City Delivery
By Sue Ellis
Adam was awestruck by the seven-layer cake at table 27 in the Convention Center. The paint job rivaled anything he'd seen in Street Rod Magazine. Airbrushed, the bottom layer started out midnight blue, but faded to almost white as it spiraled to the top.
"Thank God!" A dark haired girl with what looked like powdered sugar on her nose grabbed the parcel from him and tore it open.
"Through rain, crowds and standing water--Adam Taylor, at your service." He'd have faked a bow, but she wasn't looking at him.
"Just my luck," she whined. "July's supposed to be the driest month of the year in Portland, but nooo." She impatiently circled a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Let Alice enter a cake decorating contest and we get a monsoon."
"It's almost stopped raining." Adam offered helpfully. It was a lie, but she looked like she needed a lie.
"Steam still rising off the sidewalks?"
"Well . . yeah."
"I'm sunk." She pulled a packet from the box, snipped the top off with scissors and squeezed the some of the contents into a bowl.
"What's that stuff?"
"Ganache. Now go away."
He couldn't move. Her elegant, long-fingered hands began mixing different colors into separate bowls, sculpting exotic looking flowers. "Dry. Oh please dry," she chanted over the blossoms as she laid them out on waxed paper.
"So humidity's the problem, right?"
She didn't answer him, but pulled another box from under the work table and opened it. The sculptural pieces she carefully unwrapped from it looked like blown glass, but he knew they had to be made from sugar.
Her shoulders drooped as she laid them out one by one. "Darn! They're all sticky."
"They're still beautiful, Alice." Adam moved in closer. Tears glistened in her eyes. He suddenly wanted to kiss her at the intersection of salty tears and waxy, red upper lip. She was a little plump, not his usual type. It was just that she was so intense--and those talented hands. He started picturing her airbrushing orange flames on the Harley's gas tank. Maybe he could get her to wear a tight t-shirt when she rode behind him--show a sweet roll at the top of her jeans like a real biker chick.
- - -
Sue Ellis lives and writes near Spokane, Washington. Her short stories and poems have previously appeared at such places as The Shine Journal, Flash Me Magazine, Ken*Again, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Christian Science Monitor.
By Sue Ellis
Adam was awestruck by the seven-layer cake at table 27 in the Convention Center. The paint job rivaled anything he'd seen in Street Rod Magazine. Airbrushed, the bottom layer started out midnight blue, but faded to almost white as it spiraled to the top.
"Thank God!" A dark haired girl with what looked like powdered sugar on her nose grabbed the parcel from him and tore it open.
"Through rain, crowds and standing water--Adam Taylor, at your service." He'd have faked a bow, but she wasn't looking at him.
"Just my luck," she whined. "July's supposed to be the driest month of the year in Portland, but nooo." She impatiently circled a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Let Alice enter a cake decorating contest and we get a monsoon."
"It's almost stopped raining." Adam offered helpfully. It was a lie, but she looked like she needed a lie.
"Steam still rising off the sidewalks?"
"Well . . yeah."
"I'm sunk." She pulled a packet from the box, snipped the top off with scissors and squeezed the some of the contents into a bowl.
"What's that stuff?"
"Ganache. Now go away."
He couldn't move. Her elegant, long-fingered hands began mixing different colors into separate bowls, sculpting exotic looking flowers. "Dry. Oh please dry," she chanted over the blossoms as she laid them out on waxed paper.
"So humidity's the problem, right?"
She didn't answer him, but pulled another box from under the work table and opened it. The sculptural pieces she carefully unwrapped from it looked like blown glass, but he knew they had to be made from sugar.
Her shoulders drooped as she laid them out one by one. "Darn! They're all sticky."
"They're still beautiful, Alice." Adam moved in closer. Tears glistened in her eyes. He suddenly wanted to kiss her at the intersection of salty tears and waxy, red upper lip. She was a little plump, not his usual type. It was just that she was so intense--and those talented hands. He started picturing her airbrushing orange flames on the Harley's gas tank. Maybe he could get her to wear a tight t-shirt when she rode behind him--show a sweet roll at the top of her jeans like a real biker chick.
