3D91bLCxOjqclLY0P6qlPSjoqpVGOLmIAQiWLchet6h8V7eBuCqiPxTIglt3hqHIT1dEtqivVfhLod5Qd7hwZsD-cPdAkfo9I2UVh1WT9W_PB3S-wr6KpehW0AoavjMkRFJygHbMt-8cNFM9OPa9QzT_N1yYIm3=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="591" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgn9SYqoXRpNwkkB0pynvQNHeXQW3D91bLCxOjqclLY0P6qlPSjoqpVGOLmIAQiWLchet6h8V7eBuCqiPxTIglt3hqHIT1dEtqivVfhLod5Qd7hwZsD-cPdAkfo9I2UVh1WT9W_PB3S-wr6KpehW0AoavjMkRFJygHbMt-8cNFM9OPa9QzT_N1yYIm3=s320" width="148" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Cindy is a Jersey girl who looks like a Mob Wife and talks like Anybodys from West Side Story. Her noir/horror/bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as Shotgun Honey; Megazine; Dark Dossier; Horror, Sleaze, Trash; and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama and the art director of Black Petals. Her seventh collection of short stories, Backwards: Growing Up Catholic, and Weird, in the 60s (Hekate Publishing), is available on Amazon. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.</span><br /><br /></div></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-21836561228071860382021-11-12T18:07:00.009-08:002021-11-12T18:13:52.586-08:00Portrait Of A Man Having A Near Life- Experience by Gabriel Bates<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh84PJc1ltOTLv0BY3kNyCaftCjZqdxkqIDolaZaEqKxgC8HWZC-rvf30U5ZCEvXD123Iuq7rJtjufG0s0Sc0tI10i_qflgdS0qNFEEVqQIzmi93iJhviubQXBvy1WDpgJBGt3mw9oq1NYsCNhaSFUu0GMudEJDyraH9xECYD8JUd7x7Ma47LwCB2OF=s771" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="764" data-original-width="771" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh84PJc1ltOTLv0BY3kNyCaftCjZqdxkqIDolaZaEqKxgC8HWZC-rvf30U5ZCEvXD123Iuq7rJtjufG0s0Sc0tI10i_qflgdS0qNFEEVqQIzmi93iJhviubQXBvy1WDpgJBGt3mw9oq1NYsCNhaSFUu0GMudEJDyraH9xECYD8JUd7x7Ma47LwCB2OF=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Gabriel Bates is a cartoonist living in Tiffin, Ohio."</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOWb2LVFFDrvb76t_Db3_QhKFGlc8TO0MjOnHn6X4L2yADo7pQSeP1gGAR4GSVbfD0XtZG6sCR985YHt46FSXbalKrUDME1JG-eWpgpA0c_w0Zwge6gLV9FUHPMjPW1T8nxWPSslBLte8p0WrScaFBUWv4SGTzhxWh_dYcm-a2jvZFS2B1Ga2sdUhq=s672" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOWb2LVFFDrvb76t_Db3_QhKFGlc8TO0MjOnHn6X4L2yADo7pQSeP1gGAR4GSVbfD0XtZG6sCR985YHt46FSXbalKrUDME1JG-eWpgpA0c_w0Zwge6gLV9FUHPMjPW1T8nxWPSslBLte8p0WrScaFBUWv4SGTzhxWh_dYcm-a2jvZFS2B1Ga2sdUhq=s320" width="229" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-73547027030249844342021-10-29T13:43:00.001-07:002021-10-29T13:43:30.279-07:00Nihil Dicit (Or as Judas O’Halloran Likes to Say…) by John Doyle<div><span style="font-size: large;">There are 19 shades of shit </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">crawling through a sewer system </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">underground, </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">there are 29 level crossings latching shut </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">across an endlessly drifting planet - all in sync. There are silver dollars buried somewhere in Arkansas, my nephew neglected to save his map. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i>That's how Homosexuals do i</i>t, said Judas O'Halloran, </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">they stand for hours on end </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">slapping their willies off each other. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">There were a number of decades gone by, where I may have corrected him, </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">instead I crawled down a few feet further, </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">rolled up my sleeves </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">and listened to trains above </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">falling off the ends of the earth. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i>That’s how grafters do it, O’Halloran</i>, I say, </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i>now put that Smith and Wesson away</i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgas9PCKfYuE6Rl9eD_t1SPT214t2ZcTUJ7SWPeDtvxGOoCBrxZlgiN482g75LlIvHd22OV3nYvObqzW2JdHaBYVN2U4iH_donEzaVhFaR9ojve-33sHbOzUYg9vsMwWUEG0I-GiSmgT71pDxuC0FmuAit_E9SGhVDhZOykypUMNbCS00UW_p_2v3PF=s1069" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1069" data-original-width="663" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgas9PCKfYuE6Rl9eD_t1SPT214t2ZcTUJ7SWPeDtvxGOoCBrxZlgiN482g75LlIvHd22OV3nYvObqzW2JdHaBYVN2U4iH_donEzaVhFaR9ojve-33sHbOzUYg9vsMwWUEG0I-GiSmgT71pDxuC0FmuAit_E9SGhVDhZOykypUMNbCS00UW_p_2v3PF=s320" width="198" /></a></div></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">J</span><span style="font-size: large;">ohn Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-91536151651574627832021-10-19T12:35:00.001-07:002021-10-19T12:35:42.765-07:00A Note From My Dealer. By John Patrick Robbins<p> </p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Dear John,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Bro, you really got to slow down. Like I'm having to work double time just to keep up with your habit </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And I got into dealing because like, I don't want to work this hard.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So I'm referring you to this really scary biker dude I know.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He has some really good shit and when he gets drunk, sometimes lets guy's fuck his wife.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sorry to pass you off man but I really think you have a problem.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I mean I thought all you poets drank wine and were like gay or something?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Like that Oscar Wilde dude you know, the one that wrote Twilight or some shit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Anyways bro, later.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I read the note and had to laugh. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Tommy was a good kid, I just had a hell of a bad habit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Besides he was still in high school and had his whole nonexistent future ahead of him.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And me, I was just a drunk ass drug addicted writer. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Working on some great never ending novel and grateful to not be writing that young adult fiction shit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As I went through dealers like relationships, minus sex and the occasional encounters with ticked off husbands.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes I think I may have a problem.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But as long as I have plenty of drugs and loose party girls numbers on speed dial, I am good with myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh what a friend we have in Jesus.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now say four our fathers and bang a couple of lonely house wives for good measure.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yahtzee!