You want my tales, my stories, and my fantasy land. You live vicariously through me. “I don’t have to live. Muse does enough living for the both of us. All I need to hear are his crazy ass stories,” a girl told a random starnger at the bar the other night.

Well, here’s the deal, I’m tapped out. I’m done. Finished. I’ve accomplished what I want to with my tales for public view. I’ve outdone myself and finally I’m free from those constructs you put on me. I don’t have to be your Saturday morning stand-up entertainment anymore. I don’t need an audience to complete me now. I can complete myself. I will undoubtedly continue to tell you my adventures. That’s what I do. I am built to entertain. However, now I do it all for you, not for me, because I want to not because I have to. All it took to realise this was the help of the mist.

…Sewing needles will
thread in the dark, lightning’ll
be a stored source, green
on the table, no need for
stables, old a collection

no need for savvy,
or to ask a farmer’s wife
does she sow, parades
of air dancers, kenny g
exiled, and dogs named erskine

airwaves owned by the
people, the true meaning of
steeple revealed, no
one leaves on a jet plane, no
need for blame, no laws-no law-

enforcementors, health
food deemed redundant, shelf-life
an oxymoron,
weather’s for sailing, who is
ailing, harp seals pandas

potable water,
people needing people the
only people in
the Morlde`, Barbra unexiled
to real-ly sing happy days

are here, again, and
everyone’s in a slow dance
expertly in charge
of the Love, every game ends
in a tie, all qualify!

H.e.m.-H’H.
10.16.MMix.
(novus vetus universitas)

- MORLDE MANIFEASTO -

It’s Saturday night
new Moon’s no Moon, darkle for
Leonid after…
his appearance like to a
Henny, Lenny, Rennie…It’s

The Amortizing Reverzatrod

for the big difference
twelfth night in prime, tuned-in/tuned-
out, no doubt ’bout It
remotely viewers cur’ous
like of QuraanKids on a

Pop-Top Idol Show
‘slammin’ & dancin’ with the
celebs, Krebs, Maynard
G’s. been dead, Fagan said, been
over a longtime ago…

So…The Amortizing Reverzatrod

shows again like the
Winter, part no-escaping
Harry (The Scratcher)
Houdini, 13′s a charom,
if you have ever played with

retention, doubtless
declension… clepsydra drops,
on drips rubicon …
I came to bury brutish
not to assuage It, for ’tis

a far, far better
thing…shed common tears onto
the day the Earth stood
for something we’ll disappear…
She, Planete`Morlde` will heal.

H.e.m.-H’H.
11.17.MMix.
(“Alea iacta est”)

- ODODREAMT -

…she lights
to him
he flittes
in the day
to her, into
the night
softly hawking
like a nimble needle
threaded opalescent
and hushed
light as a whisper

come
to share secrets’ soarings
soaring’s simple secret said
turquoise-tailed
bodyrail black
alae asail
all for eyes to see

yet to we;
he poietes
she lights, waits;
she artestructs
he flittes, hovers…

and again
appendedaged
this protowhirly
sleek to younique
lights and lightens
Its being
all for soar eyes to see…

H.e.m-H’H.
10.1.MMix.
ST

- EL CAMINO REAL – TRA, LA-LA… -

…OK, c’mon Kids
jump-into the Conflict an‘
we’re off! – let those seat-

belts, now – lots of miles-
‘n-smiles ahead (Jeez, glad we
got the X-UL-

E Model), MT
V’ll be on, you can Pod-
cast to your iPods

if you don’t, & save
to your LapCubes, wanna watch
but listen later…

just be sure your buds,
we’ll have our own iTunes…Jed,
watch that swiveling Jess’

chair, texting online…
Dad?      Jeff, the Gatorade’s in
with the Nutella -

the Sub-Zero, um
under the the swiveltable…
Yeah, sure, I love those

Pizzarolls – we’ll be
into Concentricity
in a byte…       Dad?, what

about Midvale?      Hey
Jeff, is that U.S. Idol
on the Plazma? oh,

DVD? Hey, the
GPS says – wait, wait
I’m listening – ah,

“Concentricity,
SSE, right-off of the
Superhighway 6.”

Dad?     Wait, wait, Bluetooth,
er your mother “…yes, yes…no
not ok…yeah, bye.”

Hey, did’ja see that
blue Alienator blow-
by!?, here, I’ll get It-

up on the Backtrack-
monitors…blowin’-by like
the MGibson R-

W…I told
yous, remember?…this are the
good ol’ ATV-

ATM days – There!,
It’s on Dropdown…Wow!…there’s a
Class-D Forestor…

Dad?     Jeff, is the Big
Game on? Boy, whatta game! Boy,
we’re cruisin’ now… Hey

Dad!     What, Jed?     There’s the
Sign for Midvale…A Berry
Farm, an’ blackberries,

too! Dad, can we…?     What,
Jed?     Well, I was, uh, thinkin’
about what you said…

Said? Yeah, about “smiles
of miles.” (Hey Jess, know what’s the
definition of

High Definition?
…C’mon, It’s a game, girl, see?
Oke, “HD Wells!” Ha!)

…Did I say that?     Uh,
well, I think…I’ll just watch the
scenery ‘n stuff…

(oI oI oI oI)
“The Road Ahead/Lies
Ahead, Lies Ahead/The Road
Ahead, Lies Ahead…” (oI oI oI oI)

H.e.m.-H’H.
11.20.MMviii.
(Inconcinnus-Futurus)

- “CHIRPEE” -

on the Pathway this
morn, tres-empuddled beseech,
ousted? yet, out!

shuddering feather-
ball barely in my palm, paled
yellow squinty eyes

peeking-up speaking
up to me the Imprint, this
saved eyas StarlinG.

H.e.m.-H’H.

4.27.MMv.

Submit your own work. Details here:
Short Story Saturday

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by Dennis Nau

In Laguna Beach, most people have the common courtesy to leave you alone until at least 9AM. I was dreaming about my wife when the doorbell rang.

I should say that I was dreaming about my ex-wife. I slipped on some pants and answered the door.

“Sir, I’m here about the advertisement that you placed looking for someone to build a deck.”

“What time is it?”

“Six o’clock. You said you wanted the deck built as quickly as possible.”

I meant I wanted the deck built by the end of August and not the end of December.

“Come in.”

I got some decent clothes and made coffee. He sat there at my table, smiling the whole time.

“What’s your name?”

“George.”

He was Hispanic, spoke impeccable English and he was well-built. George had muscles. “Where are you from?” I asked.

“Winnipeg.”

“Winnipeg?”

“Yes sir. It’s a long story.”

I showed him my basic sketches of the deck.

“You drew these plans up yourself?”

“Yes.”

“These plans are very good. Are you an architect?”

“No. I own a small software company.”

He stared at the prints for a few minutes, ran his fingers up and down. The plans were to scale, and George got his calculator out and played with it.

“It’s a beautiful deck, sir, but it will be very expensive. Three different levels spread over this amount of space will cost quite a bit. All the lights and the wiring itself will add substantially to the cost. I would guess two circuits would be needed. Where is the breaker box in the house?”

I showed him.

