Corner Bar Magazinecornerbarmagazine.com/pdfs/corner-bar-volume-04-issue-07.pdf · Corner Bar Magazine Volume 4 Number 7 Page 1 — BREAKING FREE by Ed Kratz. Mr. Kratz lives in Philadelphia,

Corner Bar MagazineVolume 4 Number 7

Page 1 — BREAKING FREE by Ed Kratz. Mr. Kratz lives in Philadelphia, PA. He writes, “I'ma retired computer specialist who has been published in Daily Science Fiction, Every Day Fiction.

Literally Fiction, and Bards and Sages Quarterly”Page 4— THE FLYING DUTCHMAN by Max Griffin. Mr. Griffin of Tulsa has novels pub-lished with Dreamspinner Press and Purple Sage Publications.Page 11 — NEITHER FISH NOR FLESH by Hayden Moore. Mr. Moore writes, “Briefly, I am37 years old and live in Brooklyn, New York with my wife and cat and have so for the past twelve years. I

was born and raised in Georgia and Tennessee. I graduated from The University of Tennessee with a

major in Journalism and a minor in Theater. I experience a sort of bifurcation of myself in terms of com-

ing from the South and living in Brooklyn which heavily influences my writing. I have worked as a free-

lance researcher and am in the process of transitioning a play derived from Dante’s Inferno to the stage.”

Page 22 — THE WEEK OF THREE FINGERS by Scáth Beorh. Mr. Beorh is a writer ofChildhood Trauma, Horror in all of its forms, and Dark Fantasy. His books include HauntedBy Benevolence, Hollow Boy, The Vampires of Dreach Fola, and Dreams of Flying. He alsohelms the publishing endeavor Twelve House.

I’m sitting in my neighborhood bar,drinking away the hassles of married lifewhen someone says “Being married’s a trap,isn’t it?” I turn to the man who has spoken mymind. The regulars in Sam’s are suburbantypes like me. This guy looks like he’s froma fifties rebel teen movie. Thin as a rail. Jetblack hair, long, swept back. He’s wearingan undershirt with a pack of cigarettesrolled up in the sleeve and dark tattoos ofskulls and bleeding hearts decorate hisarms. “I said, ‘Being married’s a trap, isn’tit?’” “I guess,” I say, trying to sound astough as he does, and dimly recallingsnatches from a poem I read a thousandyears ago. “Love seeketh only self to please andbuilds a hell in heaven despite. WilliamBlake. Eighteenth-century poet. Manknew what he was saying.” That’s the line. This is creepy. I glancearound to see if any of my drinking buddiesare nearby, but that cowboy James Deanand I stand alone at our end of the bar. “Buy you a drink?” “I should be going.” “Two shots and two beers here.”

I’ve never seen Sam the bartendermove so fast. Two shots and beers standbefore us as soon as the sentence ends. I’m not much of a shot and beer man.In fact, if you listen to my wife, I’m notmuch of a man. “What does she know? Drink up.” Theguy shoves the drinks at me. Hitting me onthe back and smiling, he gulps his shot. Ido the same with mine, washing the burn-ing booze down with half the beer. A few more of these and I’ll stop worry-ing about finding the money for Bernard’spiano lessons. “Here’s to little boys who play baseballinstead of taking piano lessons.” That does it. I’m going to leave. “I think you need another drink.” A tiny voice in my head warns, Be

Careful, but we down a few more quickshots and that voice grows quiet. We talk for an hour. I think somethingand the cowboy answers. He spins tales offast cars, faster woman and an independentlife. No strings on him. “How’d you like to be like me?”That little voice in me is crying, Watch It,but it’s weak and fading from the shore likea drowning swimmer calling for help. “Yes.I’d like to be like you.” “You bowl?”

