Flasheville

Domain Transfer

2007-12-09T16:29:00.000-08:00

We've transferred this domain name to Michael McGlone at the Asheville Citizen-Times, in hopes that he can get off the ground what we've failed to. So if you've sent in a submission, and we haven't replied, that's why. If you'd like to see your work here, contact Michael at mmcglone@citizen-times.com. I'd like to see this site take off with some a decent administrator. Best of luck to all wordsmiths out there!

A Quiet Voice by Jennifer Jones

2006-09-29T05:22:00.000-07:00

He took the small, black notebook out of his pocket, and held it flat in the palm of his hand. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel its soft cover mold itself around the tips of his fingers, as though the shape and curve of his hand alone contained the secret password needed to open it. He lifted his tattered hat and let the breeze run its fingers through his unruly curls before placing it back on his head. Nearby, he could hear the reeds knock together nervously, like boys and girls at a school dance.

Blinking in the daylight, he noted that the wind had turned open the cover. A crooked smile pushed its way to the edges of his mouth, and he could almost hear her voice, "it's fate, love" she'd have said with a giggle. His eyes wandered to the empty space next to him, half expecting to see her sprawled there ~ her head resting on his leg, her hair splayed across the length of his thigh and spilling onto the earth beneath them. It was in these moments especially that he found himself secretly wondering about the people who might stumble upon his notebook, tucked away in some hidden attic box, in the days and weeks following his own death. These private imaginings were never melancholy or morose; rather they filled him with a sense of completion somehow ~ as though in the passing of these things the people who loved him most might finally know him.

He flipped through the pages of the notebook, the flutter of fleeting images creating an animated story of who he was, until finally he landed on a blank page. He waited for the paper to whisper to him, as it always did, quietly revealing what it wanted. Meanwhile, in the expanse just beyond the little clump of grass where he sat, he heard the trees rustle like muted wind chimes, but there was something in the sound at that moment that made him look up: something a little too measured about the way the branches touched one another. Something a little too much like the sound of footsteps rather than that of clapping. In the distance, he could see the clouds bend in to kiss the land. Just then, something in the reeds moved.

He held very still.

"I hope you've warned her about you," his mother had said leaning towards him, her shadow spanning the length of the room. All his life he'd struggled with people: the way their shrill voices cut into the warm flesh of an afternoon. The way their feet trampled over the secret messages left on abandoned scraps of paper; and the way their arms flailed about when they spoke, as though deep down they knew, as he did, that their words alone were not worth listening to. Like the forgotten silhouette of the younger brother in a boy's first Cub Scout photograph, he'd learned to stand just beyond the focus of the lens, lost in the peripheral detail, both dreading and longing to be seen. He sighed quietly; He'd tried to warn her, but somehow, she already knew.

A few speckled rain drops announced themselves on the brim of his hat, but he refused to look up to see if there was a waiting deluge. Rather, his eyes remained focused on the sea of reeds and tall grass that greeted him like a lingering army. Each elegant blade swayed gently in the breeze, and yet, every so often, he could see little pockets of their brushed helmets jump suddenly, jolted not by the wind but by the passing of something hidden in their ranks. An animal, he thought in quiet bemusement, startled by his presence at first, but now screwing up its courage to come forward and take a look.

He remembered the first time she'd shown him her own notebook, full of scribbles and notes and bits of cheese. He'd noticed the way her hands shook a little as she asked him to forgive her for the lined paper ~ her constant training wheels. She'd blushed and tried to look away, but in the end found herself needing to see his face as he glimpsed this part of her for the first time. "There's a story in us," she'd said afterwards with eyes that were both hopeful and more than a little sad. She was right.

Just ahead of him the reeds began to part, and the shadows trapped by the densely clumped grass quietly leaked into the daylight. For a moment, nothing happened. He cocked his head a little, waiting. Then ~ gradually ~ a small hand extended from within the green gray darkness, its palm facing the sky. Pale and fragile, he could almost imagine its owner closing her eyes as the open air met her skin for perhaps the first time. Slowly, each delicate finger began to curl inward, as though guarding the secret treasure of a found pebble or a coin discovered heads-side up, until finally only the index finger remained straight ~ pointing at him. He watched in silence until at last it too began to curl gently, and repeatedly, beckoning him to come. For a long moment he did nothing.

Then he picked up his pen, and began to draw.

Jennifer Jones said: After ten years as an English teacher, I'm retiring my red pen and am re-entering the world as a fledgling writer.

There was Edgar

2006-08-20T07:41:00.000-07:00

By Kathryn Bradley

Now that I think about it, I arrived at every shoot expecting not to see Edgar. He was always there just the same.

If we were shooting inside, he was right at the door, sometimes scamming his way inside. If we were out on the sidewalk, he would gradually move through the crowd of curious tourists and frustrated, hurrying locals until he was in the shot.

While I was spreading out the tripod and sorting through filters and lenses, he would roam back and forth behind the rest of the crowd. While I was adjusting the camera, he would run his fingers through curly gray hair and lick his lips expectantly.

Every time, he was in the shot. It was a joke among the rest of the crew. We wondered how he always found us. Sometimes, in the bar after work, we wondered why. Mark, when he trained me, mentioned that Edgar would be there. I didn’t really believe that he meant every time until my tenth time out.

Sometimes, we would purposefully stage the reporter with his back to a busy street, or against a wall. Edgar would simply cross the street and stand, his hands in his pockets. For hundreds of shots, my entire working life, I saw him every single day.

Then one day last week, he was gone. The next day, no Edgar. Saturday’s Local Focus, right in the middle of downtown, and no Edgar. We took longer than we had to on location shots, waiting for him to show. Ten years at this, and I had seen him every day. I started looking for him everywhere. In the park. In the grocery store. I scanned the obituaries page.

I worried, but the group didn't seem to mind. Over beer, it seemed less important.

Edgar found love, we decided. An old beauty who'd seen him on the 5:30 and swept him away.

Facade

2006-07-16T19:20:00.000-07:00

Submit your incredibly excellent flash, now

2006-07-16T07:45:00.000-07:00

I'm convinced that people don't write in the summer unless they are forced. Otherwise, why are we not getting lots of juicy flash submissions to this lovely site?

I know you're out there. I know you're reading. I know you're thinking about writing or you have some writing you're sitting on because you think it sucks. I know you're wondering why we haven't posted anything in weeks. Because we need you--your excellent, yummy flash fiction. We'll let you know if it really sucks--or not. Send it to me. NOW. At janus@annefittenglenn.com.

Then you can go back to your heat stupor.

Writerly News

2006-07-03T14:00:00.000-07:00

Asheville local, Devin Walsh, whose first official publication, , was here on Flasheville has had a story accepted by The University of San Francisco MFA program's online lit-mag. Check it out. Congrats, Devin!

Right place, Wrong time

2006-06-23T06:00:00.000-07:00

Man comes home to find his house empty. I mean empty. Nothing, not a scrap of furniture, zip zilch nada. Appliances, curtains, clothes all of it gone. He stands in the middle of his empty living room; right where his Dino Barchetta sofa once sat, and ponders the possibilities.