“This is unfortunate. Sixty feet of drywall will have to be partially removed. Holes will need to be drilled through the studs. Cable must be drawn through these holes and mounted in a weatherproof junction box outside, north of the sliding glass door. Then, of course, when the project is completed, drywall will need to be reinstalled, taped and the wall will need to be painted.”

“How expensive is very expensive?”

“I would say most contractors would ask for 80 to 90 grand. That spiral staircase really adds to the cost. Without it, however, the deck wouldn’t have much personality.”

“That price seems high to me.”

“You should check it out, sir. I always advise my clients to get more than one bid. I can do this project for $72,000. And, sir, if I might be so bold, I could envision four cantilevered beams extending south approximately four feet, cut in a semicircular pattern. My cousin steams and bends wood. That is where you would put the grill.”

“You’re right. That would look beautiful. What would that cost?”

“I would throw that in at no extra charge, if you would agree to let me take pictures of the deck for advertising purposes, and if you would agree to tell your friends and neighbors exactly who built this marvelous deck for you.”

“Why are you cheaper than everyone else?”

“I calculate my hourly rate at $19.99 per hour. Most contractors use $35 to $40 per hour. Of course, the raw materials are the same for all of us.

And I work very quickly, sir. I have a number of children to support. I can give you references and testimonials for work I have done for many of your neighbors in Laguna Beach.”

“I was going to put this project on my credit card, but this might be more than I can handle. I may have to sell some stock. I’ll talk to my broker.”

“Sir, I am willing to accept payment in six equally spaced disbursements two months apart, zero percent interest.”

“I’ll have to give this some thought. It sounds like a good deal.”

“It is a very good deal, sir, but you should act now. There are hurricanes forming in the Atlantic, and if they hit Florida with any force, lumber prices will skyrocket. I will have to increase my price. If you have questions call anytime, day or night.”

“I will. I’ll leave a message on your answering machine.”

“We have no answering machine, sir. If you call this number, a live person will answer, 24 hours a day. An operator is on duty at all times.” He gave me his card.

***

“What the hell is this, Les? I understand you’re putting up a deck on the backside of our house.”

“Loretta, this is my house now. I’ll put up whatever I want to put up. You’ve got your own place.”

“You’re just trying to attract some bimbo with your fancy deck.”

“Maybe I am. It’s none of your business, Loretta.”

“They’ll kill all of my lilies, those builders. I know they will.”

***

“George,” I hollered. “What’s all this digging?”

“We’re installing footings, sir, and we’re taking out the lilies. Where should we put the lilies?”

“In the trash.”

“Sir, we cannot put lilies this beautiful in the trash. Perhaps we could replant them somewhere else in the yard?”

“Maybe a couple by the front steps.”

“What am I to do with the rest?”

“Anything you want.”

“Thank you, sir. I will plant the rest of the lilies at my house.”

“George, quit calling me ‘sir.’ My name is Les. Call me Les.”

“I will, sir.”

This whole thing was driving Loretta nuts, which didn’t exactly disappoint me. Our divorce proceedings had been more acrimonious than the Hundred Year’s War between the English and French. It didn’t last that long, but it seemed to.

And Loretta had the notion that she could barge into the house anytime she wanted. I never had bothered to get the locks changed. Secretly I was hoping that she would barge in while I was making love to some beautiful young woman on the living room floor. I really didn’t associate much with any beautiful young women. I associated mainly with PC’s and investment bankers.

“Sir, there’s a woman out front, pulling up the lilies that we just replanted.”

“George, I told you not to call me ‘sir.’”

“I’m not George. I’m his twin brother Diego.”

“George has a twin brother?”

“Sir, it’s something you can’t easily fake. George is almost five minutes older than I am. That’s why he is president of this construction business, and not me. Well, it also has something to do with his negotiating skills.”

“So, you’re just part of his crew?”

“No, sir, I am his brother. You buy one, you get one free. Well, I’m not free, but I work for a very reasonable rate. What about the woman out front, sir?”

“Tell her I let Duke out.”

A minute later Loretta ran down the yard and jumped into her car. Duke was my bona fide adultery detection dog, a Golden Retriever with a slight limp. He had made a certified detection, that during a critical moment involving a deal Loretta and my patent attorney were trying to consummate. Duke caught the attorney with his pants down, and I’m not speaking figuratively. There was blood on the mattress and the carpeting and stairs. Dear old James, don’t call me Jim, wasn’t able to return to his office for two weeks, because he couldn’t sit down. That event helped Duke’s self-esteem, however, and I gave him extra dog biscuits from that point on. His limp improved. A dog is man’s best friend.

Well, a dog might be your worst enemy, especially if your name is James and you can’t sit properly and your wife asks why you can’t sit properly and your employer—that would be me—asks why you can’t sit properly. The dog becomes more of an enemy still when your back end becomes infected.

The doctor looks and says, “this is a serious infection and I see teeth marks.”

“I got this from a toilet stool, when I stood up,” James says.

He grimaces, I’m guessing.

“We might have to amputate,” the doctor says. “Do we have on file your next of kin?”

Well, James is still alive and Loretta is too. I have a new patent attorney.

***

Nail guns, electric saws, compressor, and two-cycle engines. Those are noises that make a man’s heart bloom. Men love the smell of sawdust. Software has no smell and does nothing for the heart.

Of course, there were problems.

“Les, we discovered something today that is very disturbing.”

“What do you mean, Diego?”

“I’m George.”

“I’m sorry, George. What do you mean?”

“There is a problem. Your back yard is starting to slide downhill. The soil is not firm and the footings are starting to sink slowly.” He gave me a level.

“Put this on your floor, Les.”

I did. “This can’t be true.”

George took a marble out of his pocket and set it on the floor. The marble started to roll towards the back of the house.

“My God. What’s to be done?”

“We have to jack up the house, one footing at a time, dig down and pour deeper footings. You don’t have to do this, but the house is starting to tilt. Should these footings continue to sink, the house will tear away from the deck. The deck footings are very deep, solid and meet all building codes.

It is your choice, sir, I mean Les, but our lifetime warranty will have to be modified if this situation is not corrected.”

“How much will this cost?”

“This will add close to $30,000 dollars to the price.”

“$30,000?”

“I’m sorry, Les. California is a beautiful state, but oftentimes the soil in this area is not ideal for building. You have mudslides in California. There are no mudslides in Winnipeg. There are also no three-story decks in Winnipeg.”

“I guess I have no choice.”

“Sometimes I have to give people very unpleasant news, and it causes me much emotional distress.” He sat down. “I should have gone into a different line of work. I passed the entrance exam for law school. I could have become a lawyer.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I couldn’t afford the student loans.”

True, I thought, but you could repay those loans rapidly the way things are these days. James had hired a lawyer to sue the doctor after his ass got infected. He wanted to sue me because my dog had bitten him, but his attorney advised him that the case would be laughed out of court.

Of course, James’ wife, Diane, hired a lawyer to sue for divorce and James had to get his own divorce lawyer. These were not the same lawyers that Loretta and I used during our divorce proceedings.

Actually, things were not that simple.

When James’ wife finally guessed the truth about her husband’s encounter with my golden retriever, she threw a frying pan at him and nearly cut off his ear. Diane is a sweet woman but she has a temper. Somehow, as he fell, James managed to grab the wireless phone and he called 911 after he hit the floor and Diane was arrested. She hired an attorney and the charges were later dropped. However, the health insurance company covering James didn’t like paying the bills for all of that reconstructive surgery on James’ ear. Diane was sued.

