Information has recently been leaked by a Clinton campaign staffer describing in more detail what Senators Obama and Clinton were talking about during their meeting in DC at the home of Dianne Feinstein. This staffer, who asked to remain anonymous, says that “Senator Clinton respectfully asked Senator Obama whether he would like to be her vice president. After declining, Obama challenged Clinton to a hide-and-seek match. Clinton, unbeknownst to most as the 1995 & 1996 world hide-and-seek champion, welcomed Obama’s challenge. The rules of the contest dictate that if Senator Obama finds Senator Clinton on or before November 4th, he wins. If not, she wins.”

According to this same staffer, Obama has agreed to pay off Clinton’s campaign debt in the case that she wins. Oddly enough, he never asked for a reward if he wins. “If these are the kinds of deals Barack Obama makes, then whats gonna happen with foreign policy? Will he make a deal with the Arabs to give them back Iraq and not get anything back?” Says Andrew Forner, a loyal Clinton supporter.

The Obama campaign has announced an exploratory committee to find Clinton, but as of now says they are “too strapped financially to devote any funds and/or staff to such a worthy opponent”. One can only guess what the Obama campaign may have up their sleeves in an event such as this.

As of now, the clock is ticking and the question on everyones mind is, “where in the world is Hillary Clinton?” Only time will tell, but recent evidence seems to say that she may be in Bosnia.

In other news: After learning about the hide-and-seek competition, Bill Clinton has reportedly planned multiple parties at his mansion throughout the months of June and July. So far, the only invited guests include: the Playboy bunnies, Senator Clinton’s female campaign staff across the entire country, and the infamous Monica Lewinsky. Clearly, the Former President has full confidence in his wife’s hiding ability and thus has found reason to celebrate before her victory…

The Fun Machine Took a Shit and Died by Rob Parker with 54% of the votes.

Congratulations to Rob, and a big thank you to all authors who contributed.

We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled program tomorrow with a new story by Colin O’Sullivan.

The poll to vote in the Nefarious Muse 2008 short fiction competition is now live.

Click here to vote.

Poll is open until midnight (PST) on March 14th.

You can read all the entries by scrolling down or clicking these direct links:
For We Were Savages by Austin Harmon

A Trench is no Place for God by Caleb Ross

A Fire Story by L. Smith

The Coltrane Hotel by Chris Deal

Death by Fanta by Tol Morgan

The Fun Machine Took a Shit & Died by Rob Parker

Freedom by Richard Thomas

Good luck to all.

The razor blade was getting rusty but he didn’t mind. He paused for a moment and looked up at the small apartment and shook his head. What was the point.

The rancid kitchen was dark with gunmetal walls. Sunlight fought the pair of tall blinds to get through, a losing battle these days. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes. Dried-on enchiladas, cereal in bowls and pots with old noodles filled up the metal basins. The trashcan overflowed with empty pizza boxes, Chinese takeout and enough crushed beer cans to fill a homeless man’s shopping cart. A large scarlet blown-glass ashtray shaped liked a daisy on acid perched on the countertop stuffed with cigarette butts. Old cans of cat food lay in the corner in varying stages of fossilization next to a filthy tin of water. A vintage fridge and stove in aqua were witness to the neglect.

The rest of the one bedroom apartment was coated in a film of dust and grime. The shower had enough rings to arouse a geologist. The toilet was a petri dish. In the living room a pile of old magazines were stacked on the hardwood floor. Wired. Playboy. Juxtapoz. Time. A lone Formica table held down the middle of the room, four chairs in cream leather and chrome. An obsolete Apple Macintosh Performa, a pile of melted candles and a whiff of patchouli sat atop it.

French doors with faded drapes in ivory lace led to a simple bedroom. A queen size mattress and boxspring sat with aplomb. A large tv with cigarette burns on the top sat on a thrift store bureau. Grey dust bunnies held congregation in a corner, the humble beginnings of an uprising at hand. A pile of dirty socks and underwear filled another corner, the smell of cat urine faint but distinct.

Robert sat on the edge of his bed. Stubble clung to his face and he wore nothing but faded khaki shorts, frayed at the edges and dotted with drops of blood. At his feet a grey cat circled mewing for attention, rubbing his calves over and over again.

“I don’t care, I don’t care, I just don’t care.”

He pressed the razor blade into his left wrist and pulled it vertically up his arm. A tear ran down his face. He clenched his teeth while his arms trembled. A sigh escaped his lips. He closed his eyes and smiled for a second. A rivulet of crimson trickled down his forearm. He licked his lips and hunched his shoulders. He stared down at the blade contemplating Occam’s Razor and the irony at hand. Flesh cried out for more abuse and he obliged it. A series of short cuts horizontal and not serious crossed his previous attempt. His chest rose and fell. His eyes were foggy and yet intently focused on the microcosm in his skin, every cell now screaming for a respite.

“…said it wasn’t his fault. So I asked how wasn’t it your fault? Your booze, your condom, your apartment. This is WCRP 106.9 Chicago. Real rock radio. A great day to be alive. Back after this.”

“For a hole in your roof or a whole new roof…Fredric roofing…”

Robert slammed his fist onto the snooze button, silencing the clock radio on the nightstand, and sending a spray of blood flying. He placed the razor next to the clock and stared at the lattice work on his wrist.

“Just a little deeper.”

He stood up and walked to the kitchen. His shoulder caught the corner, and he grunted as he entered off-balance. Opening the refrigerator there was nothing but a sad marriage of ketchup, mustard, pickles and beer. Lots of beer. Cases and cases. He grabbed a can of Budweiser, cracked it open and gulped half of it down in an instant. He studied the windows and sneered at the door. Leaning against the countertop he noticed a picture on the refrigerator.

He was six and his brother Bill was three. They stood in front of a huge oak tree that had been felled to build his house. His family’s house. Two acres right behind his grandparent’s two acres. His mother’s mother. They were wearing some horrible combination of plaid pants, Garanimal t-shirts and second-hand sneakers. They had their arms around each other and squinted into the sun, smiles plastered on their faces, the pine scent of mosquito repellent in the air. The tree was nearly as thick as they were tall. The good old days. 1973.

The phone interrupted his reminiscence. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing. BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRing.

