I have listened to the judge tell his wife about the good man going to jail and now they are making tea.
I am listening to them making tea.
I have listened to the judge tell his wife about the judgement in court today while I was in the cupboard hiding behind a bag of sugar.
The judge's wife has made some tea and the judge and his wife are going to drink the tea.
The judge and his wife are going to drink the tea because the judge has been in court all day making a judgement and there was a problem with the law and now he is going to drink tea with his wife.
10.
I am in the cupboard hiding behind a bag of sugar and the cupboard door opens.
The cupboard door opens and the judge has got some tea to drink.
The cupboard door opens and the judge takes the bag of sugar for his tea.
The judge wants sugar with his tea so he opens the cupboard door and takes the bag of sugar.
I was in the judge's cupboard all day hiding behind a bag of sugar.
Now the judge has taken the bag of sugar for his drink of tea and
I am in the cupboard and he can see me because now I am not
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Trying to Make Coffee by William Doreski
” Trying to Make Coffee” first appeared in Grasslimb 3, no. 1.
Trying to make coffee, I brew
a batch of chlorine gas, a bitter stinging that escapes my kitchen and drifts through town, burning and scarring everyone who breathes it. A few susceptibles die writhing, weeping for their mothers. A police car crashes into a mailbox.
The fire department's ladder truck rolls into the river and hisses like a wounded hippopotamus.
Victims turn green and thrust their heads into snowbanks to snuff the heat.
They find relief by breathing the cold moisture, and hardly care if they drown.
Immune to my own disaster, I treat myself to coffee at the diner, where gas survivors have gathered, wheezing and tearing and outraged.
Why terrorists targeted our town puzzles them, but maybe we boast a superior populace, one that evil just has to squelch.
I say nothing, but conceal my face in my coffee. My expertise in foreign affairs requires me to maintain a silent modesty while emergency vehicles gather like a parliament. Sirens rake the town. The stink of bacon grease protects the air in the diner,
so it serves as an oasis for weary rescue personnel.
To distract myself from my guilt,
I ask the waitress how the diner makes coffee, and she points to urns big as my torso. I'll have to read a cookbook before I try again.
At last, snowfall combs the air, piercing and deflating the gas cloud.
I join the collective cheer.
Thirty dead, two hundred treated for internal burns, a few still critical. Too bad. I sip the diner coffee and believe that, with practice, I could make better, the leaden gall behind my tongue a byproduct careful brewing should eliminate in favor
of a fresh and nutty taste.
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Fade in Fade out by Beverly A. Jackson
I love how they do that in the movies.
It's a close-up of a staircase, then the doorknob!
The music soars, and you know it's coming but you're not sure what. Somebody's climbing.
Somebody's at the door. Something is out there.
Isn't that what we dread? And pray for?
My eyes are like the director's. Eyes seeking out the monster. Looking for the love connection.
Panning the villagers with burning torches. For him.
Or for me? Whatever it is, it's horrible and wonderful.
Look, it sits upon the bed, the whatever has a pair of pants and a belt coils there as if a body lifted up like air—into air.
But after all, it's only a movie. A trick of the camera.
The bed is quite empty, smooth with fresh sheets, daisies growing in the threads of Sears’ on-sale comforter.
There's no danger here. It's just my unmedicated nerves.
It's just my hand reaching out, fingers thrust in a pocket, stroking. Of Mice and Men? Trembling. Hoping. Terrified.
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Changing Destiny by Fefa
* * * *
* * * *
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Songs of the Dead by Sarah Singleton and Chris Butler
Light splashed bars of white on the surface of the black water in the gutter. The pale roots of violets trailed in the moist, smeared layers of soil, city dust, and greenish effluent from the market. Thin threads of blood, clogged and dark, embroidered the thicker currents of mud and slurry. So much to see.
The lowing of the beasts, distinct here, rose up in the London street to disturb the boy. He looked up, shading his eyes. The return of spring had renewed the sun's vigour. In descent, the fire wheel spilled skeins of bright gold across the shining rooftops. If he did not start back now, his mother would worry.