James could likely have sued Diane for the scar tissue on his ear as well. He could claim that it made him less physically attractive to women, but patent attorneys have no imagination and are generally not very attractive to begin with.

One night, when Duke barked because he needed to go outside to relieve himself, I thought about a three-story deck and sliding glass doors. No up and down a staircase anymore in the middle of the night. No more standing in the front yard in pajamas hoping the neighbors wouldn’t see me.

I could stand on the deck, look down at Duke, in the fenced-in backyard. I’d wait a few minutes for Duke to do his business. He’d come back up, wag his tail, as if to say, I can now enter the bedroom, lie down, go back to my adultery-detection mode and, master, if I may be so bold, this process is so much easier since you constructed the deck. Those thoughts germinated and grew, and look what I ended up with.

“George, I think attorneys always have work. They don’t have people manning phones 24 hours a day and they don’t work for $19.99 an hour, and they don’t give lifetime warranties.”

***

I made the second credit card payment on my deck. The next day the entire crew looked very jovial.

“Well, George, everyone looks very happy today.”

“I’m Diego, sir.”

“I told you not to call me sir.”

“You told George not to call you sir.”

“Oh. Why is everyone so cheerful?”

“We got paid last night. We had food and beer. We bought groceries. Everyone is happy. My children laughed all night.”

“How many children do you have?”

“Five.”

“How many does George have?”

“Seven. How many children do you have, sir?”

“None. Loretta thought that we should wait to have children until we were financially secure. We bought a small house and thought we were financially secure, but then we bought a more expensive house, and we weren’t nearly as financially secure. This happened a number of times and then Loretta was too old to have children. I lost interest in everything except developing software. I think Loretta lost interest in me. It wasn’t only because we didn’t have a deck.”

I sat down.

“I envy you,” I said. “I envy George.”

“Why? We barely scrape enough together for a meal.”

“You got family. You have a reason to get your deck finished.”

“I don’t have a deck. My family and I can’t afford a deck, although it would be very nice. A person could go out into the backyard and watch the moon spreading its favors on the world. His favors don’t generally shine on me. You could ask my parish priest. He can pardon my sins but he can’t build me a deck.”

“I can’t do either. I can’t pardon your sins and I certainly can’t build you a deck.”

“But you develop software, sir. I’m told that software powers the world.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I don’t know. Probably some television commercial.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Diego. Software engineers are overrated. Civilization won’t end when some disease kills all of our software engineers and our lawyers and our professors. It will end when some disease kills all our plumbers.”

“I see your point, sir. I wouldn’t be the same man without indoor plumbing. I certainly wouldn’t have spent all those years in Winnipeg without plumbing. I don’t think there’d be a Winnipeg without indoor plumbing.”

***

Loretta’s hair clippers exploded in late July and she was injured, with multiple lacerations to the face and neck, and I had no idea that it was possible for hair clippers to explode. Loretta called me from the hospital.

“I was cutting Marjorie Kelly’s hair, then ‘Bang.’ I’m lucky I turned to the right as I fell or I might have hit her in the face, and she’s due to go to the Emmys. If I had turned to the left, well, there’d be scars and curses and articles in all the gossip magazines and paparazzi chasing her everywhere. Maybe they’d be chasing me too. Marjorie did have the presence of mind to call 911. I turned to the right and I got all of the plastic shards to my face.”

There was a moment of silence.

There was another moment of silence.

“Won’t you take me back, Les?”

“I don’t know how I can, Loretta, after what you did. You not only committed adultery, but you did it with James, my patent attorney, for heaven’s sake.”

“Les, you ignored me for 13 months, what, with all that software shit.You’d tell me that you’d be home at six and than you’d pop into the house at eleven, without even an apology. I figured there was another software engineer involved, and she was an expert at Microsofting this and that, likely you.”

“You know me, Loretta. It always takes me five hours to make love, doesn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, Les, for what I did. I truly am. I know I was wrong.”

There was crying and more crying and I felt bad and told Loretta I’d be in to see her in the evening. There were tears and bandages at the hospital and guilt.

The next afternoon I thought I’d pass the time with someone who knew how to use a hammer, someone who would reinforce my own misgivings. Someone who would say, Les, you cannot show weakness. A man can only put up with so much.

“13 months. That’s a long time. I’m sorry, but I don’t know any woman who would put up with that. You ignored her for 13 months?”

“It was a critical time period in our corporate development. Bill Gates was chasing us. I know he was. I had 17 people to supervise. I had to make enough money for groceries, medical care, our 401K plan, our timeshare and Mexican Villa, my country club membership, a Mercedes and a new deck.”

“So, you abandoned your wife for a new deck?”

“I wouldn’t say that, George.”

“I’m not George.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, Diego.”

“I’m not Diego.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Juan. I’m George’s twin brother.”

“Diego is his twin brother.”

“I am too. We were born as triplets. Sit back and relax. How long were you married to Loretta?”

“Eighteen years.”

“No, I mean really relax. A man can’t relax with a tie around his neck. Let me get a glass.”

He took a pint of tequila out of his back pocket and poured me a drink.

“Drink it quickly. You have a critical decision to make and a man can’t simply sip at a time like this. Eighteen years is not an accomplishment to be trifled with. Let me suggest this: you sleep with another woman or two and call this whole thing even. Loretta returns. You resume a happy domestic life.”

“How do I find these women?”

“You don’t have to find any women. You’re putting on a three-story deck. They will find you.”

“How do you know these things?”

“I’m a licensed psychologist.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Helping to finish your deck.”

Juan had a point. Actually, the point was moot. Loretta never knew, but I had a short affair with a legal secretary when I was incorporating. You wait in these lawyer’s offices and you start talking with anyone who will listen. The lawyers don’t believe that someday you’ll have a company with 18 million dollars of gross revenue and that you, personally, will have a deck worth almost a $100,000. A secretary makes small talk with you while you’re waiting for this lawyer. Yes, I thought the Red Sox were going to win. I’ve never seen traffic this horrendous. The flu season is going to be bad.

OK, I have your papers here. Come sit in line in two weeks and we’ll go over this, after I’ve had a chance to review it. That’s what the lawyer says and he doesn’t make eye contact.

At the next meeting a woman walks out and says, I’m sorry sir, things are backed up. It might be an hour before Mr. Whatever-his-name, esquire, can see you. Kimberly, can you take Les here out for a cup of coffee? Kimberly takes me for a hamburger and we talk. At the next meeting I take her for a drink. You can guess what happened the meeting after that. When I came home that night, Duke looked up at me with a disappointed gaze, as if to say, I know what you’ve been up to, master. I’m a bona fide adultery detection dog, for heaven’s sake, and I can smell adultery up to five miles away. Maybe Loretta can’t trust you, but I hope I can trust you to take me outside so I can urinate by some tree in the middle of the night.

For a while, Kimberly and I didn’t need a meeting to get together.

The incorporation papers were signed and I haven’t seen Kimberly since.

I went to see Loretta in her apartment, after she was discharged. Perhaps, Juan was right. Maybe women can’t put up with such things.