- - -
Sue Ellis lives and writes near Spokane, Washington. Her short stories and poems have previously appeared at such places as The Shine Journal, Flash Me Magazine, Ken*Again, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, and Christian Science Monitor.
The Trellis
By J Mac Stone
Time moves the train. So does coal; both can be black as night. Hard to write words that always sound like there is good to be bought. So, the thoughts roll for the man in the chair. His meals, prepared by others, have no taste and leave a lingering sadness which feels like tongue. The day draws near and the relatives yawn. Their interest is only in the coverage provided by vultures who analyze the scenario as if they understand the man who walks the trellis.
Memories wrack the sub-conscious like flashes of lightning ravage the trees. Outside the evening pulls the drawstring and aims the silver arrow at a man who moves slow as night.
Hasten the inevitable demise for all who choose this path. There can be only one end for each beginning, so shall it be for the man who rises to the sound of echoes. These sounds roll down the hall like wheels on glass and without obstruction become as one with the road. That random sound of wheels on glass comes to the man in the chair as he approaches the trellis in the dream he wishes for.
If only there was more time. The night approaches in a jacket and pants like all the others. Fear becomes a player in this poker hand when the deuces are never a pair and rarely wild. All of the others observe but never feel. Family can condescend and never yield the love rescue that this man needs. All that remains is the short period between denial and regret and even that time is filled with random reckoning and passion for what cannot be. His end draws near because this is what has been ordered in the ethereal deli. We do not pick our sandwiches. Often times we are left with a roll and hope. Should you feel the mans outcome; waiting to happen, pass the time in joy because he would have it no other way as he crosses the trellis to wherever.
In retrospect, a mood often misunderstood, he dwells on earlier days. Siblings who were there and those who weren’t watched his days. Influences that were traded for chemicals in neighborhoods of pressure. Many days spent on front stoops watching role models who did not walk the catwalk of fame and fortune. Either way, excuses are like stray dogs, feed them they bite.
All that matters now is the window and the clock. At 10 till the clergy man rides in on his high horse of pop psychology and paper redemption. His ramblings are simply air that could be used for other purposes. In a prior day, when people spoke in this fashion they were believable but now in this end time the language is hollow and without passion. The trellis will be welcome after spending many of his valuable minutes with this misrepresentation of redemption. The trellis calls.
Last chance to see through the glass. Parents give righteous appearance but sister cried. He wishes to be alone and soon will be. The trellis is not so tough a walk in the end..
So ends the race for the man who chooses this run. The feet will find the trellis and you can be this free. Just be there for those you love and those you don’t and listen for the train.
- - -
Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.
By J Mac Stone
Time moves the train. So does coal; both can be black as night. Hard to write words that always sound like there is good to be bought. So, the thoughts roll for the man in the chair. His meals, prepared by others, have no taste and leave a lingering sadness which feels like tongue. The day draws near and the relatives yawn. Their interest is only in the coverage provided by vultures who analyze the scenario as if they understand the man who walks the trellis.
Memories wrack the sub-conscious like flashes of lightning ravage the trees. Outside the evening pulls the drawstring and aims the silver arrow at a man who moves slow as night.
Hasten the inevitable demise for all who choose this path. There can be only one end for each beginning, so shall it be for the man who rises to the sound of echoes. These sounds roll down the hall like wheels on glass and without obstruction become as one with the road. That random sound of wheels on glass comes to the man in the chair as he approaches the trellis in the dream he wishes for.
If only there was more time. The night approaches in a jacket and pants like all the others. Fear becomes a player in this poker hand when the deuces are never a pair and rarely wild. All of the others observe but never feel. Family can condescend and never yield the love rescue that this man needs. All that remains is the short period between denial and regret and even that time is filled with random reckoning and passion for what cannot be. His end draws near because this is what has been ordered in the ethereal deli. We do not pick our sandwiches. Often times we are left with a roll and hope. Should you feel the mans outcome; waiting to happen, pass the time in joy because he would have it no other way as he crosses the trellis to wherever.
