Category: General Fiction

All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 599: Trailer Park Sintennial and Fare Thee Well 500’s, Don’t Let the Screen Door Hit You on the Ass: And a Special List Battle Royale!

ireneallison12

-One-

Here’s to a Place That Has More Kids Than Teeth

I lived in a trailer park for a little over a year, 1978 to 1979 b.c.e. It was in South Park, a neighborhood a few miles south (duh) of Seattle. The Dumwamish River flowed about a hundred yards from my metal abode, and the South Park Draw Bridge was about a block away. The world’s largest and long lastingest mud puddle, which never evaporated once while I lived there, stood between the park and the cleverly named South Park Tavern (I was only nineteen and looked fifteen, so I usually got kicked out about half the times I went in–until a cop saw me and gave me a minor consumption ticket. Bastard). There was also a popular 24hr eatery (the equally cleverly named South Park Diner) where I took most of my meals (great pulled pork sandwich and home fries). Ah, it was a fine trailer park–I paid, get this, seventy-five smackers a month for a small one bedroom trailer. And I felt oddly honored when the show South Park came on the air some twenty years down the line. Those were some strange and yet terrible times, but I’m glad I had them.

One oddity was I never met the landlord. Every first of the month I slipped a money order through the slot of “their” door. You see, I was told it was a husband and wife run outfit. I inherited the trailer from my brother who had moved and they said sure if I wanted to renew his lease–I guess no one cared to meet me. When I left I gave a month’s notice with the last rent money order and returned the key the same way. It had Christmas lights duct taped to it, which, of course, I left up. I really doubt such a situation can happen anymore–I don’t think so anyway, gotta feeling the area got the hell gentrified out of it. Anyway this is a brief little mention to the South Park Trailer Park (which I hope, along with the everlasting mud puddle, still exists, but I have my doubts and I refuse to check on it). Anyway, I just found out that the American Trailer Parks have been around since the 1920’s; so let us call this year the 100th, since no one else is staking a claim.

-Two-

I’ll be as Holy as You Let Me (and a Word Was Born)

I’ve begun a long forestalled project this year. I am reading the King James Bible cover to cover. I read one chapter of it a day, everyday (I know it will take a very long time, but there is nothing that dies harder than an old lady–so, with a nod to Kate Bush, I’m running up Calvary Hill, no problem). Today (not this today, but on the today I write this) I read Genesis 32. Jacob had just rassled the Lord in 31 and today he made up with his brother Esau. It is incredible the amount of jerks you meet in Genesis. Guys who instruct their wives to pretend to be their sisters to protect themselves; and there were women who told their husbands to bang their female slaves then called the resulting children their own (no word on the slaves’ feelings) . And then there was Onan, he of the “Blue Ball Express–which always pulls out on time”–God was not pleased with Onan–and I find myself wondering just how did the Lord “slew” him? Still, I find myself no longer as unfairly aligned with the darkness in my soul against the scriptures. Good things often happened to deficient people (such as Jacob, later Israel), because they were able to grow and change. A lot of the time preachers do not express the flux nature of Genesis, which I find detrimental to the message.

Now, I’ve begun the project (which I will complete unless smited or smoted or even smittened) not as an aim for heaven, but as a way of understanding something I’ve always taken aim at with fangs bared and claws extended. That is unfair of me, so the project is underway. So far I am certain that the Bible is a series of allegories, with occasional real persons and places added. You have to allow for that because, for instance, it is impossible for two persons to create an entire species. Moreover, the lifespans are ridiculous. But there is value in this book, along with the great Sermon on the Mount and poetry such as the Lord’s Prayer. Anyway, no one in the world would love to know God more than I–but there is no way I would ever want to be Tammy Faye Baker. If faced with that choice, I will quote Twain “All right then, I’ll go to hell.”

But there is a genuine comparison between the human behaviours of ago to those of now (and all before, between, and what is likely to come). The people of Sodom were so horrible that a man, Lot, who offered up his virgin daughters to star in a gang bang so he could be a good host to his guests (preventing their star turn in the proposed gang bang) is the only righteous man in town. This was followed by the conversion to sodium by Mrs. Lot; still, I can identify with Lot’s wife, I would have looked back, especially when told not to. I think her name should be Sodo-Chloe–for sodium chloride. Then there was the incest in the cave, which was proably shaped like a trailer.

Ha! Get it! Trailer Park humour in the Old Testament! Okay, fine whatever. But due to that event the Bible has allowed me to invent a new word, which I humbly introduce to the English Language:

Precetious (n) Telling a “new Joke” that has already been told or is currently going round the joke cycle.