“Hi, this is Robert. Please leave a message at the beep and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Thanks and have a great day. Peace.”

“Hi Robert, this is Melissa with Artisan. We have an assignment starting tomorrow. It’s mostly production, but some design. They’d prefer somebody with print experience, especially magazine and catalog work, so I thought of you. It’s in the city and pays $28 an hour. Give me a call as soon as you get this. I think you’d be perfect. 312-845-6900. Melissa Dempsey. Artisan. Thanks! Bye.” Click.

“You have 14 messages,” said the monotone. Click.

Robert finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Crushing the can he glared at the trashcan.

“Nothing but net,” he said and took a short jump shot towards it. It landed on top of the pile and stuck the landing like an Olympic gymnast. He rubbed first his left bicep then the right and grimaced. He glanced at the countertop and the box of open razor blades. Several were scattered next to it, the rest still inside.

A rustle at the apartment door caught his attention. The metal flap of the mail slot lifted. In flopped the mail as it closed with a clank. Robert sighed and walked to the small pile of distractions. Six pieces: the ComEd gas bill for $48.56; a solicitation from the Salvation Army to renew his membership; a postcard showing the Space Needle at the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair; an invitation to see DJ Dominatrix at Club PVC with two complimentary passes; a credit card bill for $124.56. He picked them up and placed them gently in a small wicker basket on a bookshelf by the door. Running his fingers over the books, dust fell while he traced a trail down the spines. Hemingway. Vonnegut. Tolkien. Kesey. Burroughs.

“YOU’VE GOT MAIL,” the computer shouted from behind him. Robert walked over to it and pushed aside a stack of manuscripts in various stages of editing. He double-clicked the mouse and his AOL account opened up. 286 new messages. The latest was from his brother.

Robert,

Hey bro, where have you been? I’ve left you a couple of messages, but no response. Is this account still working? You never answered my last email either. Hope everything is OK. Fuck Laura, I never liked her anyway. Here’s something funny for you. Call me.

JOKE OF THE DAY: One day Superman was flying along, feeling kind of
horny. He had a busy day ahead of him, but just had to satisfy his urge.
So he decided he would fly over to Wonder Woman’s house to see what
she was doing. As he got closer he used his x-ray vision, and to his surprise,
Wonder Woman was lying on her bed totally nude. Superman thought
“This is great! I’ll just zip right in there, do my business, and before she
knows it, I’ll be gone.” So, Superman blasts in, right on top of Wonder
Woman, does the deed at light speed, and is gone in a flash. Wonder
Woman, not quite knowing what hit her says “WHOA! What was that?”
and the Invisible Man replied. “I don’t know, but my ass sure is sore!”

Robert smiled and headed back to the bedroom. He plopped back down on the bed and picked up the razor. He pressed it against the bulging vein in his forearm and dragged it towards himself, all the way to his elbow. A thin line of blood revealed itself, the flesh parting ever so slightly. The release.

A pounding on the door.

“Sergei, open up. Sergei. Open the fucking door,” a female voice shouted. Robert paused, and stared in that direction. Quiet. Then the pounding continued.

“Sergei I know you’re in there, open up.”

“Go away,” he hissed.

“Please Sergei. It’s Tasha. It’s important.”

“Fuck.” Robert put the blade on the nightstand, got up and shuffled to the noise. He unlocked the deadbolt as blood trickled down his forearm in tiny rivers dripping off his fingertips. He opened the door.

“Do I look like a Sergei?”

A statuesque brunette stared open-mouthed. Her ring laden fist stopped in mid-air. She was clad in a black tube top stretched to its limits, magenta hot pants and knee high leather boots painted on slender legs. A black leather purse hung from her hand.

“Damn.”

“Where is Sergei?”

“I don’t know any Sergei.”

“What?”

“I don’t KNOW any Sergei.”

“And you are not Sergei?”

“For Christ’s sake. Third base.”

“What? I don’t understand. I am Tasha. I only get here last week.”

“From where Tasha?”

“Soviet Republic. I am student.”

“Right.”

“Are you OK? You are bleeding.”

“I know.”

Tasha looked down at the blood dripping off Robert’s fingertips and then back to his face. She paused.

“You have beautiful eyes mister. But you are a mess.”

“I am a mess.”

“Can Tasha help you clean up?”

“Right. I don’t think so.” Robert closed the door on her eager face. But before it could shut, her hand shot out and stopped it with a speed and strength that startled him

“Please. It is OK. It is what I do. I am your new best friend.”

“Really.”

“Seriously. You have no interest in Tasha? You may be on your way to another place, but your eyes have time to drink me in.” One hand on the door and the other on her hip, Tasha smiled, her dark eyes twinkling, her smile a pleasant change.

“Sure. Fuck it. Why not. Come on in. There’s some Stoli in the freezer.”

Tasha walked in smelling of whiskey, cigarettes and musk. She looked around. “Tsk, tsk. You’ve been a bad boy, mister. Let Tasha take care of you. I have three brothers back in Moscow. I know this mess when I see it.”

“Tasha, I’m fine. But if you’re pouring, pour two.”

Tasha sauntered to the kitchen her sculpted ass begging for eyes as it swayed from side to side. It was not denied. The freezer door opened, and the sound of glasses clinking followed. She opened her purse and held it below the counter as she swept the box of razor blades into it. None were missed. She picked up the drinks and headed back into the living room.

“Come, we will sit and talk.”

They eased past the French doors and sat on the edge of the bed. Leaning over she put the shot glasses down and then the bottle, her back to Robert. She opened the drawer and swept the blade into it. A twist of the cap and the shots were poured.

“Come closer Robert. Closer, I won’t bite. Drink with me.”

“How do you know my name? I didn’t tell you it.”

“Oh Robert, in Soviet Union we must think on our foot everyday. Your mail says Robert, that pile on the shelf, the table, the counter. The place just screams Robert. Come sit.”

“OK.”

Sitting on the edge of the mattress next to Tasha his shoulders dropped. She handed him a shot. “Nazdarovya,” she said raising her glass and they downed the vodka. “Stay put.”