On a clear day, the angels could have pointed to any one of the London villages. But now, new buildings came sprouting from the soil. Curious suburban fabulations. Complete with Greek columns fashioned in plaster, already soaking up veins of damp. Pretensions, his father said, of the traders. Snatching a piece of land for a scaleddown villa. The gaps in the landscape had filled in, and the random patchwork of the cityscape stretched as far as he could see.
The boy tucked his sketch into his pocket, and set off again. He made good progress along the street. Two old men puffed past, carrying a sedan chair. A thin, white-gloved hand lolled from the window, catching his eye. The curtain was drawn, a tatty brown brocade, and the woman's fingers tapped restlessly on the faded paintwork. The sedan stopped before a coffee house. A voice. The curtain twitched. Intrigued, the boy stepped closer, keen to catch a glimpse of the woman inside. One of the porters scurried into the coffee house, shoulders stooped. When the door opened, laughter erupted, along with a tide of smoke and snuff and the hot, prickly aroma of stewed coffee.
A body banged against the door. A large man, in a jacket fashioned with burgundy, livid purple, and gold, with a face bright pink through smudged layers of white paint, the mouth soft and red, dribbles on the chin. The man's heavy torso contracted and convulsed. He pressed his hand to his mouth, an effort to contain some fierce digestive struggle. He bent double. He retched. A stream of hot, meaty vomit burst from his lips, splattering onto the pavement.
"Oh God,” the man said, his eyes fixed on the brew seeping into the mud. The seizure took him again. A second wave, less violent than the first. A vapour rose from the mess, fingers of which were caught in eddies of the water in the gutter, slowly twisting with the ribbons of blood and mud and the waste of the beasts from the market.
The boy's eyes widened. He took a breath.
"Oh God,” the man repeated. His head twitched. Strings of vomit and saliva clung to his fingers, adding a curious glitter to the rings on his fingers. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed ineffectually at his face.
"Boy, help me, will you?” Slowly the man straightened. He pressed his left hand to his belly. The other, still clutching the soiled piece of lace, grasped the boy's shoulder.
"Inside. Help me inside."
The boy nodded hard. He tucked his arm around the man's back. The man's breath flooded the boy's face, the hot acid smell of partially digested meat, black pepper, and mace. The man took his hand from his uncertain guts just long enough to shove back his wig, which leaned precariously. Grey powder puffed as he patted it.
"Better. Yes, much better."
The boy guided the man through the door. The damp, smoky room engulfed them. Despite the mild weather, a huge fire blazed in the corner. The man took his place at a table.
"Bishop, are you fit?” A blubbery gentleman sitting opposite tucked into a plate of beef pudding. “Don't let it go to waste.” He indicated Bishop's plate, piled with strips of pork belly
and kidneys in cream.
Bishop turned to the boy.
"You would like a coffee, yes?” he asked. “What's your name?"
"Will,” the boy said. “Will Blake."
"Will. Thank you.” Bishop signalled to a young woman, who tipped thick black coffee into a dish.
The stooped sedan porter hovered behind them, trying to catch Bishop's attention. He shuffled from one foot to the other in an anxious dance.
"Sir,” he said. “Sir."
"Drink up, Will,” Bishop said. He picked up a fork, considering the delicacy before him. “These good men are doctors,” he said, confidentially, signifying the company about the table with his gaze. “Doctors of the mind. And I am a doctor too. Dr. Charles Bishop. How old are you, Will Blake?"
"Fourteen, sir,” Will said eagerly. But Bishop had already turned from him, resuming some earlier conversation.
"Look, Thomas, I know you do not believe me, but I'm telling you it works."
The blubbery man snorted and shook his head, without lifting his eyes from his plate.
"Where's Edgar?” Bishop asked. “He will back me up.” He dug his knife into a strip of pork, adorned it with the tassel of a kidney and a veil of cream. He stuffed it into his mouth.
"Sir,” the porter tried again. “Miss Marks, sir. She's outside. She's waiting for her brother."
"Marks—damn it, Marks isn't here,” Bishop said. “He's late. Tell her to wait at Silver Street."