My mobile home shaped cave for Lot and his daughters must be precetious. It is too obvious with all the slamming of poor people with associations of incest and trailer parks. Plus it is “cool” to ridicule the Bible. I am stepping back for that; I’m for humour and holy books, but I am done with the scornful approach. For example, George Carlin (who was a genius, but when he got older, frankly, he began to slip and was not much more evolved comically than Dice Clay) blamed the Bible for over-population. “Go forth and be fruitful.” Well, other than not explaining China or India, it was precetious (I love getting my word underlined with the uptight red squiggle) for certain. George, I think, got pretty used to all the butt-kissing the younger generations of comics laid on him. Hey, the same went for the monumentally unfunny Bob Hope and Milton Berle. The only comic I have ever seen who seemed unimpressed by his ascension to the holy was Richard Pryor. Even when he was terribly sick I could see the “fuck off” in his eyes. Eddie Murphy did a wonderful imitation of Richard’s act–but Richard was most extremely first–and Pryor, unchained, is my candidate for the funniest person ever.

Hmm, I seem to have lost my way, even though introducing my Bible Study and new word was the object of this “lesson” number two.

So let us moveth forward.

-Three-

The 599th Week That Was

So many wonderful things have occurred in weeks 500-599 that one is tempted to put on Green Day’s Good Riddance and get weepy about it all. But let us not get overly stupid. A number is a number and there is nothing more special about 599 than there is in any other. More good things is always number the numero uno desirement. (Maybe another new word?)

Ever erudite Geraint Jonathan returned Sunday with Shakespeare the Tease. You need not be an expert on the Bard to enjoy Geraint work (but some knowledge is helpful). Like the subject Geraint is a master of wit and poetic prose. And there are no truer words today than those writ four-hundred years ago.

Taking the Plunge by M.A.B. Lee led off the work week and forever reshaped the concept of the plumber’s helper. And although one might feel that there was a lot of this tale at the surface–oh no, there was and is so much more to it. Absolutely funny as hell and a great read first thing in a day. So well thought out and presented.

Tuesday brought us The Potato Man by Leigh-Anne Burley. Life can build up on you as well as in you. And in just a few words Leigh-Anne showed us the implosion of a human being. A truly sad event, but maybe it can help someone who sees him or herself on the sofa, hating the same sort of life.

Shoshauna Shy (who has a real cool name, if you ask me) returned with Iowa on Wednesday. I am similar in age to the kids in this tale and trust me she got the way the American world was for little kids in the sixties. The old days were not always the good ones, no matter what people tell you. It is also a personal story, like Leigh-Anne’s, with heartbreak, but being young, there was hope as well.

Joe Ducato presented The Duster on Thursday. This one mixes the fantastic with the grim often idiotic overly orderly society in which laws are followed because, well, because. You find yourself rooting for “The Duster” even though his task is a tall one that gets ever higher by the moment.

Right now I must confess to writing The Hydra of Lambistan. It is 5:27 A.M. and it is easy to confess to my sins prior to sunrise. Anyway, for those of you who read it and commented kindly, I greatly appreciate you. And for those of you who chose the old If You Cannot Say Anything Nice, Then Say Nothing at All bit–in my mind The Thumper Commandment, well. I guess I owe you my thanks as well (but not to a sizeable portion).

Anyway, here’s a reminder to please do things you are not likely to do and further thanks for those of you who do such good deeds without being prodded by one of those giant wooden forks you used to see on dining room walls in the 1970s.

And farewell to the 500’s. It requires not a doctorate to figure out that it takes about two years to do a hundred, so I hope you remember to return next week when Hugh yanks the 600’s, doubtlessly screaming, spitting, shitting and kicking, into the world for, as the Beatles once put it, a damn good wacking (metaphorically of course, for LS deplores violence on numbers).

Extra Note

This paragraph is being added a few days after I had scheduled the article, please forgive me if it comes off a bit choppy. But I feel I should make special mention for Dolly Parton, who died yesterday. For me there are three famous people I have always believed I will be extra sad about when they go: Carol Burnett, Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton. They all have/had a special quality of friendly respect that cannot be faked. Carol is still with us and I hope she makes a hundred, but, like with Loretta before, I must bid farewell to the unlikely yet wonderful lady from the south. Dolly and Loretta Lynn were quite special yet utterly different although they came from similar backgrounds. Below is a clip of my favorite Dolly song.

The next day…I want all the Cool Famous People to please stop dying for a little while. Tim Curry was awfully cool and like with Dolly, his passing leaves a sadness.

