Things happen overnight. Objects materialise that weren’t there before, popping up like mushrooms, taking their permanent place in the world. Sometimes when I wake up, I see trees on the street and boxy civic buildings in the distance, that weren’t there the day before. At night I hear the workers on hushed coffee breaks, pretending not to be there.
“I’m very proud of you.”
The words echoed out of me. Never from the heart but the mouth. There’s never been much of a direct connection there, not until now. They rattled around against the few walls that hadn’t yet sunk into the tequila-soaked brain before enduring an awkward birth from out the hole in the middle of it all.
Maybe it was thoughts about Geronimo or the brick smokestack jutting up against the dark Milwaukee night that made me think about the lean times when I was a kid back in New Mexico. I stood outside my parent’s bedroom door and could hear them talking about money, how we’d be lucky to have enough food for the family through winter. My dad said he’d take me and we’d go to California to work in an asbestos factory. A bricklayer friend of his had called the week before telling him about the job.
Toffee-Head Tom was born to Caramel Jeannie and Jammy-Dodger Rodger. He wasn’t an attractive child and had no friends as such. In those days he was classed as special; now-a-days he would have had a list of names.
He lived happily with his parents. They would only eat pudding if the previous meal had included potatoes.
They spent their Sundays reading excerpts from the Pears’ Cyclopedia and drinking Rainbow Sherbet.
FEBRUARY IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST often contains days that conjure up the image of what a chamber in hell might look like if one were ever to be closed for maintenance. The sky resembles an upside down pale kiln with scummy, pinkish streaks on its surface not unlike colonies of bacteria sprouting in rancid cream; the earth below assumes a grim, ragged face consistent with that of a person who is going through chemotherapy, and the Puget Sound—which the ancient Nisqually People considered their God’s moodstone—boils and tosses and recycles endless shades of gray.
Continue reading “It Happens Every Other Sunday by Irene Allison”
The following excerpts from *In Reality – An Autobiography by Emilio Ramos Junior also known as King FarOut, are reproduced here with kind permission of Joe Chip Publishing (*first published as an e-book in 2254.)
“In cyberspace I am King FarOut. A distinct consciousness from the real me, Emilio Ramos Junior, yet in some obscure fashion, still me. As if I trade places with an identical twin then forget my true self; an altogether unsettling aspect of the Virtual Reality experience which still worries me despite all the industry reassurances…”
The eighteen wheelers sound as if one may soon graze the edge of my bed, and the air conditioner rattles like farm machinery in dire need of oil. The motel rug reeks of mildew, and a distant whistle wails every ninety minutes or so. I’m almost home.
When my father passed away a month ago, I knew I was destined to see the farm where he was born during the Great War. Don’t ask me why, but like a butterfly hell-bent for Mexico, I sensed the fates had ordered this trek.
My cat suffocated in my hair last night. I could not feel her struggle in my sleep, paralyzed by sleeping pills and anxiety. She loved me with all her life. I was followed no matter where I went. Even when I showered, she sat on the sink and waited. I used to set her on my shoulder while I planted celery seeds.
“Name?” the receptionist asks.
“Conrad West.” I study her face. No blink of recognition. I sign the waiver and give her the phone number of my wife, who will pick me up.
I look around the waiting area, deciding where to sit, and choose one of the sofas that face each other. Between them, a curved coffee table holds neatly stacked magazines. From here, I can look through window-walls that join in a 90 degree angle. The view is spectacular. In the distance, the Cascades, green from the spring snow-melt, rise against a blue, blue sky. Soon they will purple over with vetch and when they burn in the summer heat, we’ll call them golden. Below the hills, I watch cars moving along I-5. Picturesque, but closer I would feel the treachery. The noise, the smell, the speed of trucks that carry food, fuel, lumber into thirsty California.
I can hear her, the woman upstairs. Especially on a Friday or Saturday night when she’s entertaining a guest. The two, the woman and her guest, trade small talk. Over drinks, most likely. I only catch a line here and there, especially if I’m watching TV. Eventually the small talk dies out and the entertaining goes horizontal – I can tell by the rhythmic squeaking of her sofa-bed.
literally stories 