In retrospect, a mood often misunderstood, he dwells on earlier days. Siblings who were there and those who weren’t watched his days. Influences that were traded for chemicals in neighborhoods of pressure. Many days spent on front stoops watching role models who did not walk the catwalk of fame and fortune. Either way, excuses are like stray dogs, feed them they bite.
All that matters now is the window and the clock. At 10 till the clergy man rides in on his high horse of pop psychology and paper redemption. His ramblings are simply air that could be used for other purposes. In a prior day, when people spoke in this fashion they were believable but now in this end time the language is hollow and without passion. The trellis will be welcome after spending many of his valuable minutes with this misrepresentation of redemption. The trellis calls.
Last chance to see through the glass. Parents give righteous appearance but sister cried. He wishes to be alone and soon will be. The trellis is not so tough a walk in the end..
So ends the race for the man who chooses this run. The feet will find the trellis and you can be this free. Just be there for those you love and those you don’t and listen for the train.
- - -
Aspiring philosopher, blogger and writer. Interested in learning new ways to create thought and to reveal others to themselves. Never far from inspiration yet somehow on a journey of discovery to see past the next mountain. Craving the next moment when the minutia of an idea becomes a story.
Turn the Water Off
By Doug McIntire
I had it all planned. I’d arranged time off from work during the day when my husband wouldn’t be home. I took the phone off the hook, lit aromatic candles, turned on soothing music, and laid the razor blade on the edge of the tub. But I forgot to turn the water off before I slit my wrists, my mistake apparent as I drifted up above my lifeless body. Of all the things to do in the first moments of my afterlife, I worried about how the bloody water would stain the floor and seep down into the apartment below.
- - -
Doug McIntire is a central Texas author of speculative fiction. He has been published in Six Sentences, Sex and Murder, AlienSkin Magazine, The Drabbler, and The Dunesteef Audio Fiction Magazine. When he’s not writing, he enjoys riding his motorcycle and spending time with his wife and two children. You can find out about him and his writing at www.DougMcIntire.com.
By Doug McIntire
I had it all planned. I’d arranged time off from work during the day when my husband wouldn’t be home. I took the phone off the hook, lit aromatic candles, turned on soothing music, and laid the razor blade on the edge of the tub. But I forgot to turn the water off before I slit my wrists, my mistake apparent as I drifted up above my lifeless body. Of all the things to do in the first moments of my afterlife, I worried about how the bloody water would stain the floor and seep down into the apartment below.
- - -
Doug McIntire is a central Texas author of speculative fiction. He has been published in Six Sentences, Sex and Murder, AlienSkin Magazine, The Drabbler, and The Dunesteef Audio Fiction Magazine. When he’s not writing, he enjoys riding his motorcycle and spending time with his wife and two children. You can find out about him and his writing at www.DougMcIntire.com.
The Silence Manual - Diagram of the parts included.
By Petra Whiteley
'A bondman is always subject to a free man.'
- - The Trial, Franz Kafka
I have hunted, I have brought the hunter home with all his rabbits, stuffed deep into his many pockets. How gently he whacked those small necks with the back of the hand!
The next rabbit already twitching to be touching those hands, to be skinned human, that tingling call of grass in Eden (or something like that). Truly that twitch was for the sake of their ears, the delicate deliciously impaled soft flesh welcoming earrings - all they ever wanted is to belong, now they were chosen to feel so. Those big hands held the promise of those cruciation garden pleasures to be given so graciously, so freely, so lovingly.
I'd like to say I was never one of those rabbits...
Yet I knew the smell in his pockets, the exciting sound of the swish of the hands and the soft hairs, the skin, trembling beneath, expecting. Yes, I was mesmerised too.