Rocky Horror is immortal, but this wasn’t bad either:

-Four-

Grammar Stuff

Word I vow to stop misspelling: Here I’ve decided to add grammar mistakes to the ongoing list. This time out fewer versus less is the subject. I keep forgetting they are not the same, that “fewer” means a decrease in the actual, knowable number while “less” refers to uncountable mass numbers, like traffic and such. It is one of those mistakes that most of us make–or at least whatever group it is that includes yours truly.

Bi-word of the bi-week: Collywobbles (n) “whimsical word for butterflies in the stomach”

Hated Word of the Bi-Week: “Icon/iconic.” I have had enough of it. Please stop using it. Such laziness unless used ironically or in dialogue.

-Five-

List Battle Royale

The list this bi-week is different from the norm. First of all it is neither one to ten nor an A to Z offering, it is a list of seven, each item representing a day of the week. My idea is to present a Battle Royale, that wrestling gimmick in which a bunch of steroid-infused bozos hit the ring and go at it until the one guy the promoter says will be the winner remains. This battle involves songs that represent days of the week and will end with a clip of the pre-ordained winner.

The Combatants:

Monday: Come Monday Jimmy Buffet

Tuesday: Tuesday Afternoon Moody Blues

Wednesday: Goodbye Ruby Tuesday The Stones because I cannot think of a Wednesday song and have enough integrity not to google for one

Th: Thursday’s Child Bowie

Friday: Friday on My Mind Easybeats

Sat: Saturday Night’s All right For Fighting E.J. (my band did that one, unbelievable time signature)

Sun: Sunday Morning Sidewalk Kris Kristofferson

The Action:

“Hello folks, Irene the Idler here to call the action of the Great Song of the Day Battle ROY-Al. All seven have entered the squared circle, though Sunday appears to be monumentally intoxicated as Lindsay Lohan. He has staggered off to a corner and appears to be trying to roll a cigarette.

“There’s the ring of the bell. And it is clear that the Moodies and the Stones hooked up to form an allegiance. They have jumped Bowie and Buffet and have excused both from the big dance early. But neither went out first because the Easybeats understood that they did not belong in the same ring with the others and committed the Battle ROY-AL version of suicided by grabbing a handful of its own long hair and yanking itself over the top ring while the opening bell was still ringing.

“This leaves the Moodies, Stones, Sir Elton and Kris K, who appears to have passed out in his corner. Now folks are there two more duplicitous people in music than Mick Jagger and Elton John? Everyone knows the answer to that save for the Moody Blues. And out the first B-list super group goes after a from behind double drop kick from Mick and Reggie.

“The problem with duplicity and evil alliances is that such things must come to a head when all the true competition has been eliminated by unholy teamwork–It appears that both Mick and Elton had made a pre-alliance with Kris, but guess who was feigning drunkenness? And first there goes Elton then Mick (who is yanked clear by the arm of Johnny Cash), as Willie Nelson distracts the ref. It’s as clever as when Kris turned around on three when dueling Jack Elam in the Billy the Kid movie—Ring the bell, and behold the winner who is—

Jesus Christ, it’s getting to be like the obits page around here: Anyway and in memory of Frank Beard (1949-2026)–Stop dying already

And I was just thinking of her when she died this morning. This one hurts personally, for she was always known in my life for her positve energy. Bigger than life, a female Freddie Mercury to me

Leila

All Stories, General Fiction

Iowa by Shoshauna Shy

literallystories2014

circa 1963

Frieda

What a relief to get my seven-year-old, Claudy, occupied and out of my hair for awhile by having her little cousin stay on with us. Don’t I know the nonstop yank of an only child?

Stephanie, my sister, thought going home without her daughter after their visit a frightening idea. Of course she’d think that; she’s a skittish kitten; thinks everything bad that can happen will. I had to point out how swell our two girls get along, that her Mandy needed more girl time what with three older brothers afoot. Besides, how fair was it that Steph was blessed with a passel of kids, and I worked overtime to get pregnant at all?

“Don and me’ll get her back to you when we drive out to Omaha,” I promised. What’s three weeks? Surely you can loan her out three weeks.

While Mandy had her first vacation away from her parents, I planned to sit and yak on the phone with my friends without getting interrupted one hundred different ways. I planned to watch As the World Turns from start to finish, and read McCall’s cover to cover. I also planned to buy Mandy some leotards and take her to Claudy’s ballet lessons, take them to the chocolate museum, and have a meal at Bailywick’s all-you-can-eat Sunday buffet. Places Stephanie and Ed had no money for. Told her high time Mandy ate out somewhere better than McDonalds.

“Well, why don’t I ask her if she wants to stay?” My sister proposed.