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2ZUdlj3CXQwoQ5NeHvFPkgNdvzOuTHD4LzPot06OJu40kvthBDG0RtJ-cxYBfa9kZDq9_fB7i5NZUUYe6g2xKuqcMgezAA4dpIBK4aATmh7qrMD_itUfXIZxqCGGta7qqBQOnbbU4m9uZvLq3gJQRQJFhTCe6BjAvy64r4fQzfScru-NjE0BCSQjF=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2ZUdlj3CXQwoQ5NeHvFPkgNdvzOuTHD4LzPot06OJu40kvthBDG0RtJ-cxYBfa9kZDq9_fB7i5NZUUYe6g2xKuqcMgezAA4dpIBK4aATmh7qrMD_itUfXIZxqCGGta7qqBQOnbbU4m9uZvLq3gJQRQJFhTCe6BjAvy64r4fQzfScru-NjE0BCSQjF=w400-h400" width="400" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">John Patrick Robbins, is the poet laureate of Valhalla and Dollywood he walks between both realms eagerly crushing simpletons who dare interrupt his binge drinking workshops.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He is currently in preparation for Ragnarok where he will help cleanse the earth of shitty Canadian pop stars and bathe in the blood of Nickelback & Justin Bieber.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He hosts regular open mic's on Mars and holds the keys to destroying the universe.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He also collects vintage oxygen tanks and enjoys painting by number.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He is also a sculptor and is currently building his seventeen story monument to Brittney Spears that although hollow on the inside has way more depth than the actual person.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">When not writing bios for the poetry famous stars.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He enjoys talking about himself in third person.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">And is currently worshiped as a pop God in Norway where his classical rendition of Me So Horny is currently number one on the modern heathen jazz charts.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He also likes to party.</span></div><div><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-47658968497848538362021-08-09T11:04:00.000-07:002021-08-09T11:04:13.561-07:00 (I GOT) GOOSED BY TOMMY CHONG By George Schaefer<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a comedy club<br /><br />and the table<br /><br />was really close;<br /><br />three feet from the stage;<br /><br />seemed like a good thing.<br /><br /> <br /><br />You get the close up view<br /><br />and can see the comic’s face<br /><br />and their expressions.<br /><br /> <br /><br />It was Tommy Chong<br /><br />and he eventually got around<br /><br />to his doggie routine;<br /><br />first lifting the leg as if to pee<br /><br />and then turning into horn dog.<br /><br /> <br /><br />He runs into the crowd<br /><br />simulating four leg walking<br /><br />searching for a leg to hump.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Before I realize it,<br /><br />I find myself getting<br /><br />Goosed by Tommy Chong;<br /><br />He’s a rabid dog in heat.<br /><br /> <br /><br />My friends (and the audience)<br /><br />are howling with laughter.<br /><br />I just sat there<br /><br />and passively took it.<br /><br /> <br /><br />I’m thinking, “Thank God<br /><br />my father’s not alive to see this.”<br /><br />Surely this moment<br /><br />inspires pride in any parent.<br /><br /> <br /><br />“Mom, Dad, Guess what happened<br /><br />at the club last night?”<br /><br /> <br /><br />I got goosed by Tommy Chong<br /><br />and did nothing about it.<br /><br />But if he ever <br /><br />gets elected to the Senate;<br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m taking his ass down.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlYao-7LvUIOqugloj1Tlj89mhX9TO7Ux6XeyEcYBI-elyvv4vgueK5y6rQoWnvUQPgV4X5Y3pMgsFRsY1Lmf9T1THMaoypuols5OLkkub0Ih4Q-Uk2JfROHJq18fPJQwQvIVBMWhQrTA/s591/creepyt-shirts1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="443" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlYao-7LvUIOqugloj1Tlj89mhX9TO7Ux6XeyEcYBI-elyvv4vgueK5y6rQoWnvUQPgV4X5Y3pMgsFRsY1Lmf9T1THMaoypuols5OLkkub0Ih4Q-Uk2JfROHJq18fPJQwQvIVBMWhQrTA/s320/creepyt-shirts1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">George Schaefer is a Philly based poet who hides out in a small suburban apartment. He occasionally utilizes mass transit to visit the city and record poetic observations that he hopes will one day inspire dozens to new heights. He clings to the hopes that the poetry will speak for itself.</span><div class="yj6qo"></div><div class="adL"><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-43340935840885930542021-08-03T14:38:00.003-07:002021-08-03T14:39:52.868-07:00Canned Laughter by Gabriel Bates<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfY2zEvm74bLdOsGd6pgyeaMOJNneTpfBJgpE3wlIpU8_rLwiFQxyRXPAsMDQstZvSWo1MGPc-jLaD8WM40izjOOCL-q93tBe8-fOIBz8vguU3KGIMiALZHOgkDtIsKEPJop2TNr1HWHA/s944/PSX_20210626_002233.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="944" data-original-width="732" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfY2zEvm74bLdOsGd6pgyeaMOJNneTpfBJgpE3wlIpU8_rLwiFQxyRXPAsMDQstZvSWo1MGPc-jLaD8WM40izjOOCL-q93tBe8-fOIBz8vguU3KGIMiALZHOgkDtIsKEPJop2TNr1HWHA/w310-h400/PSX_20210626_002233.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><span> </span><span> </span>Gabriel Bates is a cartoonist living in Tiffin, Ohio</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: center;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZzVZRLeoLm2MXuTduOvVsKyR1s3TDIX2-ZnLfVoYg9cQiif7ray9EyIQTqfOzxuE1OVGyZCnYNDcaqfvHQGVI6MiN5wXP8sQ3XJNfteq2dWPeBMg6jRFwr9X24VMtKebx7xMkS7tk2E/s2048/IMG_20200423_144002%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZzVZRLeoLm2MXuTduOvVsKyR1s3TDIX2-ZnLfVoYg9cQiif7ray9EyIQTqfOzxuE1OVGyZCnYNDcaqfvHQGVI6MiN5wXP8sQ3XJNfteq2dWPeBMg6jRFwr9X24VMtKebx7xMkS7tk2E/s320/IMG_20200423_144002%25281%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-42010542801528878202021-07-22T13:16:00.000-07:002021-07-22T13:16:53.025-07:00We would accept you if we could…but we can’t…so we won’t by Rick Christiansen <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Poetry journal submission rejection letters – a comic sampling.<br /><br />Dear Poet,<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thank you for letting us consider your work. Your poem has one line we found incredibly evocative and very intriguing. Unfortunately, the rest of your verse has the consistency of baby vomit. If you have any other work that is less like baby vomit, we welcome the chance to reject it also!<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep writing!<br /><br /><br />Dear Poet,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Thank you for allowing us to reject your work. We found reading your poem to be universally painful for our editorial staff. However, we enjoy punishing our team. Although this poem is “not for us”, we welcome additional submissions in the future as we LIKE to watch our staff suffer. It gives us pleasure. So….much….pleasure….<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Are you suffering?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep writing!<br /><br /><br />Dear Poet,<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">What are you wearing? Right now? Are you holding a pen….are you holding it “firmly”? You are a BAD poet! So….so…BAD! You need punishment.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Assume the position!<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh….and we hated your poetry.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep writing!