The porter shifted, foot to foot. But Bishop resumed his dinner and the man backed away, shaking his head.
"The pictures, you see,” Bishop said. “A likeness. If the picture is true, something is fixed in the medium, something is drawn from the subject, don't you see?"
"What evidence do you have?” The fat man snorted. He chased a scrap of burnt fat on his plate. His lips glistened. “The subject is soothed. I have witnessed this, time and again. The agitation is drawn away."
Bishop had forgotten about Will. Happy to eavesdrop, the boy sipped quietly, taking in the smoky atmosphere, the steaming coffee-pots, the papers on the wall: notices of meetings and hangings, sordid newspaper accounts of political corruption and criminal sensation. The papers were overlaid, one plastered atop another.
He drew out the sketch from his pocket, unfolded the thick yellow paper, and took out a charcoal fragment. He stared at the fat man, and his hand moved to an empty space on the paper.
"Good God, he's got you!” Bishop said. Will looked up, and around. The moment of concentration had gone. The sketch was quick, and incomplete. Will stuffed it away.
"Hold, hold. Let me see.” Bishop's thick, strong fingers seized his arm and tugged the paper away. Will flushed. His scribbles were examined. Bishop laughed at the likeness of his colleague.
"You have a talent, young man,” he said, growing thoughtful. His brow furrowed.
"I have a commission. Your services—can they be purchased? Are you apprenticed?"
Will shook his head. No, as yet he was unattached.
Bishop hesitated a moment. Then he scribbled an address upon the corner of the boy's sketch.
"Come and see me. Tomorrow afternoon. Off you go, now."
Will stared at the address. Silver Street. He knew the place. A long line of towering villas with long gardens down to the river. Almost well-to-do.
* * * *
A crack in the wall, falling, jagged. Eliza has asked them for another room but they do not listen. She stands on the bed and looks out through the small window. The pane is dirty, encrusted with mould. She rubs at it with the sleeve of her gown. Outside the lawns steam as the dew takes flight. Through the haze, she sees new tulips in bloom, vivid yellows and reds. She smiles. Her sleeve is stained. She sees dark forms. Troubled, she sits down and rubs at the one sleeve with the other. The stain is now on both sleeves. They say the walls in all the rooms have cracks.
"What?” she asks.
She listens intently. She lifts a hairbrush from a drawer in the dark oak desk. She lets the others guide her hand, running the brush through long auburn strands. Years ago her mother would have helped her. The importance of one's appearance must never be forgotten, she thinks, and nods.
"Do I look pretty?” she asks. She has no mirror in the room, but sometimes she can see a half-reflection in the window.
The door opens. Two nurses enter. Their blue uniforms blaze against the drab interior of her room.
"Morning, Eliza,” says the more senior of the two. For Mrs. Jenkins, words come lazy and slow, the years having dulled her enthusiasm. She quickly assesses the state of the room.
The other nurse, only a couple of years older than Eliza, says nothing, but at least makes eye contact and allows her a brief smile.
"Come along,” Mrs. Jenkins demands.
Eliza obeys passively, but as she walks out into the hallway, a great commotion rises up to greet her. She flinches, not wanting hear the moans and the babble. “Cattle market,” she says, spitting out the words. She begins to raise up her hands in an effort to cover her ears, but Mrs. Jenkins takes hold of her and leads her forward. Eliza tries to ignore the others, with their incessant prattling, focusing instead on the inanimate. The ornate fireplace with sinuous carvings; she imagines herself small enough to walk among its curves and tunnels.
"Damn you!” someone says. She looks downward, examining the ruby rug with its froth of white tassels. Then a clock ticking, its pendulum swaying back and forth, back and forth, glinting.
They lead her up the staircase where massive oil paintings hang, the dead mingling with the living. But of course that is the case everywhere.
"Not a child,” a dead voice says, “a harlot!"
Eliza asks, “Where are you taking me?” She looks down from the staircase. White faces watch her and they seem to know.
"Where are we going?” she asks, urgently now. “What are you going to do to me?"
A door opens and they usher her inside.