Corner Bar MagazineCopyright 2019 Ed Kratz 1

“BREAKING FREE”by ED KRATZ


“What’s that got to do with this?” “I know a place, Nate’s Alley. Willchange your life.” “How’s rolling a ball down an alleygoing to change my life?” “Ain’t no ordinary alley, and this ain’tno ordinary offer.” “Five minutes. When these dummiesstart up, you turn to me, and you say, ‘Iwant to change my life. I’ll go with you toNate’s.’” I want to laugh, but I don’t, because allthe customers stand as frozen as statues ina wax museum. I contemplate for five minutes, thenwhen I hear the buzz of noises from theother end of the bar, I give him back hisspeech. The next thing I know we’re in thecowboy’s pickup truck, and the next thingafter that I’m getting bowling shoes fromNate. Nate’s a greaser version of the fat happyBuddha. He has a monstrous, sweaty baldhead. He’s wearing a dirty white T-shirt,baggy brown pants held up by a knottedold rope. The cowboy and I start tossing balls.Soon I’m getting into it. Pow! A strike! Here’s to you, boss, you fat oppressiveold slob! Here’s to you, wife and kids andresponsibilities! Pow! The pins go flying. I’m alone now. Nate and the cowboyare feeding me balls so fast I can hardlykeep up. How are the pins being set so

fast? “He’s okay,” the cowboy says, “Ain’the?” Nate nods yes, and the cowboy jumpsin the air and laughs and dances like some-one saved in a tent revival. Suddenly, the ball isn’t a ball anymore.I’m holding my son’s head. “Daddy!” hescreams. I run down the alley. I’m two feet awaywhen I see Jerome’s head making for thestrike zone. One foot away when he hits.Close enough to hear the thud of bone.Close enough to have my shirt splatteredwith blood. Close enough to see the fleshsticking to pins before I faint. I wake the next morning in the cow-boy’s pickup. I’m madder than hell. Theymust have drugged me. “You bum. Take me home.” The cowboy doesn’t answer. I’m alonein the cab. I slide over to the driver’s side.If I can find the keys, I’ll drive myselfhome. The keys aren’t in the ignition.Strangely, instinctively, I reach into thepocket of my –- jeans? The keys are there.Then I see my face in the rear-view mirror –his face –and I knew I need more than asimple ride home.v


When Hank stepped out of his car, theheat smacked him with the hellish wallopof a July day in Oklahoma. Sweat eruptedfrom all his pores, streamed down his fore-head and burned his eyes. He squinted atwhat was left of the town of Carl’s Corner:a boarded-up gas station with no pumps, ahouse with a collapsed roof, and a row ofabandoned and rusted-out mobile homes.Only the Last Chance Café, with its dustyneon sign and wheezing air conditioner,provided any sign of human habitation. Hank used his phone to snap a halfdozen photos of the empty street and aban-doned structures. Later, back in Tulsa,he’d research the history of this place forhis planned book on Dust Bowl era ghosttowns. For now, though, job number onewas filling the hole that hunger hadgnawed in his belly. He paused as he stepped inside thediner to let his eyes adjust to the dim light.Dust particles shimmered in a momentaryshaft of sunlight, while his skin turnedclammy from the cold breath of the air con-ditioner. The mutter of conversationstopped and the diners, no more than adozen in number, turned to inspect him.Suspicion etched their craggy features.Hank frowned. Where did they comefrom? There had been no cars on the

street, and surely no one still lived in theweathered shells of the dwellings that werewithin walking distance. A waitress hulking behind the countercalled out in a shrill monotone, “Welcometo the Last Chance.” It was as though herwords broke a spell: flatware clinked, peo-ple looked away, and the murmur of con-versation resumed. Hank headed toward the counter, thewaitress, and food. A man watched him from the shadowsnear where the waitress stood. He was dif-ferent in every way from the hard scrabbleof the farmers and roughnecks who hud-dled about the tables. He wore a rumpledwhite suit and a floppy, Indiana Jones stylehat. His wide, florid necktie hung loos-ened around an unbuttoned collar. AsHank approached, he rose to stand on theballs of his feet, with the cocky confidenceof an athlete, but a modest paunch revealedhe’d let himself go to seed. In his righthand he clutched a battered, old-fashionedleather briefcase, like Sydney Greenstreetmight have used in The Maltese Falcon.