Tasha got up and clomped to the kitchen. The sound of running water was followed by tearing paper and she returned. Tasha picked up Robert’s left arm and blotted the wet paper towel up and down it. His face tightened as he sucked in air. And then he relaxed. The blood disappeared leaving thin white lines filled with pink. The silence was deafening as she cleaned his wounds. The towels got darker by the minute. Robert’s eyes closed and tears pushed out from beneath them. Tasha leaned over and kissed his wrist leaving the same crimson in fleshy lips.

“If you want pain, I give you pain. If you want release, I give you release. If you want death, I can’t do that. Enough Robert. Whoever she is, she is not worth this. We have a saying in former Soviet Union. Women are like bus. Another will be along in three hours.” She grinned a sly grin and pulled his head to her ample bosom. Robert went slack, and sighed into her chest. Baby powder and vanilla masked the powerful thumping of her heart. Tasha turned off the lone lamp and the bedroom plunged into darkness.

Down in the alley Bill sat in his green Ford Explorer staring at the dark bedroom window. The city wrapped around him like a soiled blanket. Garbage trucks loaded the waste of another week gone by - milk going sour, dirty diapers fermenting. Car horns blared and middle fingers were raised as smoky exhaust and burnt oil mingled . The bass of hip-hop thumped by on vibrating wings paired with skunky weed and two-bit cigars.

“Best $500 I ever spent.”

“I was born, I went to Kindergarten, I fucked some crazy slut on the back of my father’s corpse. I can’t remember her name, but her blood was composed of a chemical I can’t pronounce. I was young, and foolish, and in need of character development, so I fucked her without a condom on and that’s how I got my super powers.”

A voice whispers deep in the string-theory wet dreams of my skull, lost amid the squalls of narrative: a summary of a life story that structurally replicates itself across reams of word and picture.

The omissions are always the same: there’s always something between the lines, cut from the story.

Me, I’m going to tell you the unabridged version of my life story:

I was born at the age of five.

It was, it is a time of change, and I was one of the first born to be part of that change.

In place of my guts was a self-renewing bioengine.

I dropped unceremoniously into the vat from between Mother’s legs. Mom twitched, and then her body took on the temperature of the room, her precious fluids stretched too far and too thin to keep her tiny heart shuffling.

I aged several years crossing the room and shed an entire mouth’s worth of teeth, spitting them like popcorn kernels as I went.

Dad followed and threw streamers at the appropriate moments.

Dad wore a trench coat, and looked at the world from behind mirrorshades. He puffed a battered pipe, ran a nervous hand through his stubble and produced the birthday present he hadn’t the time to give me during the short trek from the vat.

I tore the wrapping from the gleaming marvel and gaped in Dad’s direction.

“It’s a Fun Machine, son, only one of its kind. Just like you, as far as I know. They say your kind will be like humans, but more. Maybe. Your mother and I filled this machine with everything we knew. Perhaps it will help you understand the way people were before you…” Dad rattled off the machine’s specs. I wasn’t listening, I wanted to get behind the handlebars and make race car noises. (At this point, of course, I couldn’t know what race car noises were, but every young boy seems to be coded with this important knowledge.)

The machine looked like someone had spliced together a big-wheel replica of the Avro Arrow. I enfolded it between my thighs and pedalled. I hummed high-pitched race car noises as I went.

With each revolution of the wheels, worlds opened up inside my head. My parents’ voices issued streams of narrative, the choice of stories followed no discernable logic, ran scattershot across genres.

Deep in my guts, the engine that kept me upright flared with the effort of absorbing a whole culture. My brain, it was the open archetypal mouth of a young bird hungry for its parents’ bile.

The sound of countless stories being told whirred across my spine until eventually the Machine shifted gear and everything became a welter of picture and sound.

In minutes, I had the cold architecture of both my parents’ stories arrayed in my skull and their physical presence was superfluous. I waggled my hand at the outmoded flesh-father as his lungs pumped his pipe, mouthpiece clicking on dentures as he disappeared behind me.

Adult teeth peeked from the folds of my gums.

Twenty minutes later I was sixteen and my legs faltered under the weight of information. All the stories they collected had pulped together, bleeding back and forth.

I looked over my shoulder.

It was all there in rank and file, seen through the shimmer of hot asphalt: every TV show, comic book, video game, novel, novella, poem, story, song and painting Mom & Dad had encountered were shoehorned into a narrow city block. Morals from stories for young children clashed and contradicted, entire space dynasties swallowed one another whole. Identities, tropes and foils combined and created living literary monstrosities.

The myriad retellings of stock characters superimposed and superimposed and superimposed on themselves until they became multi-limbed Lovecraftian beasts, flitting in and out of existence. At this realization, the Cthulhu mythos threw itself over everything and the whole scene deliquesced accordingly.

I pumped along the road, swivelling my eyes backward as I rewrote, re-imagined, the Little Mermaid. There was no flash, no bang. A nubile Ariel separated from the supraliterary monolith of tooth, flesh and paper, her body an open mouth.

(Alas. We were all once raging hormones.)

I cupped my hand across Ariel’s midriff as I thought back on the events of the past hour. I looked into Ariel’s lustful face and told her my story.

The scene shifted and I recognized myself in the crowd, replicating wildly as my clones told & retold my story. The chain reaction started feedback loop as their thoughts were picked up and amplified by the Fun Machine.

Then the Machine took a shit and died.

The scene became assiduously warped: Ariel leered at me as she inhaled crystal meth from a broken light bulb I’d seen appear in countless cartoon epiphanies. A multi-armed, quivering werewolf that might have originally been Wagner or maybe Gabriel-Ernest (or both at once) had ensconced itself in a lazy boy, bulbous beergut(s) lolling above decayed boxer shorts. The changes affected the crowd of creations, each monstrosity struggling with multiple versions of itself falling into disrepair. The crowd thinned as they lumbered off to decrepit, condemned homes full of torn furniture and flickering fluorescent lights for a sloppy masturbation session, a glass of gin and that night’s episode of the Gilmore Girls.

I stood alone with my clones, our collective mass cracking the concrete. There was a soft wheeze as our bioengines ticked out the seconds as they cooled.

The sun’s a knife and I step into the shop, wilting. The bell rings behind me as the door closes and I cannot believe this kid in front of me. Outside, on the street, only moments ago, I looked him over and dismissed him as just another insignificant no-one, a nothing; now I hate myself for being sucked in, foisted by his vanilla appearance. My head boiling and it makes me wonder. What’s in peoples minds these days? What are they thinking? These people who look the same, who dress the same, act the same, even speak the same language- but fuck me… women are from Venus?

