GUD Magazine Issue 1 :: Autumn 2007

by GUD Magazine Authors

  I entered the smoke and started to dance. I spun around to see the secret agents disappear. I sensed people close and saw two women dancing around me. It was difficult to discern their details. The women pressed themselves against me. At first, I wondered if they mistook me for someone else, but their persistence proved me wrong.

  I wanted to explain to these women that I had surrounded myself with men who had sworn to protect the most powerful people on the planet with their very lives and yet couldn't save me, so now it was up to them to save me tonight. I know it's silly, but I've never been as serious as I am right now. Please? Can you do it for me? Save me?

  I sadly realized I couldn't say something as simple as “Save me” in Polish.

  The women sandwiched me in while they groped and fondled one another with abandon. I was just a buffer, and that was fine. The music grew louder, the smoke thicker, and we kept dancing. There were moments that felt like we were dancing on a night cloud miles up in the sky, just drifting under the stars like forgotten gods. I closed my eyes to hold onto the moment.

  Their hands pressed against each other and then me. I could feel their breaths on my neck. One of them bit my earlobe. The other took my hand and put it on her back. I pulled her closer. They both laughed. I laughed too.

  The music ended abruptly and the lights came alive. They revealed a beer-soaked floor and black walls; it all felt improbable. We were dancing on a cloud a moment ago, weren't we? The girls looked at me sheepishly, as if their behavior were only allowed in the darkness. They said something to me in Polish.

  I explained that I spoke only a little Polish and what I did know was pretty hopeless.

  "Jestes Amerykaninem?” asked the shorter girl slowly. She wore glasses like a librarian and her black hair was cut short.

  "Tak,” I said.

  The girls looked at one another. The taller one, who had green eyes, said, “My English not best, okay?"

  "Is this club closed now?"

  She nodded.

  "Is there another place still open? I think I need beer."

  The girls looked at each other again. It looked like there was serious telepathy happening between them. The tall girl said, “We get beer. Go at home. You come. Tak?"

  "Sure thing,” I said. I turned around, looking for the secret agents. I thought they'd be pleased to know the party was continuing.

  The librarian girl put her hand on my shoulder, shaking her head. The tall girl said, “No friends. You just."

  I briefly thought about how the secret agents had stood by while the bartender screamed at me and said, “All right, but I have to say goodbye to my friends."

  * * * *

  When Bruce saw me walking over, he excused himself from the Air Force Two girl he had previously selected for “a proper Bruceification” and approached me. He leaned in close while he talked, as if to confide a major secret. “Hey, man. Would you still respect me if I slept with the Air Force Two girl? I mean, she's not top-shelf like the Air Force One girls are, I know. But, you know ... it's ... I need this, you see. Please tell me you'll respect me."

  "I'll respect you,” I said. “Would you respect me if I went home with two lesbians?"

  He looked over my shoulder and saw the lesbians making out. “Yes,” he said hesitantly. “I'll hate you, obviously, but I'll still respect you."

  "Fair enough."

  "This is such a great life."

  "Isn't it though? It must be fantastic to do what you do. I really envy you guys."

  "Shit, man. Don't throw it back at me. I'm talking about you."

  "Oh,” I said, slightly flustered. “Well, it's not always like this. Most of my evenings are lesbian-free. Really."

  "It's not about the lesbians. This life agrees with you."

  "I'm not out there protecting the world's most important people."

  He scoffed at this. “Dress it up all you like, at the end of the day, it's a job like anything else. The gold's where you are when you're not working. I read that in a book once too, Mister Writer."

  "Was it in the Bible?"

  "Listen, I'm serious about this. There's plenty of gold here. Whether you know it or not, you're rich."

  I didn't know what to say to this, so I asked, “Where's Alan?"

  "He's taking advantage of some of that there gold. Leave it to me to come all this way and end up with my own kind. I disgust myself.” He tilted his head to the left and cracked his neck. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go reach into the bottom shelf and hopefully invent something dirty enough to write about in my diary."

  "I'll see you back at the hotel tomorrow."

  He looked at the lesbians again. “Probably,” he said, and then winked. “But if I don't see you, I'll understand."