<br /><br /><br />Dear Poet,<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thank you for allowing us to consider your multi-media project, “Sestinas for all Members”. Although our editorial staff admires your ekphrastic project of writing sestinas to dick pics, we are currently only considering dick pic Haiku.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep writing!<br /><br /><br /><br />Dear Poet,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Our associate editor, Bob, read your recent submission and promptly ended his tenure with our publication in horror and disgust.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />We hated Bob.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately it is not what we are looking for. But Bob was a DICK, so you have really helped us out here. Just sayin!<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep writing!<br /><br />Dear Poet,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Thank you for your submission dated May 17, 1974. We have reviewed it carefully for a very long time. Unfortunately, we find your prose a bit old fashioned and perhaps more appropriate for a simpler time, pre-21st Century. We welcome your future submissions!<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep writing!<br /><br />Dear Poet,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />We really wanted to publish your work. We really…really..did want to do it. Our entire team here is in severe distress. We appreciate that your work comes from a “special” place inside of you. We are SO privileged to get to experience your poetry. Each member of our staff has been profoundly changed by your work. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Unfortunately, the team has very reluctantly chosen to go a different direction.<br />Please do not submit to us again for at least three years. Rejecting you again too soon would be too painful for us to bear.<br /><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Keep writing!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4FCXuSYo_DMkjQiKltDSHyYfAMOjTxY2K9IYVFptdprroudirKG8AfJOQ0qSj-hFfDaH5GyPptw71XAn8ejqNhelXyzIiwb0igBVmsfiClt-4CozhqjYC9rakp1lUHuQQUJGQfxIFKo/s2048/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4FCXuSYo_DMkjQiKltDSHyYfAMOjTxY2K9IYVFptdprroudirKG8AfJOQ0qSj-hFfDaH5GyPptw71XAn8ejqNhelXyzIiwb0igBVmsfiClt-4CozhqjYC9rakp1lUHuQQUJGQfxIFKo/s320/unnamed.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rick Christiansen has been a stand-up comic, an actor, director of the improvisational comedy group, The Underground, and a corporate executive. His work can be found in the archives of Oddball Magazine, Muddy River Poetry Review and other publications. He has poems forthcoming in Dumpster Fire Press and his poem “Killing Bob Dylan” has been selected for a Fall 2021 anthology by Alien Buddha Press. He is a member of the St. Louis Writers Guild. Rick lives in Missouri near his eight grandchildren and with his basset hound Annie. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-12038073928146064652021-07-16T12:10:00.003-07:002021-07-16T12:10:34.260-07:00Rotting Corpse Vomit by Ludwig Von Killsmith<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Love is a cold indifferent stare,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">From her superior Scandinavian eyes.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">And is utterly meaningless like human life.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjq8mrBADIx_igYQ_U9Fso2_aKF_pW7wsdp43QnXIjdlLeCZkSlWWt-_JSo0x8U8G65QJ0fxA1G61oo8tirpEp909drVSDNlHM1iS7E7Rh3kCiWk-N-OP5jKSo-sv2HJPEDV6HkNw09oU/s753/DatKU66VMAAbdhT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjq8mrBADIx_igYQ_U9Fso2_aKF_pW7wsdp43QnXIjdlLeCZkSlWWt-_JSo0x8U8G65QJ0fxA1G61oo8tirpEp909drVSDNlHM1iS7E7Rh3kCiWk-N-OP5jKSo-sv2HJPEDV6HkNw09oU/s320/DatKU66VMAAbdhT.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ludwig is the harvester of death and lead guitarist for many bands such as Slaughter The Innocent, Rotting Corpse Fire, and Dismembered Gore. His guitar sounds like the terrified screams of children and his poetry has sent many people straight into the burning fires of hell.</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-30081370898610597842021-06-25T14:55:00.000-07:002021-06-25T14:55:20.750-07:00HIDDEN by Sasquatch <div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I live in the woods<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">With the forests & the trees<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The birds & the deer<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The wolves & freedom</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">But mankind<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Has been bothering <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">And hunting me for <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Centuries following<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">My foot prints and <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Harassing my family</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">So <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">When they <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Fall asleep?</span><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I take a big nasty dump <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">In their backpacks</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgXY0Z96td7zgixYBRvAP-W27a0T9aLiqkV6Xbbcz2vTu3g_ENwdrWLpi3C3553aBcgcjYNWoVfHqyHwLBiSQS2GGBPiGnF0kKM1cHM0qc9kwCIXr9q0K5RY_11BDNqP0DA_Cj52Nr2E/s400/FB_IMG_1624150797413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="340" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgXY0Z96td7zgixYBRvAP-W27a0T9aLiqkV6Xbbcz2vTu3g_ENwdrWLpi3C3553aBcgcjYNWoVfHqyHwLBiSQS2GGBPiGnF0kKM1cHM0qc9kwCIXr9q0K5RY_11BDNqP0DA_Cj52Nr2E/s320/FB_IMG_1624150797413.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sasquatch (Mr. Cornelius A.) has been a resident of Washington State for over one hundred years and his hobbies include writing, drinking and collecting old vintage pornography. He is the author of the widely acclaimed book " Hair Styles For Humans" & his philosophical essay " Should We Eat Humans?" He currently lives in the woods where he chain smokes cigarettes and types.</span></div></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-53432125553569077132021-06-22T13:05:00.000-07:002021-06-22T13:05:21.238-07:00HUMID by Susan Tepper<div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Liquor being scarce in these parts, it was iced tea on the humid porch. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">We watched some Amish go by in a horse drawn carriage. Clop clop clop clop.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Those hats have gotta be hot, he said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">I looked up at the porch roof peeling blue flakes. Termites were taking down the house in sections. One day it would collapse. I could only hope to be out during that occurrence. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">So tell me everything, he said.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Everything?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">All your men, he said, taking a good swallow like it was whiskey.