It’s lucky for him I’m a super fast thinker, as my instinct was to strike. To smash his head into the steel corner of the fridge. And on fire, head buzzing, fingers burning, fill my fists with his shiny hair, yanking back and pushing down, his neck horizontal and impossible, Adams apple bobbing, spasmodic. Then, craning over him, our noses almost touching so he can see the hate in my eyes, scream

-Why?! Huh? With all the choice, all the variety the modern world offers, why the fuck do you want Fanta, you fucking faggot, cock sucking cunt?

spitting the words into his blood, before slamming him into the steel again, crunching his nose and some teeth, maybe the bone above his left eye, spearing a boot into his clean white shirt, and screaming at the cracked, bleeding skull, at his perfect, broken face

-What’s that? Well? Nothing? Nothing, you fucking fuck!

and snatching the bottle from his limp wrist, which is still proudly, inexplicably, holding it up like Lady Liberty herself, pound his head with it, like Babe

Whack!

-Faggot, fizzy, fucking, orange!

I’d love to do Singin’ in the Rain but I’m so incensed, teeth crunching, everything tasting of metal

-Drink, black, carbon, ated, shit!

Whack!

-Like a man!

Whack!

and satiated a little now, inspired and grinning, ad lib in some glorious encore

-You, fucking, stupid, bastard!!!!!

And unleash a final

Whack!

before ramming the bottle deep into the wheezing pulpy hole, which below the meat, opens into the canyon of his hideous Fanta guzzling gullet.

Death by Fanta.

So you, you faggot, you’re one fucking lucky- one fucking lucky cunt that I’m such a quick thinker. He’s turned from the fridge now, walking towards me, splashing through the evaporating puddles of fantasy, the orange ripples of Fantasmagoric delusion. His eyes, shining and confident find mine, his smile broad and friendly. He nods his head, even points the bottle in my direction, the fuck, and throws out a jovial

-Hello.

his mouth an igloo of glistening white teeth. Jesus fuck cunt. If you only knew

-Hello.

I echo, almost in song. He swaggers past and the fingernails of my right hand slice through the skin and furrow up the flesh of my left forearm. He’s flirting with the bitch behind the counter now, who after two years, still scowls when I come in.

Don’t look back, never look back.

I’m taking two bottles of Coke mother fucker, how does that grab ya? But all I hear is her laughter and he’s won. I pick up the closest bottle of Fanta and rub it along my arm, smearing it with thick warm blood and put it back in the fridge. The bell over the door tinkles behind me again and when I turn around he’s gone. Lucky cunt. A very fucking lucky Fanta drinker. If I wasn’t so intelligent, you’d be dead.

He liked the town, so small, barely an exit off the highway, it was hidden from what he knew, was perfect.  He checked into the Coltrane hotel because it had a restaurant attached, having pulled up in the predawn minutes and needing a cup of coffee.  It was good so he got a room.  Twenty-seven.  He didn’t even lie about his name to the clerk, just told him he would be there for a week.  The hotel bed was comfortable, the window had a view of rolling tobacco fields, there was a decent bar within walking distance.  He knew of no reason to leave.

In the mornings he would go downstairs and buy a paper, which he would read sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee, every article no matter how mundane.  Once finished he would return to his room and get to work, filling up the pages of his notebook until his stomach urged him back downstairs.  On sunny days he would keep the curtains closed.  He found a jazz station that came in and out of frequency depending on how the wind was blowing, the clouds in the sky.  He didn’t smoke that whole first week.  The room phone never rang, and he never picked it up.  He kept his cellular in his bags at the foot of the bed.

At the restaurant, he occasionally talked to the waitresses, his favorite a big woman named Maddy.  She talked about her former husband who spent time working the fields until a stroke fell him one day in the middle of a brutal summer twenty years prior.  She never remarried, but went to the unaffiliated church a mile off the interstate.  She invited him every week, but he didn’t take her up on it until she told him about a revival they were having.  He sat in the back and tried to not move in the heat.  He stood when everyone else stood, didn’t sing but let those songs come over him, and some people came down with the Spirit and he envied them.  Maddy never charged him for coffee.

He didn’t drink much, but walked to the bar every other night to be around people, even though the only people he talked to were the bartenders.  He would have a couple, three beers and pay his tab and walk back to his room, sit on the bed and drink water from the bathroom sink and watch the small television, simply turning it on and not noticing what was being broadcast.  One night a man a decade older offered to buy him some drinks if he told his story, and after a moment of thought he relented.  The man asked if he was Irish, and he told him probably.  The man showed him the shamrock tattoo on his chest he wore honorably.  He had a wife who was in South Carolina because her mother just died.  He met her, his wife, on the internet and was having second thoughts.  He liked the man, though he couldn’t remember his name, simply called him Irish.  Three drinks in Irish noticed two women at the end of the bar who were drinking wine and smoking, talking in quick words, and Irish dragged him down to them.  Both were in their thirties, same as Irish, one with dark hair and a barely noticeable black eye, the other a redhead with a nice ass.  Irish started talking to the redhead.  To the brunette he apologized.  She would not break eye contact and that made him uncomfortable, so he told Irish he needed to get home and left without buying the woman a drink.  Halfway on his walk home, he noticed he was tipsy, and by the time he got back to the room he calculated he had had three beers and three shots and it made him sad that was enough to do him in.  He tried to sleep but couldn’t.  He turned on the television to a low volume but that old trick didn’t work.  He found a channel broadcasting a preacher from Texas with perfect hair and an annoying smile, bright teeth.  They showed views of the audience, the place the size of a football stadium completely full to capacity.  The preacher talked about love, how he couldn’t live without his beautiful wife who they showed in all her plastic glory.  The preacher loved his wife and thanked God every day for her, and that coupled with the drink drove him to get out of bed and get his cellular from his bags and turn it on for the first time in close to two weeks.  The last time he did so it had been silenced for three days.  He had many missed calls from a handful of people, several voicemails and texts and he knew it was unwise but he listened to, read them all.  She missed him, he learned from four people before her own voice came on.  She was sorry.  Then his roommate Shirley started talking.  She missed him, too.  People had been asking about him.  She wasn’t worried about the bills, he’d left her more than enough money for those, plenty extra for her and her young son.  Neither she nor the boy were his, but he loved them like they were and that was all.  She said his girlfriend kept calling, and he didn’t even whisper “ex”.  When she got back in town she came directly to their apartment looking for him.  She was in tears, and Shirley let her stay in his bed, crying.  Shirley made her tea and tried to console her.  He turned the television off and turned on the jazz station.  It came in and out.  He called Shirley, who picked up on the fourth ring, saying hello in a deep, sleep filled voice, having not even checked to see who was calling.