  There was something about the moment that told me I wouldn't be seeing Bruce again either way. We shook hands. “Dobranoc,” I said.

  "Hey, I know that one. Good night to you too."

  * * * *

  I wake up around noon, in bed, fully dressed. The lesbians are naked together on the other side of the bed, sleeping peacefully and holding one another like their lives depend on it. I don't know if what they have is love, but it sure looks nice, whatever it is. The sunlight is coming through the window and embracing them both. The way their skin glows in the sun is next to divine, and my heart tells me I'm looking at something I'm not supposed to. The sex show earlier was open game, something as natural and open as standing and waiting for a bus; but this, well, this is what divinity looks like when you least expect it, a lucid reminder that there's something behind the curtain of our lives, and it's not meant for someone like me to witness. If the lesbians grew wings and flew away right now, I wouldn't even flinch.

  The librarian—who looks years younger without her glasses—shuffles in bed and wakes up green-eyes, who catches me watching. She gives me a vague kind of smile that makes me feel guilty until it widens into a sleepy grin. “Hello,” she says.

  "Hello,” I say. “I should go, I think."

  She nods at this. And while it's true that I should be leaving, I'm faintly disappointed in her agreement. While I don't know what I was expecting from the evening before, I can't help but feel that I overlooked something, a resolution of some kind, and if I stay here longer, I'll be able to find it. Maybe it's because I spend too much time looking for external answers, imposing omens on random occurrences ... like projecting broken hearts on others when it's my heart that hurts or confusing lesbians with angels.

  "I'm so tired,” I say as I get up. My legs are stiff in the way they only are when I sleep in my jeans. My elbow pops when I stretch. My stomach feels like it's disconnected from the rest of my body and is shifting aimlessly in my belly like the lava in a lava lamp. My head feels like someone took a hammer and chisel to it. I'm hoping I feel worse than I look, but that's seldom been true.

  I put my shoes on like it's the first time I've ever done such a thing, almost falling over in the process. When I stand back upright, green-eyes is standing there next to me. She's naked. I feel overdressed, especially when I get my jacket on. I keep hoping she'll stop me, to throw me back on the bed or offer me coffee or talk to me, anything that'll let this story play out just a little bit longer.

  I almost say, “I still haven't been saved yet,” but instead I say, “Thanks for giving me a place to stay."

  She steps forward, stands on her toes, and gives me a hug. It's unwarranted, which makes the gesture more sincere than it should be. I hug her back in a selfish attempt to keep myself warm for just a little longer.

  "This isn't my city,” I say. “It's not even my country."

  She laughs softly at this, as if I've made one last joke for her benefit, pushes me out the front door into the cold, and closes it.

  "And I don't think I know where I'm going."

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  Jimmy's Luck by Tammy R. Kitchen

  The only sounds were the tires rolling over the grated pavement of the inte
rstate and Melissa's nightgown flapping out the passenger side window. It was 3:30 a.m. The midnight DJ's voice had ground into Jimmy's ears and so he had turned off the radio. Driving, then, with the rhythm of white silk in the wind and the turning of tires, Jimmy began to sink into himself.

  Melissa lay naked, sprawled in the back seat, her feet pressed against the window and her hair across her face. Ten miles back, Jimmy had realized she'd stopped snoring, but he hadn't pulled over to check on her.

  Melissa always snored when she slept. The sound of it drove at Jimmy, and every night he burrowed his head into the tiny space between the mattress and the wall. When he woke in the dark with his neck stiff, he scooched to the end of the bed, pulling the blankets with him. Melissa always opened her eyes and watched him walk across the room on his way out to the couch. He would stop in the doorway and look at her on the bed, coverless, goose bumps crawling down her stomach. He would look at her looking at him and she would keep snoring the whole time.

  Jimmy drove on, no longer hearing the flapping sounds or the buzz of the road, only hearing the silence. Days spent at the shop listening to men yell above the grating of metal in through-feed grinders. Evenings spent with Melissa yelling about her mother, yelling at Jimmy, even yelling when they fucked. Then that Goddamned snoring. Jimmy had forgotten the sound of his own thoughts.