“Hell’s bells!” I balked. “Get the kids to bed tonight and Ed load up the car and you go first thing before it gets light. I’ll handle Mandy at breakfast.”   

Ed was all for it. Said Steph had to cut those apron strings someday anyhow; might as well be now. Once I got him on board, everything went like clockwork. She set the boys’ clothes aside and once the bunch went to bed on the lower level and the girls upstairs, Ed loaded the suitcases into the station wagon. At 4:30 a.m., I tiptoed into the guest room and shook Steph awake. The boys were so sleepy, they did as they were told and climbed into the car, barely registering what was going on. Steph wrung her hands and pivoted back and forth in the driveway till I gave her a big hug and bundled her into the passenger seat. Headlights off, Ed put the car in reverse and they backed out to the street for the twenty-hour trip to Iowa. So began my summer!

Claudy came first into the kitchen that morning, and climbed onto her chair.  Mandy followed shortly in her cotton nightie, dragging her stuffed bear. I had waffles ready and batter in the iron.

“Sit yourself down,” I said to my niece. “Put some nice maple syrup on that waffle.” I informed her she was going to have a splendid vacation here with my family the rest of June. Shook the spatula in the air for emphasis. “No boys allowed!”

“No boys?” Her brows squinched up. She stood stock still, one knee halfway on the chair seat.

“No pesky, bothersome boys!” I sang. “Claudy, let me give you half to start,” I leaned over and tore a waffle in two.

“Where’s my brothers?” Mandy glanced about the quiet kitchen.    

“Not here!” I beamed. “Brothers, Mom and Pop are on their way back to Iowa.”

“I-O-WA?” That little girl’s jaw dropped as her voice tilted up and her eyes got big. “They LEFT me?”

I can’t count the number of times she ran to the guest room, the lower level then outside to the driveway. Back to the guest room, the lower level then outside, just circling and circling. Standing barefoot on the cement out there in the driveway in her nightgown holding that teddy by one hand. She didn’t make a sound. Not a single peep.

She didn’t eat those waffles either. As a matter of fact, hardly ate anything for two whole days. Laid on the bunkbed in Claudy’s room clutching her bear. I checked her for fever; she was fine, then she turned her back on me and fell asleep. Well, be that way. And although she eventually joined us for meals, when Don tried to get a rise out of her with some knock-knock jokes, Mandy put her hands over her ears and stared down at her lap.

That girl hardly spoke for almost a week. I was spooked silly. When Claudy was busy with piano practice, I told Mandy she better straighten up because she was upsetting all of us. “Don’t you want your cousin to like you?” I knew that was a mean thing to say, but it popped right out of my mouth.   

Her eyes got big and round, then she wrapped her arms about herself and shivered, as if cold.

Some dark cloud lifted, though, and Mandy started doing whatever my daughter asked, whether it involved giving up the favored hula hoop or letting Claudy have the last of the cherry jam on her sandwich. Next thing I knew, she was clearing the plates for me after our dinners. She

was plumping the pillows in the TV room and making her bed every morning. She even got a dishtowel and cleaned off Don’s shoes when he came home and left them by the door one evening. “I say we keep her!” He joked when he found them, expecting to win a smile.

She just ran off to her room and stayed there right through dinnertime.

My sister called every few days, and because of the long-distance cost, we only spoke for about ten seconds. “Is Amanda OK?” “Of course she is.” But during the third week, Steph wanted me to put Mandy on the phone. Well, I had to tell her that Mandy was having such a great time outdoors that all she wanted her mother to do was look forward to seeing her soon.

I had to say that; Mandy was on the swingset and refused to stop and come speak to her mama. I coaxed and I pleaded, even tried a bribe with Peppermint Palace for soft serve. No deal. She planted a foot in the dirt and twisted herself into a tight spiral, openly defying me for the first time. Even put her fingertips in her ears and then she exploded into tears, these deep wracking sobs. Now? You have to do this now? I couldn’t stand the sound of them.

I had to quick go back and lie to Stephanie. My sister’d have her undies in a bundle if she knew what was going on.

Stephanie

Frieda and Ed put me up to leaving my daughter and driving away. It’s not something I’d ever think to do on my own. I only got about three minutes to consider it; Frieda always in a rush after she gets some big bossy idea. But when she said it wasn’t fair she only got one kid from Jesus, I caved. Doctors told her after the Cesarean she’d risk her life for a second baby, so he shut down

business and that was that. Claudia was it. Frieda felt cursed and I felt like a bandit for having been spared her plumbing problems.