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Have you checked Ripley’s Believe It Or Not? (My idea of a joke).</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He emptied the glass, sucking the lemon slice. Deliberating. Putting the glass down on uneven boards. It toppled and some ice cubes rolled out.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Don’t worry, I said. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He was looking somewhat dismal at this point in the conversation.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Sitting up straighter in the rough wicker chair, he suddenly seemed focused again. Saying, Well, darlin’. What about your past?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Where shall I begin, which country?</span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7z2voJnz_9knwq3Tcxtw3uFpSHGkJvo6LfF3s6hyphenhyphenvvPlltNoMVmAf_hTaBQliwrAQb1LV9NvRVvyNcd8mJYNlVEVY_bFY3GOk8c65RYrM7rztOIYr8qK1beg4n1DNVqbxYja8Sf44taU/s2048/IMG_0617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7z2voJnz_9knwq3Tcxtw3uFpSHGkJvo6LfF3s6hyphenhyphenvvPlltNoMVmAf_hTaBQliwrAQb1LV9NvRVvyNcd8mJYNlVEVY_bFY3GOk8c65RYrM7rztOIYr8qK1beg4n1DNVqbxYja8Sf44taU/s320/IMG_0617.jpg" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books. Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019). Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">www.susantepper.com</span></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-75415426052995548822021-06-10T16:43:00.002-07:002021-06-10T16:43:53.632-07:00Chemical Exposure by Ian Hanks <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOnqmK-Povuv7tzP9jGkZuXv3GiBfAcAFbvfruMh5DwmQ2GltyQ1sM-kfkbGO7h12YlApiU-itE1q81nj0i1kckMUKEBazrg3kZR3Kn1RhDBMflW3KRi68a2lQ5vlgp95H0USH6WL2_g/s2048/1622730065092blob.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1894" data-original-width="2048" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOnqmK-Povuv7tzP9jGkZuXv3GiBfAcAFbvfruMh5DwmQ2GltyQ1sM-kfkbGO7h12YlApiU-itE1q81nj0i1kckMUKEBazrg3kZR3Kn1RhDBMflW3KRi68a2lQ5vlgp95H0USH6WL2_g/w400-h370/1622730065092blob.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">I grew up on the coast of Maine, both of my parents were professional artists and under their guidance, I learned to draw and paint at an early age. My paternal grandfather, Fletcher Hanks, Sr. was an accomplished cartoonist back in the “Golden Age” of cartoons. Several compilations of his work have been published by Fantagraphics Books. My father, Ted, was an author, watercolorist, and nationally recognized woodcarver whose body of work includes life-sized ducks and geese displayed in private and public collections across the United States. My mother, Consuelo, was an accomplished artist in both pencil and watercolor mediums with a body of work that gained her a national reputation and following.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I studied criminology at the University of Southern Maine and pursued a career in private security and investigations. I did everything, from working an access gate at an industrial complex, catching shoplifters at a retail chain, and conducting sensitive high-level corporate investigations.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"> I have been drawing and painting since I could hold a pencil and paintbrush, thanks to my parents’ inspiration and encouragement. About twenty years ago, I first tried my hand at cartooning, drawing funny sketches to make people laugh which I find particularly fulfilling. A short time later, I took a break from art to focus on my career and raising our daughter, who we adopted from Guatemala. Since my parent’s passing in late 2015, I have taken over their art business, now called Maine Treasures Art Prints, representing my mother’s pencil and watercolor prints and launching my own full-time art career. Along with my latest foray into cartooning, I also paint maritime scenes in watercolor. My paintings are displayed at Gallery’s in Maine and my works have been included in several exhibits, including the International Maritime Art Show at the Mystic Maritime Museum and Gallery in Mystic Connecticut, and the Maritime Art Exhibit at the Coos Art Museum in Coos, Oregon.</span></div></div><p></p>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-85598098120650837842021-06-08T14:08:00.008-07:002021-06-08T15:21:32.629-07:00Coyote Tales The Return Of The Gonz by John Patrick Robbins<div><span style="font-size: large;">It was a bright and sunny day early that morning at four in the afternoon.<br />Which is annoying because I seldom wake up that early and I hate daylight. <br />Because Odin's lava lamp is really harsh on my corpse-like complexion.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />The people in the Dollar General on Knotts Island North Carolina all stared as I walked through the door.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I mean being I'm their living God slash local celebrity.<br />I fully understand the awe of the moment as most said nothing.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />But I knew from that repulsed look.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">They all secretly wanted my autograph or to have a mass orgy.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />In aisle six which is the best to shoplift.<br />Not that I know or anything.<br />But I haven't paid for mints in like two years.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Tic tacs are great for dinner and really pair well with chardonnay.<br />Wow, I know how wet that's getting you already random reader.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I mean It's kinda weird your reading in the pool . </span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">But, fuck it, your neighbor's a total asshole and what he doesn't know won't hurt him.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Well maybe aside from the fact you're porking his wife but she does have awesome boobies.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />And to think I'm a pushcart nominated writer. I'm truly a classy bitch.<br />But enough with the foreplay children.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />As always, I checked to see if my books were still in stock at my shrine I paid to have placed in the store.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />And to my shock it was gone.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />My heart beat rapidly as the room began spinning.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> It was like drinking with Bill Cosby minus the rape.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Everything went suddenly dark and when I awoke that asshole who runs the store Randy was standing above me.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"Don't piss on me!"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I shouted in my outdoor voice even though I was inside because duh dumbass.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> It's not a fucking flea market.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> <br />Besides, everyone knows that's just a front for the gypsies to sell children to third world countries to work in the sweatshops of Canada or New Jersey.<br />Really what's the difference besides the shore?