“It was kind of you to come,” Loretta said. “They will schedule plastic surgery after the swelling goes down.

I’m lonely, Les. I was an idiot to have cheated on you, especially with James, a low-life bastard if I ever met one. He’s ugly, too. I wouldn’t feel quite so bad if it had been with Brad Pitt or someone like that.”

Let’s flip the coin. Kimberly had been quite attractive.

“You wouldn’t have to pay alimony any longer if we reconcile. Do you know that I’ve gotten contracts with another two modeling agencies? Fifteen more women once a month. Think about this: two incomes, and one residence. I have trouble cooking just for myself. Every recipe I look at serves four. We could save money.

And maybe you could learn to love me like you did when we were younger, before I betrayed you.”

“Let me think about these things, Loretta.”

“Thirteen months was a long time.”

“I know that.” I bent down and gave her a kiss. She started crying. Maybe I was wrong, I thought. A man should pay attention to his wife, even when software development is not going well.

“I treated you poorly,” I said, “and I’m sorry.”

“While you’re re-doing the deck, do you think we could replace some of the kitchen cabinets and put an island facing directly out back—an island with a granite top, surrounding a stove? Guests could pull up a chair. We could put a nice wine rack in the corner. I’m truly sorry for what I did.”

I sympathized with Loretta. I thought about telling her about my own indiscretion to ease my conscience, but I didn’t.

Actually, only politicians commit indiscretions. The rest of us commit adultery. I stood up to leave.

“I didn’t actually commit adultery with James, Les. I would have, but Duke got to him first. I don’t think James would be any better at adultery than he was as a patent attorney.”

***

Three weeks later we got remarried. It was a small, civil ceremony. The swelling had gone down and the plastic surgery had been completed. Loretta had just a couple of small bandages on her face. George served as a witness.

“We must celebrate. You will come to my house.”

“We really don’t need to celebrate. We had a big wedding the first time.”

“No, I insist.”

“Really, we don’t want a public celebration.”

“If you don’t have a celebration at my house, I will refuse to finish your deck.”

We pulled up to this 4,000 square foot home. God, I thought, I must be paying George entirely too much. I didn’t realize that eight or nine adults lived there and maybe 300 kids. We drank Tequila. I talked with Juan, Diego and George. Loretta started cutting kid’s hair.

And then there were four. A man walked up to me and said, “I know what you’re thinking. We’re not quadruplets. I’m two years older than my brothers. We just look alike. I’m Randy. I just flew in from Winnipeg. George needed help. In our family, if someone needs help, you drop everything and show up. Besides, my kids wanted to see all their cousins.”

“What do you do in Winnipeg?”

“I’m an attorney. I tried to get George to go to law school, but he doesn’t believe in amassing large amounts of debt. I specialize in patent and trademark law.”

I knew all this stuff was too good to be true. I knew I was in some stranger-than-fiction dream. Twilight Zone, Laguna Beach Style. Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll go to my psychologist and get this all worked out. Wait, my psychologist, Juan, was part of the stranger-than-fiction life that I was living.

We all sat around and drank Tequila and talked for an hour and George said you must go; it’s your wedding night.

Loretta walked into the room “I can’t leave yet. I’ve got five more kids’ hair to cut. Give me a half-hour.” More Tequila. More BS. We sat in the back porch. A woman appeared in the doorway.

“Excuse me, Les,” said George. “This is Rosa.” I stood up. “Rosa is my sister.”

“You have a wonderful wife,” she said. “She is cutting my kids’ hair.”

How was I to know that Rosa was an interior decorator?

“Les,” said George, “We have a cab waiting outside to take you and your bride home, when you are ready. When a man has too much Tequila he should not drive.”

“When did you call for a cab?”

“We didn’t call. My cousin lives here and he is a cab driver. I, personally, will drive your car to your house tomorrow morning. It will be there no later than 7:30. There will be a truck outside your house shortly after that. There will be some digging. We will take pains not to disturb you. This is your wedding night.”

“What type of digging?”

“We are replanting the lilies.”

***

“She’s right on the money, Les.”

“What do you mean?”

“Rosa says that this wall should go. It’s not a supporting wall. It interferes with the sightline going out to the deck, and it gives our kitchen a feeling of confinement. She says a nice Burnt Sienna color should be used on the walls, in semi-gloss paint, which is easier to clean and more durable than flat paint.”

***

“You could patent this. It’s very innovative, I will admit.” Randy set his briefcase on the table, and sat down. “It will take 13 months or so for the patent to go through. Within two days Microsoft will figure a way to get around it. My advice would be to keep the information and design of this software proprietary. It will take Microsoft maybe four years to figure it out that way. How many people were involved in the development of this software?”

“Seven.”

“Do you pay them well?”

“I think so.”

“Do they have non-competes?”

“Yes.”

“Non-compete agreements don’t generally mean much in court proceedings. Tell your employees that you are going to be attacked by Microsoft. Tell them to guard themselves for battle. Every man dreams of defeating Bill Gates.”

“Three of our engineers are women.”

“They probably dream of marrying Bill Gates, but he’s already married. Give your employees raises. Sound a battle cry. Don’t patent anything.

And you really should repaint your house. The color outside is not very attractive and it will not go well with your new deck.”

“Who’s that in front?”

“That’s just Rosa. She’s putting fertilizer on the lilies.” Lilies in the front yard, lilies in the back. There were lilies around that little semi-circle area where the deck would protrude, lilies in a larger semi-circle arrangement than the protrusion from the deck, for outdoor grills often drop grease onto the surfaces beneath them. You couldn’t be vigilant enough but you could consider the lilies of the field, who toiled not; neither did they spin. Lilies are more beautiful than Solomon and all of his lady-friends and they cannot commit adultery, even if they try.

“Lilies produce a calm, soothing effect, especially in women,” Juan said. “You want your wife to be calm. If she gets uneasy, she’ll probably want to remodel your living room as well.”

“You have to admit it, Les. We never use the fireplace. We never have any wood to burn. I think we should have an insert put in and switch to natural gas. And the mantel is much too small. It should be longer. I could put the picture of you accepting the award from the Laguna Beach Chamber of Commerce on one end, and the picture of you shaking our state senator’s hand on the other end. We should actually look at our bathroom as well.”

“Well, sir, the tile is curled up because of the moisture. The moisture is likely coming from your toilet, which has a poor seal. Ceramic tile would have been much better. It does not curl.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Anything can be fixed. The toilet will have to be removed. The rotted sections of the subfloor will have to be removed. Actually, it will be easier to remove the entire subfloor and replace it with cement-board. Ceramic tile could be installed, grouted and sealed. The toilet would be re-installed and it would last forever, and it would be both beautiful and functional at the same time.”

“What do you think this would cost, George?”

“I’m not George. I’m Diego.”

“I never asked. What do you do when you’re not working for George?”

“I’m a plumber.”

“Honey, the kids are here. I think they need their hair cut.” Loretta ran out the door and there were hugs. Rosa was with the kids.

“I’m sorry,” Rosa said to Loretta. “They all tell me that you must cut their hair because you know proper style. You know the haircuts they wear on MTV.”

“I never watch MTV.”

“Who cares? They trust nobody else.”

