"Here is something new I wrote, something edgy," said the reader of the week, Thomas Morlitary. Todd felt his stomach tense. Edgy, here at the Lit Snob. There were sure to be complaints come tomorrow.
The cherub shown in the icy rain. Wet drops ran down his wings, his child’s face, across his blank eyes. He seemed to cry, falling into the pool of blood at his feet.
The wipers thwap-thwapped on there 180 trip across the windshield. Carl switched them to high and jammed at the stuck defroster button, cursing. On call late nights; this was definitely not working for him. His sheets, tossed aside as he reached for the pager, remained on the floor. The black shirt was wrinkled. Who had the energy to call in something at two a.m?
The yard of the Victorian was black. The crows lay in the muddied earth. There were no marks, but it was obvious they were dead. Did you bring a dead crow, dozens of dead crows to a coroner or a vet? Carl rubbed rain water from his forehead, gave his eyes the luxury of a brief moment shut, wished for the millionth time his life was something else.
Dating the D.A. was definitely not a good idea. It had been spring and he was sick on love, or of love, or something. Figured, if nothing else, the D.A. would be good in bed. Didn’t count on these moments of awkwardness the would follow. Nighttime in the car to the thwap-thwap of the wipers from the scene of the crime.
Bagged a bird, found a body. Asian. Male. Five ten. One hundred and seventy three pounds. John Doe, the toe tag said. We are all equal in death. The coroner said it looked to be a poisoning. He’d know more in the morning. The birds: no explanation. “I think we all need some sleep,” he said.
Carl didn’t call the D.A., and the D.A. didn’t expect him to. It had been a summer fling. Carl having figured he’d do his boss because he wasn’t supposed to. And now, a cell phone in the car. The ring-ring of the phone. The wiper thwap-thwapped. The D.A.’s voice was husky with sleep; just the way he remembered. Later, sleep would be a long time coming.
“Cyanide,” the coroner said. “Severe cyanide poisoning may be characterized by gasping for breath and loss of consciousness. After loss of consciousness, breathing may be weak or absent. Cardiac arrest and death may result ,” the coroner said, methodically of a man who was once someone’s son. Still was, in a way. Dead man, dead birds. Diagnosis: cyanide.
Friday night, so he went to a bar. Pick up somebody. Anybody who wasn’t the D.A. Didn’t remind him of the D.A. Had nothing to do with crime prevention. There was a not quite boy with dark, spiky hair in the back corner. Carl turned away.
In John Doe’s room: fifteen bird cages, a bottle of cyanide. No evidence. They wanted to rule it a suicide. How does a suicide get from his bedroom to his backyard?
That summer, the D.A. had held his hand at the beach. Carl feeling relatively post-modern, like this was going to change the world, his relationship with this other man. But the Atlantic washed up jellyfish. It should have been an omen.
The case was to go unsolved because there were no good leads. Ritual murder? Insane suicide? It was anyone’s guess. Carl couldn’t help but feel the loser.
It seemed a good time to become nihilistic. Evil could be touched. Seen at midnight on the autopsy table. People went out and murdered, plundered, and raped. Genocide was once a near reality. The world is always ending. Ebola and AIDS were sweeping the globe. The Americans threatened war. China was stuck in the middle. Evil could be viewed incarnate. A college held an exhibit of Hitler’s art. Hope and joy were an illusion. Webster could never really define love, and that was a sign that optimism was for the delusional.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Chapter Twenty-One: Quincy's Log Cabin
***
Quincy Renard was part English, part French. He hated one of his halves, and loved the other. He just couldn't decide which was which. For as long as he could remember, Quincy loved to build things - loved arts and crafts. Each day during school, Quincy sat in panicked-anticipation for art class, in which he would put all sorts of markers and paints to use in order to create his "masterpieces." However, after he submitted one of his projects for a contest, Quincy had to leave school. They all said he was "sick," but he didn't feel any different - certianly not as bad as he felt when he had the flu that one time. Quincy lived most of his life in Canada, a place he considered "quiet, nice, and pathetic." He didn't like Mr. Robertson from down the street because he "smelled like blood and urine." He didn't like Mrs. Parson from the next block over because she "had a fucked-up nose." Eventually, Quincy decided to move away from Canada, from his family and friends (Quincy didn't actually have family and friends). Quincy ultimately decided on upstate New York - a small, rural town where the people couldn't bother him with their smells and looks. However, there weren't any houses to be purchased in the area, only land. So Quincy purchased himself some land. It was a quiet piece of meadow near the woods. It was perfect. Once he had purchased himself some land, Quincy got to work on building his house. He had always wanted a cabin before and so this is what he opted for. Quincy was so happy that everyone in the area was so nice in helping him build his cabin. Mr. Morris lent a hand, and Mrs. Anderson chipped in, and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson gave it their all. After three long months, Quincy's cabin was finished. He moved in on a beautiful Saturday morning, and got himself right at home. He loved his cabin - it was so full of life. Everywhere he looked, the parts were there - smelling like blood and urine. Mr. Morris' arms and legs made up the front door jam. Mrs. Anderson's torso was part of his mantle. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson made a great addition to the bedroom set. As Quincy reclined in his armchair, made entirely out of his father, he smiled and inhaled deeply on his pipe, made from his little brother's penis. He realized that upstate New York wasn't at all different from Canada. It was home. Home sweet home.