And true, my Amanda had no one at home to play Barbies with, no one to play jacks or hopscotch, us living out on County Trunk H miles from town. She had to tag along on her older brothers’ heels, getting scraped up and tossed around the way no girl should. Staying in the city with her cousin was supposed to be a reprieve from all that, a special vacation, I told myself.

But I felt nauseated the whole drive home, especially when the boys woke up in Ohio asking where Amanda was. Once Ed told them, they didn’t mention their sister again, as if

saying her name out loud might bring them bad luck. Ronny got a bit gloomy till the next truck stop when Ed bought them each a Milky Way. Then he cheered right up.

That night, sitting on the bed at the Motel 6, I ached to call her long-distance, hear my daughter’s voice. But Ed swore I’d make things worse because Amanda would beg us to come get her, and then what? Not like we’d turn around and undo all those miles!

“She’s too young for this, Ed! What were we thinking?”

He waved me off. That’s because he hardly knew what kind of company she was for me those long hours he was at work. We baked together while the boys roughhoused, peach tarts and cheddar biscuits and fun things. We dressed her dolls in hand-sewn smocks, play-acted parts of her picture books. Amanda was my touchstone in ways my boys were not, in a way husbands aren’t. As we drove through Indiana the next morning, I wrote Frieda a note telling her to call me soon as she got it once the girls were in bed. Stuck a page in there for Amanda, too, with heart shapes drawn all over it. Made Ed drive off the interstate into some little burg so I could find a mailbox.

No call came. Not that week, not the next. I lost my appetite and just smoked my Pall Malls, drank Sanka. Once the boys were in bed, I sat at the sewing machine with a Butterick pattern and yellow gingham piecing together a jumper for Amanda. Stayed up late two nights in a row making myself one to match. It was kind of big on me, but once my girl was home and we were back to baking, I knew I’d fill it out.

In the last week to go when the boys were at the sandlot, I dialed Frieda’s house and begged her to put Amanda on the line. She went outside to get her then I heard nothing, those expensive long-distance minutes ticking away. Finally she returned and said Amanda was having

too much fun with their new puppy to come talk. That was a sucker punch, alright, but there were only four days to go. I bit my tongue, thanked her curtly and hung up.

On Sunday soon as I heard them pull into our driveway, I rushed outside. I scooped Amanda out of their car with a whoop and did a jig with her in my arms. She went limp and heavy, like one of those cats they call “rag doll” because she just hung there, no expression on her face, no smiles. She wouldn’t look at me. Look at anyone. Frieda made a big show of acting all giggly about the swell time they’d had, then she hastily squeezed Amanda bye and jumped back into the car with Claudia before Don stepped on the gas.

I crouched down to face my child, and she fell against me with a cry. I wrapped my arms around her as she wept, big sobs wracking her. Shooed away the boys when they came up asking what was wrong. I held her tight as I could. My girl was home!

But Amanda’s been home a few days now. Not said much of anything–not even to me. She won’t join her brothers in play, won’t rock with me in the glider on the porch. Just clears the table without me asking, gathers up the laundry off bedroom floors, carries it in her arms to the

Maytag in the basement. “They make you earn your keep over there or what?” Ed teases. He’s as puzzled as I am. Can’t get her to talk to him either.

Except every morning after he shaves, Ed finds his shoes set neatly by the back door beside his briefcase, waiting for him. His good Oxfords polished and buffed so hard they shine.

Shoshauna Shy

Image by Mike Tyler from Pixabay– A pair of highly polished brown Oxford shoes on a blue background.

All Stories, General Fiction

The Potato Man by Leigh-Anne Burley

literallystories2014

Through thick, black-rimmed glasses, Irvington Hayes stared at three starlings perched on a telephone wire outside Birch and Birch, the accounting firm where he had spent his working life for the past 20 years. Each day, Irv occupied the same worn wooden bench, eating the same predictable lunch: a bologna-and-cheese sandwich on Wonder Bread, a carrot, and a Macintosh apple, washed down with a carton of Borden’s milk. He saw no need for change. Punctual to the second, Irv brushed crumbs off his ill-fitting brown suit and re-entered the gray, three-story office building for another routine day.

Continue reading “The Potato Man by Leigh-Anne Burley” →
All Stories, General Fiction

An Arrangement by Kenneth N. Margolin

literallystories2014

Darlene’s husband, Warren Mason, sells his lumber company for twenty million dollars. They build a forty-five hundred square foot deck house on thirty wooded acres bounded by three hundred acres of conservation land in rural North Carolina and plan to grow old amidst the trees. Five years after they build the house, while cutting down a diseased tree, Warren collapses and dies. Darlene considers moving closer to town, but cannot bear the thought of leaving the birds, the deer, the unseen creatures that forage through the woodlands and visit her backyard. At eighty-three years old, Darlene resolves to live and die in her beloved home.