Only I couldn't wait for that beautiful moment of the ultimate intoxication of life blasting my veins through and for the majestic explosion echoing and swirling the major notes, taste it on my tongue as wordless I would be blissfully left with the final swell.
Only little does one realise what obsession the escaped rabbit can be to the hunter. He's still out there searching his house, all its nooks and crannies, and throwing the chairs around, pulling out the draws, dirty cupboards with precisely placed spicy objects, cursing the absentee with all the roar he can muster. When they come knocking on the door, he carefully positions the hard pressed clothes, they are red because he's oh so passionate. Light is his way. The rabbit is propped by the wire into proportion of towering Baphomet, slowly de-rabbitised in the tradition, give it number 13, day of Friday. Soon fading into the fairy tales where everyone becomes (eventually) clearly given the right place in the alphabet.
Let the rabbits boil their silvery echoes for their wondrous huntsman so he sets back to the softly killings, his palms the gift of the moss. I shall ponder why I've brought my home into his hands to begin with. That is the guilt to carry along in the necklace of them.
I dream of Thames at midnight, where at least a rabbit can choose the softness of one's own never ever after and push hard towards the dawn in the city.
- - -
Petra Whiteley is an author of poetry books 'The Nomad's Trail' and 'The Moulding of Seers', she is writing regularly for Osprey, Eleutheria and The Glasgow Review on variety of issues and literary movements, her poetry and fiction has appeared in various online and print magazines. She's in the process of hunting down a publisher for a book that crosses several genders, dystopia and fantasy to name a few.
By Petra Whiteley
'A bondman is always subject to a free man.'
- - The Trial, Franz Kafka
I have hunted, I have brought the hunter home with all his rabbits, stuffed deep into his many pockets. How gently he whacked those small necks with the back of the hand!
The next rabbit already twitching to be touching those hands, to be skinned human, that tingling call of grass in Eden (or something like that). Truly that twitch was for the sake of their ears, the delicate deliciously impaled soft flesh welcoming earrings - all they ever wanted is to belong, now they were chosen to feel so. Those big hands held the promise of those cruciation garden pleasures to be given so graciously, so freely, so lovingly.
I'd like to say I was never one of those rabbits...
Yet I knew the smell in his pockets, the exciting sound of the swish of the hands and the soft hairs, the skin, trembling beneath, expecting. Yes, I was mesmerised too.
Only I couldn't wait for that beautiful moment of the ultimate intoxication of life blasting my veins through and for the majestic explosion echoing and swirling the major notes, taste it on my tongue as wordless I would be blissfully left with the final swell.
Only little does one realise what obsession the escaped rabbit can be to the hunter. He's still out there searching his house, all its nooks and crannies, and throwing the chairs around, pulling out the draws, dirty cupboards with precisely placed spicy objects, cursing the absentee with all the roar he can muster. When they come knocking on the door, he carefully positions the hard pressed clothes, they are red because he's oh so passionate. Light is his way. The rabbit is propped by the wire into proportion of towering Baphomet, slowly de-rabbitised in the tradition, give it number 13, day of Friday. Soon fading into the fairy tales where everyone becomes (eventually) clearly given the right place in the alphabet.
Let the rabbits boil their silvery echoes for their wondrous huntsman so he sets back to the softly killings, his palms the gift of the moss. I shall ponder why I've brought my home into his hands to begin with. That is the guilt to carry along in the necklace of them.
I dream of Thames at midnight, where at least a rabbit can choose the softness of one's own never ever after and push hard towards the dawn in the city.
- - -
Petra Whiteley is an author of poetry books 'The Nomad's Trail' and 'The Moulding of Seers', she is writing regularly for Osprey, Eleutheria and The Glasgow Review on variety of issues and literary movements, her poetry and fiction has appeared in various online and print magazines. She's in the process of hunting down a publisher for a book that crosses several genders, dystopia and fantasy to name a few.
