... and I'm not ready...
Good luck.
Tom Underhill lives in a little condo in Chicago with his wife, thirty cats, and ten dogs (ok, so there's actually ten times less pets than that, but most days it seems like more). He's not quite sure why he loves writing twisted fiction, but there's no stopping the weirdness when he sits in front of a computer. Eventually he hopes to merge this stubborn surrealism more fully with his academic training and produce something in the historical fantasy line. For now, though, he's content with what's appeared or will be appearing in magazines like Mysterical-E and Bewildering Stories.
Roger Hutchison
Roger Hutchison serves on staff at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in Columbia, SC. He enjoys creative writing, painting, photography and gardening. Roger enjoys spending time with his wife Kristin, daughter Riley (6), and their Cockapoo, Scout. He attended Warren Wilson College in Asheville, NC. It is in the quiet of evening when Roger is able to find the time and space to paint. He mostly sits at the kitchen table. He does not have a designated studio or art space. Sometimes he paints on the back porch or in the garage. He is inspired by movement. He is inspired by life. More of his work can be seen at www.rogerhutchison.blogspot.com
Central Park
In the Gloaming
Good Reception
Symphony
With the Windows Rolled Down
John Carroll
Short Story Outline
OK: your character is named Jennifer. Is she a heroine? To be determined. Let's see where she takes us. Could we make her a superhero? Literary fiction about a superhero? Has that been done? Look into this. Perhaps for another story. Perhaps this one, if it's a page one rewrite.
OK, Jennifer. Jennifer is Roman Catholic. A Roman Catholic superhero? I can't shake that idea. Perhaps that means something. But will it sell?
Back to Jennifer: a Roman Catholic Nurse. Side note: superhero could be The Nurse. Tracks down crooks, treats them afterwards. It's like how Batman doesn't kill his victims, taken to an extreme degree. Batman in white. Deadly with a clipboard. This could go somewhere.
But, oh, Jennifer: let's go. Roman Catholic Nurse. Not a single mother. Single mothers have been done, are done. We don't need to go there. Marriage is done, too. This is literature for women who don't have kids. This is an untapped market. This will sell.
So, yes, Jennifer - you are single. You will remain single. You're not even looking for love. Everyone's looking for love these days. Love is done. Love is out. Side note: don't be so upfront about this in the text. People will think you've just recently watched Down With Love. You haven't. But privately: this is Down With Love, but she doesn't find love in the end. Remember, Jennifer, you're not even looking for love.
All right, so we have our Single Roman Catholic Nurse who isn't looking for love. She's not gay, either. Everyone's making their characters gay. You're not gay, Jennifer. Isn't it possible for a woman to not be looking for love from a man or a woman? What happened to those women? Jennifer, you will be the Emma for that kind of woman.
Speaking of - gosh, what's the title? You're Emma, but you're not going to be "Jennifer." That's bland. This needs to sell. I can't call it "The Nurse." That's the superhero literary fiction title. Which, let's be honest, may still happen. You punch a bank robber in the mouth than take his temperature. I need to keep that, remember that. That will sell.
But Jennifer, back to our title: what's our title? You're a Single Roman Catholic Nurse who isn't looking for love from a man or a woman. That's too long to be a title, but maybe it's a subtitle. Short stories never have subtitles. Perhaps that's my in - John Carroll presents the first New Yorker short story with a subtitle. That's bound to go on the wire, right? Papers will pick that up. People pick up papers. People buy New Yorkers. This is our business plan.
We have a title, Jennifer. "Jennifer: A Single Roman Catholic Nurse Who Isn't Looking for Love from a Man or a Woman." Coming to the New Yorker soon.
But what are you doing, Jennifer? The title almost begs the question. We've established so much. The reader is about to skip the short story. But then they wonder: if you're not looking for love, what are you doing? Now we have them, Jennifer. Excellent work.
Let's get back to it, though: Where are you? You're not at the hospital. That's too predictable. Sure, you're not looking for love, but you're not some workaholic. Why would someone even think that? That's entirely predictable, Jennifer, and if anything, we've established that you're not predictable.
I know: you're in Duane Reade. Yes, New York. Don't worry: two years ago, New York was predictable. Now everyone's getting their characters out of New York. Let's bring them back to New York. You're bringing them back, Jennifer. You're in Duane Reade.
What are you doing in Duane Reade, Jennifer? You're not looking for love. The stock boy in your aisle is unattractive. In fact, he's wearing a wedding band. Off-limits. You're no homewrecker. How could you be? You're not looking for love, remember.
You're looking at condoms, though. That's right, condoms. You're not looking for love. Not even for sex. You're not one of those, Jennifer. No, here's what you do: you make balloon animals with condoms. It's your quirk. Every character needs a quirk. I think they're calling it twee, Jennifer. Condom balloon animals: this is twee.
Come to think of it, though, do condoms present too much of an edge? Children read newspapers for the comics. What if they come across our wire story? What if they pick up a New Yorker? Will this scar them? Is this controversial to be twee? I think we've veered off into dark comedy, Jennifer.