“Hey Shirley.”

“Clay?  Christ, where are you?”

He told her, not realizing he shouldn’t until later.  He told her he liked the place, was getting lots of work done.  She sounded glad to hear from him, and he was grateful for her acting abilities.

“Sorry, I woke you,” he said after a few minutes.

“It’s more than okay.”

“Sorry to bug you.”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

“Are you doing alright?”

“Drunk, I reckon, but I guess alright enough.”  The radio played Peace by Coleman.

“I’ve been worried about you.  We all have.”

“No need for that.”

“When are you coming back?”

“Not sure.”

“You are, though.  Right?”

“Probably.”  She was silent, and that was too much for him.  “How’s Bud?”

“He’s good.  Been reading a lot lately.”

“Good.”

“He misses you.”

“Tell him I said ‘hey’, will you?”

“Of course.”

“It’s late.”

“Not too late.”

“I should let you go.”

“It’s okay.”

“Thinking I needed to talk to someone.  I hate to bug you.”

“You’re not bugging me.  Never have.”

“Liar.”  He could tell she was smiling, a sad one on her beautiful lips.  He refused to think further on that.

“Thinking I can sleep now.   Couldn’t sleep earlier.”

“Okay.”

“Sorry to bug you.”

“Stop it.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Call me soon, alright.”

“Alright.”  He pressed the end button.  The song playing faded briefly to static before coming back strong right as Coleman started to hit his stride.  He turned the phone off and put it back in the bag.  When he woke the next morning he didn’t remember laying back down.  It was a day later before he regretted calling Shirley.  The knocking at this door a spell after seven confused him, and he looked around the room for something to defend himself with, but nothing was adequate for such a task, so he pulled on his pants and answered the door to see her standing there in wrinkled, designer jeans and a white tank top, her shoulder length hair not perfect as it usually was.  He didn’t return her fading smile.  He stood there at the threshold, shirtless, watching her squirm, for several beats before she spoke, a hesitant “Hello.”

“Hey,” he replied.

“Shirley told me where you were.”

“Figured as much.”

“I needed to see you.”

“Did you?”

“You haven’t been returning my calls.”

“Phone hasn’t been on.”

“Oh.”  No words passed for a few more rough beats.  “Can we talk?”

“It’s early.”

“I know.   I’m sorry.”  He was sure she didn’t mean about the hour.

“Look, why don’t you go down to the café.  Tell Maddy you’re with me and I’ll be down after I take a shower.”

Softly, she acquiesced.  He closed the door as she walked towards the stairs.  He didn’t even watch her ass as she went.  He took his time showering, the water nice and hot.  He didn’t get out until he stopped shaking.  In the restaurant, Maddy gave him a soft smile and pointed to a table in the corner where she sat clutching a cup of hot tea.  He gave her a kiss on the cheek before walking over and taking his seat.  Maddy brought him a cup of black coffee.  He didn’t wait for it to cool before taking a sip.  It was too early.

“I’m sorry for waking you.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry.”  He didn’t respond.  “So, why this place?” she asked, deflecting the silence.

“It felt right.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a nice town.  And this place has good coffee.”

“I wish you wouldn’t have left so soon.”

“There’s a nice Mexican place down the way.  Authentic.”

“I wanted to explain in person.”

“They have great huevos rancheros.  Cheap beer, too.”

“I wanted a chance to explain what happened.”

“Maddy took me to a revival.”

“I know I’m in the wrong.”

“They sang these songs that made me feel light.”

“I know that I made a mistake.”

“Like a bird, almost.”

“I want things to go back to the way they were.”

“Those songs made me feel like I was flying over the countryside.”

“You have every right to be angry.”

“Made me feel like I was above everything.”

“You didn’t even yell.”

“Like I was in the clouds.”

“That was the worst.  You didn’t yell.”

“Made me think He’s really up there.”

“Why didn’t you yell?”

“Made me think He really cares about us.

“It was so horrible.  You didn’t even raise your voice.  Just talking on the phone.  ‘That’s it, then.  I’ll leave your key on the counter.’”

“He might even love us.”

          “You left town before I could get back, before I could explain.  I know it was a mistake.  I hate myself for it.”

“How can we deserve that?”

“I miss you.”

“How can we deserve His love like that?”

“I miss us.”

“After all he did for us, all that work and all that sacrifice, how can we deserve His love.”

“I’m sorry.”

“People ask why He lets bad things happen.  Why, if He loves us so, does He let horrible and tragic things happen to people who don’t deserve them?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“He lets them happen because they have too.”

“I love you.”

“He lets them happen because that’s the only way they can be.  It can only be the way things are.”

“Please.”

“Don’t worry about the check.  Maddy doesn’t charge me for coffee.  I’ll get your tea.”

“Do you still love me?”

“It’s too early for me to eat.”

“Clay?”

“Have some food, and tell Maddy I’ll pay for it.”

“Clay.”

“I’ve got to get to work.”

“Clay?”

“Goodbye.”

“Please.”

“Goodbye.”

Jack Woolcott was in a stainless steel tub with his legs stretched
out, and his head rested upon a web work of gauze. Molly sat in a
folding chair beside the tub. She lathered Jack’s face with shaving
soap. Molly shaved him well, and cleanly. Jack lay with his head back
in the gauze webbing. He enjoyed the shaving.

‘Listen, Molly who do you want to play in the game?’
‘Kansas City and San Francisco.’

Molly was a fan of the Montana and Young rivalry. All of the sports
stations’ talking heads talked about the two quarterbacks, and the
possibility of a clash between them.