He assumes robbery. He goes into the kitchen and watches his sink disappear, then the countertops and cupboards. All that's left is the intestinal wreckage of plumbing, and faded black and white linoleum tile. He returns the living room to find his wife sprawled out, nearly naked on the floor, lazing in her stockings and bra. She is smiling at him. He doesn't know what to think. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. His wife laughs at him. He knows now that he too will soon be naked, and that the disappearance of the entire house will soon follow. He doesn't know why he knows this, but he knows that he knows it, like he knows that the wind is at the door ready to blow it open. He looks for a weapon. There are none.

By Shad Daniel Marsh, Asheville writer and poet
http://www.shadmarsh.blogspot.com/

Henry Pike, Know-it-all

2006-06-16T05:48:00.000-07:00

Somewhere deep behind her eyes lay the seed of miracle.

I knew it the moment she said she saw Huxley burst into flames. That was two whole weeks before he rammed his Pinto up under a lumber truck and set his ashes floating, red and greasy, toward the radio tower lights.

I know that’s why she took a straightened coat hanger to ‘em, trying to poke little holes in ‘em so they don’t work any more, but I know you can’t bleed out miracles. They’s trapped in the meat, all firm and determined. I know she’s seen me coming to take those eyes from her and maybe she’s seen me eating ‘em and perhaps she’s seen all the things that I’m going to see, but it ain’t gonna do her no good.

I’m sure she’s seen that. I knew it the moment she said she saw crows on my shoulders and that they coveted her sacrificial eyes.

Her momma was a tight jeans gal with her hair puffed up and her ass poked out and I was the orphan of a preacher man and a momma that had gone arcane. Daddy went first, green and knotted, and momma followed two weeks later when the serpents found her wanting. This put the shadows in my eyes and drew her to me like wheat to the scythe.

We holed up at Lake Blackshear just before winter set, back as far as we could get with four goats and a handful of chickens. I give her tea and a pinch of momma’s powder every evening and now that spring is threatening, she’s taken sick and I promise her it’ll be alright, that I’ll take care of her little girl.

Right before sunrise, I’m roused by screams coming from Little One’s room. I run in and she’s kneeling on the floor in front of me, head down and wailing, her fine golden hair slick with red. Her hands are stretched out before her and in the center of each blood puddled palm is the shriveled remains of her magic eyes. I knew she knew.

I take ‘em, still warm, and give ‘em a voracious chewin’. Gagging and shaking I head to the barn to slash a goat at the sunrise, in praise of this mighty gift, no sniveling coat hangers here, no sir, I’m about to see with the eyes of God.

At the door of the barn lay a queer sight. A goat, head twisted and eyeless. My stomach knots and I race the sun across the back yard to the porch. Half way, my knees tackle the dirt and I am seized by wracking spasms and visions. Visions!

The sun sets its glow about the world, a perfect halo, and I see it all. I see an angel sacrificing a goat and stuffing its eyes with ma’s poison powder. I see her offering this to God. I lay on my back, too weak to laugh, and watch the crows circle over head.

By Jason Herring. Herring lives in Asheville and writes it all down.

The Birthday Present by Vanessa Orlando

2006-06-02T07:14:00.000-07:00

Every time Annabel caught the seven o'clock bus at the corner of Lake and Eldorado, Rufus gently lifted, then gently replaced his standard-issue blue uniform cap. He never did that to anyone else. She knew. She’d watched.

Annabel paused on the top step before turning down the aisle. How many love songs had been written about a love like this, she wondered. How many dreams had young girls and old men conjured up about that sense of certainty that comes with that one look that lets you know, as surely as you know your name and birthday and social security number, that magicians and angels and Santa's elves placed this person on your planet, just for you?

Annabel sat behind him and studied the way his hair swept toward the back of his head, the way it waved behind his ears and straightened out in the middle. She wondered if it was soft, like corn silk, or if it was dry, like straw. She wondered how many women had clutched it in desire, grabbed handfuls of it to pull him close.

Rufus looked at her in the mirror above him at every red light and touched the visor of his cap, a gesture so intimate it made the skin between her breasts turn red. The redness traveled upward, against gravity, overtaking her white neck, fanning up into her chin and cheeks until her scalp turned raw. She hadn’t expected love to arrive so abruptly, so full blown, but love comes when it comes, she thought. And here it is.

She hoped he didn’t notice that she stayed on two stops longer than usual and ran into Bells Department Store. Tomorrow was his birthday and if he tried to find out what she planned for the big day, she would explode with excitement and tell him.

“It’s my boyfriend’s birthday,” she told the saleswoman, “He deserves the best. The very best!”

Annabel stared at her watch and looked toward the exit of the Seaside Restaurant. Maria got off at nine o'clock, and she would -- as Annabel had watched her do for weeks now -- walk down Row F, to parking space 13. See that was the problem. Maria never thought anything would change. She never even noticed her own husband falling in love with someone else. Rufus deserved to be with someone who noticed things. That’s why Annabel had chosen a Rosewood Laguiole made with Damascus steel and a Yatagan blade, and because it was his birthday, she included the red bubinga box. She would give it to him on the bus tomorrow.

Ten minutes later, Maria began walking toward Row F. Annabel followed, stroking the Damascus steel under her jacket. Happy birthday, Rufus, my love. Happy birthday.

From Vanessa: I am a past recipient of the Maryland Writers Association Short Fiction Prize. My award winning story, “When Sara Looks Up” was made into a short film by Columbia College Chicago.

Asheville Fiction Reading

2006-05-26T11:15:00.000-07:00

Of Being Numerous:A Reading of Numerous Writings
Organized By Chall Gray

featuring:

Selah Saterstrom
Devin Walsh
Shad Marsh
Jaye Bartell

Four of Asheville’s best writers reading from prose, poetry, fiction & drama in one night!

Tuesday, May 30, 2006
9:00 p.m.
@ BoBo Gallery, 22 Lexington Ave

Coming Clean by Maegan Beard

2006-05-12T12:54:00.000-07:00

When we lived in the blue house, the color of skim milk cartons at school, my mother never allowed more than six inches of bath water. More than that represented a luxury--something we were waiting for, until we could blend into the lives of people who allowed themselves indulgences like full bathtubs.

For a long time I thought the bathtub would crash through pale yellow floorboards into our dank basement under the weight of more water. I thought if I didn’t get out of the bath before all the water drained, I might get drained right along with it -- sucked down the metal grate at the bottom of that slippery tub, where I had seen one of Mama’s rings disappear.

I figured it out at my friend Alice’s house. Alice’s mother let her fill the tub so full that water lapped into the overflow opening. I remembered the blue alien who visited my school, from the power company my daddy worked for. The alien spoke to my class in the library about energy conservation, including shallow baths. I wondered if my mother was acquainted with him. When I questioned her about Alice’s impossibly deep tub, she said, “Don’t be silly! We don’t need a full tub to get clean!”

Soon my daddy found a better job, as a shop teacher. We bought a Victorian house in a nice neighborhood. We went to church with all the doctors and judges. There were gift shops on Main Street instead of a flour mill. We lived near a stately courthouse with fat columns, the county hospital, and other historic homes, instead of rickety mill houses.

The house had an antique musty smell that my mother tried to cover up. She soaked cotton balls in wintergreen, making greasy puddles in Mason jar lids placed strategically around the house. The upstairs landing leaned frighteningly, and I was admonished for standing on it too long or jumping on it or bouncing anything on the floor there.