The Knocking
By Dan Schlueter
Weeks ago Jenny had sat at her desk scrawling out the invitations to her sleepover birthday party. The negotiations with her mother had been tense but she had finally caved. All it cost her was two weeks worth of dishes and no dating until she was thirty-five. She was pretty sure her mom was joking about that one but she had enough doubt to consider it before laughing at her own ridiculousness.
Her mother had allowed her to invite four girls. April was a bit of a brainiac that Jenny had met in chess club in fifth grade. She had since moved onto more popular circles but she remained friends with April despite the occasional protests from some of her more popular friends. Becca was the alpha female of the group. Head cheerleader and dating the quarterback, there was no doubt that Jenny and the others followed her lead.
The twins, Amie and Ally, had moved into the neighborhood a few months prior and quickly bonded with Jenny when they found out she could drive. Since then they had formed a solid friendship and the girls became as inseparable as the three musketeers.
The girls had arrived hours before and after dancing to some forgettable pop songs coming from the cd player they had settled in to watch a movie.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
The thunderous sound of the knocking startled the girls that had gathered for a sleepover at Jenny's house. The air in the room seemed to thicken as the banging at the door grew louder and louder.
Stephanie stormed into the room expecting to yell at the girls to keep it down. Her face was red with anger caused by the thought that her daughter could not control her friends long enough for her to make the popcorn they had requested. She walked into a far different scene than the one she had expected. One could easily see the fear on their faces. Their color reduced to a pale white. They trembled while huddled in the corner of the sectional sofa, gathered into a semicircle as if to keep watch in all directions.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
The knocking grew still louder, becoming loud enough that thinking was a difficult task. Tears started to stream from the girls eyes. Lighting crashed outside the house as if to signal a very strong presence was near. Another crash was heard as the ceramic mug of green tea Stephanie had been nursing fell to the ground and broke into a hundred pieces.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
Stephanie fell to her knees and began to cry. It was not fear that gripped Stephanie but sorrow. She knew what lay beyond the door. She knew it to be an unspeakable, unexplainable thing. She could not answer the door. She would not answer it.
"Go away!" She screamed as if she thought it would do any good but she knew that it would not. This was not the first time she had heard the knocking. With every part of her being she hoped she would never hear it again. That deafening pounding that struck her to the core of her soul as if all the wind hand been knocked out of her body.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
The pounding would not stop. It demanded to be answered. It would not be ignored.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
Jenny moved to her mother and wrapped her arms around her. As she did one of the girls retrieved a cell phone from her purse and tried to dial 911. Her fingers were shaking like a frail old woman causing her to have to dial again to depress the right buttons on the pearl white cell phone. Finally she was able to get the correct sequence of digits but the phone would not dial. The no signal message that flashed on the screen would normally have been nothing more than an inconvenience. Tonight however it added to the feeling of dread that consumed her whole body.
Jenny looked to her mother for hope but saw nothing but sadness and despair in her hazel eyes. Stephanie wanted to explain but she could not, she didn't know how. How could she explain to her daughter that there was nothing outside. In her mind she corrected herself. There was no one outside but there was definitely something. Something better left unexplained, a secret that had haunted her family for years. Death's messenger was at that door.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
Finally she gathered the courage to open the door. As expected no one was there. The knocking had always been followed by a death in the family exactly one hour later. All that was left of Stephanie's family was her daughter. She would protect her the only way she knew how. She kissed her daughter and told her she loved her before going upstairs to take every pill in the medicine cabinet. Stephanie died exactly one hour after the knocking. Her daughter would never know why she took her own life.
- - -
I am a software engineer that has had stories in my mind for decades that are finally fighting to free themselves.
By Dan Schlueter
Weeks ago Jenny had sat at her desk scrawling out the invitations to her sleepover birthday party. The negotiations with her mother had been tense but she had finally caved. All it cost her was two weeks worth of dishes and no dating until she was thirty-five. She was pretty sure her mom was joking about that one but she had enough doubt to consider it before laughing at her own ridiculousness.