  This was their first annual run-off-and-fuck-in-the-woods trip. Melissa had said it would be good for them to get away. Jimmy had stuffed their tent and duffle bags into the trunk with Melissa behind his shoulder, her nasal voice clawing at the back of his head. They'd climbed into the car and driven with a bottle of Beam between them and the radio blaring above the wind in the open windows. They'd driven with Melissa's high-pitched excitement between them, the right side of Jimmy's head beginning to throb.

  Melissa wanted the growl of thrash-metal music. She said it made her feel young. She said it made her want to spread her legs. This she screamed over the wind and the traffic, then she swallowed some Beam and put the bottle between her thighs. Jimmy grabbed the Beam from her and took a drink. It burned his stomach and the music burned his ears and Melissa's fingers moved up his leg.

  She turned up the radio, Pantera vibrating the car, and Jimmy dug his fingernails into the steering wheel. Melissa sang, her voice bouncing off the dashboard, and during the guitar riff, she said, Come on, baby, and her fingers crawled up his stomach. Gritting his teeth, Jimmy kept driving, and by the time the lyrics started again, Melissa had his shirt pulled up and her tongue on his nipples.

  There were fields along the highway. Cows and barns. Melissa was good with her tongue when she wasn't talking, so Jimmy took an exit, went down the road, and drove into a field. He turned the car off, the music still ringing in his ears, and walked away to take a piss. When he came back, Melissa was in the back seat in a white silk nightgown. I bought this for you, she said, and it was tight on her breasts as she ran her fingers down her stomach.

  She pulled on Jimmy's waist, her fingers digging in as he pulled the gown over her head. She wrapped it around the headrest and held onto it for balance. This part was still good. Her face was in his neck and this part was still good except for her squealing and if she would just shut up, maybe he could breathe. If he could just make her shut up.

  Jimmy reached up and put his hand over Melissa's mouth, and she didn't seem to mind. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him tight against her, sweat pooling between them, and when they were done, Jimmy fell asleep with Melissa snoring in his ear.

  He woke in the middle of the night with his neck stiff and his face shoved into the back of the seat. He left Melissa where she was, climbed into the front seat, and drove back to the highway. Melissa's snoring echoed through the car, digging at him, so he turned on the radio to drown her out. The DJ's voice was loud and howling and the music not much better, so after a while Jimmy turned off the radio, and that's when he realized Melissa had stopped snoring.

  He knew he should check on her, but the traffic was gone and the radio was off and all he wanted to do was drive. Jimmy drove for miles, lulled by the darkness and the wind. By the lights of the towns he passed. Along the side of the highway, semis idled, their drivers asleep, and Jimmy was alone.

  A honk startled him at 4:30 a.m. as a semi pulled into the lane beside him. The driver grinned and looked down at Melissa. Jimmy tightened his fingers around the steering wheel and slowed down. The other drivers would wake soon and get back on the road, and Melissa was still naked and quiet in the back seat.

  Jimmy heard the sound of his own breath and the tires spinning on the road. He heard his jeans move against the seat as he shifted his legs. His thumb rubbing on the steering wheel. And nothing. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Melissa in the back, her feet still against the window, but with her face now turned away, pressed into the seat. Hands clenched and sweating, he pulled to the side of the highway and got out. Footsteps. Crickets. The back door clicking open as he pulled the latch. He ran his fingers over her calf and she moved, turned her head, and began snoring. Jimmy breathed out as he bent to kiss her knee.

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  Contributor Biographies

  Rusty Barnes co-founded and oversees Train (www.nighttrainmagazine.com) and maintains webspace at www.rustybarnes.com.

  Matt Bell lives in Saginaw, Michigan, with his wife Jessica. His writing has appeared in magazines such as Hobart, Barrelhouse, Caketrain, McSweeney's Internet Tendency. is also the reviews editor for SmokeLong Quarterly can be found online at www.mdbell.com.