The best thing about our new house was the tiny upstairs bathroom that housed antique fixtures and an oval Victorian claw-footed tub. I wondered if it was built to withstand large volumes of water. For many years my mother never openly let me test it.

I started by secretly not turning the spout off while Mama was getting my towel. I tried hard to tell a difference in the water level and the effect on my buoyancy and ability to create waves. She pretended not to notice. I stayed in a little longer, only getting out after the tub had drained completely. When the bottom was still slick, I could slide up and down it like I was on wheels. Mama pretended to believe I was drying off.

In our new house in this new neighborhood, there were also new thoughts to occupy me. Would I switch schools and leave all my friends? Would I have to ride the school bus? I stopped trying to stealth more water into the tub and worried about more pressing matters. Mama let me bring my plastic mermaids with the turquoise hair into the tub. Their hair streamed out behind them as I pulled them in circles. I experimented with bubble bath, which I disliked because of my inability to rinse off the globs completely. For one birthday, a great-aunt gave me rose and lavender-scented bath cubes, which crumbled and dissolved under my fingers.

Not long after the move, I demanded solitude for bath time. Since no one was there to object, I used all my bath accoutrements at once and made the bathroom a fragrant, gooey mess. But water level remained a fixed variable - something left over from our old days of scrimping. I never dared to add much more than my allotted six inches.

But one day I could no longer remember any reason not to break the tradition. I sat on the toilet-throne like a princess in my fuzzy robe, while the waters mixed and swirled, warm into cool, and rose up the smooth, cool sides of the tub. Hot water shocked my skin in the chilly bathroom. My legs were red and stinging almost to the knees. I eased the rest of my body down, gripping the curved edges to brace the shock, until I sat on the hard bottom. The water bubbled and sizzled. I had goose bumps.

In that steamy second-floor bathroom with the small, square, high window clouded over, I slid down under the water until my entire body was submerged, relishing the sensation of hot liquid enveloping me, swallowing me into its depths. My hair swirled like my plastic mermaids’ and my nostrils remained the only surface-dweller. I slowed my breathing, closed my eyes, and imagined I was floating. With my ears submerged, my heartbeat echoed through the water and back to my head like sonar.

Under the water all I could hear was my own sound, created by my own body. I felt complete solitude, encasement, relaxation, calmness, and quiet. It was a sensation of reminiscence, of being cradled and breathing embryonic bath water. I remained alone but protected in my secluded cube of stripes and flowers and steam, quiet heat, with the silence in my ears.

Maegan Beard works in the real estate industry in Asheville and plots her escape from the corporate machine. She was once a student of literature and creative writing.

Jane, Not Jane by Zen Sutherland

2006-05-05T04:49:00.000-07:00

Again Jane dreamed of Morocco. Jane has never been to Morocco and knows almost nothing about it. It is a place where wild men in costumes from ancient civilizations whirl and spin and dance madly in an effort to keep vines and lianas from snagging their legs and rooting them. In a room where she knows she shouldn't go, the fossil of a woman shows her a beaded box with something unmentionable inside. Jane wants to scream before the box fully opens, but she finds that her mouth and neck are wrapped in a fine gauze making this somehow impossible.

Jane knows that Jane is not her real name in this dream. It is something that only the little boy squatting in the ditch can pronounce fully. Jane suspects this little boy is the one that will grow up to be her lover, her completeness, but when she approaches him, he runs off, his little brown butt bouncing off in the distance. Jane stands there frozen, gawkish. A bird tricked by a mirage lake.

"The heat is something that gets in your bones like a parent dying," the Arab clerk-woman tells her. "...and it keeps you from thinking properly." The black holes where some of this woman's teeth should be suck the back of Jane's eyeballs in. "You cannot send a telegram to anyone today because the wires are down. The electricity is fading. The world is down. Come back Friday." The words are spoken like the singing of railroad tracks before the train can be heard. Jane’s breath draws in too.

As she walks the squalid streets of this tiny Morocco town, Jane realizes that the entire town, like a carnival, is packing up. Market vendors strapping their wares in leather satchels on hateful, spitting camels. Shops she visited are merely corrugated tin shacks that can be folded against themselves and stacked on truck beds like sheets of cardboard.

Jane realizes in 10 minutes the town will be gone. She should have run after the little boy squatting and slapped him until he told her Jane's real name. Slapped him until blood oozed from that bastard’s face. Consumed with guilt for even thinking such a horrid thing, the girl once known as Jane lies there in the soft sand crying until she hears nothing but the wind.

Hi guys, my name is Zen Sutherland, and i'm mostly a photographer in the Asheville area (what i do, not what i do for a living). I just started a blog in Asheville called 'zenography' (http://zenasheville.blogspot.com) and have maintained a visual blog on flickr for quite some time.

Poor Johnny Depp by Sam Kistler

2006-04-28T05:00:00.000-07:00

Because death is a conclusion, I killed Johnny Depp in my dream last night. He kept demanding more time, so he had to go.

The George Bush types in my brain laid wait in ambush, then overpowered Johnny while he was putting a pirate’s bandana on his head. There were three of them. They took Johnny to my childhood home where they bound him and removed his bandana. Next, they took turns donning the bandana and dancing around the living room taunting, mocking Johnny.

“Oh hey, look at me, I’m Johnny Depp. I’m an artist, I’m sooo coool.” Johnny mostly just absorbed the abuse—his only reply a disinterested look in the eyes.

The lack of emotion bristled the George Bush types, so they began torturing Johnny Depp with kitchen implements. Johnny remained cool, which only further infuriated them. Finally, one of them knocked him out with a pink marble rolling pin to the backside of the temple. Johnny fell over. The George Bushs circled around me. One of them held out the bandana while the other two poked at me with a carving fork and the rolling pin. I took the bandana and strangled Johnny. "I am the art," said Johnny as he died.

They chopped Johnny into pieces with an assortment of Ginsu knives taken from a drawer in the kitchen, big knives for the big parts, small knives for the small parts. They stuffed him into the fireplace, and hundred dollar bills were used to light the fire. Once the fire was roaring a bright orange and red, the Bushs resumed taking turns dancing around the living room with the bandana on: “I’m sooo coool, I’m Johnny Depp.”

After a while they began to fight over the bandana. The head George Bush, there were five of them now, demanded order: “Stop that, you idiots. Give me that goddamn bandana before I slam a WMD up your ass.”

The George Bush in charge then tied the bandana to his head and donned an eye patch he had extracted from his pocket. He danced and swashbuckled in front of the fire while the lesser George Bushs crouched on their knees and sulked. They stared in a hypnotic drool at the dancing fire-blades created at the expense of Johnny Depp.

When the fire was out and all that remained was smoldering ashes, the greatest George Bush made the least George Bush scrub the inside of the fireplace with a chimney sweep’s brush. He then ordered a pre-emptive air strike on my childhood home.

I woke the next morning feeling like my head had been cleaned out with a flame thrower. It's a new day, I thought to myself. Johnny Depp could demand no more time and the right side of my brain was sufficiently cauterized. A new day, indeed. I went to my job at the NASCAR memorabilia store with a Mormon smile on my face.