No more condoms. You're looking at pens. You collect pens of every color. You find a navy blue pen. A lot of people probably don't even know that navy blue pens exist. It's twee. It's informative. That's the New Yorker. We're rolling.
Jennifer! You look to your right. There's a kid there - not yours, remember, as you don't have kids, don't want them, don't need them - and he's stuffing something into his shirt. He's shoplifting. You look back to your navy blue pens. There's a half-dozen there. You want it, but you feel somewhat certain there will be navy blue pens there later.
You call for the young man's attention. He knows what you want. He saw you put the navy blue pen - which he didn't know existed - down. He runs. Little does he know, you run three miles every morning. You're fit. Note to self: establish this earlier in the story, or people will find this too convenient. Note it as casually as possible. You don't want people to think it will play any part in the end of the story. In fact, Jennifer, we'll write about your entire workout, as well as your protein shake, to throw them off the scent. Don't let them dwell on your running, Jennifer.
You're giving chase, Jen. (Can I call you Jen?) You'll note something - and do it wryly, Jennifer, as you're a very wry single Roman Catholic Nurse who isn't looking for love from a man or a woman - about all of the independent coffee shops next to the Starbucks. That will resonate beyond New York. People in Iowa subscribe to The New Yorker, Jennifer. You should know that: you lived there in your early 20s. Note to self: see how many Starbucks there are in Iowa.
Your juvenile bolts into traffic. But you saw it coming. You saw him eyeing an opening and took off moments before him. You go at him at an angle. You tackle him, and you do it at the median. Safety first, Jennifer. Remember, you're a nurse.
The boy is struggling to free himself from your grip. You reach into the jacket and pull out the box he's stuffed into his jacket. Robitussin. The extra-sized bottle. He looks up at you. Ma'am, he says, I'm sick. I just need to get better, get back to school.
Jennifer: pick him up. Dust him off. Keep the Robitussin. Look him in the eye. I'll get you better, you tell him. But first - but first, Jennifer! - we must take him to the police. Then to the Duane Reade. For while you'll nurse him back to health over the coming days, you must first concern yourself with the law.
For you are The Nurse. And you concern yourself with not just the health of your patients, but with the health of soc
iety.
Now, Jennifer, I'll bang this out and get it to the New Yorker. Let's meet again tomorrow. We must begin hashing out the screenplay.
John Carroll, a lifetime resident of Philadelphia, currently lives and writes in the southern part of the city. He is a full-time staff member at the Kelly Writers House, a center dedicated to the writing arts at the University of Pennsylvania in West Philadelphia. John is the former Arts and Culture Editor of The Evening Bulletin. His previous work includes A Place to Stand Productions, an experimental mail network. John currently blogs at www.bananagrabbers.com, where he posts experimental poetry and photos, among other things. A short story of his will appear in the forthcoming Philly Fiction 2, published by Don Ron Books.
Poetry by Jason Jones
Transparencies
Most days I stand on the corner,
waiting for the light to change and casting spells
to discard my cloak of invisibility.
A resurrection of the flesh
would be nice. But I've become attached
to a spectral state and shed the mortal coil.
I am a ghost,
but without your love, I'm as scared
of the dark as an inventive child.
I am a transparency, vapor,
simple-minded, untraceable,
and oh so deathly afraid of myself.
Untitled VI.
Your alabaster skin and nude silhouette unfold
beneath the low light of a solitary candle, like a landscape
late in the day, like a valley at dusk. You tremble, as the
severed wings of Seraphim shake the Earth; and the delicate hair
that covers your body stands on end like tiny blades of grass in the
wind. With your depth, you envelop everything, so that I must
come to you from behind, hold your hands like roots within my own,
and make love to you in silence, for fear the angels of
that abyss will take hold completely.
I will lose myself, I know, but for some reason
no longer care. You open and close and accept
my offering like rain, without bias. Your thirst is like
the soil and you drink from me as from a river.
I kiss the foothills of your shoulders, the plateau, your back and neck,
and these lips are no longer mine.
If I were to call you the moon instead, or the sun or stars, or
even the darkness would you understand
that I belong to you as I belong to this world;
that all that is eternal in me is eternal for you
and I will not let go? We are entwined on this day
as on all days: by belief, and by emotion,
and by the heart.
Jason Jones grew up in the Philadelphia area and studied literature at Temple University. He is currently working on "Barcelona", a novel which details the plight of an opera aficionado recently diagnosed with a terminal illness.
Brandon K. Brock
The Dead Air
When I dragged myself from the stained and worn-out piss yellow sofa that had served as my bed for the past six nights, it was noon and raining. My eyes were blurry and dry from sleeping with my contacts in. My back hurt from the couch, and I had to shit, but the plumbing was broken.
The day was looking marvelous already.
I dressed in my clothes from the day before; a soft, dark blue t-shirt, jeans, and Dollar Store black boots that rubbed my ankles raw.
After grabbing my keys, black hard shell guitar case, and olive duffle bag, I hugged Christina and Claire. I told them I loved them and informed them they needed to fix the toilet and burn their sofa. Then I headed out the door to greet the dreary-ass Thursday laid before me.
I loaded my stuff into my car, a dolphin gray '83 Volvo 245 turbo wagon I loved immensely for its rugged good looks and dependability. It was a graduation present from my best friend Dustin's family.