***
Quincy Renard was part English, part French. He hated one of his halves, and loved the other. He just couldn't decide which was which. For as long as he could remember, Quincy loved to build things - loved arts and crafts. Each day during school, Quincy sat in panicked-anticipation for art class, in which he would put all sorts of markers and paints to use in order to create his "masterpieces." However, after he submitted one of his projects for a contest, Quincy had to leave school. They all said he was "sick," but he didn't feel any different - certianly not as bad as he felt when he had the flu that one time. Quincy lived most of his life in Canada, a place he considered "quiet, nice, and pathetic." He didn't like Mr. Robertson from down the street because he "smelled like blood and urine." He didn't like Mrs. Parson from the next block over because she "had a fucked-up nose." Eventually, Quincy decided to move away from Canada, from his family and friends (Quincy didn't actually have family and friends). Quincy ultimately decided on upstate New York - a small, rural town where the people couldn't bother him with their smells and looks. However, there weren't any houses to be purchased in the area, only land. So Quincy purchased himself some land. It was a quiet piece of meadow near the woods. It was perfect. Once he had purchased himself some land, Quincy got to work on building his house. He had always wanted a cabin before and so this is what he opted for. Quincy was so happy that everyone in the area was so nice in helping him build his cabin. Mr. Morris lent a hand, and Mrs. Anderson chipped in, and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson gave it their all. After three long months, Quincy's cabin was finished. He moved in on a beautiful Saturday morning, and got himself right at home. He loved his cabin - it was so full of life. Everywhere he looked, the parts were there - smelling like blood and urine. Mr. Morris' arms and legs made up the front door jam. Mrs. Anderson's torso was part of his mantle. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson made a great addition to the bedroom set. As Quincy reclined in his armchair, made entirely out of his father, he smiled and inhaled deeply on his pipe, made from his little brother's penis. He realized that upstate New York wasn't at all different from Canada. It was home. Home sweet home.
***
Monday, May 7, 2007
Chapter Twenty: The Lit Snub
"Today we have a very special guest for you all," Todd said as eight-year-old Daniel Garabedian strode to the front of the room. "With permission from his mother, Daniel is going to read today's story, which he wrote himself."
"Thank you, Todd," Daniel said politely. "My story is called The Ex-Kangaroo."
...
Okay, so one time, there was a kangaroo in Australia. That's where kangaroos live. So he was living in the Outback with his family. But when he grew up, he didn't want to live in Australia anymore. And he didn't want to be a kangaroo.
Okay, so he went to Africa and tried to be a hippopotamus, but they didn't like him being a hippopotamus. He went to the watering hole and joined the other hippos in the water. But the other hippos said they were there first, and he didn't belong there with them. Even though the hippos had pushed out the zebras from the same watering hole no too long ago.
They wanted to build a wall made of mud and sticks to keep the ex-kangaroo out, but the other animals said that wasn't nice. The lion, king of Africa, also wanted to keep the ex-kangaroo out. He felt threatened by the ex-kangaroo. He thought the other animals might think his hopping was cooler than the lion's roar and mane.
There was a big fight between all the animals over whether the ex-kangaroo should be allowed to live with the hippos.