Sam Kistler has not been taking psychoactive drugs. He clearly doesn't need them.

21 Across: Oedipus to Laius, Nine Letters by Justin Souther

2006-04-13T12:53:00.000-07:00

I've been doing crosswords my entire life. Or at least that's how it feels. I actually started at the age of four. It's my one true passion in life. Every single crossword, every one in the intervening thirty-two years, has been done in pen. Pencil is simply not acceptable. My father taught me that. "Only the ignorant and the insecure use pencil," he would tell me. "Real men use pen. Real men make the tough decisions, the decisions no else are willing to make, and they stick with those decisions, for good or ill. No son of mine is going to use pencil." He told me this a lot.

31 across: Curse of Frankenstein studio, six letters.

He's dead now, my father. He's actually lying here in front of me, on the kitchen floor. There's blood seeping from his head, and it's forming a puddle on the linoleum. That is sort of my fault. I guess that's the kind of thing that happens when you hit a man in the head with a hammer.

To be completely honest, I am a bit relieved. If I had done him in the living room, who knows what the clean-up would have been like. I've never had to get blood out of carpet before, but I assume it isn't easy. I dropped a Salisbury steak on the floor in there one time, and it took me hours to get that stain out. Eventually, I had to rent a steamer from the supermarket. But blood? Replacing the carpet might have been my only option. But here in the kitchen, a mop should do the trick. The hammer is in the sink, and I can just rinse that off later. First things first, however. I need to finish my crossword.

45 across: Attica, six letters.

My earliest memories are of doing crossword puzzles. I was doing crosswords before I even had a firm grasp of the English language, before I could even really spell, and those crosswords turned out to be indecipherable gibberish. But I still did them, and always in pen.

Jesus, I hope he doesn't leak out under the fridge. That'll be hell to clean up.

There are a lot of people, the foremost being my father, who would say that my skills have not improved. As well, I suppose in the sake of full disclosure, I should state that I have never actually completed a crossword.

13 down: Type AB, five letters.

There was that one time though. I'd have to say it was the best half-day of my life. After spending the first four hours of my day working on my crossword, I had finished it. I was ecstatic with a joy and pride I had never known before, or even since. I ran to my father, my work for the day completed, to show him what I had accomplished, to show him what his son was capable of. He was not pleased. Apparently it was full of mistakes. How was I supposed to know that Ike Turner didn't found CNN? It fit, sort of. Why was my father putting so much emphasis on the "correct" answers anyway? Shouldn't it have meant something that I finished? Shouldn't it? Needless to say, I received quite a berating that day.

I know now that my father was simply looking out for my best interests. It was always his intention to simply get me headed in the right direction. I remember one summer, I must have been about ten, at a friend's birthday party, I found out that I was an exceptional bowler. It was one of the few times that I had partaken in any type of physical activity, and I knew I was good. I had this extraordinary feeling of this hidden talent being unlocked from inside me. I felt like I had been born to bowl. It was a good feeling. I decided to tell my father about my new-found talent, and he simply gave me the "look." The disappointed look. He would cross his arms over his chest, slant his head forward, and look at me with those eyes. To me, at least, that look was a force of nature, like the hand of God. I got that look a lot. All he said to me, all he needed to say, was, "Why would you waste your time with such a silly, pointless activity?" And I knew he was right. Why waste your time cultivating your talents while you have a perfectly good hobby to work at?

10 down: Door from its frame, eight letters.

I was in a bookstore once, looking through paperback volumes of crossword puzzles. Standing next to me was some girl, looking through the same books I was. Out of nowhere she starts talking to me about how she likes to do crosswords at work. She tells me how when she cannot think of the answer, she asks her co-workers, or looks on the Internet. A "learning experience," she called it. I'm glad my father wasn't there, he might have decked her. Crosswords have never been about learning for either one of us. It has always been about using your own wits, your own cunning, your own skill, to complete a difficult task. Anything less would be cheating.

The crossword I am working on right now is pretty tough, if I may say so myself. It doesn't help that someone is banging on my front door. It's hard to concentrate with such a racket, it's simply absurd. I do not understand the way people act sometimes, with such inappropriate and raucous manners. It just seems rude. Whoever it is, they are at best third on my list of priorities right now, right behind my crossword and my father's corpse. They'll just have to wait or come back later, as far as I'm concerned.

55 across: Constables, Bobbies, Mounties, e.g., six letters.

Justin Souther lives in Weaverville and attends A-B Tech. He kind of decided he wanted to be a writer after watching "Secret Window," when he realized he would rather sit around on the couch in his bathrobe all day than work a normal job the rest of his life.

Writing Exercise of the Week

2006-04-04T15:13:00.000-07:00

Ash and I think it might be fun to throw out the occasional writing exercise or prompt and see if any of you rise to the occasion.

Here's one I used when I was teaching English at the University of Georgia many years ago:

Get hold of a New Yorker magazine (alternately, you can go to www.newyorker.com). Read it, because it's chock-full of excellent writing. Then look at the cover. In 800 words or less, write a story about what's going on in the cover. You can be literal or figurative or use the cover as a jumping off point for something random. Have fun.

A Man’s Guide to Writing a Love Letter in Twenty Easy-to-Follow Steps by Devin Walsh

2006-03-31T10:12:00.000-08:00

1. Fall in love – swiftly and uncontrollably, if you can manage it.

2. Acquire pen and paper, or pencil and paper, or crayons…really any kind of manual writing utensil will do. A computer is not an acceptable substitution.

3. Sequester yourself. A silent room is preferred. If a cat is present, allow yourself to indulge the little critter’s sybaritic wants. This will help facilitate the kind of affection needed to write love letter. Other pets should mostly be ignored.

4. Destroy anything and everything that distracts you from the surging tidal waves of love you feel for the intended recipient of love letter. If setting fire to things, exercise caution. A large and sturdy garbage bag will generally suffice.

5. Contemplate the meaning of human existence. Try and conceive of a world in which your love didn’t occur. Probe the depths of suffering this image entails. Ascend refreshed, enthused, spirited and grateful.

6. Consider your previous relationships. Quell the uneasy feelings that arise upon remembering that you have been in love before, and look how that turned out.

7. Terminate consideration of past relationships. Avoid looking in any mirrors. Wipe sweaty palms on something – but not on the cat. If you wipe sweaty palms on cat you’ll get hair all over them.

8. Take a deep breath. Apply pen/pencil/dry-erase marker/Sharpie/crayon/own-lacerated-finger-bleeding-your-rapidly-pumping-heart’s-overflow/other-servicable-manual-writing-utensil to paper.

9. Execute love letter opening. Resist urge to use Romantic Poet shorthand (i.e., “O” instead of “Oh;” “ere,” “ore,” etc.) in introduction. “Dear [Insert Lover’s Name Here] will suffice.

10. Disregard minor heart palpitation or murmur. It’s nothing to worry about. You’re in love, remember?

11. Commence first paragraph. Do not fret over how corny it sounds, unless it sounds too corny, in which case you should start over. In this event, wad-up entire page and start fresh. Tabula rasa.

12. Remind yourself that you too began life as a tabula rossa (or, blank slate,) and that you like very much – love very much – the way your slate looks now that your lover has been added to it. Begin writing again with renewed confidence. Refrain from using too many foreign-language terms.