‘Did you play?’
‘Sure,’ Jack said. ‘When I was a kid. I played tight-end.’
‘Tight-end,’ Molly said.
‘Don’t laugh too hard, or you’ll steam your visor all up.’

There was a road to the left that led to a city beside a canal. The
road to the right led into very high mountains with precipices
streaked with red and black veins of rock. Still there was snow in the
mountains. The melting snow formed a stream that ran black with the
dark rock behind. The stream ran down the Cliffside and ran bright
blue over the slate and down into the gorge. The water fell first on a
high rock, then formed a river. White poplars grew in the river valley.

In the corridor there were reproductions of famous impressionist
paintings, framed behind glass, and mounted to the wall. Kate Woolcott
stood under the neon tubes that lined where the wall and ceiling met.
She stood in her winter coat with her back to the wall, and a book bag
slung over her shoulder. She wore a trilby cap. Kate took the cap off
and ran her fingers through her black hair. She held her cap by the
brim, and touched it against her thigh.

There was a room along that hall with chairs, tables, and donated
periodicals, and two women, and a man. There were always two women and
a man, and they left the room with their overcoats over their arms.
The old man glanced at Kate. The three went on down the hall to the
security door. The old man worked the intercom, and spoke their family
name. They all three shared the same name. The door buzzed and the old
man swung it open, and escorted the two women through.

Kate walked across the hall, and studied a print. She moved along the
hall from one picture to another, and waited for Molly.
Molly will come and say; ‘Go on in, you can go on in now.’’
Kate touched the lapel of her coat.

‘I want to kiss your wounds,’ Kate said, ‘and watch them heal. I want
to watch you grow stronger each time you look at them.’
‘I don’t remember any of it.’
‘The medicos gave you something so you wouldn’t. You fought them the
whole time, and they tied you down. You tried to take out all your
tubes.’
‘I’ll be a better patient.’
‘All your friends were here. You don’t remember?’
‘No,’ Jack said. ‘I don’t remember any of it.’
‘They were lined up out the hall.’
‘I wish I could remember.’

Kate read to Jack. He lay in the bed propped up on some pillows and
listened to her voice. Kate held the book open, balanced in the long
fingers of one hand, and ran the other through her hair. Jack listened
to her timberline voice read him the adventures of Peter, Katarina,
and August. The orderly came down the hall, and warned the visitors
that is was past time to leave. Jack walked Kate down the hall.

Kate said; ‘I think of you often,’
‘I love your guts, kid.’ Jack said.
‘They told me you had a rough time earlier. You’re past the hardest
part now.’
‘It could be anything,’ Jack said. ‘It could be a high mountain pass
or a nurse come to check your blood pressure. They give me trouble.’
‘You are past the hardest part.’
“Sure.’

Jack remembered a moment of wishing when the smoke blinded him. The
flaming curtains lay on top of him, and he rolled off the couch in the
flames. The smoke blinded him, and he wished.

‘It’s funny,’ he thought. ‘You’re only afraid of it now.’

It was winter in the high mountain pass. There were pillars of ice in
the precipices. Snow hung on the branches of the poplars. The river
receded and there was ice along the banks.

On Thursday the ward was full and the rooms were doubled up. The nurse
brought Henry. Henry’s wife, and her mother and father followed the
wheelchair. The nurse and wife helped Henry from the chair to the bed.
Henry was wounded while working under a diesel engine truck. The fuel
line leaked and dripped down onto his lamp. The bulb exploded and the
fuel conflagarated.

Henry’s father-in-law said: ‘It should not have exploded like that.’
‘They must have cut that diesel with something,’ Henry said.

Henry’s right arm was bandaged from his fingertips to his shoulder. He
maneuvered himself onto the bed into a sitting position by way of his
elbows. Henry winced whenever his burned hand touched the bed. Henry’s
wife and mother-in-law kissed him, and his father-in-law shook his
good hand. Henry blotted at what seeped out of his bandages with a
towel.

In the night Henry slept and snored, and woke himself with the snoring.
‘You asleep Jack?’
‘No.’
‘Was it the snoring? I am damned sorry if it was.’
‘No, I was thinking.’
‘Listen Jack, you want an orange?’ Henry peeled an orange one-handed.
‘They’re good oranges, my wife brought them for me.’
‘It’s winter.’
‘She gets them from relatives in the Dominican Republic.’
‘I don’t want any god damned orange.’
‘Listen Jack, I’ll peel this one for you and we’ll eat some oranges.’

Henry and Jack sat up in their beds, and wheeled a table between them
and ate slices of oranges.

‘That girl that comes to visit you,’ Henry said. ‘She your wife?’
‘Kate.’ Jack said. ‘Yes.”
‘What book she read to you yesterday?’
‘Borderliners.’
‘Every time they had a smoke in that book, I wanted one. The wife
always get on me about smoking. Know what I tell her?’
‘No.’
‘I tell her not to get hysterical.’

The red and white lights whirled, and reflected off the snow, and the
mens’ breath hung in plumes in the air. Blood, and soot, and black
streaks stained the snow. Bill and Jack saw the red and white lights
break around the bend in the road, and reflect off the snow that hung
in the pine branches. The volunteer fire department ambulance rounded
the alley. Snow gathered on the roof and in the gutters, and melted
with the heat of the fire. The new water ran dark down the soot black
wall, and ran through a trough along the ground into the clear bright
snow.
Bill said: ‘It wont be long Jack.’
The two sat in the snow. Bill held Jack.
‘I can’t see. I’m blinded.’
Jack shivered.
‘Blinded.’
Bill said; ‘Just stay awake and you’ll be fine.’
‘Christ,’ Jack said.
In the ambulance Jack quieted with the medic’s assurances.
‘Don’t cut off my hands,’ Jack said. ‘Wait for the Doctors.’
The fireman swung the rear door shut, and knocked twice. The driver
worked the clutch, and pressed the throttle. The tires spun in the
snow. The sky was gray and blue, and a helicopter came over the trees,
and dropped to a concrete slab that was marked by a white cross
outlined in a red circle. The rotors beat slowly. An orange windsock
stood sideways, and medics’ winter breath went in that direction.