"He wants to become a hippo," some said. "He wants to join them, not take away the watering hole all for himself."
While others said, "No, soon more ex-kangaroos will come, and they will take over the Serengeti. We have to protect what's our. Build the wall!"
The ex-kangaroo was sad, but he didn't want to go home. There was nothing to eat in the Outback. Africa had so much more food. He knew he could make friends, he just had to show them he could be trusted.
He tried bringing the hippos food, taking no food for himself. The hippos just ate it all and ignored him. He tried helping the hippos, doing all the tough work, while they just watched, but they never said thank you.
Finally, he gave up.
"What do you want from me? I just want to live here and be happy."
"Find your own watering hole!" the hippos said.
So the ex-kangaroo left the watering hole and ventured out to find another place to live. Eventually he found a watering hole on the other side of the big hill with other animals, some ex-kangaroos, an ex-dingo, an ex-panda, even a few former parrots.
This watering hole was in a darker, more dangerous part of the serengeti. There were hyenas all around, waiting to catch an animal who let his guard down. There was less water, and it was murkier.
The ex-kangaroo was happy he found a home. These animals welcomed him, the the ex-kangaroos, ex-dingos, ex-pandas and former parrots often fought amongst themselves.
He wondered a lot if he would ever get to live with the hippos in that nice watering hole on the other side of the big hill.
"Thank you, Todd," Daniel said politely. "My story is called The Ex-Kangaroo."
...
Okay, so one time, there was a kangaroo in Australia. That's where kangaroos live. So he was living in the Outback with his family. But when he grew up, he didn't want to live in Australia anymore. And he didn't want to be a kangaroo.
Okay, so he went to Africa and tried to be a hippopotamus, but they didn't like him being a hippopotamus. He went to the watering hole and joined the other hippos in the water. But the other hippos said they were there first, and he didn't belong there with them. Even though the hippos had pushed out the zebras from the same watering hole no too long ago.
They wanted to build a wall made of mud and sticks to keep the ex-kangaroo out, but the other animals said that wasn't nice. The lion, king of Africa, also wanted to keep the ex-kangaroo out. He felt threatened by the ex-kangaroo. He thought the other animals might think his hopping was cooler than the lion's roar and mane.
There was a big fight between all the animals over whether the ex-kangaroo should be allowed to live with the hippos.
"He wants to become a hippo," some said. "He wants to join them, not take away the watering hole all for himself."
While others said, "No, soon more ex-kangaroos will come, and they will take over the Serengeti. We have to protect what's our. Build the wall!"
The ex-kangaroo was sad, but he didn't want to go home. There was nothing to eat in the Outback. Africa had so much more food. He knew he could make friends, he just had to show them he could be trusted.
He tried bringing the hippos food, taking no food for himself. The hippos just ate it all and ignored him. He tried helping the hippos, doing all the tough work, while they just watched, but they never said thank you.
Finally, he gave up.
"What do you want from me? I just want to live here and be happy."
"Find your own watering hole!" the hippos said.
So the ex-kangaroo left the watering hole and ventured out to find another place to live. Eventually he found a watering hole on the other side of the big hill with other animals, some ex-kangaroos, an ex-dingo, an ex-panda, even a few former parrots.
This watering hole was in a darker, more dangerous part of the serengeti. There were hyenas all around, waiting to catch an animal who let his guard down. There was less water, and it was murkier.
The ex-kangaroo was happy he found a home. These animals welcomed him, the the ex-kangaroos, ex-dingos, ex-pandas and former parrots often fought amongst themselves.
He wondered a lot if he would ever get to live with the hippos in that nice watering hole on the other side of the big hill.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Chapter Nineteen: Teen
Todd has wishes. One wish was to have a wonderful reader to wow the Lit Snob crowd every week. This week, Todd feared, his wishes would not be granted.
"Tonight," Todd announced, "we have a new talent with us. Lily Markland has come to read her piece recently published in the high school literature journal Euterpe. Please give a warm welcome to Lily." Todd breathed in heavily and waited for her to begin.
