Another Story from Children and Household Tales by the Brothers Grimm
(Featuring Karen Carpenter)
By David Macpherson
Richard and Karen Carpenter were again lost in the deep woods. Richard turned himself around in a circle. "The breadcrumbs," he said. "The breadcrumbs are gone."
Karen looked about as well, but her eyes moved up to the sky instead of the ground where they should have been."It was the birds, Richard. They are hungry too."
Richard looked down to his feet, "I see no birds. I think you ate the crumbs. You eat all the time."
Karen Carpenter smiled and sang apologetically, "Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near."
Richard said, "Those last notes were flat. You need to do better." He walked forward and Karen silently concurred with his direction.
By the morning, they found a house made of gingerbread. They ate the awnings. They bit into the window shutters. Richard said, "Best be careful, don't make a pig of yourself."
The witch opened the kitchen door and waved them in with a pan of fresh baked brioche. "Here my dears, warm your stomachs upon this."
Richard plowed in on the hot bread. Karen Carpenter raised her hand and said, "I guess I shouldn't." She found herself eating with facility, none the less.
They both fell asleep after breakfast. They woke up locked in giant bird cages. The witch approached them with a tray heavy with raisin cakes. "I will free you my dears, but you need to eat."
So they did. They ate the raisin cakes, the prune danishes, the cinnamon rolls. Richard Carpenter became round, all his edges disappeared. Karen Carpenter became thinner, more skeletal with every day of eating. Most nights she sang. "Rainy days and Mondays always bring me down."
On the first day of snow the witch said that it was time for harvest. She opened up the cage that held Richard and trussed him with twine. He was tossed into the still cold oven. She lit the wood under the oven and stoked the flame with long slow breaths.
Karen sat in her bird cage and asked, "And what of me. When shall I be cooked and eaten."
The witch stopped her ministrations. "You? I don't think ever. But you may continue to sing where you are. Your voice pleases the very ear of the sky."
The witch went back to blowing on the flame. Karen Carpenter walked through the space between the bars. She took a paring knife from the butcher block, walked behind the witch and ran the knife across her throat. Karen opened the oven door and pulled her brother out onto the floor. She looked down long enough to see he was still breathing. She laid her palm on his scorched cheek and sang a few notes of an unknown aire. She walked into the oven and ignited like straw.
By the time Richard Carpenter ran to the oven all he found was ashes.
- - -
David is a writer living in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.
(Featuring Karen Carpenter)
By David Macpherson
Richard and Karen Carpenter were again lost in the deep woods. Richard turned himself around in a circle. "The breadcrumbs," he said. "The breadcrumbs are gone."
Karen looked about as well, but her eyes moved up to the sky instead of the ground where they should have been."It was the birds, Richard. They are hungry too."
Richard looked down to his feet, "I see no birds. I think you ate the crumbs. You eat all the time."
Karen Carpenter smiled and sang apologetically, "Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near."
Richard said, "Those last notes were flat. You need to do better." He walked forward and Karen silently concurred with his direction.
By the morning, they found a house made of gingerbread. They ate the awnings. They bit into the window shutters. Richard said, "Best be careful, don't make a pig of yourself."
The witch opened the kitchen door and waved them in with a pan of fresh baked brioche. "Here my dears, warm your stomachs upon this."
Richard plowed in on the hot bread. Karen Carpenter raised her hand and said, "I guess I shouldn't." She found herself eating with facility, none the less.
They both fell asleep after breakfast. They woke up locked in giant bird cages. The witch approached them with a tray heavy with raisin cakes. "I will free you my dears, but you need to eat."
So they did. They ate the raisin cakes, the prune danishes, the cinnamon rolls. Richard Carpenter became round, all his edges disappeared. Karen Carpenter became thinner, more skeletal with every day of eating. Most nights she sang. "Rainy days and Mondays always bring me down."
On the first day of snow the witch said that it was time for harvest. She opened up the cage that held Richard and trussed him with twine. He was tossed into the still cold oven. She lit the wood under the oven and stoked the flame with long slow breaths.
Karen sat in her bird cage and asked, "And what of me. When shall I be cooked and eaten."
The witch stopped her ministrations. "You? I don't think ever. But you may continue to sing where you are. Your voice pleases the very ear of the sky."
The witch went back to blowing on the flame. Karen Carpenter walked through the space between the bars. She took a paring knife from the butcher block, walked behind the witch and ran the knife across her throat. Karen opened the oven door and pulled her brother out onto the floor. She looked down long enough to see he was still breathing. She laid her palm on his scorched cheek and sang a few notes of an unknown aire. She walked into the oven and ignited like straw.
By the time Richard Carpenter ran to the oven all he found was ashes.
- - -
David is a writer living in Central Massachusetts with his wife Heather and son George.