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"What the fuck John! Didn't I tell you I didn't want your crazy ass coming back in here!"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"Well I didn't think you meant it. I mean I am the only poetry famous person here. I'm like a national treasure you know like Dolly Parton. <br />Minus the theme park and awesome boobies. And by the way, what happened to my book display?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"I took it the fuck down you idiot! Besides you put it up yourself and why the fuck did you include a cardboard cutout of Mel Gibson from The Road Warrior?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"Umm because it's fucking badass and you wouldn't let me put up the one of Betty Page because she was naked you Nazi bastard!"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Randy just stared at me with that same look he always has on his face.<br />You know the one most writers have when you mention my name.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Like someone farted.<br />When in all truth they're just jealous because I get to sit at home binge drink and sexually harass all my pen names.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Yeah I'm so lonely and oddly entertaining. Like a train wreck because I have mental problems like you couldn't tell already.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"Look jackass if I give you a corner near the toilet paper will you cut the shit and just try to act semi normal?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I thought deeply about this statement for what was this strange word he spoke of called normal.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I kept thinking to myself as I laid there on the floor just hoping a woman with a short skirt would walk by.<br />I mean a cheap thrill beat's none at all.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />And just like that old fart who flew a kite in a lighting storm. It hit me.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Build it and they will come.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Which I totally stole from that movie with sexy Kevin Costner you know that one about baseball Gone With The Wind.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"You know Randy, I will take your offer and even give you this collectable autographed picture of me. To hang on your wall or in the ladies room which may or not have a camera in the frame, so make sure it's placed properly asshole!"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"Why is it signed Betty White?"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"Well I would have had all the Golden Girls signatures but they had restraining orders on me at the time Randy."</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />"Fuck my job, why don't I just buy a gun!"</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Randy said as he returned to his register clearly this moment had changed his life forever.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />As I had truly made a huge step with my award winning book.<br />What? Just because I printed the awards out myself I created online didn't make them any less credible.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I swear reader, the way you torment me really is a turn on.<br />Hey are you single and have ultra low standards and have your own vagina or can borrow one for the weekend?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Then hit me up, just call 911. And just ask for me and extra pepperoni on your pizza that's what I always do.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Silly operators I'm probably going to prison.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Now where were we?<br />Oh yeah my books being sold next to where they stock the toilet paper.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Yes, sure they may not sell as good as toilet paper but they're just as useful.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Ouch John, that really hurt.<br />I know dude but sometimes I have to abuse myself just for kicks.<br />And to write totally batshit insane works to make writers question when the fuck is this going to end?</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Kind of like half the broken english batshit insane submissions I have to read through every fucking day.<br />While being called a worthless hack no good batshit fucking cockless wonder.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />And that one came from a motivational speaker.<br /><br />Yes I bought my beer with just a little bit more pride that day and made sure I stared at the cashier's tits just a little bit longer and slightly drooled.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Till I realized he wasn't feeling it.<br />I really needed glasses but I need booze far more besides.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Everyone looks better with a hundred proof flowing through your veins and the lights off.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Until next time hamsters.<br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Stay crazy.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />Coyote out.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br />#Iliketoparty</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT12nROlSGx2GV3O15UCyKw-fWIfSy5szUSKXz13dR19A9ywPot6S8Wgqkaa8gdKV6TZPjX64kCvRUSexw3Q9IbM2cwBTHIljF7lOT1EdfTJErxT0JQBoSODHbyngWQonKOvKLaQg0zZA/s720/124914471_1107873029631268_1251786152881587406_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT12nROlSGx2GV3O15UCyKw-fWIfSy5szUSKXz13dR19A9ywPot6S8Wgqkaa8gdKV6TZPjX64kCvRUSexw3Q9IbM2cwBTHIljF7lOT1EdfTJErxT0JQBoSODHbyngWQonKOvKLaQg0zZA/s320/124914471_1107873029631268_1251786152881587406_n.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">The Mad Editor aka Coyote, is a off his meds lunatic who is also a Grammy award winning bio writer. </span><span style="font-size: large;">He is also a member of the illuminati and the most hated editor in all of poetry.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He enjoys making sacrifices of his critics and is a chieftain of his Viking tribe now residing on Skull Island.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">His many publications include Better Homes And Gardens , Serial Killer Quarterly, Modern Viking The Not So Sexy Swimsuit Edition, A Journal He Left In a Park Somewhere, Esquire, Fearless Poetry Zine and some shitty e-zine called the Dope Fiend Daily which only runs once a week.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He has been called the greatest human being within his mind and is voted the worst of the net which is title he has won now three years in a row. </span><span style="font-size: large;">Because I won it so own it bitch!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He is currently working on his screenplay for the sequel to The Sliver Surfer vs The Bronze Bastard which will be released in the summer of 1892.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">He is currently on a reading tour in Germany where he is opening for David Hasselhoff. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">And he thinks you look very nice today but you should probably change your shirt because it really clashes with that skirt.