His family served as my family growing up. My mom died in a car crash two days after I was born. After the accident, my father decided he'd rather get a job on a ridiculous mainstream fishing unit that would keep him out to sea more often than at an empty house.
I think he blamed himself for the wreck. He was acting goofy to make my mom laugh, which he did often and was probably why she married him. He was not much of a looker, so he developed a sense of humor to help the situation. It usually worked to his benefit except for the night he paid more attention to making Mom laugh than to the road. He never saw the deer run out in front of us. We hit it and swerved into a tree.
I was in my mom's arms when it happened. Our car had no seatbelts because it was a '58 Impala, from a period before seatbelts were a requirement. Christina slammed into the side of the car, knocking her unconscious. Mother crashed through the windshield grasping me in her arms. My father flew out as well, but his head found a much softer fall-breaker than the rock that killed my mom.
I know this because Christina told me. When I turned six, my father had a lapse of character and decided to throw a birthday party for me. Christina is thirteen years older than me, so she was nineteen at the time and had come home from the University of Georgia to see me. Besides her and my dad, only Dustin came. Not much of a party, I guess, but it was a nice gesture.
After eating the frost bitten ice cream cake from Winn-Dixie, Dustin went home, and my father packed for his next trip on the boat. Christina went with me to my room and asked if I ever wondered why I didn't have a mother around.
The thought had occurred to me several times, especially on the nights I spent at Dustin's house when his mom would come in before bed and tuck us in. She would kiss his and my forehead and tell us she loved us. We would stay up longer talking and joking, but when he'd go quiet from sleep, my mind would wander. I'd get sad and dwell on what was missing from my life that was apparent in his. But I wasn't jealous; his mom and dad treated me as if I were their own, and they never made me feel I'd overstayed my welcome, even when I stayed every night of the week.
It took me longer in life to realize how bad my relationship with my father was. I think the exact moment came when Dustin's dad took us camping at Fort Gaines. We were sitting on the bank a few yards from our campsite, and his dad was fishing as we sat and watched. He told us a story about how Dustin's grandfather always hated to fish because he'd had a dream as a child in which he bit something hard inside his Twinkie and was pulled out of his living room by an old bamboo pole being held by a large brim with a menacing stare of determination. I watched Dustin's eyes as he listened with full attention to his dad's story. He was enthralled with every word, every syllable, and I thought about how I never looked at my father that way. I can't recall a time he'd bothered to tell me a story.
So when Christina asked me if I ever wondered why I didn't have a mother around, I said yes, but refrained from asking why I never had a dad who wanted anything to do with me.
She seemed hesitant at first, possibly to take enough time to choose her words carefully. She began with, "Well, this is a little hard to say, but I think you're old enough now to understand and not be dramatic about it."
I wasn't sure what dramatic meant, but I listened enthusiastically, as if I were to be let in on some great secret. She remained silent for a few seconds, so I started to feel impatient and asked her to keep going.
Then she spit out the details as if the longer it took her to get it out, the worse off she'd be afterwards. She told it pretty much exactly as I explain it to this day, with the rock fall-breaker and all.
She wasted time at the university partying before dropping out and becoming a lesbian at age thirty-four. She rented a one-bedroom loft apartment in Bainbridge with Claire. They both got jobs as waitresses at Smitty's Diner, and they make enough to live comfortably.
~
My car had no stereo, so it was a quiet drive.
I arrived at his parent
s' house before one to pick him up. I didn't stay long, because I felt out of place and unwanted. I couldn't think of anything to say to them; I felt they blamed me for not talking to Dustin for so long. Like the gap we'd gotten between us was my fault.
With Dustin in the passenger seat, my mind got off his parents, and I began the drive to the mud pond. It was half the size of a Wal-Mart parking lot, and it was located in some woods outlining a pasture in Vada. He and I found it while riding our bikes and exploring. Runoff from a slough created the pond, and it was mixed with cow manure and urine. It was easy biking distance from my father's house, and whenever Dustin would stay with me, we'd make the trek. When we got to be around eleven or twelve, we'd spend more time at my house than his since my father was always gone. There were more great opportunities for trouble when no one was around to watch or care.
The mud pond was our personal dirty haven, and we would spend the night there whenever it wasn't too cold. We had a little two-person navy blue tent with a few patches on it to keep some of the bugs out; the mosquitoes would still drive us crazy so we always packed bug spray. We loved the spot. It was a secret between us, and he told me once he held it closer to his heart than anything.
He was able to say things like that without making me feel uncomfortable. It was something about his tone and his eyes as he spoke. I never doubted his sincerity, even when he said the mud pond was the only place he felt he could die smiling.
The real piss ant part of this whole ordeal was I never told Dustin any of the important events in my life. It wasn't because he wouldn't want to listen, no, he was an excellent listener, and he gave great advice. I just thought everything I did would be less than what he thought I could do. He held me up on a pedestal thinking I was strong for handling my mother's death as well as I did, and for working hard to do well in school even though I hated every moment of it and had no one in my family to impress because no one cared.
The Battered Suitcase September 2008 Page 5