The Note
By M. Howalt
It was the moment when the folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground that marked the beginning of our relationship. I picked it up and hurried after him, pushing my way past an elderly couple with a massive luggage trying to get onto the train.
“Excuse me?”
He turned, surprised, almost shocked. “What?”
“You … dropped this.”
“Did you read it yet?” he asked.
“No.” Why did it matter?
He smiled.
Someone commented that we were in the way of everybody else. It was the morning rush hour, and the platform was alive with people. We seemed to be the only ones standing still.
“You hold on to that,” he said. His voice was calm and smooth. It reminded me of a doctor trying to break the bad news gently. “And please remember there was nothing you could have done.”
“About what?”
He turned away and disappeared into the mass of moving bodies.
I unfolded the piece of paper.
“I’m sorry for the grief I cause you, but I can’t take it anymore,” it began, “I don’t know who you are, but when you read this, I will be gone, and all there is left of me will be a memory. Your memory.”
I looked up. A stranger had just left me a suicide letter. I frantically searched for him for what seemed like hours. More than once, I thought I saw him. It always turned out to be someone else. In the end, I would have to get back to the right platform and take a train to work.
“The 9.04 train is cancelled due to an accident,” the smooth voice in the speaker said. Everybody knew what it meant.
A man next to me was talking on his mobile phone. “Yeah, I’m going to be late,” he said, “some bloody idiot has jumped out in front of a train. Those people don’t think about anyone but themselves!”
“Well,” someone else remarked loudly, “At least chances are they won’t do it again.”
A very awkward silence followed.
I was clutching the letter. The panic had turned into something else.
I was caught somewhere between anger and curiosity. I had to get to know him.
- - -
M. Howalt holds a master's degree in British and American literature and likes to take pictures and draw. More importantly, there is an abundance of stories in Howalt's head, and most of them want to be told, which is why one novel is currently being written, another is in the revision process, and a lot of short fiction seems to spontaneously appear.
By M. Howalt
It was the moment when the folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground that marked the beginning of our relationship. I picked it up and hurried after him, pushing my way past an elderly couple with a massive luggage trying to get onto the train.
“Excuse me?”
He turned, surprised, almost shocked. “What?”
“You … dropped this.”
“Did you read it yet?” he asked.
“No.” Why did it matter?
He smiled.
Someone commented that we were in the way of everybody else. It was the morning rush hour, and the platform was alive with people. We seemed to be the only ones standing still.
“You hold on to that,” he said. His voice was calm and smooth. It reminded me of a doctor trying to break the bad news gently. “And please remember there was nothing you could have done.”
“About what?”
He turned away and disappeared into the mass of moving bodies.
I unfolded the piece of paper.
“I’m sorry for the grief I cause you, but I can’t take it anymore,” it began, “I don’t know who you are, but when you read this, I will be gone, and all there is left of me will be a memory. Your memory.”
I looked up. A stranger had just left me a suicide letter. I frantically searched for him for what seemed like hours. More than once, I thought I saw him. It always turned out to be someone else. In the end, I would have to get back to the right platform and take a train to work.
“The 9.04 train is cancelled due to an accident,” the smooth voice in the speaker said. Everybody knew what it meant.
A man next to me was talking on his mobile phone. “Yeah, I’m going to be late,” he said, “some bloody idiot has jumped out in front of a train. Those people don’t think about anyone but themselves!”
“Well,” someone else remarked loudly, “At least chances are they won’t do it again.”
A very awkward silence followed.
I was clutching the letter. The panic had turned into something else.
I was caught somewhere between anger and curiosity. I had to get to know him.
- - -
M. Howalt holds a master's degree in British and American literature and likes to take pictures and draw. More importantly, there is an abundance of stories in Howalt's head, and most of them want to be told, which is why one novel is currently being written, another is in the revision process, and a lot of short fiction seems to spontaneously appear.
Captain Kirk And Spock Meet Elvis
(Spock Goes Disco)
By Tony Rauch
“I’ve . . . I’ve enjoyed your rock and roll music . . . to its fullest capacity . . . Mr. . . . Mr. Elvis.”
“I also have listened to your comforting words many many times, . . . Mr. Elvis.”