Henry said; ‘I’ll bet you’re happy.’
Jack pulled the shirt slowly over his head.
‘You’ll be out soon.’
‘They told me maybe tomorrow.’
‘We’ll have a drink sometime.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll send you some oranges.’
Jack fastened the buttons of his shirt with a tool that resembled a
needle threader. And he buttoned his shirt slowly. So many buttons, he
thought.
‘How long were you in, anyway?’
‘About a month and a week.’

On the best days, which were few, the physical therapy was easy for
Jack to take. He was grateful for the knowledge, and only wished the
acquisition had not nearly killed him. Jack wished he learned it out
of a book. The hour hand on the ancient clock that sat upon the table
pointed to a quarter past the hour. All Jack’s dressings were sterile
that morning. It was with the therapist bending his fingers that they
bloodied. The chair was black metal with gray pads on the back and
arms. The Schwayder Brothers manufactured the chair in Detroit,
Michigan, and at the time of purchase the chair was valued at eight
dollars and ninety-five cents. The physical therapist sat across the
table and held Jack’s hand in her own. She manipulated the stiff
joints. There was a framed picture on the wall of a hand in cross
section. The picture depicted all the bones, ligaments, muscles, and
tendons that made up a hand, and Jack studied this picture. At the
worst, jack closed his eyes, and breathed deep. He breathed through
his dry mouth, and his mouth dried with the deep, deep breathing, and
breathing in rhythm to the therapist’s manipulations of the joints
until he was up upon the pain, and the exhale began before the
manipulating pain. Jack felt the sharpness on him. The sharpness came
quickly no matter how you breathed and what kind of rhythm you were
in, and Jack felt the pain come, and felt it come upon him, and he
drew a deep breath against the pain. The pain topped him up and he let
it go, and let it wash over him. There was a slip in his head like an
engine that threw a rod.

The therapist said; ‘We’ll take a break for a few minutes.’
Jack said, ‘all right,’ and leaned back in the chair, and let all his
breath go out, and drank water.
‘I would never be a spy,’ Jack said. ‘As soon as they started this
stuff I would give up all the government secrets.’

Jack said; ‘It must disgust you.’
‘No,’ Kate said. ‘Once I wanted to kiss your wounds.’
Jack drank a whiskey.

Jack went around the room. He gathered a washcloth, handkerchief, and
paper towel.
‘Close your eyes.’
Jack placed the washcloth over the back of Kate’s hand. He traced with
a fingertip and varying pressure alphas, deltas, and gammas upon her
hand through the cloth.
‘Can you say what it is?’
‘No.’
‘Now?’
‘No.’
Jack traced with more pressure.
‘Triangle.’
‘The washcloth is after waking up. That thick, hardly any feeling, then
after using my hands for a while the paper towel. Give me your legs.’
Kate stretched her legs across Jack’s lap. He wrapped the handkerchief
around her thigh.
‘This,’ Jack said as he traced upon her thigh. ‘Always. No change
throughout the night or day.’
Jack folded the handkerchief into squares and placed it upon Kate’s
thigh.
‘This is where the lighter exploded,’ Jack said. ‘This too, always.’

Jack lay on his back, propped up by some pillows with his legs
straight out. He felt the scars on his hands and legs, and the columns
of smoke came off him, and ran parallel to the ceiling. The smoke
gathered there, and thickened. Then, there was only Bill’s voice; ‘Let
go!’
‘Let go! Let go of the goddamned banister!’
Jack felt his head bounce off the staircase, then he was dead weight.
Bill rolled him in the snow. The blood and soot stained the snow, and
a thin stream of water went along a trough along the flame-blackened
wall.

Kate said; ‘And the one along your back?’
‘I feel it only sometimes.’
Kate traced the scar with her finger.
‘It’s like a snake.’

Lowell was one of the few conscious enough to walk so when he entered
the medical tent with complaints of little more than a sprained ankle
and a single-stitch cut above his eye a doctor in drab scrubs gave him
a bible, a crucifix, a necklace made of flowers, and told him to start
blessing people. “We have more dying in here than we have clergy
willing to see them off proper.” The doctor slapped him on the back,
warned him against breathing too much of this air.

“What about some aspirin?” but the doctor was already wrist deep into
a fat man’s chest three cots down.

Lowell handled his new regalia with an awkward displeasure, situating
the bible and flowers into the sore crests of his elbows and wrists,
stabbing his ribs and reawakening old bruises with the wooden
crucifix. Fresh, fourteen days at war, yet he’s never felt so out of
place.

The medical tent stank of baked flesh and the wasted effort of
sterility; bleach puddled dirt into mud while ammonia sat in open
buckets just feet away, its fumes warping the air. The suction of
each chemical step—heal, sink, toe, heal, sink, toe—failed to
drown the ambient moans of the dying. Lowell stepped past an
unconscious man, his sweat and blood boiling to the surface of his
skin in the trapped heat under the canvas tent. Outside too, the sun
tortured survivors.

“How about some water, Father?” The voice came from behind, buried
under a pile of blood-rusted sheets. “On the table, beside you.”

Lowell managed a light grip on the unmarked bottle, burdened already
by his armload of holy accessories. He slid next to the cot, sat on
an overturned bucket. “How do I—”

“—You’ll have to just pull the sheets down and pour.”

Lowell dropped his items to the ground, not invested in them enough to
care how much dirt and mud they fall into. He slides close to the
pile of blankets, grabs at the top hem…”so how’d you know I was a
priest?”…and pulls away from his head.

The man’s face was destroyed, shorn skin pocked with holes the size of
BBs, shrapnel blasted, Lowell and the other soldiers called it when
they saw it in the trenches. Lowell hushed his gasp, held the glass
of water over the man’s head, said, “ready,” waited for a nod, and
poured. The man smiled when the water hit, spilled from his mouth,
but he had no lips to lick clean. He barely had a tongue.

The man held his smile. “The only three types walking around here are
doctors, nurses, and priests. The medicals have a smell that priests
don’t have. Where’s your collar?”

“What?” Lowell had to focus on each syllable to understand the man.
His half-tongue compromised the obvious passion this man had for
speech.

“Your collar.” He lifts a shaking finger to his own neck.

Lowell set the bottle down. “Somewhere.” He nodded toward the
entrance of the tent. “I’ve been all over this morning.”

“What about the rosary?”

Lowell leaned close, waited for something more.