***

“I need a workshop at home, Les,” Loretta said. “All of my big clients want a shop on the beach, but they come by appointment only. Why should I drive for 45 minutes if I’m not sure that anyone will show up? Our third bedroom could become a place where I can cut hair on a more informal basis. I have to give permanents and wash hair on occasion, so I need a sink. What do we need a third bedroom for anyway? We don’t have any kids. We don’t even need a second bedroom, except when our dumb-ass brother-in-law comes to visit us.”

“Well, I suppose it would make sense to rough-in the plumbing up there while the other plumbing is being done.”

What the hell was I doing? I wanted a simple deck at one time. It became a more complicated deck. Then a kitchen; then a living room, bathroom, entryway. What would be next?

“The lawn mower clutters up the garage. A garden shed might not be a bad idea. Maybe it could go under the deck.”

Why was I letting her get away with this?

“I can detect that you have a sense of guilt, Les.”

I didn’t say anything.

“You are a real man.” Juan unscrewed the top of his bottle of Tequila. “I’m sure you could drink six ounces. You don’t need a glass. It will unlock your soul.”

It might have been eight ounces. We talked for an hour and a half and my soul was not only unlocked. It fell out of my body and rattled around the floor. It didn’t flow downhill, however. Since the footings were raised, the floor was even.

“Well, Juan, this is the problem.” I told him about Kimberly.

“I knew this already, sir. These things are covered in first year psychology classes. I just didn’t know her name. You couldn’t enunciate properly the last time we talked.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tequila loosens a man’s tongue, sometimes entirely too much.”

“You won’t tell Loretta?”

“Of course I won’t tell Loretta. Loretta already knows.”

“How can you say that?”

“Well, I’ve been doing some counseling with Loretta as well. I can’t divulge any of the details, because of professional ethics considerations, but it might be possible that, in the course of this lawsuit against the hair clipper manufacturer, an assistant to one of the law firms involved may have mentioned something to your wife.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. If I was sure I couldn’t tell you anyway. Professional ethics are very important. I was never told the name of this assistant. It might be Mary or Kay or Rita or Kathleen. Still, it’s possible this assistant’s name might be Kimberly.”

“This is all too far-fetched.”

“It is far-fetched. Loretta knows, however, of your affair with this woman. I can say this without any doubt whatsoever.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Your wife ordered three sets of bay windows this afternoon.”

***

“I think, George, I’m going to give up on this credit card and stock redemption stuff and go for a second mortgage.”

“A wise choice, Les. The application process for a second mortgage is annoying, but the interest rate will be much less.”

“What are we up to now?”

“$547,000. Those bay windows and those skylights will be spectacular. The track lighting will be a nice touch. This is a fabulous house, Les. I don’t know why you look so depressed.”

“I think I’ve wasted my life.”

“That’s not true, Les. You created the software that allowed people to play on-line Poker.”

“I did. That means I wasted my life in front of a large viewing audience, all of them with aces up their sleeves.”

“You are a good man, Les. You create jobs. Your wife cuts hair. You support a large number of people.”

“Who?”

“All of my relatives, maybe 26, 27 people. Well, not Randy. You don’t support him completely. Lawyers can make money anywhere.”

“I have to ask you this, George. How can you afford to have an operator on duty, 24 hours a day?”

“We don’t have enough beds at our house. We sleep in shifts. Somebody’s always awake.”

Makes sense.

“I don’t know if I should have started all of this remodeling, George. It would have been cheaper to have Duke euthanized. He sheds a lot of hair, though he has a good sense of smell.”

“A man cannot go backward in life, Les. Besides, your satisfaction is guaranteed. If you are not completely satisfied, you can send back all of the products we have installed, and we will refund $547,000. There will be shipping and handling costs, however. We would not insist that the new footings be removed. That would be counterproductive.”

George stood up. There’d be another nine weeks of construction, I guessed, another 30 years with Loretta.

“Juan says that you should take very good care of Duke. Randy says that you should have his genetic structure analyzed and patented. Adultery detection is a big, billion dollar industry. I think you should build him a real doghouse. Rosa says you should paint it green.”

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Tunnel Vision

by Ernest Dempsey

Laboring his legs upstairs in that dingy tavern, Adam Cooper failed to answer the question in his mind. How could a woman like Nora Reed live in this place? Naturally, it led to another question. Did this place cause her death?

At length, the attendant brought him to a small room in the most obscure corner of the building. He unlocked the wooden door, eaten by termites all along its frame.

“Here, sir,” said the attendant, leading him in. Adam felt the warm, stuffy air meeting his nostrils, carrying a mixed smell of wood, carpet dust, and mold.

“Thank you,” said Adam, and the attendant left him alone. Closing the door, Adam turned to scrutinize the place where his old friend had breathed her last. He and Nora had had a long platonic relationship bound by mutual interest in books, country music, and antagonism towards conventionality. Unlike Nora, he had some friends, whose society finally induced him to start a family. When he married the young and rich Tracy Brandon, Nora became slowly ostracized. With her thinning hair and emaciating complexion, she suddenly found herself an old doll whose only playmate had changed his taste.

Taking her books and the souvenirs of her youth, Nora Reed left her rented apartment uptown and permanently hired a small room in Stayer’s Tavern just outside the city, in the small town of Craigwood. That was six years ago, Adam remembered. He had visited her every couple of months or so and had pressed her to come and live with them in their annex.

“Thank you, Adam,” Nora would smile, looking at him. “I’m perfect here!” He had, at times, felt pangs rising in him with every little move of her weak and wrinkled hands as she made him coffee or tea in that secluded haven of hers. They still talked about books, characters, viewpoints, and people. But something vital had changed, was lost for good. He would get over his nameless guilt by reassuring himself of his loyalty to their friendship. She acknowledged it.

“Adam, it’s so kind of you to take time away from your life to see me here.” Nora would express her gratitude with a soft generosity. But then those very words struck him as if carrying a shadow of discontent. Exchange of gifts had never entered their friendship. It had, from the very start, been a very skin-deep expression of honesty. The moments they had in each other’s company served as the unbreakable thread holding their lives at the ends of miles of space.

There was one thing that could break this thread: death. And it finally worked its way between them.

He was then out of the city, staying in Sabestland, fifty-two miles from Craigwood. His wife Tracy and three-year-old son Dave longed to visit Tracy’s parents. So Adam took them there for two weeks.

The manager of Stayer’s Tavern called early in the morning, with apologies preceding the news of Nora’s death.

“Yours was the only number we felt like calling,” the manager said.

As the shock of the news faded, Adam wrote the manager a check to arrange for Nora’s burial. Next day, he went straight to the church. Nora lay like a clean white doll, self-contained and silent, in the coffin. He could not help crying. A few tears were the only possible words to convey his honesty. The burial took place in the churchyard. He was the last to leave. From the churchyard, he went to the tavern.

“We’ve locked the room, sir,” the manager told him, “but we found this at her bedside. It advises us to hand her belongings to our old servant Amalie. It was she who stayed with her two nights when Miss Reed ran a high fever. Amalie also took her to the hospital. Perhaps Miss Reed remembered her service.”

Adam read the letter. Nora had left him her meager bank balance and a mirror in her room.

The last item puzzled him. A mirror! He asked the manager to let him take a look inside the room. The attendant with the key led him there.