Continue reading “An Arrangement by Kenneth N. Margolin” →
All Stories, General Fiction

Twolips by Gerry Coleman

literallystories2014

“A dream fulfilled is a dream lost.” 
                                                                          —Mickey Lafferty

The year Rosemarie Zuccarrelli moved away from Ninety Second Street to live with her maternal relatives in the Midwest, we were thirteen.

She quickly metastasized into likenesses and lies, was diluted by adaptations and revisions I fabricated to fill forward the missing frames. I did what most teenaged boys did: I played sports, pushed my luck with inaccessible girls, snuck beers, and cheated on tests. I wrote poems. Spare poems I did not share, poems touching upon alienation and nothingness, the depths of the surrounding black and unyielding ocean, and the silence of God in the world.

I idolized her.

Continue reading “Twolips by Gerry Coleman” →
All Stories, General Fiction

The Last Number by Arpi Vanyan

literallystories2014

She had done the same thing every evening for three years.

She would pour tea into a cup with a chipped rim, sit by the window, pick up her phone, and dial a number.

The same voice, every time.

“The number you have dialed is temporarily unavailable.”

Continue reading “The Last Number by Arpi Vanyan” →
All Stories, General Fiction

Resurrection Blues by Joel Bryant

literallystories2014

After the break-up of Dystopian Dentist, I immediately decided to form a new band. Screw those other guys, holding me back, crushing my artistic vision.

I was looking to move to a more blues sound, which made me immediately think of bringing in Croydon Dan. He was the only string slinger I coveted. Cat played like he’d been born in the Deep South, not South London. We’d lost touch over the years, so imagine my major dismay when I found out that Dan was pushing up the daisies. I never did discover how, but the dude did have issues. Still losing him was a massive bummer. He’d have been perfect; music was in his bones. Weird to think that would soon be the only thing left of him.

Continue reading “Resurrection Blues by Joel Bryant” →
All Stories, Editor Picks, General Fiction, Humour, Short Fiction

Week 597: Random Vexations Vol. 2; Five Corners’ Fiasco and the A to Z of Barroom Punchables

ireneallison12

-1-

This wrap has been a frustration. I have had too many ideas than a lack; when that happens everything collides and I wind up with an accident site instead of an intelligent article.

There’s an intersection in the community of Sunnyslope, Washington that is called Five Corners. It currently involves two large streets intersecting at a four way stop. But many years ago there was a third street (which was like a line joining a cross, stopping between two of the streets and did not go farther) that met at the intersection, nothing greater than a private drive granted streetdom and its own stop sign. This created the Five Corners. It is still called Five Corners to this day even though the smaller street was closed in 1980-something and there now is a giant concrete block at what used to be its meeting point at the intersection.

I’m unaware of any serious accidents at the intersection but it sure caused enough fender benders to vex the insurance companies. Imagine five drivers sitting at five stop signs, each one trying to figure out the meaning of life. I got in that mess once, and decided to drop gear, burn rubber and take all the fingers aimed in my direction with the best grace expendable. Life is too short when you are twenty-four.

Anyway a similar event happened in my mind this week. A pile up of five ideas that I had no real feelings for happened in my mental Five Corners. One involved religion (observations such as Sarah, Abraham’s Wife, was 90 but a hot 90); another featured personal music history observation involving how all popular bands sound like the one original group that existed for about three years; Catfoonery; an incomplete additional philosophy on Wildlife and something else that I do not quite remember and do not care enough to look for. It was a tiresome mess.

It may surprise some of you to learn this: Drugs and alcohol do not fix everything. You see, after you take enough of both you tend to find yourself isolated from the human race by mutual consent, which, believe it or not, is not a bad thing at all. Sadly, however, even after the most enthusiastic session of self abuse is over, the little Five Corners pile ups we create will still be there, and in the opium infused-bourbon afterdream, the situation gets no prettier.

Fortunately, however, for those of us who need to salvage enough of an idea to write a post, a lifetime of cobbling together something from nothing as a means of surviving until the next self created disaster arises, gives the strange hope of the forlorn and overdrawn. And as I looked into the dismal drear of it all, a few words popped into my head, left there by the hookah sucking angel employed by the small god of the pointless crisis. The angel said “Random Vexation, Volume 2” and went back to wherever such a personage dwells.

Well, by jingle, buy low, sell jangle fly high–there you have it. Consider all of the above Volume Two of my recently begun Random Vexations file.

And let us now proceed onto something more uplifting in purpose.