13. Do not write “yonder,” “swells,” “aching,” or “piston.” Avoid any and all plagiarizing of Shakespeare. Do not use the word “tempestuous.”

14. Get into a rhythm. It may help to put on some music, but this is a last-case, worst-case scenario. You need your mind clear.

15. Adhere to A.P. style rules of grammar, but refer, if necessary, to Strunk and White. Remember this isn’t a research paper or scholarly article. You don’t need footnotes and outside sources. MLA is out the window. Calm yourself. Have a beer or some nice cold iced water. Stop using so many fucking adverbs. People don’t actually think it’s funny when you describe yourself as “totally madverb.” They’re just laughing because you are. It’s always been like that.

16. Don’t worry that maybe your lover doesn’t think you as witty as you thought she did. It isn’t your sense of humor she’s in love with. It’s you. Recommence writing.

17. Banish from your thoughts the suddenly proliferating herd of concerns over why exactly she’s in love with you – a drift of worry that leads directly to the even more terrible question: Is she in love with you at all? Put on some music. Step outside and light a cigarette (non-smokers advised to light something else, exercising caution). Don’t get too worked up about it. It’s only a stupid letter.

18. Contrive ways to test your lover’s quote-unquote love for you. Put her on trial in your mind and see how she responds. Silence your mental objectors. Wield a large and sturdy gavel and use it liberally if her testimony gets out of hand. Call her “a harlot” or “a Philistine.” It is right and proper that you should know for sure before doing something as foolish as spilling your heart all over a lousy piece of paper. Give her a call.

19. Be guarded, like a dog kicked by its master. Be oblique, avoid direct answers. When she asks how you are, say “Oh, you know…” or, with an edge in your voice, “I’m fine.” When she pursues this line of questioning, change the subject briskly, as if the very last thing you want in the world is to discuss your feelings. Affect indignation at her weak and mothering tendencies. Insist that you aren’t “a baby,” and that you “don’t need coddling.” Laugh haughtily at her bewilderment. Who does she think she is? Who does she think you are? Who does she think she’s fooling? Terminate the relationship and destroy everything in your dwelling that reminds you of her. If setting fires, exercise caution.

20. Refer back to step one. But don’t worry. Everything will be fine.

Devin Walsh is a student at the University of North Carolina at Asheville and creator and editor-in-chief of a literary magazine called METABOLISM.

Sensophrenia by Christina N. Ayers

2006-03-11T18:33:00.000-08:00

After staring at the sun for only an hour, the center of his pupils started to grow, to eat away his eyes. Liquid eyeball dripped down his face, hot and sticky.

I don’t have to see anymore, he thought.

With no eyes to accompany his deaf ears and mute voice, his journey was complete.

"Now I can concentrate." he mouthed silently. Fumbling his way to the desk, he found his pen. Everything came flooding out onto the page, just as he knew it would. Bracing the slender pen over the page, darting back and forth, his face erupted in a gleeful smile. Between the gaps in his teeth there was only the dim empty cave of his tongueless mouth.

His forgot his world of pain.

The writing on the page, small and perfect, dipped slightly in a diagonal slant across the unlined paper. For hours, he sat at his desk with the feverish pen pouring out a steady stream. Even when his hands began to tremble with exhaustion and he grew parched with thirst, he did not budge from his chair. When he felt the blinding sun of noon pressing against his face like an iron, he rose.

He made his way to the bathroom, walking until his shin made contact with the edge of the tub. He aimed at the drain and urinated. I need to get some air, he thought, as the strong smell of piss wafted toward him.

Feeling his way to the sink, he rinsed his hands, then scooped up several palms of tepid water to ease his screaming throat. He straightened and faced the mirror and ran a hand across it. His smile returned. It is such a fucking chore, he thought, but at least I don’t have to see it anymore.

He had to escape the empty rooms of the tiny, airless house. All the windows were painted shut and covered in black spray paint. All except the window in his office, the secret place where he did special things. Already, every sensation of touch had become exquisitely intense. The texture of the grass tickled against his ankles. The eye-melting sun slapped against his skin like warm oil.

Outside, the ends of his fingers sang as they contacted prickling bark. Hands cramped with writing, but already reading the universe in a kind of braille. His skin absorbed every stimulation. The wind floated through his pore. The tempo of his heart began to increase with his awareness of its rhythm, and his skin throbbed in unison with it.

It is too much, said his tortured mind.

Collapsing, he leaned against the grooves of the tree trunk. Days passed and still he sat there. Unnoticed, a spider crawled into his left eye socket, leaving a webby clump. A silvery stream of drool dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Herman tried to grasp his way out of catatonia, shaking his head vigorously to rid it of cobwebs. Weak with hunger and dehydration, Herman doubted his ability to rise. Damning the absence of his paper and pen, idea after idea swept through the tired circuitry of his brain. Cracked and dry, his soundless lips worked incessantly. The hands that rested on his lap were bloody and raw, anything to dull the sensations. Behind him the oak stood like a sentinel, painted with blood.

It is useless. How can I be a pure vessel when I am preoccupied by my own distractions, he thought.

Herman drifted once more toward oblivion, toward the shadowy places where his mind still wandered. He was writing a story in there, a story for the world. No darkness or tragedy took hold there, none of his own amplified sensations. Instead there were perfectly formed women with flawless skin and brown eyes that never looked directly into the sun.

Somewhere, closer to the surface, the characters in his head have clearly defined, melodious voices. They speak in tender phrases, such as: "I love you too." "Spring is near." "Come over here and kiss me." Muddling up and down in the swampy depths of his head, he can almost hear the nearly forgotten tones of his own voice again. It speaks to him with one familiar sentence.

"It is too much."

Foggy and unraveled, the web slips down his cheek, a dry, cotton-candy tear. Weeping cotton, soft and clingy as Velcro against his stubbled face.

I’ll have to try again. Perhaps this way.

The chain dangling from the lowest tree branch chafes his wounded hands. Rust flakes off as he grabs on. His feet work against the trunk of the tree spastically as he pulls his weakened body up with all the power left in his atrophied limbs. An eternity ticks by, measured by the burning breaths he takes as he climbs. Then for a brief moment, at the highest branch that will support his meager weight, he feels the empty space behind his body. Suspended for only a millisecond, a champion diver against a backdrop of brilliant sky, he lets go.

Everything in that moment of release is unseen, unheard, and unfelt by Herman; the sound of his spine as it snaps, the sight of the painfully blue sky, the terrified bird that brushes inches above the top of his head. There is only a cloudy sense of pure thought descending upon Herman’s crumpled body. Finally, no distractions, not even the redundant ramblings of his own mind. The narrator within his skull is free to tell someone else’s story now.

Still, there is something nagging at the back of his mind. Perhaps something left undone.

How could I have forgotten?

He smells something. It is the scent of grilling meat from several doors down. It pulls him back, flailing, into the realms of consciousness. The aroma of charred cow brings an avalanche of memory. A mental filmstrip of barbecues, picnics, and bloody T-bone steaks.

Slowly the sharply defined characters dissolve, and leave Herman alone and paralyzed. To remember and to remember and to remember.