Alone, Adam glanced at the empty room. It had never felt empty like that before. He himself had never felt so empty and lost. His eyes found the mirror on the wall opposite the entrance. He remembered the words in Nora’s handwriting in her last letter: Do not take the mirror off the wall. Let Adam take it himself. His curiosity ran high.

Why would she leave it to me? he thought, and approached the mirror. It was a small, rectangular glass in a bluish gray plastic frame of dated design. Dust covered the glass.

He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the dust off its surface. His face appeared in the mirror, clear and distinct. For a moment, he kept looking at the face that stared back at him. There was a striking difference, a thing that left him wondering. The wrinkles of his face and the circles beneath his eyes were not visible now. He looked younger and fresher than he had looked in any mirror over the past many years.

Nora’s words filled his thought. He remembered that she had stayed here for six years, never exactly telling her secret reason for staying so long. Moments flew past him and his image in the mirror as they kept looking at each other. Then he slowly woke up and took the mirror down from the wall.

Story Taken from The Blue Fairy and Other Stories of Transcendence (Love Healing Press, 2009) by Ernest Dempsey
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Tunnel Vision

Madame

by Christina A. Jeter

Then Marie Laveau went to Royal St. when Delphine heard about it, she painted her eyes, arranged her hair and looked out of a window. As Marie entered the gate, Delphine asked, “Have you come in peace, Marie, you murderer of your master believes?”

Marie looked up at the window and called out, “Who is on my side? Who?” Three slaves looked down at her. “Throw her down!” Marie shouted. So they threw her down, and some of her blood spattered the wall and the horses as they trampled her underfoot.

Marie went in and ate and drank. “Take care of that curse woman,” she said, “and bury her, for she was a white Créole . But they went out to bury her; they found nothing except her skull, her feet, and her hands. They went back and told Marie, who said, “This is the word of the LORD that he spoke through his servants of spiritual faith. On the plot of the ground at Delphine dogs will devour Delphine flesh. Delphine’s body will be like refuse on the ground in the plot at Delphine, so that no one will be able to say, “This is Delphine.”

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Lost in Translation

by Jeffrey H. Baer

I thought that was him.

His head was low as he rifled through the card rack. After mulling over his identity, there was no doubt in my mind. It was him.

He was so engrossed in his search he didn’t notice me on the other side of the rack. He went through the same routine with every card–stare at the front, flip it open, stare at the inside, then replace it. Stare, flip, stare, replace. Stare, flip, stare, replace. He seemed programmed to do it. Maybe he was upset none of them conveyed only his feelings–if he could have any.

He distracted me from searching for a birthday card for my girlfriend. She would be twenty-four the following week, and I didn’t have time to do it sooner. I still had yet to pick up her gift, or even to decide what to give her. The smart thing to do was to take care of the easy stuff, like picking out a card. It’s usually a snap; sometimes I just zero in on the card. This time, however, I zeroed in on a much bigger target without looking.

He went through the motions one last time and stormed off. I followed at a safe distance.

He still wore that stupid, candy-apple red football jacket he wore to school no matter the season. He wanted everyone to see the “QB” stitched on the right sleeve, as if nobody knew who he was. He wore it like an Armani suit, and God help anyone who grazed him in the hallways. Once in the cafeteria, someone accidentally spilled milk on his jacket. The kid wound up with a broken nose; the kid’s parents screamed bloody murder and demanded that he pay the medical bills. He got away with it. He was the quarterback, and it wouldn’t look good for the coach or the school. Maybe he kept it for sentimental reasons. He had plenty worth remembering.

I’m not a detective, but I read enough Kinsey Millhone and V. I. Warshawski to know how surveillance works. I stayed behind him about ten feet, figuring out where he might go next. He walked past another card store, probably because he was already there. His strides were long and leisurely. He kept one hand in his jeans pocket while the other arm swung back and forth like a metronome. He never carried himself like that in the halls of Port Richmond. I would mistake him for someone else if I didn’t know better.

I focused on him so much I nearly stumbled over other shoppers. Some asked me what the hell I was doing; others glared at me without responding. I gave them all cursory glances, muttered apologies, and continued after him, oblivious to the rest of the mall.

He strayed toward a large cart in the center area of the Sears wing. There were several carts with items that looked awkward in stores–leather goods, bizarre T-shirts, small flower decorations, and the like. I was caught off guard when he stopped; I had to stop somewhere close enough to watch him yet far enough away to remain undetected. I chose a sneaker store and stayed at the window, faking interest in the brands of sneakers.

I watched his reflection in the window, which gave a security guard reason to consider me someone suspicious. He surprised me when he said, “Excuse me, sir. What are you doing?”

“Just looking at the sneakers,” I fumbled.

“Why don’t you go inside? There are more of them there.”

“Well, I’m not sure I want to buy here. I’m just looking.” Brilliant response.

The guard gave me a long, icy stare, then strolled away, probably expecting me to make a fast move. I stared in the window, looking at the sneakers this time. If he looked over his shoulders once or twice, I didn’t dare look.

As I wondered what purpose a partially transparent sneaker served, I saw my quarry moving through the mall again. I followed him into a small record store. As he disappeared inside, I wondered what I could do once I got my hands on him. The possibilities seemed endless–like his rotten disposition, his devil-may-care attitude, the fear he instilled in others with his brawn. Nothing short of divine intervention could change that.

When I reached the record store, he stood near the entrance, looking over the new CD releases. I was so busy mulling over his fate at my hands I almost collided with him. I headed toward the back by the cassettes.

Strangely, we were alone in the store. It was tough watching his reflection in the cassette boxes; I barely made him out. He flung the CDs as he did the cards–as if the store owed him something and he couldn’t find it, so he’d have reason to decimate the joint. What a bastard. I couldn’t get over how little he changed.

As if blinded, I suddenly lost sight of him. I turned around enough to see him with my peripheral vision. He was in the center aisle three feet away, still assaulting the CDs and too close for comfort. Panic set in. Did he figure it out? Did he know I tailed him? Did he realize who I was? Was this whole CD thing a ruse? Would he jump me outside the store? A million questions, no answers. Nobody likes to be in that position.

There’s no point in overreacting, I told myself. I slowly ambled to the right, keeping as calm as humanly possible. I moved along the wall to the area with videotapes ranging from the decrepit Star Trek episodes to the cheesecake. I caught sight of him in the videotape shrinkwrap. He tossed a CD into the rack and trumped out of the store. I turned to him once his back was toward me. Once he disappeared, I left the store in pursuit.

Just once, I often thought, I’d like to see the bastard get his. I’d like to see him on the floor, staring in horror at the monster he created. God, what a sight–the tables turned. Don’t we all wish for that? Don’t we want payback on our past tormentors? But now I had a real chance. After seven years, most of which he spent at SUNY Albany, he came back and made himself a sitting duck. I promised myself to kick his sorry ass if the opportunity arose, but for seven years it sounded empty. Now, however, was a different story.

I wove through the crowd as if by instinct, struggling to close the gap between us. I could only think about this idiot. All my bodily functions went into overdrive. Rage coursed through my veins. Nothing else mattered–the other shoppers, the gift I was supposed to buy my girlfriend, the fact that we were in a public place. My only concern was nailing this former quarterback for the Port Richmond Red Raiders to the wall.