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yeah I know everyone's a fucking critic.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-size: large;">Grazie.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-50413410800812571622021-06-07T14:29:00.000-07:002021-06-07T14:29:42.371-07:00How the Fuck by Jason Melvin<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>(upon finding a banana, where once was towel)</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />am I supposed to dry off with a banana?<br />I can take a joke, I can<br />but this has grown tiresome<br />It’s the price I pay, I guess<br />Having shitty friends is better<br />then having none at all, right?<br />This isn’t high school, we’re supposedly adults<br />I did my own laundry this morning<br />I miss home<br />Hiding all my shoes was funny<br />until I went to class barefoot<br />in the rain<br />Maybe Ramen noodles under your bedsheets<br />maybe that was too far, but I was pissed<br />but I’m done, you win<br />Standing here shivering with my dick in my hand<br />I can hear you in the hallway giggling<br />JUST BRING ME MY FUCKING TOWEL!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />and I’m eating this fucking banana. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFatD1a3IjyF4zOYmv9-LJHmcYWUJ62lgKKrrUK9-G0_-CVwNDCwaoniZo9nj9-p9ty7nKCRwPKKx0jwqlROULRmmtH5xxLdeK1whbg-euFCyPdJla6mh7UTRCsiTnu-Guxn3z9_CLHQ/s1440/me+and+doggie+sleeping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeFatD1a3IjyF4zOYmv9-LJHmcYWUJ62lgKKrrUK9-G0_-CVwNDCwaoniZo9nj9-p9ty7nKCRwPKKx0jwqlROULRmmtH5xxLdeK1whbg-euFCyPdJla6mh7UTRCsiTnu-Guxn3z9_CLHQ/s320/me+and+doggie+sleeping.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: large;"><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><div><span style="font-size: large;">Jason Melvin received a gimmicky T-shirt from his teenage daughter on Christmas with a picture of one large fist fist-bumping a much smaller fist. The caption read, “Behind every smart-ass daughter is a truly asshole Dad”. It fit.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">His work has recently appeared in The Beatnik Cowboy, The Raw Art Review, Rat’s Ass Review, The Electric Rail, Front Porch Review, Shambles, Spillover and Last Leaves, among others.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div> </div></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-54290785571396092512021-05-31T14:10:00.006-07:002021-06-07T14:37:16.795-07:00We Don't Name The Chickens Here by Gabriel Bates<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyWt4ZjnqCPRlbqgW-K1_7tSCo4OgKotY5SMNm1RFTfnvyrrIjHcr0WXQRwoU32KKr5V-5hxHhpOpiQH12FkADFSogYdsm3REzwILtJ31esm5UTVMVL-HZw_8FrbnDxwDYjteaAfCnWM/s954/PSX_20210526_234801.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="735" data-original-width="954" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyWt4ZjnqCPRlbqgW-K1_7tSCo4OgKotY5SMNm1RFTfnvyrrIjHcr0WXQRwoU32KKr5V-5hxHhpOpiQH12FkADFSogYdsm3REzwILtJ31esm5UTVMVL-HZw_8FrbnDxwDYjteaAfCnWM/w400-h309/PSX_20210526_234801.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Gabriel Bates is a cartoonist living in Tiffin, Ohio.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUIzwPCb9KO7LQOypCx4ZEBmn4wNKyQnJ0OpMa_eKpHttQ6tzsMrbpID_A-OwU8MFoWgQND0XJjFWRnrfqpxtkFgfjDn2UMblnwO_yI27-SKWNO5nU33jx0prRn-9cfXIJqHiIoQG6Fo/s2048/IMG_20200423_144002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUIzwPCb9KO7LQOypCx4ZEBmn4wNKyQnJ0OpMa_eKpHttQ6tzsMrbpID_A-OwU8MFoWgQND0XJjFWRnrfqpxtkFgfjDn2UMblnwO_yI27-SKWNO5nU33jx0prRn-9cfXIJqHiIoQG6Fo/w300-h400/IMG_20200423_144002.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-41851295540668282092021-05-28T14:03:00.000-07:002021-05-28T14:03:45.731-07:00Rolex Club by Susan Tepper<p><span style="font-size: large;">So this guy X. Jack Matalan hires me to serve subpoenas. He’s a lawyer in the same office building where my friend Marcie is a paralegal. She plugged me into this new gig. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’d been doing the gram circuit: balloons, eroto-grams, monkey suit — whatever. Marcie is the one person from high school I’ve stayed in contact with. She’s a stacked blonde (for real) who was voted most likely to succeed. My brother Nat derides Marcie, calls her a regular US senator; but that’s out of total male frustration. Years ago she gave him the toss for a woman. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A lot of men wanted to marry her. One was a guy who managed big name bands. He blew in from LA once a month to scout talent. Took her to rock concerts downtown. Marcie claimed he was selfish. Even though he bought her a Rolex watch. She said all the guys in LA do that. She said it’s like a Rolex Club out there. Nothing to do with love. Just to impress the other guys. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’ll admit I coveted that Rolex. I told her I wouldn’t mind having one. Marcie said here take mine. She actually slid it off her wrist. I’ll admit I was tempted. She said the band guy was selfish with ear plugs. Always carried only one pair for himself when they went scouting bands, dragging her into smoky clubs so loud you could hear the music a block away, she said. And that it left a permanent ringing in her ears. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Marcie ended up marrying a guy who walked dogs for a living. But she always had some woman on the side. Nat likes saying walking dogs is not a reliable source of income. I want to tell him to grow balls.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Being no dummy to the dog walking situation, Marcie got herself paralegal training. Then became super friendly with a lawyer in the firm and got her divorce for free. Free, I like reminding Nat. He shrugs it off. I like mentioning the huge sums of money it takes to get a divorce. I know he wants to divorce Sherry. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I’ve been bunking in their partially finished basement. There’s a drop-ceiling with florescent tube lights underneath. I can hear the fights that go on upstairs. The walls and floor are rough cement painted marine gray. Definitely not my shade but the balloon-grams add a nice color punch. It was supposed to be a playroom for Rosalie their kid. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">By five or six the kid turned schizoid. Rosalie cannot be left alone with the washer and dryer. I’m not quite sure why, but it’s a house rule. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Down in their underground dampness I can make myself scarce. Not that I’m lonely. I’m not even miserable. I just feel turned around. Like you’re meant to go one direction and find yourself in the other. That’s significant. East is east, west is west. Vastly different experiences. Marcie being the first to agree. There’s no Rolex Club here on the east coast, she said.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHL6WIKj0m8lnm833ehGRIkwyVKaC5seoHkTc0b-EgEOCVKWPauunUo14qogABxXsSsjMloCkH5Ie_OuT8evm4sY-IKVroz8sb6x1LiPFfTTYZeVetkepr0CZMWuL1MASvW5OtVjbQkw/s720/from+YOUNGER+me+and+Otis%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHL6WIKj0m8lnm833ehGRIkwyVKaC5seoHkTc0b-EgEOCVKWPauunUo14qogABxXsSsjMloCkH5Ie_OuT8evm4sY-IKVroz8sb6x1LiPFfTTYZeVetkepr0CZMWuL1MASvW5OtVjbQkw/s320/from+YOUNGER+me+and+Otis%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Originally published in Blue Edge chapbook from Cervena Barva Press.