(Ray beams shine out of Elvis’s eyes and vaporize the both of them. Spock melts immediately while Kirk just stays in place, shaking and incapacitated. Spock was wearing a silky flower-patterned shirt with super large disco lapels. This seemed to upset Elvis for some reason (It’s either the lapels or Spock’s face-meltingly bad Valcan breath). Then some people show up with some beers and a cake. A party breaks out for some reason. Apparently some other stuff happens. A lot of people are showing up, so it’s hard to tell what’s going on exactly. Someone turns a knob and that activates some type of thing that makes everyone’s hair grow longer and curl at the ends. Hairs continue to curl and curl until everyone within a two block radius is wearing a giant tight perm, a la the last season of the Brady Bunch or the musical group Grand Funk Railroad circa 1973. Then some aliens arrive. No one is certain what to think of them, so the party lags a little there for a while, but then they seem alright, so things pick up a little. The aliens are four feet tall, light blue, stocky, with big muscular shoulders, long beefy arms, compact legs, and no heads. Their heads are in their chests in the sense that their eyes and mouths are in the center of their chests. Oh, and they have hunched backs, so their posture is sort of stooped over.
Some angry neighbor shows up. Seems someone swiped his morning newspaper off his step the other day, so Elvis opens up on him with the ol’ eye laser thing and splits the guy right in half. One of the halves stays standing there in place on the sidewalk out front, while the other half just sort of flops down like a pealed banana. One of the aliens, a light blue mother, sends out a ray from his wrist thingie and freezes the angry neighbor guy. Some of his alien buddies pick up the side that flopped down like a wet noodle and flash some light thing around the guy and the cells somehow reattached themselves and the neighbor guy snaps out of it. So that is pretty cool of the aliens to fix that guy like that, even though he crashed the party like a big shot when he could’ve just waited for a better time to ask about the missing paper. By this time most of the people are dancing, but well behaved – just kind of shuffling in place and shimmying about – so not a lot of people notice the vivisection. Then it’s late and so people leave. They beam Spock and Kirk back up. By this time Spock is just a puddle of solidified plastic, where Kirk is still catatonic and shaking. The aliens don’t attempt to fix them for some reason. By this time everyone has left and we go back to sleep, figuring we’ll clean up in the morning. When morning comes we wake to find the place spotless. We talk it over and figure those light blue aliens cleaned the place up, which was really cool of them, but we’re not real positive on all that. But we hope they show up again in the future sometime as they proved to be helpful. We look around and the place looks great. We had planned to clean, so now have some time on our hands, so we go out for breakfast – hot dogs and cake. Then in driving back home, someone sees a neat painting in someone’s window. So we sneak into a back window and tiptoe out with the painting. She’s a beaut’ – an old one of a bunch of cows. Coy likes cows, so we figure we’ll put it up in his room while he’s away at work, then he’ll come home and be surprised (feels good to do things for others, to drop down an act of virtue, even if it does involve breaking and entering and theft). On the way back home there is an accident. A car has spun out and is in the way. “Hey, check this out,” Jasper smiles at us, then hops out of the jeep. “Elvis bestowed upon me super strength last night,” he shrugs, then walks over and lifts up the car and tosses it into the air. The car tumbles end over end, arcing down into the top of a gas station. The driver just stands on the median, his mouth open in awe. The obstruction clear, we move ahead. “Wow, super strength, huh,” I nod. “Yeah,” Jasper sighs, “Now that I think about it, I wish I’da asked for something different though.” “Yeah, why’s that?” Pierre asks. “I don’t know. I mean, how often would I use super strength. . . . Shoulda asked for something else.” “Still. Pretty cool Elvis granted your request.” “Yeah, I guess. But that’s just the type of guy Elvis is. So it’s not really all that surprising.” “Yeah. I hope he comes back again.”)
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
(Spock Goes Disco)
By Tony Rauch
“I’ve . . . I’ve enjoyed your rock and roll music . . . to its fullest capacity . . . Mr. . . . Mr. Elvis.”
“I also have listened to your comforting words many many times, . . . Mr. Elvis.”
(Ray beams shine out of Elvis’s eyes and vaporize the both of them. Spock melts immediately while Kirk just stays in place, shaking and incapacitated. Spock was wearing a silky flower-patterned shirt with super large disco lapels. This seemed to upset Elvis for some reason (It’s either the lapels or Spock’s face-meltingly bad Valcan breath). Then some people show up with some beers and a cake. A party breaks out for some reason. Apparently some other stuff happens. A lot of people are showing up, so it’s hard to tell what’s going on exactly. Someone turns a knob and that activates some type of thing that makes everyone’s hair grow longer and curl at the ends. Hairs continue to curl and curl until everyone within a two block radius is wearing a giant tight perm, a la the last season of the Brady Bunch or the musical group Grand Funk Railroad circa 1973. Then some aliens arrive. No one is certain what to think of them, so the party lags a little there for a while, but then they seem alright, so things pick up a little. The aliens are four feet tall, light blue, stocky, with big muscular shoulders, long beefy arms, compact legs, and no heads. Their heads are in their chests in the sense that their eyes and mouths are in the center of their chests. Oh, and they have hunched backs, so their posture is sort of stooped over.