He headed for a women’s clothing store. By now I was barely a foot away from him. He raised his hand to wave to someone, but he never got far enough in the gesture. I grabbed his arm, drove it behind his back, and steered him through double doors into a service corridor.

Once inside, I threw him up against a portion of the wall that projected out into the corridor. As he turned around I punched him in the face. He fell against the wall and stayed there. He turned around again, but this time I let him see who was kicking his ass. When our eyes met, he still couldn’t figure it out.

“Hello, Mike,” I sneered. “Remember me?”

His eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled.

“Oh shit’ is right, you bastard.” I delivered a left to his solar plexus and watched him crumble to the floor. I crouched down and grabbed his shirt, a right cross positioned for launch. “How do you like your own medicine? Tastes awful, huh? It has to, if it’s gonna work.”

He was shaking. His eyes were glassy, as if he was about to cry. His mouth hung open like a bomb hatch on a plane. I never thought him capable of fear, but he was terrified. He looked so pathetic and timid I chuckled maniacally. I had this asshole where I wanted him.

Then I heard a woman gasp and a child scream behind me, at the double doors.

His wife and daughter.

Something else I didn’t think about.

* * *

The security guard was stunned, at the least, when he heard my story. Mike, the guard, and I sat in the office, surrounded by four bare, off-white walls. The office was hollow, as was my explanation for what I did.

Someone knocked at the door. The guard stuck his head out and whispered to whomever it was, then motioned himself out. It sounded like someone wanted to get in but couldn’t. Mike didn’t pay much attention, with his head buried in his arms on the table. If he was overcome with guilt, it served him right.

The guard finally walked away from the threshold looking flabbergasted. Mike’s wife ushered their daughter in, determined to find out what was going on. “Lorraine, what is she doing here?” Mike exploded. “Get her out of here. She saw enough.”

“Excuse me, Michael, but you’re making a bad thing worse,” Lorraine replied. “She has a right to know.” Then she glared at me, as if to burn a hole through her husband’s attacker.

She nudged her daughter closer, then urged her to go by herself. What was this about?

“Mister,” she said in a fragile voice, “why did you hit my daddy?”

How could I explain this to her? How could I tell this dark-haired girl about her daddy without upsetting her? How could I tell her what her father was like without poisoning her image of him? Lorraine leaned against the wall with her arms folded. The guard stood at the head of the table. Mike buried his head in his arms again.

A million thoughts raced through my mind. She seemed so innocent. She didn’t deserve to hear horror stories about the man who brought her into the world. But she had a right to know, and to hear it from the only person who could tell her. “Well, uh…what’s your name?”

“Jennifer.”

“Okay.” I wiped my hands on my jeans. “Your daddy and I went to school together.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mike groaned.

“Shut up, Michael,” Lorraine snapped.

“Anyway,” I continued, “one day in sixth grade music class, I put my instrument away and accidentally knocked a trumpet off the shelf. Well, your daddy’s class came in, and your daddy played that trumpet. That afternoon he started a fight with me in the yard in front of everybody. He came over and…hit me in the face.”

Jennifer looked sadder than before. Against my better judgement, I plowed on. “After that, your daddy didn’t like me. For the next seven years he picked on me for no reason. He knocked me over in the halls, stole my lunch money, and if I had other problems, your daddy got involved because he wanted to.” I felt bitter now.

Jennifer looked at her father as if she didn’t recognize him. The damage was done. Now it was time to make amends. “Now you have to understand something, Jennifer. All that happened seven years ago. Today was the first time I saw your daddy since we graduated high school. And you know what? Your daddy isn’t like that anymore. If he was, he wouldn’t marry your mommy and have a pretty daughter like you.”

Jennifer began to sob. Mike looked ready to leap across the table and offer his family a demonstration. “Jennifer,” I went on, “your daddy loves you. He would never hurt you. You’re a special part of his life, and he loves you very, very much. Okay?”

She nodded. “But if Daddy doesn’t bother you,” she said, “why did you hit him?”

Christ, she should play for the Yankees with those curveballs. “Good question…”

Lorraine walked over to her daughter and said, “Honey, it’s time to go now.”

“But Mommy–”

“I’ll explain it in a little bit . Now we have to go.” She took Jennifer’s hand and left.

The guard turned to Mike and said, “Mr. Bianchi, would you like to press charges?”

Mike scowled, reminding me of how it always worked. I couldn’t avenge myself in school because he was too overpowering; we were never even until I got my unjust desserts. Turnabout may be fair play, but between us it was an excuse for him to beat me up for a stupid accident. No way would this time be different.

* * *

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi! Where are you?”

“I’m at the mall, figuring out what to get you for your birthday.”

“Am I really so hard to buy for that it takes you five hours?”

“Yeah–I mean, what do you get the woman who has everything?”

She sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being–oh, never mind. Look. You mentioned you want to visit that restaurant on New Dorp Avenue. Now would be a great time to do it. Instead of a birthday gift, it’ll be a birthday dinner. Sound good?”

“Yeah. Can you be here by seven?”

“Of course! I’m your boyfriend. I can do anything.”

“Okay. But did you really look for a gift for me for the last five hours?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“What were you doing?”

I thought about that. “I ran into someone from school, and you know how that goes.”

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Stepping off the plane at the McCarran International Airport at 3:47 in the afternoon, pick up my luggage and catch one of the 965 cabs available to take me to my hotel, the Mandalay Bay. That’s where the conference is, a video game corp. conference, sexy as fuck. All expenses paid for eight days, seven nights except for addictions, companies never pay for addictions. But all you really need for that is a seat at one of the 1,701 licensed gambling establishments, at one of the 25,196 gambling tables, and one of the two individuals fucking best have one of the 124,270 hotel rooms, if for nothing else but comfort. The sun sits high in the sky. It’s hot as shit. Little did I realise that would be the last time I would have any idea what time of day it would be for the next week.

Check in takes forever, and the room sits upon the 7^th floor of the golden monstrosity. $25 a day for internet? I guess that paper’s getting sent from my blackberry. Connected to my new home base via skywalks, malls and various “walk-scalators” is the Luxor, Excalibur and New York New York. Find the elevator bank and head skyward to my room. Two beds with 13 pillows and a 42” High Definition Plasma screen television. Walk into the bathroom and find yet another 15” LCD that I can conveniently watch whilst I take a bubble bath. Through a separate door contains the toilet and oh, look, its own telephone! I can take a shit and keep in touch with all my friends. How lovely! I have never been so excited…

I think it takes a couple of days for most people to realize what Las Vegas really is. Some probably don’t ever realize. I do within my first 5 hours. Las Vegas is America’s wonderland. The same creepy, frightening wonderland Alice fell into when she went through the looking glass. I have a channel on giant technological wonder that I keep on in my bedroom and bathroom, simultaneously of course, that plays the fish tank down in the lobby 24 hours a day. Who could find anything better to watch? It’s not everyday that I can watch coral in the dark even once turn off the lights on the tank. Tranquil! Vegas is perpetual twilight. No matter what time of day it is, the same things occur over and over again. The blinking lights never cease. The same circus plays on and on and on from the 197,144 slot machines. The cocktail waitresses bring you drinks 24/7. Speaking of the cocktail waitresses, I am certain that once they arrive for their shifts, they all stand in a row, and in the case of this particular hotel, are wearing identical red dresses, just like the minions of the queen of hearts. Lure me into a false sense of security with cocktails and croquet followed by, “Off with their heads!!!” Then as in some terrifying Las Vegas production of “Fantasia,” the heads, torsos and legs of each waitress switch and rotate in synch with the ringing of the circus. The Mad Hatter calls change places and body parts float, fly, duck and cover settling on whatever random body they wish. However, if you were to look at any waitress strutting across the casino floor and just gaze and the head or torso or the legs you wouldn’t think anything about it. But together it’s horrifying. None of them fit together properly. Maybe it’s the fake tits, who knows? I’m certain at least 34% of each Las Vegas service industry employee is made of plastic or chemical fusion. Behind the scenes lies a terrible wizard concocting schemes to drive me insane. His cousin is the conductor of the soundtrack and his half brother runs the lights all from this room on top of the Eiffel Tower.