Bio: I am a reformed gypsy who has finally found a home. I moved to Asheville two years ago, and occupy my time as a student, aspiring social worker, writer and free spirit.

Visions of Rita Hayworth by Chall Gray

2006-03-10T09:30:00.000-08:00

When I was living in Endiscott, I befriended the Head Engineer of the city. His name was Abel. Abel was a fey, a visionary of the first order.

He had the idea to rearrange all of the electric poles of Endiscott to form a famous picture of Rita Hayworth (the one where she’s wearing a black evening dress and has her chin resting on the fist of her right hand as she stares off into the distance). It would be seen only by airplane pilots.

“This will make us into the premier vacation destination for pilots,” he boasted to me. I told him Marilyn Monroe might have more appeal. He didn’t listen. His predilection for Rita Hayworth bordered on unhealthy if you ask me. He wanted the whole thing to be a surprise for the mayor; he seemed to be under the impression that the mayor shared his ardor for Rita Hayworth.

Abel assembled a massive team of workers from all over, paying them exorbitant premiums, the result being that the work was to be completed in one night. They began their work shortly after dark on that fateful evening, each motion tinged with a surreptitious fervor, every worker equipped with the knowledge that it had to be finished before daybreak, none of them aware what the purpose of the project was.

The poles were extremely concentrated in some places, such as her hair or dress--only three of four feet apart in many cases. The work continued through the night and, at just after 4:30 a.m., the construction supervisor brought the news that they had finished. He was given his remuneration and in turn took leave of us.

Abel sat back in his chair. “You did it,” I said. “Sit back and envision it.” He leaned back even further, closing his eyes. A smile came upon his face. I noticed an erection forming. I became a little uncomfortable. I mean we weren’t that type of friends or anything. His face contorted with his climax. I rose, about to say that I would come back by later. He screamed in ecstasy. He fell back, out of the chair and onto the floor, now motionless.

I went over to him; sure enough, he was dead.

A victim of the joy that kills. In the morning the entire city was in upheaval, the mayor speaking of the misappropriation of some $14 million dollars, the possibly suspicious death of the Head Engineer, etc., etc. I left town before lunch. Sometimes I still wonder if they saw Rita, and if the airline pilots ever ended up flocking to Endiscott.

Chall Gray is a student, writer, and sexy young stud, living in Asheville, N.C. If he were writing this bio, no doubt, he would come up with several unique, multi-syllabic words to describe himself. But he's not writing this bio. AF is.

Chall needs to learn that, in the computer age, sentences are separated by only ONE space. Otherwise, he's remarkable, in that I called him yesterday asking for a submission, and I received TWO last night from him. Two submissions, one space.

The Cabin

2006-03-04T05:40:00.000-08:00

Taking the stairs two at a time, they'd been silent. Silent, as they faced one another in the dusty cabin bedroom. No words, but unspoken - would there be a turning back?

Facing her, holding hands, he pulled her to him as he sat on the bed's edge. She stood still, inside the space of his legs spread wide, but he could feel her entire body vibrate. Their eyes adjusted to the inky darkness as the silvery September moon struck through the window.

Both knew this time would come. Wasn't it the reason the girls had set up the dinner in the first place? The girls, best friends forever, ready to celebrate their return-to-school-year reunion, had set the date. What better way for two best girlfriends to revel than with two boys in a rustic hideaway?

Rustic - a euphemism for no working toilet and no electricity, but that was nothing a walk in the woods and a few candles couldn't cure. The foursome served up cheap cabernet from a carafe and feasted on spaghetti and crusty bread, all the while telling stories of friendship. Ribbing. Flirting. Somebody rolled a joint. All the while, they laughed the laugh of unencumbered youth. It was a heady night.

Conversation quieting and dishes forgotten, they paired up and moved away.

Upstairs, the two held back, each waiting for the other. Not a word was spoken. Their gaze, unbroken. Each knew the other's thoughts, complete. This is our time.

He released her interlocked fingers and moved his palms to her hips, working each index finger through fabric and beneath the waistband of her panties. He circled the line to the small of her back, then frontward. He undid the button of her jeans, already loose on her slender frame.

As he pushed the faded denim down, he leaned to the left and his head brushed her thigh, casual as mountain laurel on a high pass. She swayed, stepped out, then back inside the V of his legs.

His eyes back in hers, he forced himself to move slowly down her front, releasing each catch of the cotton blouse deliberately. After the last button slid through the last thin slit, she dropped her shoulders and the shirt fell away.

She felt him on her stomach. Their scents mixed, with the cabernet breath hanging in the air, heavy as honeysuckle. She moved ever closer, then pulled the edges of his T-shirt up, over and off. Taking his face in her hands, she paused, then moved to caress his smooth, broad shoulders. I could lean on these shoulders, she thought.

She crouched down to his waist and felt, her fingers those of a careful weaver undoing a sacred knot. She slipped the belt away. Up again, her hair fell into his face, remindful of the gentlest waterfall.

He couldn't hold back any longer. He clutched her to him, falling back onto last winter's old quilt, pillowy and frayed. Nose to nape. Lashes to lips. They kissed.

She strained away from the embrace as the bedsprings creaked. They listened, heard a rhythmic thumping, and laughed. She fell into him, and they rolled. The mattress complained again, loudly.

There would be no turning back.

by Ash

A Day With Dick by Sam Kistler

2006-02-17T11:08:00.000-08:00

“Mr. Cheney! Mr Cheney! You’ve done it again.”

“What?”

“You blew the guy’s face off.”

“Oh shit, not again.”

“Sir, I’m afraid you did. Hey Leroy! Send out another lawyer!”

“Yeah. How many does that make?”

“Uh, sir, were you seeing the silver monkeys again?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Here, take these.”

“Hey, do you think we should send some flowers or something? What are we gonna tell the press?”

“Don’t sweat it, sir, we got his DNA yesterday. A replacement is already online.”

“Well, what should we do with the body?”

“Nothing. As soon as we clear the grounds, we’ll let the dingos out. They’ll pick his bones clean. You know, less evidence that way.”

“Makes sense. I’m kind of upset about that lawyer. He was a good friend. I think...”

“Well sir, maybe if you didn’t make them walk so closely behind you, and you used the safety.”

“Nonsense.”

“Okay sir, here’s the new lawyer. Now please, sir, this time watch your step.”

“Do you have his DNA on file?”

“No sir. He’s young, single, comes from a small family. If an incident arises it would probably be more economical to just take care of his whole family. You know, cloning is so expensive.”

“That’s what I like about you, Danny. You’re always thinking about the bottom line.”

“Sir, watch out for that hole.”

“Sir?”

“What?”

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“What? I stepped in a hole and twisted my ankle. Then my gun went off. It was a hunting accident. Happens all the time. Damn tragedy, though.”

“Hey, that blast got him good. I can’t even tell where his ears were.”

"Yeah, he looks kind of peaceful now. But I’m glad he’s gone. I could tell by the way he held his gun that he was shifty. He looked nervous, for some reason.”

“Too bad we haven’t seen any quail today.”

“Why? Are we running low on lawyers? Hey, Danny.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s a quail?”

“Leroy! send out another lawyer!”

“Hey, there’s one of those damn monkeys.”

“Sir, don’t shoot, that’s W.”

“Damn, too late. Do you have his DNA on file?”