“The necklace,” the man said raising a bandaged hand to his neck.

“Yes, yes.” He lifted the necklace of roses from the ground, blew
most of the dirt away with a single heavy breath, and draped the item
over the man’s still-lifted hand. “The rosary.”

Two men in scrubs carrying bundled blankets approached the cot. The
shrapnel blasted man rolled to his side with no more provocation than
their simple presence. The two men worked quickly to redress the cot
with fresh “linens” they say, “blankets, just blankets,” the shrapnel
blasted man said to Lowell after they left. “Really, they’re just
hosed down with bleach water. Can’t ask for much more around here
though, I suppose.”

Lowell agreed, offering a shrug and a slow, compassionate nod.

“So, are you going to pray or what?”

“Right.” The bible dripped with mud, but Lowell handled the book,
unconcerned with aesthetics. He flipped though pages, stamping his
muddy fingerprints over random verses, hunting for something he might
remember. It’d been a while since he’d held a bible, even longer
since he’d been charged with finding solace in one. Sensing the eager
stare of the shrapnel blasted man Lowell said, “you have any favorite
verses?”

“No.” The man swings the rosary in hand as best his destroyed arm will allow.

“A favorite book at least?”

The shrapnel blasted man stretched the rimless pit he calls a mouth to
a feeble smile. “You pick one.”

This moment of hesitancy, panic burning muddy trails through pages of
verse, prompts from the shrapnel blasted man what Lowell believed to
be a laugh. When the man spoke, Lowell knew: “I knew you stole that
bible.” He coughed, dotting his gauzed hand in phlegm and spit.

Lowell closed the book. “I didn’t steal it. A doctor gave it to me.”

“Either way, you’re not helping anyone. But if you’re intent on
trying, get a rag and wipe that blood from your eyebrow. You look
like a shit-head.”

Lowell took the rosary from the shrapnel blasted man’s hand and
dragged it through his cut as he wiped away blood. The quick
movement, fueled by a building hostility toward the bed-ridden man,
split the forehead skin wider. Lowell wiped away a tear.

“You’re lucky I’m just a stubborn dead man,” the man says. “Anyone
else might loose more faith over you than they’d gain. I don’t have
any room for intangibles.”

“Maybe I am a priest, but I’m just terrible at it.”

The stubborn man pointed toward the bottle of water. “No. They don’t
let priests bleed around here. Soldiers, sure, but priests get
patched up quick like they’re the ones taking the goddamn bullets.”

Lowell tipped the bottle again over the man’s mouth. Neck veins
thickened as the man struggled to catch every drop. Lowell succumbed
to the battle wounded weakness in his arm, trembling, splashing water
to the stubborn man’s cheeks, his nose, into his eyes, and even a few
drops to his forehead. The water rode the creases in the man’s face,
sizzled on his open wounds.

The man shook the water from his head. “This isn’t a baptism.”

Lowell brought the stream back to the man’s mouth, let him nurse for a
full, silent minute before pulling the water back. “I’d be something
if it was, right?”

The man, like he did the first time, stretched his clipped tongue to
catch all the water still beading upon the dirt and sweat on his face.
“You ever believe in God?”

Lowell set the cup aside, his head throbbing. His ribs ached. Every
breath cracked open old wounds. “God never believed in me, I don’t
think.”

“But you believed in God?”

“Sure.” Lowell picked the bottle of water back up and took a swig for
himself, not catching the sting of diluted hydrogen peroxide before he
swallowed. It burnt his throat and tore at his nostrils when he
forced it back up.

“I used to,” the shrapnel blasted man said without so much as a wide
eye toward Lowell’s pain, “but what kind of god would let me drink
peroxide? What kind of god would let shit like that just sit around
on tables?”

Lowell hunted every bedside table for clean water, breathing deep to
clear his lungs and throat. He swore he could peel layers from the
roof of his mouth with his tongue.

He sweats acid. His heart pumps solvents and sanitizers, he can feel
the chemicals erupt from his pores. He jams his finger down his
throat and heaves noxious fumes.

Lowell escapes the stubborn man’s bed for fresh water, leaving his
rosary and bible in the mud below.

My fiction and non-fiction have most recently appeared in Flint Hills
Review, The Green Muse Review, Vestal Review, Bust Down the Door and
Eat All the Chickens, and online in Dogmatika, Thirdeye Magazine and
Word Riot. Visit me: www.calebjross.com

Do you remember?

The Stranger through his cigarette smoking knows that when she’s come for him, and the hour is moonlit and lonesome, he will take her to the dead girl. – Watch closely, this to the hitcher whose eyes, when he reveals the girl’s stayed, sleepless body, her length a broken ramble in the trunk, must bloom with some queer awe he’s seen as only feminine edges before. In her, before. But it will burst whole here. This one he will love for as long as he can. She is the same color as the first man he murdered this far from the city lines, judged only by the ether abounding, driven past these gold fields kissed by green, life. The color has been fading since before he lost his deary girls, maybe before that, though the vagabond at his side brought them through this land The Stranger had never seen, not as he is if ever he saw it as he was. Said he knew of a place here in the outer plains. A town edged by some kind of infinity.

I’m pleased to announce the 2008 Short Fiction Competition at Nefarious Muse. It’ll run through February, and the winner will be announced on March 15th following a vote by you, the readers.

The idea for a short story competition came when I was mulling over the recent lull in submissions. When I first relaunched Nefarious Muse, I received a few very good submissions quickly, but that didn’t last. This is my fault, of course, because I hadn’t been doing a good job promoting it. I didn’t want to spam message boards and email addresses (because who needs more of that bullshit?), but what other way to spread the word? I figured money would do the trick. Everyone likes money, and hell, I’d just spend it on whiskey instead.

So here are the basics:

Prize: $100USD gift certificate (via email) to Amazon.com

When: from February 1st to February 29th at 12:00am PST

Rules: only original unpublished short stories between 500-5000 words. One story per author is eligible. No excerpts, poems, essays or fan-fiction.

The full rundown can be found here.

The point of the competition is obviously to increase traffic to Nefarious Muse, to increase submissions. However, you’ll notice there are no ads on the site, so I don’t want traffic for traffic’s sake. I want the site to grow, to foster more of a community vibe.

I hope you’ll take part.