__
and in the night, the white broken lines of the road whiz past them in a continuous way. the interior of the car is illuminated in indigo dashboard light and the occasional lamp that flickers by on the never ending trip.
the first night:
on the way west they stop at the first of near a million highway gas stations. she elects to leave the dark microcosm of their ’93 toyota in favor of a relieved bladder. the white lights of the mobile are blinding. her pupils dilate, retract to pinpoints in record timing. it is a little past twelve am and there is an old woman at the register. the restroom is just clean enough, white tile, and white stalls. she cranks a tampon from the old paint chipping metal machine. when she doesn’t buy anything the old woman at the counter is not surprised. customers electing to eat their own week old granola bars and other road trip finery.
back in the car the ac is purring with a sub-artic feel. she curls up in the back seat.
the second night:
there was a giant elephant with pink room insides in a small new jersey town. roadside attractions were back in style with the revival of the notion of america. yesterday npr had done a segment about people who live in caravans. nomads, going as the dark highways took them, never settling down to lead the ‘normal’ life.
she imagined that they were nomads in the black toyota, changing the face of america as they passed graceland and national parks with a ‘whoosh!’.
the third day:
food for the day had consisted of two chocolate covered boxed doughnuts, and she was starting to feel a little ill. dany in the drivers seat had elected for a massive all day drive without the comforts of food or facilities. the shoulder made a good toilet, unaffected by the more natural side of things. a modern day hippy without the political convictions of the day.
sean had been complaining the day away for lack of soda cans and green beans. tossing black rooted gold strands from his eyes and commenting again on the need for pepsi in a civilized america.
now, sean sat in the back seat, carefully stroking her hair as her head rested on his chest, occasionally ducking to brush his lips up against the mocha strands.
the fourth day:
despite her lack of feeling regarding what she personally called ‘the elvis matter’ they had toured graceland. it was a southern style mansion with the tacky press denoted ‘jungle room’, large living rooms, and bedrooms. elvis always had peanut butter in his fridge, the guide had informed them. and ice cream. a dressed up home to impress upon ma and pa the fact that you really have made it. there had been little mention of elvis being anything other than dead. ufo’s and extra-terrestrials
were left out of it, and for that she was glad.
the fourth night:
she craves a shower the way pregnant woman need chocolate, and insistes that since dany had gotten his way about the dearly departed elvis, she would have her way about the best western.
water felt like something divine. sean pontificated on the quality of pepsi versus coke, until she pointed out that over 90% of the ingredients were the same and that his desire for the former of the two was tied into advertising and britney spears, at which time sean fell silent.
dany and sean argued over who got the second bed. despite his high spirits during there long drive, dany desired a good bed as much as any of them, but sean won out in the end with some argument where he quoted milton and the bible in the same sentence whist invoking satan be there need. dany consented to the brilliance of such a run on and thus a night of exile from all things comfortable.
"Tonight," Todd announced, "we have a new talent with us. Lily Markland has come to read her piece recently published in the high school literature journal Euterpe. Please give a warm welcome to Lily." Todd breathed in heavily and waited for her to begin.
__
and in the night, the white broken lines of the road whiz past them in a continuous way. the interior of the car is illuminated in indigo dashboard light and the occasional lamp that flickers by on the never ending trip.
the first night:
on the way west they stop at the first of near a million highway gas stations. she elects to leave the dark microcosm of their ’93 toyota in favor of a relieved bladder. the white lights of the mobile are blinding. her pupils dilate, retract to pinpoints in record timing. it is a little past twelve am and there is an old woman at the register. the restroom is just clean enough, white tile, and white stalls. she cranks a tampon from the old paint chipping metal machine. when she doesn’t buy anything the old woman at the counter is not surprised. customers electing to eat their own week old granola bars and other road trip finery.
back in the car the ac is purring with a sub-artic feel. she curls up in the back seat.
the second night:
there was a giant elephant with pink room insides in a small new jersey town. roadside attractions were back in style with the revival of the notion of america. yesterday npr had done a segment about people who live in caravans. nomads, going as the dark highways took them, never settling down to lead the ‘normal’ life.
she imagined that they were nomads in the black toyota, changing the face of america as they passed graceland and national parks with a ‘whoosh!’.
the third day:
food for the day had consisted of two chocolate covered boxed doughnuts, and she was starting to feel a little ill. dany in the drivers seat had elected for a massive all day drive without the comforts of food or facilities. the shoulder made a good toilet, unaffected by the more natural side of things. a modern day hippy without the political convictions of the day.