</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books. Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019). Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">www.susantepper.com<span style="text-align: left;"> </span></span></div><p></p><div><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-76655045546171846402021-05-03T10:13:00.000-07:002021-05-03T10:13:28.303-07:00Sugar by Susan Tepper<div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Henry Potts fell out of the maple before he ever got to the milking barn. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“It was that damned mirror,” said Mildred banging cake batter off the mixer blades. “Who puts a mirror in a treetop?” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Spitting tobacco into smoldering embers Henry sulked near the fireside. Then knocking off the crocheted rug she’d wrapped around his legs, he stood up wobbly. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“How else to tell the weather that’s a comin’? Mirror brings the cloud formations closer.” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Henry you’re daft.” She held out a dripping beater. “Want a lick?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Nah!” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“How many cups a coffee you had before climbing that tree?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">He paced the kitchen slowly then had to give up. Moaning he sat again in the rocker. “Five. Mebee six.” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Five or six cups of caffeine. And how much sugar in each cup?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Dammit, woman, I don’t keep track.” He swung his neck like the old horse they put down last month. “Where’s my newspaper gone to?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“You had about half the sugar bowl before you even stepped outside this house. You got the diabetes, Henry.” </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">But he’d already shut his eyes against her; resting his head on the back slats of the cherry rocker. His dad’s rocker. And his grand dad’s before.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Mildred came and stood over him. “Fact is, you’re killing yourself. You drink all that sugared coffee then expect to climb a tree? At your age? Maybe it’s time to make some arrangements.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“I want my coffin lined silver satin.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">She laughed saying, “I’m throwing you in an old pine box. Let the worms have a feast on all that sugar. It’ll be a regular birthday party for them. Cake and candles.” She walked away humming a tune that sounded vaguely familiar.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">He opened his eyes, saw her pouring cake batter into a loaf pan. “What kinda icing?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Forget it, Henry. You had enough sugar for a month. This cake is going to the bake sale. You remember the church supper? You even know the day of the week?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">He scratched at his scant amount of gray hair. “The day a the week now? Or the day a the week for the church supper?”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“Clever.” She bent to put the cake into the oven. “All the same I’m phoning Douglas. I need my peace and quiet. He can do the milking and the chores piling up. Like the fence that needs fixing in the north pasture.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Scowling, Henry gripped the chair arms. “Douglas ain’t gettin’ near my cows. Ya hear? He’s got no sense about livestock. Last time he broke two milking machines. Had to hand-milk myself for almost a month. Damned near broke my back, too.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Pale-looking since the tree accident, his face suddenly took on a mottled purple color. He glared at her, saying, “Besides. Douglas sneaks looks at you. I seen it the last time he come.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">She giggled in a way that made his old knees jump. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHL6WIKj0m8lnm833ehGRIkwyVKaC5seoHkTc0b-EgEOCVKWPauunUo14qogABxXsSsjMloCkH5Ie_OuT8evm4sY-IKVroz8sb6x1LiPFfTTYZeVetkepr0CZMWuL1MASvW5OtVjbQkw/s720/from+YOUNGER+me+and+Otis%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHL6WIKj0m8lnm833ehGRIkwyVKaC5seoHkTc0b-EgEOCVKWPauunUo14qogABxXsSsjMloCkH5Ie_OuT8evm4sY-IKVroz8sb6x1LiPFfTTYZeVetkepr0CZMWuL1MASvW5OtVjbQkw/s320/from+YOUNGER+me+and+Otis%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer in all genres, and the author of nine published books. Her most recent are CONFESS (a poetry chapbook by Cervena Barva Press, 2020) and a quirky road novel WHAT DRIVES MEN (Wilderness House Press, 2019). Currently Tepper is in pre-production of an Off-Bdwy play titled THE CROOKED HEART which she based on artist Jackson Pollock’s later years.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">www.susantepper.com</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">-</span></div></div></div><p><br /></p>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-43035380927269716932021-04-26T15:19:00.000-07:002021-04-26T15:19:35.414-07:00Drugs Aren't Always Fun, Kids by Kevin M. Hibshman<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Here are a few important health and safety tips:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />1.Always make sure you grab the intended prescription bottle.<br />If you mistakenly ingest your room mate's muscle relaxants instead of your blood pressure<br />pills, you may notice the following:<br />Inability to wake up.<br />Showing up to work wearing two different pairs of shoes.<br />Blurred vision.<br />Difficulty in completing a single thought.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />2.Monitor your alcohol consumption in public to avoid:<br />Being unable to reach a bathroom before relieving yourself.<br />Becoming overly flirtatious which can lead to unforeseen and unwanted situations you are too smashed to apologize for.<br />Going home with a stranger you discover you loathe as soon as the buzz fades.<br />Driving home from the bar in a snow storm with someone who has somehow drank twice as much as you did.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">3.Never combine rum, whiskey, Kahlua and vodka within the same half an hour as the effects will be startling but highly unpleasant.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">4.If the police arrive, try not to converse with them.<br />5.Don't imbibe alcoholic beverages on the way to the amusement park.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />6.You may realize that you have smoked enough medical marijuana when: you cannot see anymore but you're still laughing.<br />You no longer care about what you're laughing at.<br />Bright flashes of light begin streaking across the room but no one else sees them.<br />You hear yourself talking but no longer feel yourself talking.<br />All of your friends bid you goodnight suddenly and rush out the door.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />I hope you will find these tips helpful.