Some angry neighbor shows up. Seems someone swiped his morning newspaper off his step the other day, so Elvis opens up on him with the ol’ eye laser thing and splits the guy right in half. One of the halves stays standing there in place on the sidewalk out front, while the other half just sort of flops down like a pealed banana. One of the aliens, a light blue mother, sends out a ray from his wrist thingie and freezes the angry neighbor guy. Some of his alien buddies pick up the side that flopped down like a wet noodle and flash some light thing around the guy and the cells somehow reattached themselves and the neighbor guy snaps out of it. So that is pretty cool of the aliens to fix that guy like that, even though he crashed the party like a big shot when he could’ve just waited for a better time to ask about the missing paper. By this time most of the people are dancing, but well behaved – just kind of shuffling in place and shimmying about – so not a lot of people notice the vivisection. Then it’s late and so people leave. They beam Spock and Kirk back up. By this time Spock is just a puddle of solidified plastic, where Kirk is still catatonic and shaking. The aliens don’t attempt to fix them for some reason. By this time everyone has left and we go back to sleep, figuring we’ll clean up in the morning. When morning comes we wake to find the place spotless. We talk it over and figure those light blue aliens cleaned the place up, which was really cool of them, but we’re not real positive on all that. But we hope they show up again in the future sometime as they proved to be helpful. We look around and the place looks great. We had planned to clean, so now have some time on our hands, so we go out for breakfast – hot dogs and cake. Then in driving back home, someone sees a neat painting in someone’s window. So we sneak into a back window and tiptoe out with the painting. She’s a beaut’ – an old one of a bunch of cows. Coy likes cows, so we figure we’ll put it up in his room while he’s away at work, then he’ll come home and be surprised (feels good to do things for others, to drop down an act of virtue, even if it does involve breaking and entering and theft). On the way back home there is an accident. A car has spun out and is in the way. “Hey, check this out,” Jasper smiles at us, then hops out of the jeep. “Elvis bestowed upon me super strength last night,” he shrugs, then walks over and lifts up the car and tosses it into the air. The car tumbles end over end, arcing down into the top of a gas station. The driver just stands on the median, his mouth open in awe. The obstruction clear, we move ahead. “Wow, super strength, huh,” I nod. “Yeah,” Jasper sighs, “Now that I think about it, I wish I’da asked for something different though.” “Yeah, why’s that?” Pierre asks. “I don’t know. I mean, how often would I use super strength. . . . Shoulda asked for something else.” “Still. Pretty cool Elvis granted your request.” “Yeah, I guess. But that’s just the type of guy Elvis is. So it’s not really all that surprising.” “Yeah. I hope he comes back again.”)
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
No Longer Polite
By Eric J. Bandel
He was sitting in a chair with his eyes to the ceiling when the telephone rang. A colossal black moth had been lying dormant for two days; upside down and without so much as a flap. He was sure it was alive but it wouldn’t move; it made him uncomfortable. He could think of nothing else and hadn’t left the room since it appeared. On a table to his right the phone continued to ring. Still watching the moth, he picked it up and spoke.
“Yes, who is it?”
“I’m sorry” said the caller immediately. “I must have the wrong number”.
It was the voice of a young man; confident, breezy, well adjusted. Of late the man in the chair had received numerous amounts of these calls. At first he was polite. He then began to suggest they check the numbers more carefully. For a time he considered changing his own extension. Yet somehow it felt like defeat. He didn’t like defeat. So after a month of miscalls, he was no longer polite.
“How do you know it’s the wrong number?” He asked.
“Excuse me?” Said the young man.
“I say, how do you know it’s the wrong number?”
“Because the party I wish to reach is my cousin Albert, he lives alone and you’re not him.”
“Cousin Albert.”
“Yes, my cousin Albert, is there a problem?”
A long pause then as he took half a cigarette from his shirtfront, lit it and shook the match.
“How can you be certain I haven’t broken in?”
“What’s that?
“Well, you assume a wrong number but you don’t know for sure do you? I mean I could be sitting across from Albert’s body right now, tied to a bed perhaps .”
“What are you talking about, who is this?
“That’s Right, Cousin Al, gagged, stripped and beaten. And me talking to you as I sharpen a buoy blade with the intention of carving my initials into his forehead.”
“What did you just say?” The vocal confidence had vanished.
“Good bye now.”
The man in the chair hung up. Of course it was the wrong number, same as the others. The caller would no doubt check the listing and realize this. He sat back and returned his attention to the moth. Twenty minutes later the phone rang again.
“Yes, who is it?
“Is Rita at home?” It was another young man.
“This is Rita.”
“This is Rita?
“That’s right, Rita speaking.”
“I’m looking for a Miss Rita Korvis.”
“This is she, how can I help you?”
The young sat man breathing into the phone. Seconds passed. He swallowed twice and cleared his throat.