  Originally from Montreal, Canada, Magali Cadieux mainly in acrylics, occasionally applying oils, ink, and enamels as well as elements of collage and construction (metal and plaster) to her art. She employs hot tonalities and honest, sharp color to convey her interest in the subconscious self figuratively, with strong emotion. Magali draws on her travels and observations of human nature for inspiration, inviting the viewer to explore the universe with her. Her work can be found in private collections and fine art galleries across Canada, the United States, and Europe. Contact her at lalicad@hotmail.com or visit her website, www.magalicadieux.com.

  Kenneth L Clark writes verse & fiction. His work has appeared in Equinox, Tabula Rasa, The Story Garden, online journals that have disappeared. He resides in the southeastern United States and travels north for shoofly pie.

  Brian Conn's work has appeared in Sybil's Garage Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet. is a graduate of the 2004 Clarion West Writers Workshop and is currently a student in the MFA program at Brown University. He lives in Providence. Visit his website at www.brianconn.net.

  Christopher S. Cosco is a photographer and artist currently engaged in achieving a fine arts degree in Barrie, Ontario. Strangely, his work has appeared only in magazines with three letter names: NFG, JPG, GUD.

  A native of Boston, Massachusetts, Kenneth Darling's short fiction and poetry can be found in a number of literary journals, both online and at newsstands. He recently completed his first novel, Hiders, is hard at work on his second. He shares a home, a life, and a website with Nadine Darling, a national treasure. Details at www.kennay.com.

  Nadine Darling is broke-ass and sick with love. A three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she lives in the greater Boston area with her husband and fellow writer Kenneth Darling, who, with respect to Aimee Mann, saved her from the ranks of the freaks who suspect that they could never love anyone. Learn more at www.kennay.com.

  Steven J. Dines (b.1975) lives in the granite city of Aberdeen, Scotland, where he has been writing short fiction for many years. His work has appeared in over fifty print and online publications, including Dark Tales, BuzzWords, Word Riot, Noö Journal, Underground Voices, Outsider Ink, Eclectica, TQR, The Rose & Thorn, The Late Late Show, many others. His story, “Unzipped,” was selected as one of the Notable Stories of 2005 in storySouth's Writers Award. For more information check out his blog: stevenjdines.blogspot.com.

  Christian A. Dumais
is an English lecturer at the Wrocraw University of in Poland. Despite having lived in Poland for four years, he has somehow invented more English words than he has learned Polish words. His most recent article is “An Examination of the Shape of a Story in Metafictional Postmodernist Literature,” published by Systems, Polish academic journal. He's also been published by TooSquare, City Style, The Weekly Planet. can be contacted at cadumais@gmail.com. He sincerely thanks you for taking the time to read his report.

  Truth may be stranger than fiction, but it's far harder to track down. Jaine Fenn sold fiction to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, On Spec, a few other places. She has yet to sell, or buy, Truth. Further UnTruths may be found at www.jainefenn.com.

  Pieces of Rebekah Frumkin's oeuvre can be found in FRiGG, Grimm Magazine, and Scrivener Creative Review. lives and studies in America's kitsch-ridden heartland. Any endorsements, grievances, or second replies should be sent via email to rafrumkin@yahoo.com. “The Gods of Houston” originally appeared in Antithesis Common Literary Magazine Fall of 2006.

  Timothy Gager is the author of Short Street Twenty-Six Pack, of short fiction, and two books of poetry, The same corner of the Bar We Needed A Night Out. hosts the Dire Literary Series in Cambridge, Massachusetts every month and is the co-founder of Somerville News Writers Festival, where he has shared the stage with Pulitzer Prize winners Franz Wright and Robert Olen Butler.

  Cameron Gray was born in Melbourne, Australia in 1984 and currently resides in Tasmania, studying Contemporary Art at the University of Tasmania. In 2002, Cameron won the Agfa Australia award for best body of pre-tertiary photography for his digital art at Launceston College. In 2003, his work was exhibited in Art Rage and published by the Queen Victoria Museum & Art Gallery, and in 2005, Cameron was accepted into the guest gallery of the Museum of Computer Art. Cameron's art has been described as dark, thought-provoking, and emotionally intense. His work is regularly displayed at ParableVisions.com and DarkArtsWorld.com.