-2-

The Week That Was

Dale Williams Barrigar comes by on every second Sunday of the month with yet another essay. These works are always happy surprises except for the fact that their is nothing unexpected about their high quality. Skid Row Wine a study of Jack Kerouac is Dale’s latest on the site, and once again he displayed his rare talent for making scholarship come off both personal and sincere. The focus here was the brilliant yet troubled (a fit all description for I’d say two thirds of all great artists). And although it is impossible, Dale has a capacity to transform his education into words that give the reader the impression that he was in the same room with the people he often writes about. Truly a stunning talent, and it is a pity that he is not yet better known.

Monday was a joyful occasion because it marked the debut site story by Cris Aboobaker, The Second Husband. Cris is a good writer who had some rejections, but it was never a matter of quality. And he has always been professional and continuously seeks to improve his work. Since this one came out, Cris has had a second acceptance, which will appear in a month or so. His work is well planned but not to the degree that is stiff or over-explained. It always feels great to see this sort of person do well.

Leanne Simmons (another fine person and a professional in style and attitude) returned and gave us Baby’s Breath on Tuesday. The closing lines of this are incredible and leave a wonderful impression. This vignette is a masterful work of timing and style. So often you can see where the writer is struggling to get everyone in, but not here, it passes as effortlessly as a summer breeze.

Joe Mallon dished out the noir and then some on Wednesday with No Moon in January. This is an especially easy type of story to fuck up (forgive the profanity here, but when in noir…), the line between crisp and cool and laughable is not clearly defined. And there are even times when a bit of over the top works perfectly. And although this is a long piece, for us, Joe was able to pull it off with style and restraint. The amazing part was the tension never waned, not once. It always felt on the edge of danger.

The Claw by Mark Czanic made Thursday a better place. Sometimes when people look back, we do so with a lot of automatic mental editing. It’s the writer who can look back and recreate without flinching or selling out who has done (in this case) his job. I feel that this one requires you to think as you get along with it. And I also believe that is a good thing. A temendously alive piece that brings back the soul of the past.

Another Week that Was came to a head yesterday with Relentless Pickle by our dear site friend David Henson. In all ways, and a manner that cannot be artificial, David is the salt of the earth, a charming and reasonable and well mannered soul. And I find it especially encouraging that such a man can produce tremendous works of imagination as we have here. Hooray for David–and since he makes an effort to comment on the works of others, I hope that everyone who reads his work might leave him a comment.

-3-

Word of the bi-week: Taradiddle (n) a petty lie

Bonus Word: Hobbledehoy (n) fancy word for a young dork

-4-

Word I vow not to misspell any more: No one For years I thought it was one thing. “Noone” still catches me unawares. (I also have similar tussles with awhile and a while).

-5-

The Big List

I have Hugh to thank for the title of this bi-week’s list: Who Would You Automatically Punch if Introduced to in a Pub/Tavern?

Ah, life there are so many punch-worthy faces yet so few fists. The list contains job titles and specific persons. The abundance has resulted in an A to Z, with A and W suggested by Hugh himself

A: Advertising Fuckwits (Hugh has this nailed tighter to the cross than was the Man from Galilee. I refused to watch the show Mad Men because I consider advertising only a link better on the food chain than rapist)

B: Blithering Blabblers (These are the loudmouths who called themselves “influencers.” For some reason these fools often get themselves shot to death by cartel hitters in Mexico. I’m never for that sort of thing, but it doesn’t surprise me much, either)

C: Charlie Sheen (I cannot support the idea of getting rich by being an asshole, then exploiting HIV as though it were a resource or an excuse. Plainly, dude is a drunk loud mouth and if you get a chance be sure to wear gloves)

D: Demonae Suburbiae (These are the well fed little twinks and twinkettes who go around clad in black all the while pretending just how miserable they are. It’s cool when kids need to experiment as a part of growing up, but it is a long way from cool when they verbally abuse older people and clerks because they can get away with it. I’ll give them all fake ID’s so they can catch their well earned punches)

E: Ever-tuned Goons (These are the bastards who walk around blasting their music on their phones, often amplified by cheap bluetooth speakers on lanyards. The music is usually abusive and is especially keen on racial epithets and misogyny. Almost always scrawny skinheads who are Black wannabees and wear their pants down to their knees. Really can’t expect much from someone who fails to understand just how stupid he looks)

F: Fuckery-fuck-fucked-fuckers (More fake IDs for these underaged fecal skulls who go around making sure that everyone hears their profanity laced observations. Hell annoying from a twelve-year-old, utterly pathetic from a high schooler)