“This doesn’t sound like Rita.”
Just then a cargo plane came low from the west. The noise being great on both ends it was imperative to let the engines fade until the line was again calm. The man in the chair shut his eyes to the moth and leaned forward.
“Are you still with me?”
“Yes.” Said the young man.
“That’s good. Listen, I lied, this isn’t Rita. I only said it was because, well, you see, right now I feel like Rita.”
The line was silent but not cold. The young man again swallowed hard, this time ending with a sneeze.
“What do you mean you feel like Rita?” He said.
“Well, I’ve tried on one of her dresses.”
“One of her dresses? I don’t---
“Yes, im wearing it now. And do you know what else I’m wearing.”
“What is this? how---
“I’m wearing the skin of her face as a mask. That’s what I mean by I feel like Rita. Learn to dial a phone and don’t call here again.”
He hung up, sat back, looked up and the moth was gone.
- - -
Eric J. Bandel is a grocery store manager currently living in New York City. He was born in New Jersey where the mass of his fiction takes place.
By Eric J. Bandel
He was sitting in a chair with his eyes to the ceiling when the telephone rang. A colossal black moth had been lying dormant for two days; upside down and without so much as a flap. He was sure it was alive but it wouldn’t move; it made him uncomfortable. He could think of nothing else and hadn’t left the room since it appeared. On a table to his right the phone continued to ring. Still watching the moth, he picked it up and spoke.
“Yes, who is it?”
“I’m sorry” said the caller immediately. “I must have the wrong number”.
It was the voice of a young man; confident, breezy, well adjusted. Of late the man in the chair had received numerous amounts of these calls. At first he was polite. He then began to suggest they check the numbers more carefully. For a time he considered changing his own extension. Yet somehow it felt like defeat. He didn’t like defeat. So after a month of miscalls, he was no longer polite.
“How do you know it’s the wrong number?” He asked.
“Excuse me?” Said the young man.
“I say, how do you know it’s the wrong number?”
“Because the party I wish to reach is my cousin Albert, he lives alone and you’re not him.”
“Cousin Albert.”
“Yes, my cousin Albert, is there a problem?”
A long pause then as he took half a cigarette from his shirtfront, lit it and shook the match.
“How can you be certain I haven’t broken in?”
“What’s that?
“Well, you assume a wrong number but you don’t know for sure do you? I mean I could be sitting across from Albert’s body right now, tied to a bed perhaps .”
“What are you talking about, who is this?
“That’s Right, Cousin Al, gagged, stripped and beaten. And me talking to you as I sharpen a buoy blade with the intention of carving my initials into his forehead.”
“What did you just say?” The vocal confidence had vanished.
“Good bye now.”
The man in the chair hung up. Of course it was the wrong number, same as the others. The caller would no doubt check the listing and realize this. He sat back and returned his attention to the moth. Twenty minutes later the phone rang again.
“Yes, who is it?
“Is Rita at home?” It was another young man.
“This is Rita.”
“This is Rita?
“That’s right, Rita speaking.”
“I’m looking for a Miss Rita Korvis.”
“This is she, how can I help you?”
The young sat man breathing into the phone. Seconds passed. He swallowed twice and cleared his throat.
“This doesn’t sound like Rita.”
Just then a cargo plane came low from the west. The noise being great on both ends it was imperative to let the engines fade until the line was again calm. The man in the chair shut his eyes to the moth and leaned forward.
“Are you still with me?”
“Yes.” Said the young man.
“That’s good. Listen, I lied, this isn’t Rita. I only said it was because, well, you see, right now I feel like Rita.”
The line was silent but not cold. The young man again swallowed hard, this time ending with a sneeze.
“What do you mean you feel like Rita?” He said.
“Well, I’ve tried on one of her dresses.”
“One of her dresses? I don’t---
“Yes, im wearing it now. And do you know what else I’m wearing.”
“What is this? how---
“I’m wearing the skin of her face as a mask. That’s what I mean by I feel like Rita. Learn to dial a phone and don’t call here again.”
He hung up, sat back, looked up and the moth was gone.
- - -
Eric J. Bandel is a grocery store manager currently living in New York City. He was born in New Jersey where the mass of his fiction takes place.
The Water and Sand
By Scott Root
She meets him for coffee that morning. It is the type of bitter northwestern blend that he always prefers and takes black. She pours heaps of cream and sugar in and it becomes drinkable. She runs her finger around the rim of her mug, avoids eye contact and hopes that she won’t have to be the first one to speak.
"I wanted to talk..."
"I'm not here because I feel anything but deep burning hatred for you." It is hard to cut someone off mid-sentence if you speak first, and she is glad she waited. She makes eye contact for the first time all morning. He hasn’t been moved by her outburst, and embarrassed though she is; she tries not to let it show. She doesn’t want him to have any more power than he already has.