I try to drink it away, and it works for winter, but Vegas is bad for and addiction. You can never get enough because it can never end. You can never get drunk or perhaps you’re permanently drunk and are now smaller in another state of reality, like Alice after she drank the potion and became smaller. Maybe I’m smaller. Maybe this is all some sort of sandy snow globe underneath a heating lamp

I must get outside. I must get outside now. However, nothing changes, I still have no idea what time it is. Outside, a canopy of light bulbs disrupting the sky like war over the Gaza Strip. Stumbling down the street I see families on the walk handing out cards. Not just men, but families; fathers, wives, sons, daughters, working together promoting something. How nice: families working together. But what are they promoting? Grab a card from each one. Is it a show, Cirque de Soleil? Tom Jones? God forbid Carrot Top? Nope, none of the above. I would have accepted Celine Dion or Louie Anderson over this. They’re handing out 2007′s Topps Baseball Card set of Las Vegas hookers complete with contact numbers, action photos, and price stats. Collect them all. This one has hearts covering up her tits, my god it’s the Queen of Hearts! It’s then that I look at my phone and realise I’ve only been here for 13 hours.

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Live and Let Die
One Project a Day

Sleep. What’s sleep? I haven’t slept since I arrived in this god forsaken foreign place. I stare up at this cold war remnant, my mind rolling through 10,000 thoughts a minute in an effort to not think about what bothers me. My brain trying to shut down by over thinking everything else. Insomnia’s a bitch. Yet every morning I go about my business without skipping a beat like the buzzing of the bulbs rising and falling fulfilling the crown.

I have no idea what I’m doing here. The paradigm has shifted. It’s similar to one of those speed games where you put the pieces in place before the timer goes off and when it does the board explodes and the pieces fly everywhere.

My pieces are everywhere.

I have no idea what pieces are what or who is who anymore and what they all mean to me. I don’t know where they fit as they did before, so I stare at the light and think of random bullshit instead of putting the pieces back together with the board filling my crown.

To be lost in translation is to be lost in transition and that’s where my life is at. Yet there are constants to base my position, but it doesn’t matter there not important. There always there regardless, rising and falling and I don’t give a shit. The pieces that are important exploded and dropped somewhere, but I don’t know where. I’m sure as hell it’s not in this awful rundown place.

So I’ll lay here all night and stare at this ancient sign of my youth wondering where it went. The sign mocking me as it constantly rises and falls knowing it’s place. It knows it has me for another night. It has won this battle and the light in the top left corner flickers on it’s own out of sync like a wink letting me know so.

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Concerto

Out the window the town carnival plays on with a large Ferris wheel towering above the trees on the horizon. The repetitious beats of carnival music vibrate off the window sill.

Above Timmy’s bed clinging to the wall is a poster of Smokey Bear declaring that “Only you can prevent forest fires.” On the other side of the room stands a short wooden dresser with a record player on top. Leaning against the player is the album by Steve Nelson and Jack Rollins entitled “Smokey the Bear.”

Kids stream through the field behind the house screaming their way to the carnival. The Ferris wheel turns round and round ignoring all around outside of the play land.

The light in the room hangs down attached to a hook from the ceiling, a decorative chandelier style lamp. The wood floor glimmers under its glow. Timmy looks down at the rope. He cautiously reaches down grabs one end and begins to tie the desired knot.

The sun begins to set behind the Ferris wheel’s carnival and burst of electricity blasts through its cast iron support beams lighting up the sky with a rainbow of bulbs against the purple red sky.

Timmy grabs a stool and removes the light from the hook gently setting it upon the dresser. The “Blackwall Hitch” requires a hook to complete. The exercise for his merit badge commences tomorrow. Timmy loops the rope around the hook weaving it in and out and in and out he pulls it securely around.

As the sounds of the town begin to cease from the regular days activities the sounds from the carnival become the dominant sound of the night. Ferris wheel lights blinking with each passing circus beat.

On the floor lies a stool, on the hook hangs a rope, out the window spins a Ferris wheel, on Timmy’s sash sits drooled blood, but no merit badge.

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Short Story Saturday

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Lost in Translation

by Pierre Jacque

I had this dream that my father had died.

there weren’t many details, no cause given.
and then RoboCop showed up at my door,
politely explaining that he was my father.
evidently this sort of thing often happens
during the rem cycle

“RoboCop you had me at hello, half robot dad.”
on seeing me he spread robot arms
bringing me near, in his loving metal grasp,
occasionally he cried.

Coors Light was shared, robots love beer.
on the break of day dad woke me early,
packed for a fishing trip on the wharf

free from home’s concerns we bonded,
reeling and casting jokes and lines.
on a bench, RoboCop and I!  Just think!
maybe robots scare fish, he only caught a boot.

the boot belonged to a terrorist
hiding below the water’s edge,
evidently breathing with a snorkel.

tacky dressed terrorists intent on destruction
violet jumpsuits and helmet visors did not flatter.

opportunely, we had brought high technology robot guns,
vaporizers, laser sighted assault rifles, and a bazooka.
ever the public servant, father offered their surrender,
rolled to the left, and then killed three of the purples,

yelled in celebration, and pumped his fist.
only one bullet wasted the three purple perpetrators,
undoubtedly a techno robot bullet.
rather impressive none the less

owing their advantage mostly to numbered surprise
legions of purple soldiers, jet packs too, and a tank
yellow soldiers too, even sillier than the purples.
machine guns in hand, nothing seemed frightening.
protected by my dad, RoboCop.
I recall an overdrawn hyper-violent gun battle ensued,
chain guns and all that business.

following the fracas we fished some more.
I caught a few more small fish, too small to keep.
“geographic species management laws,”
underscored my robotic patriarch,
“really aren’t anything to scoff at,
eventually that fish will be big and delicious”

suddenly our jawing and joking turned.
“karma’s a bitch aint’ it?” RoboCop began
“all i needed was two credits of algebra,
then I could have been an engineer or architect,
instead I’m a half human law enforcement robot.
now is the time, before you’re a bionic shell of a man,
go to college, or culinary school, at least cut your hair”

that made sense, RoboCop wants the best for me.
and then we ate sandwiches from the foam cooler.
pink meat of some kind, and lettuce.
everything was alright for RoboCop and I.

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Short Story Saturday

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