“No one will ever know the difference. Sir, do you think we should call it a day?”

“Yeah, it’s been a good day.”

“Leroy! Release the dingos!”

Sam Kistler lives in Asheville and Colorado, but owns only one home. His life-long flirtation with motorcross ended recently after he dislocated all five toes and broke several bones in his right foot. He has yet to sell his motorcycle. He does not hunt.

Storm

2006-02-11T10:01:00.001-08:00

By Eddie (Eddo) Renz

Gray light spilled into the living room through the bare windows, but did little to remove the darkness that had taken up residence there.

“Jill, you need to cover up or you’re gonna get sick.”

It was a feeble attempt at normalcy, and even as I said it, I knew I should have just kept quiet.

“I’m not cold” she replied icily.

Her honey hair flowed around her neck and pooled about her shoulders. An over-sized plum sweater dwarfed her small body and made her appear almost child-like. On another day and in a different time, I might have mentioned that her shirt matched the couch, but not today. Today her arms held her together, but I knew she was on the verge of falling apart.

“What do you want to do?” My words broke the silence, but not the mounting tension.

“I am going to kill her.”

Her words were so matter-of-fact, so final. My heart raced. I raked my hands over eyes that hadn’t seen sleep in two days.

Jill got up and tied on a pair of New Balance running shoes and jogged into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” I said with a trace of irritation. I don’t know why I asked, I already knew the answer. She was headed for the dining room.

Getting up so quickly that the chair vibrated across the hardwood floors, I followed her.

***

Linda, our babysitter, was bound to a chair in near mummy fashion with two rolls of duct tape. Her dirty blonde hair was a nest of disheveled curls matted about a ghoulish face painted by tears and black mascara. Silver tape silenced her. The storm had made her our prisoner, but she had turned us into guards, wardens, and quite possibly judge, jury, and executioner.

Icy roads and malevolent winds had forced us to return early from our trip. The front door was open. A singing and dancing Barney greeted us. Jill called out our son’s name, “Jackson! Jackson!” Her cries became more and more frantic and then ended in a scream. I heard the back door open and the loud thwack of the screen door slamming. I was at the front of the house, and by the time I reached the back yard, what I saw broke me on the inside in a way that can never be fixed.

Time never really stands still and you cannot turn back its hands. It will never wait, you cannot press pause, and you cannot rewind no matter how hard you try. When I replay the events in my head, they are vivid bits and pieces that are razor sharp like a Tarantino film.

Jill’s body flying through the air slamming into Linda. Linda in the position of a snow angel, out cold from Jill’s assault. Our son Jackson lying face down in the snow and shirtless, a patina of blood surrounding his little body, his back a canvas of bruises and lacerations. Twelve inches of snow on the ground and more falling. Everything is so white, except for the blood.

For some reason, the soundtrack that plays to this gruesome memory is an old Church hymn: “Oh precious is the flow, that makes me white as snow … nothing but the blood of Jesus.”

The cold snowflakes pelted my face and melted on hot tears. I don’t remember moving from the porch to Jill; it was as if I had somehow teleported myself to her side. One minute I was on the porch, the next I was helping her and Jackson, and then I was in the dining room with Linda. I had so much rage for dear Linda. Part of me wanted to twist her neck with my bare hands. I needed to feel the crushing of bones and the popping of her carotid arteries. My initial fear had been replaced by an almost unquenchable wrath, but I held back because I wanted to know why.

God why?

Jackson lived, but we could not reach a doctor. The storm had killed the power. The roads were shut down and our house was four miles from our nearest neighbor.

I duct-taped Linda to a dining room chair. We would deal with her later.

Jill and I tended to Jackson. He was alive and breathing, but he seemed to be in some sort of shock, or worse, a coma. I gripped the telephone like a stress ball. It would not connect, but I couldn’t put it down.

We interrogated Linda, but all she would say over and over was, “Jackson was bad and he needed to be punished.” It was making me crazy. Linda was our friend, not a close friend, but definitely someone we thought we could trust. How wrong we were.

I paced back and forth in the kitchen. It felt like God had taken the weekend off and left Stephen King in charge, and I have never been a fan of Stephen King.

Standing over the frozen lake, Jill and I cut a large hole in the ice with my chain saw. Strapped to a two-wheeled dolly and weighted with bricks, we lowered Linda into the frigid water. Her blue eye shadow and smudged mascara made her look like Tammy Faye.

In the final hours, I guess both Jill and I snapped. We could no longer stand her silence or the silence from our son. Jill made the motion, I seconded it.

Two years ago, I watched Linda's eyes as she sank into the frigid water. She never closed them. The blue orbs drifted into the murky depths, but there are times when they resurface in my dreams.   Few scars remain on Jackson, his wounds have all but healed, but Jill and I will never forget the storm.

Eddo claims that his creative writing ability came after being probed by aliens. He currently resides in Plano with his pet chinchilla, Bootsy, and a large supply of Preparation H. You can learn more about him at www.postednote.com.

A Brush With Success by Lu

2006-02-02T14:56:00.000-08:00

A Brush With Success
by Lu

The very first thought that Parker had upon waking was I need to pee. She knew before even opening her eyes that she was in unfamiliar surroundings. With the nicotine, liquor and undeniable scent of sex blanketing the room, disorientation gave way to the realization that she was indeed not in her own bed. Lifting her heavy lids, she peered at the concert poster of some local band that she had never heard of, and the pile of stuffed animals on the toddler race car bed beside the mattress she was lying on. Counting the legs on the fluorescent green caterpillar, no doubt won at some cheesy carnival game, she wondered what time it was but didn't dare turn over to seek out a clock.

He was behind her, his breathing still heavy with sleep. She listened to her own breathing, concentrating on matching her rhythm, the rise and fall of her chest, to his. Inhaling deep as he did and exhaling in shorter counts as the rain tapped out its faint pit pit pat, pit pit pat against the bedroom window. She swallowed hard and hoped he didn't hear that. God, it felt like something had died in her mouth--her saliva sour and metallic. Parker carefully brought her index finger up to her eye and rubbed the crusty sleep out of the corner. She repeated the same with her other eye and wondered how much mascara had smeared off during the night. She swiped her middle finger underneath each eye in the hopes of making herself look less like a raccoon. God, I really have to pee.

She slowly, quietly, smoothed her hair down. She was suddenly aware of the stickiness between her legs and desperately tried to remember the last time she saw her underwear. As she lay there, she plotted each step of her mission. She hoped they weren't buried somewhere, and she would be able to locate them before he woke up. She prayed he wouldn't wake just as she was walking out and watch her ass and the pockets of cellulite on the back of her thighs jiggling as she left the room. Oh God.

Clinging to the right side of the bed, she slid a little further over and peered over the side. There they were! Thank you, sweet Jesus. Parker continued to plot her strategy… each move must be deliberate, quiet and smooth. She took a deep breath, gently eased her legs out from underneath the covers, feet seeking the carpet. Her toes found and clutched the balled-up black underwear, scooting them within her reach.