"I wanted to talk..." he begins again "... about something that's been bugging me for a little while." This is getting interesting. Despite making her feelings clear as a hot LA summer afternoon, he still wants to tell her what is on his mind. "Do you remember that party about a couple of weeks ago?"
She nods, that is not a party she cares to talk about. She had gotten just a little sloppy and said some things to several people which she regrets. She also suspects that she does not remember everything she said that night. He expects an apology. She will let him finish talking before she considers apologizing.
"It was a strange night for everyone. I got to the party a bit late, and things had settled down a bit. Which is to say, I suppose, that everyone's fake friends and acquaintances had left. It was really just down to the core group. I don't know every one of Rachel's friends, but I knew enough to feel comfortable there. I started to settle in, got a drink and took a seat on the couch. There were the usual party types around: the too-drunk-guy hitting on the out-of-his-league-girl, the gym-rats who only drink a light beer so they won't have to work it off in the morning, the hipster dancers who wear ironic everything. But in the corner, there was a clique of girls I didn't recognize at all. At first it seemed like just a group of girlfriends having a girls’ night out, but then I began to notice that they were gesturing toward me and talking in hushed tones."
The waitress comes by to offer a warm-up and he takes it. He also takes a break to catch his breath. She sees where this was going already. She must have done something that ruined his chances with one of the girls and he wants to know why.
After a long sip of his fresh coffee, he continues "Naturally, I thought that one of them must have the hots for me. So I nurse my drink and try to look popular for a few minutes. I act cool and show off, but not obviously to them. All this time, they're watching and watching. Finally, I make my way around to meet them. There's nothing out of the ordinary at first, just a nice group of girls. We talk and flirt, and I figure out that this brunette, Linda..."
"Oh good, you know her name."
"Don't be catty, it's unbecoming. Yes, Linda is the one that seems to have the hots for me. So we start talking a lot more and she starts hanging out with me. And pretty much everything seems normal, we end up dancing and I get drinks for us. Finally, she says she wants to smoke and so I go outside with her. At first we're just talking outside, nothing out of the ordinary, but then things take a turn for the dark. We start talking about relatives we've lost, death, destruction all of this dark stuff and I don't know where it's coming from."
She shifts in her seat and stirs more sugar into her coffee, this wasn't the turn she was expecting.
"I start to get real uncomfortable, and she senses it. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you so uncomfortable,' she says. I tell her that it's fine and we should just go back to the party. I start to leave and she grabs my arm, and says 'Wait,' so I turn back around. She's gotten intense and she has kind of a wild look in her eye. She pulls me in real close to her and she starts whispering in my ear. I was so surprised that missed the first bit of what she said, but roughly she told me this story."
In the beginning of time, there was sand and water. And both the sand and the water feared the other. So it was that they were separated and so they both remained blissfully unaware of the other until the time came that necessitated a boundary between the two - a place where they met. It was at this boundary that water and sand met for the first time in centuries and the boundary became like a veil between their two worlds. It was called "shore", and though most of the water and most of the sand preferred to stay away from the shore, there was a little bit of each that liked to hang around the veil between them and permeate the boundary. And so, when the time came to separate the living and the dead, the same model was used. The dead on one side and the living on the other, but in-between a "shore" -- a veil which a select few can penetrate.
"And then she just stared at me for a second with that wild eyed look in her eye. I laughed nervously at her, and I asked her what she meant by the story. She told me 'You are one of the few, but you must conquer fear.' and so I laughed off conquer fear, and said I wasn't afraid of anything. I was starting to think that as weird as this was, that it was a pretty brilliant come on. She said it again, 'You must conquer your fear.' So I ask her how to do that, still playful, and she says 'Fear is love and love is fear, to conquer fear, you must conquer love.' Now that's some pretty deep shit, and I'm starting to get chills, so I ask her what she said again, and it was 'Love is fear and fear is love, you must conquer love.' So, I ask what I have to do to conquer love, and she says 'Kill it, kill that which love and fear most.' Then she turns and goes back into the party."
She sits and stares, she did not expect this. Surely this must be some kind of joke. She shivers.
"So I follow her back into the party, still with chills running up and down my spine. She jumps right back into a conversation with her friends and I'm trying to engage, but it's hard after an episode like that. So I tell her to tell her friends about the water and sand, and she keeps talking. So I say it again, louder, but no reaction."
"She couldn't hear you?"
"No, it's like I never even said it at all. She just keeps talking and her friends keep talking and they can hear me just fine when I'm not talking about the water and sand, but it's not even like they're ignoring the subject. It doesn't exist to them. I left the party, and ever since then her message has been nagging at me."