First she sees a woman in a full-length turquoise dress, drawn in at the waist then arcing up and out like a vase from which her neck rises, a stem, her face bright. Quickly the woman comes up to her. She takes the girl's face in her hands and studies the features intently.
"How old are you, child?"
From behind her, a deeper voice comes. “I told you, she's sixteen."
Eliza looks past the woman and notices, for the first time, the two other figures in the room. “Charles!” she exclaims, as if she has not seen him in ages.
"How strange,” the woman says, “to have a sister so much younger than yourself."
"Perhaps,” Bishop says. “My mother was forty years old and on to her second husband by the time she had Eliza. In truth, I have been more a father than he, more of a parent than either of them. They gave her into my care some years ago."
Edgar Marks steps forward. “Hello, Eliza.” He is some years older than Bishop and speaks in a soft, warm voice. “I also have a sister. Allow me to introduce Miss Jane Marks."
Eliza curtsies.
"Jane is an artist,” Edgar continues, “and we've asked her to paint a portrait of you. Won't that be nice?"
Eliza gives a slight, uncertain nod.
Edgar speaks softly to his sister. “Now Jane, do not be alarmed if Eliza should speak of spirits, or any other strangeness. She can be quite fanciful—"
Bishop interjects suddenly, “No, no, Edgar, fanciful is quite the wrong word. She is anything but that."
"I merely wish to pre-warn my sister in order to avoid any alarm."
"Please do not seek to shelter me, Edgar,” Jane says. “You are in no way up to the task. Now, what say I proceed with the endeavour?"
She walks away, deeper into the room, to where an easel stands, removing her white gloves in preparation for the task ahead.
Bishop gently leads Eliza to a chair and she sits down. Nervously she bites into a finger-nail. “I brushed my hair,” she says. “Do I look pretty?"
Many voices murmur in resp
onse, the dead mingling with the living. But in the hours that follow, the dead grow quiet, as if they are drawn away.
* * * *
Will ran along the road, papers pressed in his pockets. To reach Silver Street he had to travel two miles from Soho, and he didn't want to be late. An old woman shambled along the pavement, mumbling and flicking back the cover of a basket, counting carrots inside. Will slowed, watching her.
"Move aside!"
Will jumped to the edge of the road as a cart lumbered past, the horses splattered with mud to their bellies. The wheels flung curls of mud onto the tail of his coat.
"Move aside,” the carter bellowed again, further along the road.
Will pressed his fingers against the folded note in his pocket. His father had written, painstakingly, a polite request. He was unable to afford the expense of Will's entrance to a painter's studio, but a premium of fifty pounds might enable him to serve an apprenticeship. Will shivered, squeezing the note. “Where's Will going?” Robert had asked, the previous evening. Robert was four, his brother, a cherub with licks of soft hair the colour of treacle.
"Where're you going, Will?” he had asked again, holding up his arms to be lifted. Will obliged. The little boy, already in his bedshirt, pressed his face into Will's neck. Will breathed in the warm sweet perfume of the child's skin.
"I'm going to do some drawing for a gentleman,” he said grandly. “A fine gentleman, with a silk jacket and a wig, and a painted face."
"A macaroni,” Catherine shouted. “A macaroni. Will's going visiting. He'll be dandified too. Can you get me a fan, Will? Can you?"
Catherine, three years older than Robert, picked up a stocking her mother had embroidered and flapped it in her face.
"Catherine,” their mother scolded. “Put that down.” But they laughed, all of them, in the room's evening twilight where one tallow candle burned to illuminate the stitching. Robert kissed his big brother.
"Be careful, Will,” he admonished gravely. He reached for a lock of Will's hair, and tugged it gently.
Silver Street, Number 12, stood in a graceful crescent overlooking a park and, further down, a small arboretum where cherries flowered. A woman in a blue dress opened the front door when he knocked. She led him inside, to a drawing room on the first floor, without saying a word. As he waited, Will browsed along a shelf of calf-bound books: volumes on anatomy and medicinal herbs, classical works, midwifery.
GUD Magazine Issue 0 :: Spring 2007 Page 4