With the panties in her right hand, she held her breath and slowly, carefully, rose from the mattress. With her back to him, she slid the panties up over her hips. Whew! She crossed her arms tightly across her breasts and turned towards him. His back was to her and his breathing continued, deep and heavy, his nose whistling now each time he inhaled. Across the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror on the dresser. Actually, her hair didn't look that bad. As she returned her gaze to him, to his back, to a really hideous mole on his right shoulder and his head, with the thinning hair, resting on the pillow. She felt paralyzed. Taking even one step seemed impossible, but at the same time, she acknowledged that every moment she stood there contemplating her journey was another moment closer to him waking. My bladder is going to burst.

She gingerly made her way around her side of the bed and moved along its foot, pausing to grab his T-shirt and slip it on. She untucked her hair from the back of the shirt, and made her way to the left side--his side. She didn't dare glance in his direction. Almost there. She had to resist the urge to make a mad dash for the door. As she inched silently past him, her hand on the doorknob, he sighed.

"Hey, beautiful."

********

lu is a thirtysomething single mama to two incredible daughters, and a full-time student pursuing her fantasy of being a sexy, full of mystique librarian. You can find out more about me and my fantabulous life at www.skiptomylu.typepad.com.

Another Empty Glass

2006-01-27T17:12:00.000-08:00

Another Empty Glass
by Matthew Mulder

I notice something missing. It's too smoky to read the small clock behind the bar, and I never wear a watch. How long has it been? Must be getting late. Still holding it - squeezing it actually - and trying to extract more porter for my melancholy.

But something is missing.

I keep looking at the bar and the band that's playing Radiohead cover songs. Their energy makes me feel old. Their lyrics make me feel dumb. And their girlfriends make me feel ancient. The oatmeal porter feels heavy in my belly as a familiar young lady turns my way and says hello. She says how are you and says she needs someone older in her life. She's trying to make conversation the way she tries to seduce the drummer, who beats the skins to an alt-rock anthem I don't know, but wish I did. Maybe that's what's missing.

I squeeze the chalice of my sorrow. It's bone dry, and, by the looks of it, it's been dry for some time.

It must be late. There's no ring of moisture on the cardboard coaster with the green pub emblem. All hope is gone, evaporated into the cigarette clouds of the people around me as they listen to Kerouac or the Radio's song falsetto into the crash of reverb from the guitarist's sonic wail.

What's missing won't fit into the cup I hold in my left hand marked with a wedding band and a cheap, gold bracelet. That young familiar woman with the black leather coat looks at her empty glass, cuing me to buy her another. I wonder if she knows what's missing. I wonder if I could gather up a cup full of hope floating through the atmosphere and contain it in this empty glass and save it until tomorrow and drink it for breakfast.

Or maybe I could crawl inside and lick the residue, the hope stain that lines the bottom of my sorrow.

She raises her glass to the bar maid and I see an amber glimmer of hope in the bottom of her tumbler. Its amber remains swirl for a moment, then disappear into the bar maid's hand.

:::

Bio: I am a theory slut from Asheville--a true elite of the postmodernists. I collect avant-garde Pinoy hiphop dub tapes, eat critical theory journal articles for breakfast, bath in Icelandic mythology and read ancient manuscripts for light reading.

:::

Matt Mulder
Mulder_Matthew@hotmail.com
http://1000blacklines.blogspot.com/

Doomed to Repeat by Chall Gray

2006-01-19T10:37:00.000-08:00

Zim! Zim! Zim! This is the sound the lines of the road would make if they could speak as you drive over them. Sometimes you can almost hear them.

A while back you saw a man in the road. You hit the brakes and slowed to almost 40 mph, only to realize that it was a road sign.

Eventually the road itself becomes an apparition. Taking on slopes and undulations that exist only in the mind. Moving and breathing upon itself. Sometimes it is, then isn’t. Then is, then isn’t.

The music has no efficacy, neither does keeping the windows open. Drowsiness has become an inescapable shroud, a straitjacket drawn tightly around you.

—Goddamn it, you have to stop! Get some coffee, get a sandwich, something.

You see an exit, you take it, not really caring what is there, but needing to slow down, change gears, use the brake, any change of momentum. Sanity through differentiation.

It’s twenty minutes before four now, that means you can make it there by noon. That’s being generous too. You’ll still be able to stop a couple more times if you need to. No sweat.

At the bottom of the exit there’s a sign that says “Coffee House, 24 Hours,” and an arrow to the right. You pull off into their parking lot.

There are only three other cars there. You sit down, order a cup of coffee and pick up the menu. It’s an olio of greasy concoctions: sausage and grits, hash browns, burgers, barbeque, it goes on.

After a brief contemplation, you choose the “Never-Ending Stack of Pancakes.” It’s $6.95, but this’ll be enough food to sate you for the rest of the trip.

The waitress is short and has her hair pulled up into a bun above her over made-up face. As she brings your coffee it’s obvious to you that she was attractive twenty years ago, before the pull of time and the signs of a difficult life transposed themselves upon her.

The only other patrons are a couple of guys in plaid shirts. They’re over in a booth smoking on the other end of the restaurant. They didn’t even notice when you walked in.

“More coffee, hon?” She asks, setting down a plate of three pancakes.

“Yeah sure, thanks.” You reply.

The pancakes are good, though part of that probably stems from your hunger. The chef stops. He’s a burly guy with a cardboard hat and a rugged face. As he leans in you notice the marine insignia tattooed on his forearm and the small hint of vacancy in his eyes, one that’s seen in the eyes of so many veterans of war.

“How’re them pancakes?”

“Excellent, thanks.”

“You ready for another stack?”

“Yeah, I reckon so.”

Presently, he brings another plate of pancakes. You begin to slow down on the second one and after one bite of the third decide that you’re satiated. The chef is walking by as you stop eating.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“No, they were great. I’m just full.”

He stares you in the eye for a few seconds. “You’re gonna finish your pancakes, ain’t you?” He says slowly.

You’re somewhat puzzled, but begin to work on your third pancake, not wanting to offend him. Just as you finish it, he brings out another plate and sets it down in front of you.

“Oh no. I’m sorry. That’s all I can take.” You say, wondering why he brought these out to begin with. You thought you made it pretty obvious that you were full.

“Well, I made ‘em, and you ordered the never-ending stack, so you’re just gonna go ahead and finish ‘em,” he says evenly and unwaveringly.

You look at the plate and back at the chef.

“No, I’m sorry, but I’m full.”

“I don’t think you understand son. You ordered the never-ending stack and you’re gonna finish ‘fore you leave.” His voice has risen and become angry by the end of the sentence and the two plaid shirt guys glance over as they are walking out the door.

“They’re leaving.” You point out.

“They didn’t order the never-ending stack,” he says callously, as though it should’ve been obvious to you.

You begin to eat the pancakes, forcing the bites in, slowly chewing, then making yourself swallow. As you start on the second pancake he pours more batter onto the griddle.

“Got your next stack comin’ right up, buddy,” he says without turning around.

You glance at the waitress. She’s looking out the window. You look at your watch. The second hand is ticking in place without moving forward. You turn back to your pancakes and slowly begin to cut another bite.

Chall Gray is a svelte, handsome 21-year-old hailing from the northwestern part of the southeastern part of the USA. He is looking forward to applying for a job as a goat herder upon completion of his studies.

It's all about the Fiction

2006-01-15T18:32:00.000-08:00

Let's post some fiction, baby!