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYkODzponJc3Dy_1iD4eREKcH6cZiekKu5y6-STfwFvgH1krM3i5Koe2yQ8Ew8ZJ15IpT57hexT4k8R5FJUHjPvM3HF5i9MVMNQ2gjzNQEeKOlF_2hq941cIol9Vvi6U9iiV_wtU1eioE/s400/IMG_20200408_114749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYkODzponJc3Dy_1iD4eREKcH6cZiekKu5y6-STfwFvgH1krM3i5Koe2yQ8Ew8ZJ15IpT57hexT4k8R5FJUHjPvM3HF5i9MVMNQ2gjzNQEeKOlF_2hq941cIol9Vvi6U9iiV_wtU1eioE/s320/IMG_20200408_114749.jpg" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><div><span style="font-size: large;">Kevin M. Hibshman has had poems published in many journals and magazines world wide. In addition, he has edited his poetry zine, Fearless, since 1990 and is the author of sixteen chapbooks including Love Sex Death Dreams (Green Bean Press, 2000) and Incessant Shining (Alternating Current, 2011).</span></div><div><br /></div></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-86296550542312280832021-04-26T14:45:00.009-07:002021-04-26T15:16:44.990-07:00Shazbot Bloody Shazbot by John Doyle<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">I couldn't be more certain if I tried, <br />that you are an apple,<br />that I am a gnat,<br />not a gnat called Natalie,<br />that was Jack.<br />And I am a high-rise Judas Christ, you are Jesus Iscariot<br />parking in a blind man's spot, a blind man<br />who stole a walking stick from a cripple,<br />there's no thieves left with all this honour,<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">honour died in that train-wreck in 1895.<br />You were once the petroleum queen of Pepsi town<br />the one time I could take nothing from you,<br />North-West somewhere, I was downstairs and drunk,<br />congratulations girl, I said, and hiccupped, leaving for the station</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSZ3ypzaeUP_DkRvHV3ZiGXsgErQWfXzmz_BUCjf9HugdsHfdOxZEO3CoUGKBOW5L8xGuJBra0gpG6yQ3pfpNH0e2k9TEQhvWZEuDMIO7dETvbjLW5CU4bUuQ-aZPZ7LCIOzRZozn0K0/s320/IMG-20180609-WA0015.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="180" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSZ3ypzaeUP_DkRvHV3ZiGXsgErQWfXzmz_BUCjf9HugdsHfdOxZEO3CoUGKBOW5L8xGuJBra0gpG6yQ3pfpNH0e2k9TEQhvWZEuDMIO7dETvbjLW5CU4bUuQ-aZPZ7LCIOzRZozn0K0/w225-h400/IMG-20180609-WA0015.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"> John Doyle became a Mod again in the summer of 2017 to fight off his impending mid-life crisis; whether this has been a success remains to be seen. He has has two collections published to date, A Stirring at Dusk in 2017, and Songs for Boys Called Wendell Gomez in 2018, both on PSKI's Porch.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: large;">He is based in Maynooth, County Kildare, Ireland. All he asks is that you leave your guns at the door and tie up your horses before your enter.</span></div><div style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></div></div></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-32012085838635178462021-04-26T14:12:00.001-07:002021-04-26T14:13:52.992-07:00A Pretend Beatle by Dan Provost<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Jimmy wanted everyone to know he enjoyed the Beatles rhythm section…<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Rain was the best song the fab four ever recorded, reminding anyone in earshot.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">No one cared.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">“They” continued to laugh at him.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">He took an old broom, cut himself a wig from mother’s corpse.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">…and performed as Paul McCartney most nights.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The fake Höfner 500/1 Violin Bass in tow.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">The state hospital staff had to drag him to bed sometimes.<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Facility ordinance prohibited his concerts to go past<br /></span><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">8 P.M.<br /></span><span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <br /></span></span><span style="font-size: large;">Love it!</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTv0BIOP1hVbf8L34zQvDgOSfju1ED03QKbrUvqwxSoJbIIm66sYXhvpvhi79S4_USxqVlluspr24eiTPtH__0Q5stwiuB0DSw_GaATdqdnSMqEyEAjEj6E9juKIjatZSj-aBdAzweOw/s1600/image1+%25285%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTv0BIOP1hVbf8L34zQvDgOSfju1ED03QKbrUvqwxSoJbIIm66sYXhvpvhi79S4_USxqVlluspr24eiTPtH__0Q5stwiuB0DSw_GaATdqdnSMqEyEAjEj6E9juKIjatZSj-aBdAzweOw/w225-h400/image1+%25285%2529.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dan Provost's poetry has been published throughout the small press for a number of years. Some recent publications include: Ariel Chart, Poetical Review, Merak Magazine, Oddball Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Misfit Magazine, the Rye Whiskey Review, Cajun Mutt Press and the Dope Fiend Daily. He has two books coming out in 2020. Under the Influence of Nothingness by Kung Fu Treachery Press and Rattle of a Realizer, published by Whiskey City Press. He lives in Berlin, New Hampshire with his wife Laura and dog Bella.</span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1114254751027650352.post-78754921900444471312021-04-26T13:30:00.000-07:002021-04-26T13:30:11.244-07:00Assholes To Ashes by Scott Simmons<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">There were four of us on the cover.<br />And five before we wrote it.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />After two years only half still speak to one another.<br />Because of course what are <i>brothers</i> really for?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />All of it was over shit that barely made one cent.<br />It mostly only paid in kiss ass compliments. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />But somehow even that went to our heads.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />If you write long enough don’t except friends.<br />Or leaving without having a broken heart.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />There’s no glamour only words on paper.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSx1vhQp0trL5c0LOfnxCbUL9goasW8Fx-qHHs9L1cEkVO56N93am_X5V3pnmcPRF2CC3T1VMclBdtbhojX5kPso1SCaP3df6YNqzx70-V-CO3G_zHxinAMB9L7B6U_1tpYIfSGM8FBMU/s740/_G-FXzLGdjH5PKh8CESelCtCvI9NmX1oahpsDRgP8rA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="740" data-original-width="590" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSx1vhQp0trL5c0LOfnxCbUL9goasW8Fx-qHHs9L1cEkVO56N93am_X5V3pnmcPRF2CC3T1VMclBdtbhojX5kPso1SCaP3df6YNqzx70-V-CO3G_zHxinAMB9L7B6U_1tpYIfSGM8FBMU/s320/_G-FXzLGdjH5PKh8CESelCtCvI9NmX1oahpsDRgP8rA.jpeg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Scott Simmons has recently arrived through a time portal after a tough divorce with his future ex wife and he now lives in cargo van outside of I-Hop. It's not recommended to engage him in conversations as he will likely urinate on you and does not believe in the concept of personal space. </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">Plus his writing also sucks.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is why we need to outlaw time travel now! <i>#voteyes4theFuckScottSimmonsBill</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>The Editorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02373465203432008488noreply@blogger.com0