G: Gay Super Heroes: (For some reason there are people who think that behaving like a horny talking Richard Simmons is not only amusing but it is designed to make a social statement. These fools queen it up to the extreme around “straight looking people.” My friend Kevin is an openly gay man who is confident in himself to the degree that he does not feel any need to don a “uniform.” He is a very conservative looking person, by choice not out of fear nor any need to “blend.” Seattle, like most big cities, has a large annual Gay Pride event. A bunch of us went downtown to watch the parade and this one Hero emerged from the crowd and thought he’d shock his interpretation of Kevin by saying a bunch of stupid shit that will not be repeated here. Kevin smiled and grabbed the dude by both butt cheeks, brought him close and laid one on the guy, who turned beet red. Books and covers people, books and covers)

H: Holocaust Deniers

I: Iconics (Everything that is popular is iconic for these dopes. Jessica Simpson referred to “Daisy Duke shorts” as iconic.)

J: (A tie) Jerry Springer Show Guests and Jersey Shore People

K: Kilt Wearing Americans Who are Only Half Scottish (I know two of these guys–and trust me, neither have the legs for it)

L: Larry Flynt (Big difference between Playboy and a dirty porn rag, Larry was it)

M: MAGA LOVERS AND HATERS (I’d love to send these guys to the moon)

N: Neo, Old Fashioned, and In Between Nazis

O: Oprah (I used to like her, but a person can run her mouth too long. Forty years is too damn long)

P: Prince and Princess Anyone

Q: Queen and Qing Anyone

R: Rae H. (An enemy from seventh grade until I graduated high school. Let’s just say she is not “for” people like me and leave it at that. I still hate her. In the song “Santeria” the singer “has something for Poncho’s punk ass”–just saying that goes too for little shitty Miss Rae)

S: Sally Jesse Rapheal (For non-Americans she was the female Jerry Springer)

T: Twenty-Seven of the Forty-six Presidents of the United States (sometimes all except Lincoln, Teddy, JFK and Madison)

U: Uri Geller (tiresome con artist–go bend shit in hell, Uri)

V: Vladimir Putin (Gotta be one obvious one on every list, he’s the one for this)

W: Wanks Who Change Systems Without Being Asked (Hugh’s second contribution to the list goes a long way to explain punched computer screens. The platform (I so hate the modern meaning of that once harmless word) we run the insides of the site on is famous for making unwanted improvements. Then they do not tell you about them and you find yourself having to figure out how now to do something that used to be clear. Bastards)

X: Xavier Cugat (Almost forgotten old time band leader responsible for inflicting Charo on the American public via game shows and guest roles on stuff like the goddam Love Boat–he married her when he was sixty-six and she was allegedly “fifteen.” I was one more fucking “cuchi-cuchi” away from committing an act of extreme violence on many occasions)

Y: Yuppies (These people change their labels constantly, but their gentrified smell is everlasting. Each and every one of them, male, female, whatever, has a voice that reminds me of Robin Leach)

Z: Zoot Suit Close Talkers (a rare species that popped up in the 1980s. Superskinny guys in baggy shiny suits and they always drew up real close in bars asking you all kinds of questions ranging from horoscope signs to your favorite sexual positions. This rare band of fool never assaulted me (oh so fucking as if), but they were all over the more naive types. Highly inspired by Prince and Morris Day of the Time, but minus the looks and talent. I’ve heard that there still are a few hanging around, but in my estimation that is as unlikely as Jimmy Savile coming back from the dead and getting elected PM)

Leila

Robert Plant turns 78 next week…don’t worry, it’s not Stairway

All Stories, General Fiction

Relentless Pickle by David Henson

literallystories2014

I look out our window at the crowd — men and women with their shirts and blouses untucked on one side, some holding up sneakers onto which they’ve written obscenities. The people chant my name and that of my wife, Monica. A few also cheer for our daughter, Lori, who runs up to her bedroom and slams the door.

Continue reading “Relentless Pickle by David Henson” →
All Stories, General Fiction

The Claw  by Mark Czanik

literallystories2014

Everyone was scared of it, although it was just a hand I found in the gutter. Not even a gripping one. ‘The Claw! Beware the Claw! Son of Claw!’ I cried as I chased them up and down the garages.

Pamela and Trudy ran screaming into the sanctuary of Trudy’s back garden. Harry flapped his arms like a wounded bird. Windy somehow heaved himself up by the drainpipe onto the asbestos garage roof and sat there hunched like a gargoyle, while Pods was so terrified he ran into Ted’s empty garage and pulled both doors shut on himself. I couldn’t catch any of them.

‘Revenge of the Claw!’

Continue reading “The Claw  by Mark Czanik” →