Her mother had allowed her to invite four girls. April was a bit of a brainiac that Jenny had met in chess club in fifth grade. She had since moved onto more popular circles but she remained friends with April despite the occasional protests from some of her more popular friends. Becca was the alpha female of the group. Head cheerleader and dating the quarterback, there was no doubt that Jenny and the others followed her lead.
The twins, Amie and Ally, had moved into the neighborhood a few months prior and quickly bonded with Jenny when they found out she could drive. Since then they had formed a solid friendship and the girls became as inseparable as the three musketeers.
The girls had arrived hours before and after dancing to some forgettable pop songs coming from the cd player they had settled in to watch a movie.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
The thunderous sound of the knocking startled the girls that had gathered for a sleepover at Jenny's house. The air in the room seemed to thicken as the banging at the door grew louder and louder.
Stephanie stormed into the room expecting to yell at the girls to keep it down. Her face was red with anger caused by the thought that her daughter could not control her friends long enough for her to make the popcorn they had requested. She walked into a far different scene than the one she had expected. One could easily see the fear on their faces. Their color reduced to a pale white. They trembled while huddled in the corner of the sectional sofa, gathered into a semicircle as if to keep watch in all directions.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
The knocking grew still louder, becoming loud enough that thinking was a difficult task. Tears started to stream from the girls eyes. Lighting crashed outside the house as if to signal a very strong presence was near. Another crash was heard as the ceramic mug of green tea Stephanie had been nursing fell to the ground and broke into a hundred pieces.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
Stephanie fell to her knees and began to cry. It was not fear that gripped Stephanie but sorrow. She knew what lay beyond the door. She knew it to be an unspeakable, unexplainable thing. She could not answer the door. She would not answer it.
"Go away!" She screamed as if she thought it would do any good but she knew that it would not. This was not the first time she had heard the knocking. With every part of her being she hoped she would never hear it again. That deafening pounding that struck her to the core of her soul as if all the wind hand been knocked out of her body.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
The pounding would not stop. It demanded to be answered. It would not be ignored.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
Jenny moved to her mother and wrapped her arms around her. As she did one of the girls retrieved a cell phone from her purse and tried to dial 911. Her fingers were shaking like a frail old woman causing her to have to dial again to depress the right buttons on the pearl white cell phone. Finally she was able to get the correct sequence of digits but the phone would not dial. The no signal message that flashed on the screen would normally have been nothing more than an inconvenience. Tonight however it added to the feeling of dread that consumed her whole body.
Jenny looked to her mother for hope but saw nothing but sadness and despair in her hazel eyes. Stephanie wanted to explain but she could not, she didn't know how. How could she explain to her daughter that there was nothing outside. In her mind she corrected herself. There was no one outside but there was definitely something. Something better left unexplained, a secret that had haunted her family for years. Death's messenger was at that door.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
Finally she gathered the courage to open the door. As expected no one was there. The knocking had always been followed by a death in the family exactly one hour later. All that was left of Stephanie's family was her daughter. She would protect her the only way she knew how. She kissed her daughter and told her she loved her before going upstairs to take every pill in the medicine cabinet. Stephanie died exactly one hour after the knocking. Her daughter would never know why she took her own life.
- - -
I am a software engineer that has had stories in my mind for decades that are finally fighting to free themselves.
A Desperate City
By April A.
Hello to you from the gray gloomy city,
Where crowds unconsciously worship despair,
Indulging in dangers of constant self-pity
With naive belief in the world's being fair.
They have no trust in a man's inner power,
And fortitude sounds like something unknown.
They have no poets, just ones of an hour,
Who drown at once in the thoughts of their own.
With greed they consume plain illusions for dinner,
And dress them with lies when they serve the new dishes
To those so-called "pathological sinners"
Who find someone else's delusions delicious.
They have Friday liter-mates rather than friends
To mark that the week of no favor is ending,
But even with glasses of spirits in hands
They look worse than misery. Are they pretending?