"So, you needed to talk to someone about it?"
"Well, sort of. It's been 13 days since I received my message, and it's taken 12 days to figure out what to do with it."
"So, you're going to kill me?"
"I poisoned the sugar before you got here."
- - -
Scott Root is (surprise!) a starving artist living in the rose-colored, sunny LA (but maybe it's just the glasses they thrust on me when I got here). He writes a almost daily blog about psychology, science and fiction. He makes an excellent dinner guest (hint, hint).
By Scott Root
She meets him for coffee that morning. It is the type of bitter northwestern blend that he always prefers and takes black. She pours heaps of cream and sugar in and it becomes drinkable. She runs her finger around the rim of her mug, avoids eye contact and hopes that she won’t have to be the first one to speak.
"I wanted to talk..."
"I'm not here because I feel anything but deep burning hatred for you." It is hard to cut someone off mid-sentence if you speak first, and she is glad she waited. She makes eye contact for the first time all morning. He hasn’t been moved by her outburst, and embarrassed though she is; she tries not to let it show. She doesn’t want him to have any more power than he already has.
"I wanted to talk..." he begins again "... about something that's been bugging me for a little while." This is getting interesting. Despite making her feelings clear as a hot LA summer afternoon, he still wants to tell her what is on his mind. "Do you remember that party about a couple of weeks ago?"
She nods, that is not a party she cares to talk about. She had gotten just a little sloppy and said some things to several people which she regrets. She also suspects that she does not remember everything she said that night. He expects an apology. She will let him finish talking before she considers apologizing.
"It was a strange night for everyone. I got to the party a bit late, and things had settled down a bit. Which is to say, I suppose, that everyone's fake friends and acquaintances had left. It was really just down to the core group. I don't know every one of Rachel's friends, but I knew enough to feel comfortable there. I started to settle in, got a drink and took a seat on the couch. There were the usual party types around: the too-drunk-guy hitting on the out-of-his-league-girl, the gym-rats who only drink a light beer so they won't have to work it off in the morning, the hipster dancers who wear ironic everything. But in the corner, there was a clique of girls I didn't recognize at all. At first it seemed like just a group of girlfriends having a girls’ night out, but then I began to notice that they were gesturing toward me and talking in hushed tones."
The waitress comes by to offer a warm-up and he takes it. He also takes a break to catch his breath. She sees where this was going already. She must have done something that ruined his chances with one of the girls and he wants to know why.
After a long sip of his fresh coffee, he continues "Naturally, I thought that one of them must have the hots for me. So I nurse my drink and try to look popular for a few minutes. I act cool and show off, but not obviously to them. All this time, they're watching and watching. Finally, I make my way around to meet them. There's nothing out of the ordinary at first, just a nice group of girls. We talk and flirt, and I figure out that this brunette, Linda..."
"Oh good, you know her name."
"Don't be catty, it's unbecoming. Yes, Linda is the one that seems to have the hots for me. So we start talking a lot more and she starts hanging out with me. And pretty much everything seems normal, we end up dancing and I get drinks for us. Finally, she says she wants to smoke and so I go outside with her. At first we're just talking outside, nothing out of the ordinary, but then things take a turn for the dark. We start talking about relatives we've lost, death, destruction all of this dark stuff and I don't know where it's coming from."
She shifts in her seat and stirs more sugar into her coffee, this wasn't the turn she was expecting.
"I start to get real uncomfortable, and she senses it. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you so uncomfortable,' she says. I tell her that it's fine and we should just go back to the party. I start to leave and she grabs my arm, and says 'Wait,' so I turn back around. She's gotten intense and she has kind of a wild look in her eye. She pulls me in real close to her and she starts whispering in my ear. I was so surprised that missed the first bit of what she said, but roughly she told me this story."
In the beginning of time, there was sand and water. And both the sand and the water feared the other. So it was that they were separated and so they both remained blissfully unaware of the other until the time came that necessitated a boundary between the two - a place where they met. It was at this boundary that water and sand met for the first time in centuries and the boundary became like a veil between their two worlds. It was called "shore", and though most of the water and most of the sand preferred to stay away from the shore, there was a little bit of each that liked to hang around the veil between them and permeate the boundary. And so, when the time came to separate the living and the dead, the same model was used. The dead on one side and the living on the other, but in-between a "shore" -- a veil which a select few can penetrate.
"And then she just stared at me for a second with that wild eyed look in her eye. I laughed nervously at her, and I asked her what she meant by the story. She told me 'You are one of the few, but you must conquer fear.' and so I laughed off conquer fear, and said I wasn't afraid of anything. I was starting to think that as weird as this was, that it was a pretty brilliant come on. She said it again, 'You must conquer your fear.' So I ask her how to do that, still playful, and she says 'Fear is love and love is fear, to conquer fear, you must conquer love.' Now that's some pretty deep shit, and I'm starting to get chills, so I ask her what she said again, and it was 'Love is fear and fear is love, you must conquer love.' So, I ask what I have to do to conquer love, and she says 'Kill it, kill that which love and fear most.' Then she turns and goes back into the party."