sean had been complaining the day away for lack of soda cans and green beans. tossing black rooted gold strands from his eyes and commenting again on the need for pepsi in a civilized america.
now, sean sat in the back seat, carefully stroking her hair as her head rested on his chest, occasionally ducking to brush his lips up against the mocha strands.
the fourth day:
despite her lack of feeling regarding what she personally called ‘the elvis matter’ they had toured graceland. it was a southern style mansion with the tacky press denoted ‘jungle room’, large living rooms, and bedrooms. elvis always had peanut butter in his fridge, the guide had informed them. and ice cream. a dressed up home to impress upon ma and pa the fact that you really have made it. there had been little mention of elvis being anything other than dead. ufo’s and extra-terrestrials
were left out of it, and for that she was glad.
the fourth night:
she craves a shower the way pregnant woman need chocolate, and insistes that since dany had gotten his way about the dearly departed elvis, she would have her way about the best western.
water felt like something divine. sean pontificated on the quality of pepsi versus coke, until she pointed out that over 90% of the ingredients were the same and that his desire for the former of the two was tied into advertising and britney spears, at which time sean fell silent.
dany and sean argued over who got the second bed. despite his high spirits during there long drive, dany desired a good bed as much as any of them, but sean won out in the end with some argument where he quoted milton and the bible in the same sentence whist invoking satan be there need. dany consented to the brilliance of such a run on and thus a night of exile from all things comfortable.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Chapter Eighteen: History's Greatest Monster
***
Bill's a fuckin' drunk bum. It wasn't always like that, though.
-Stop! This isn't about some wife, kids, picket-fence bullplop. This is Bill. And before that fateful day in 1987, Bill was the smartest man on the planet. Pulitzer? Nope, smarter than that. Nobel? Nope, wrong again, dummy. Bill soared above them all. He was Hawking without the fancy chair and spousal abuse. But even with all of his superfly ESP, he couldn't see this one coming. It was C-SPAN. Larry King, or whoever came before Larry King. Was there anybody there before Larry King? Stop! That's not important. So Bill's on the Larry King thing, and he's supposed to be talking about health care, or the space program, or fashion, or some shit. But all of a sudden, he blurts it out. That's right - it.
"Jimmy Carter is a robot."
Larry King actually laughs at him. It's this low laugh - it sounds like television static mixed with a girraffe going through a wood-chipper. But Bill doesn't think it's funny. He serious - dead serious. He strangles Larry King before the test pattern goes into panic mode and everybody's thinking technical difficulties. But Bill's the only difficulty. Now C-Span needs a new host.
Bill lost everything after the Carter incident - his Carter incident. But, Oh, Larry King came back, the very next day. And Jimmy Carter won't be alive by 2014, his batteries don't have that much charge.
Fuck. This story's not that great, is it? Too bad.
***
Bill's a fuckin' drunk bum. It wasn't always like that, though.
-Stop! This isn't about some wife, kids, picket-fence bullplop. This is Bill. And before that fateful day in 1987, Bill was the smartest man on the planet. Pulitzer? Nope, smarter than that. Nobel? Nope, wrong again, dummy. Bill soared above them all. He was Hawking without the fancy chair and spousal abuse. But even with all of his superfly ESP, he couldn't see this one coming. It was C-SPAN. Larry King, or whoever came before Larry King. Was there anybody there before Larry King? Stop! That's not important. So Bill's on the Larry King thing, and he's supposed to be talking about health care, or the space program, or fashion, or some shit. But all of a sudden, he blurts it out. That's right - it.
"Jimmy Carter is a robot."
Larry King actually laughs at him. It's this low laugh - it sounds like television static mixed with a girraffe going through a wood-chipper. But Bill doesn't think it's funny. He serious - dead serious. He strangles Larry King before the test pattern goes into panic mode and everybody's thinking technical difficulties. But Bill's the only difficulty. Now C-Span needs a new host.
Bill lost everything after the Carter incident - his Carter incident. But, Oh, Larry King came back, the very next day. And Jimmy Carter won't be alive by 2014, his batteries don't have that much charge.
Fuck. This story's not that great, is it? Too bad.
***
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