- - -
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
By April A.
Hello to you from the gray gloomy city,
Where crowds unconsciously worship despair,
Indulging in dangers of constant self-pity
With naive belief in the world's being fair.
They have no trust in a man's inner power,
And fortitude sounds like something unknown.
They have no poets, just ones of an hour,
Who drown at once in the thoughts of their own.
With greed they consume plain illusions for dinner,
And dress them with lies when they serve the new dishes
To those so-called "pathological sinners"
Who find someone else's delusions delicious.
They have Friday liter-mates rather than friends
To mark that the week of no favor is ending,
But even with glasses of spirits in hands
They look worse than misery. Are they pretending?
- - -
April A. has been writing for almost five years, getting inspiration from various experiences seen by the eyes of a thinker. The purpose of her creativity is urging people to see beyond the bounds, to be themselves, to speak their minds loud, not to be afraid to differ from the crowd.
She creates to destroy. To destroy the naive beliefs. To destroy the stereotypes.
April lives in St. Petersburg with her beloved one at the moment and hopes to succeed further both as a poet and a songwriter.
The Perfect Date
By Lucius Rofocale
I do not film dates out of any sense of perversion - I do so because memory is notoriously unreliable; I often find I miss facial expressions and other non-verbal cues because I am urgently thinking of what to say next while portraying a relaxed demeanor, and these days it is so easy to place a miniature camera in your lapel - you would literally have to look through a magnifying glass to find it - I’m surprised more of my male acquaintances don’t do it ; I have the advantage of returning home and re-viewing the date - alone - free of emotional attachments - and investigate the truth of it - away from prying eyes and the fear of being rejected; playback allows me to identify my dates preferences - I can freeze-frame at pivotal moments easily discerning genuine responses before any social graces,; not only does this give me an idea of the possibilities of the relationship - whether to pursue it - it also allows me to plan dates that will be most enjoyable for her
and if not her, the next
date - perhaps with someone more compatible -lonely - or who really wants me for me - you see, I can offer that insight - that sensitivity … .
- - -
Lucius Rofocale was raised by wolves in the wilderness, but despite being ’rescued’ and indoctrinated as Homo-sapiens remains very feral. His work has recently appeared in the 'Clincal ... Brutal' Antholgy by Clinicality Press and 'ditch'. Among his influences are Genesis P-Orridge, Brion Gysin and William S Burroughs. Lucius desires to attack the cultural, social, religious and political Status Quo and have fun doing it. He can be reached at luciusrofocale@live.com.
By Lucius Rofocale
I do not film dates out of any sense of perversion - I do so because memory is notoriously unreliable; I often find I miss facial expressions and other non-verbal cues because I am urgently thinking of what to say next while portraying a relaxed demeanor, and these days it is so easy to place a miniature camera in your lapel - you would literally have to look through a magnifying glass to find it - I’m surprised more of my male acquaintances don’t do it ; I have the advantage of returning home and re-viewing the date - alone - free of emotional attachments - and investigate the truth of it - away from prying eyes and the fear of being rejected; playback allows me to identify my dates preferences - I can freeze-frame at pivotal moments easily discerning genuine responses before any social graces,; not only does this give me an idea of the possibilities of the relationship - whether to pursue it - it also allows me to plan dates that will be most enjoyable for her
and if not her, the next
date - perhaps with someone more compatible -lonely - or who really wants me for me - you see, I can offer that insight - that sensitivity … .
- - -
Lucius Rofocale was raised by wolves in the wilderness, but despite being ’rescued’ and indoctrinated as Homo-sapiens remains very feral. His work has recently appeared in the 'Clincal ... Brutal' Antholgy by Clinicality Press and 'ditch'. Among his influences are Genesis P-Orridge, Brion Gysin and William S Burroughs. Lucius desires to attack the cultural, social, religious and political Status Quo and have fun doing it. He can be reached at luciusrofocale@live.com.