She sits and stares, she did not expect this. Surely this must be some kind of joke. She shivers.
"So I follow her back into the party, still with chills running up and down my spine. She jumps right back into a conversation with her friends and I'm trying to engage, but it's hard after an episode like that. So I tell her to tell her friends about the water and sand, and she keeps talking. So I say it again, louder, but no reaction."
"She couldn't hear you?"
"No, it's like I never even said it at all. She just keeps talking and her friends keep talking and they can hear me just fine when I'm not talking about the water and sand, but it's not even like they're ignoring the subject. It doesn't exist to them. I left the party, and ever since then her message has been nagging at me."
"So, you needed to talk to someone about it?"
"Well, sort of. It's been 13 days since I received my message, and it's taken 12 days to figure out what to do with it."
"So, you're going to kill me?"
"I poisoned the sugar before you got here."
- - -
Scott Root is (surprise!) a starving artist living in the rose-colored, sunny LA (but maybe it's just the glasses they thrust on me when I got here). He writes a almost daily blog about psychology, science and fiction. He makes an excellent dinner guest (hint, hint).
Passionate Whispers
By Ron Koppelberger
Emanating in pretty proofs of creation, the
Cry of delicate heed borne by loves complaint,
The fury of a bare soul in healing
Confusions of squall sign, the before to a measure
Of scathless wind driven by passionate
Whispers of existence.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
By Ron Koppelberger
Emanating in pretty proofs of creation, the
Cry of delicate heed borne by loves complaint,
The fury of a bare soul in healing
Confusions of squall sign, the before to a measure
Of scathless wind driven by passionate
Whispers of existence.
- - -
I have been accepted in England, Australia, Canada and Thailand. I love to write and offer an experience to the reader. I am a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association.
*Website-SwampLit (RonnieWK.weebly.com)
* Website-Shadows at Night-Tide (Shadowsatnighttide.weebly.com)
* Website-WolfFray.Blogspot.com
Chirp Chirp
By Tony Rauch
There is a scratching at the window, a gnawing that wakes me. I lie in bed and listen. It is a kind of sawing sound. I jump out of bed, stumble, and press myself against the window. A gray morning fog covers all. A branch-like thing sweeps past, swinging down to swipe past my view. Then another flashes by in the silvery mist. I struggle, looking around, but can’t see what it is. A grisly “chirp - chirp” sound scratches from the distance. Through the gray cloudy morning I make out grotesque skeletal shadows across the street. It could be a tree falling over, maybe a branch blew over and hit our house. Maybe it’s an uprooted tree rolling down the block. But as I study it, shadows waving from behind the house across the street, clouds of fog rolling and twisting by, I think, it could be, . . . Holy cow, it is . . . a giant ant appears! A giant ant scratching and gnawing on the corner of the house across the street. The ant is gigantic - the size of a large horse! It is ripping away at the siding, trying to break through. “Stop! Stop!” I pound on the window with both fists. And just then the giant, hairy arm of another flashes by my window, sweeping low through the fog as the stomach-turning “chirp - chirp” thunders louder, splitting the calm, morning mist.
I turn to the hall and shout, “Ma, looks like we got ourselves an ant problem!”
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
By Tony Rauch
There is a scratching at the window, a gnawing that wakes me. I lie in bed and listen. It is a kind of sawing sound. I jump out of bed, stumble, and press myself against the window. A gray morning fog covers all. A branch-like thing sweeps past, swinging down to swipe past my view. Then another flashes by in the silvery mist. I struggle, looking around, but can’t see what it is. A grisly “chirp - chirp” sound scratches from the distance. Through the gray cloudy morning I make out grotesque skeletal shadows across the street. It could be a tree falling over, maybe a branch blew over and hit our house. Maybe it’s an uprooted tree rolling down the block. But as I study it, shadows waving from behind the house across the street, clouds of fog rolling and twisting by, I think, it could be, . . . Holy cow, it is . . . a giant ant appears! A giant ant scratching and gnawing on the corner of the house across the street. The ant is gigantic - the size of a large horse! It is ripping away at the siding, trying to break through. “Stop! Stop!” I pound on the window with both fists. And just then the giant, hairy arm of another flashes by my window, sweeping low through the fog as the stomach-turning “chirp - chirp” thunders louder, splitting the calm, morning mist.
I turn to the hall and shout, “Ma, looks like we got ourselves an ant problem!”
- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).