Hank made for the opposite end of thecounter. He just wanted to eat and get outof here, not chit-chat with some local doo-fus. As soon as he sat, the waitress slapped

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“THE FLYING DUTCHMAN”by MAX GRIFFIN


a menu in front of him and snarled, “Yawant coffee?” A wiry strand of hennaedhair escaped the bun at her crown anddribbled down one cheek. With a toss ofher head, she flicked it aside. Hank read her name tag. “Thank you,Ruby. Yes, please.” She poured steaming brew into a cupand retreated back to the other end of thecounter. Her jaws worked while shechewed a wad of gum like a cow with a cud,except she was too wraith-like to be a cow.Maybe like a zombie chewing brains. Hank glanced at the menu. Fried ham-burgers. French fries. Fried onion rings.Chicken fried steak. Just what his choles-terol needed. The goofy-looking guy with the Maltese

Falcon briefcase fidgeted at the other end ofthe bar, then seemed to make up his mindand shambled toward Hank. Please, dear lord, no. Not me. Hankstared at the menu, at the fry cook, at thewaitress, even at the grimy photographsthat lined the wall by the counter.Anything but look at this creep. He’d hadhis fill for the day of interviewing hicks andrecording their overblown versions of locallegends. The man heaved a sigh and flopped hisbriefcase onto the counter next to Hank.When he spoke, his Southern drawl wassoft as molasses and warm as the blood ooz-ing from a rare T-bone. “You mind if I joinyou?” His watery blue eyes raked acrossHank’s features. Hank frowned and his throat tightenedin irritation. “Well, actually—”

The waitress chose that moment toreturn, pulled a pencil from behind her ear,and asked, “Ya ready to order?” The stranger settled onto the nextstool. Still ignoring him, Hank asked,“What’s good, Ruby?” “Our Lord and Savior’s good. My maand pa, they’s good. Can’t say what else’sgood and what ‘tisn’t. Take your pick andname your poison.” Hank hesitated. He was having secondthoughts about eating at this dingy pit, butit was at least an hour to Tulsa and a realrestaurant. He shrugged. “I’ll have a ham-burger, then, Ruby. With lettuce, tomato,and onion. Oh, and a coke, too.” “No coke. Pepsi.” Hank suppressed a grin and couldn’tresist commenting. “Just like on SaturdayNight Live?” Ruby shot him a blank look. Shescowled and sneered, “What ya talkin’about? Nothin’ happened here lastSaturday night. Nothin’ never happenshere, alive nor dead.” Annoyance at her obdurate responseheated Hank’s cheeks. Whatever. “Pepsiwill be fine.” “Fries with that?” “Sure.” He could already imagine hisblood turning to sludge in his arteries. Ruby scrawled on her notepad andshrieked, “Burn one, take it through thegarden and put a rose on it. Frog sticks onthe side.” She sashayed away, making therounds of the tables with her coffee pot. The stranger turned to face him and agap-toothed smile split his lips. “The


name’s Carl, Carl Vanderdrecken.” Hestuck out his hand. Hank tried to not recoil at the stenchof the man’s breath. That couldn’t possiblybe green mold on his teeth—it must be atrick of the light. He accepted the offer toshake. “I’m Hank.” Carl tried for thebone-crushing grip, but Hank was prettysure he got the better of it. Carl narrowed his eyes and peered athim. “So, you ain’t from around theseparts, is you?” Hank’s mouth turned down. Thesedamned Okies. They didn’t trust anyonewho wasn’t at least a second cousin. “I’mfrom Tulsa.” No reason to tell him hemoved there from Fresno. “I thought so. Tulsa, huh? Ya knowMr. Getty? I heared that he lives at thatfancy hotel, the Mayo.” Hank frowned. “Who?” Hank didn’tknow anyone wealthy enough to live in theloft apartments at the restored Art Decolandmark. “Jean Paul Getty. He was gonna buythe oil wells here ‘bouts, afore them easternbankers swooped in and swindled every-body.” Carl scowled at the counter and heran nervous fingers over his briefcase. Hank didn’t quite roll his eyes. Allthese little towns had legends of get-rich-quick schemes that went afoul, usually dueto crooks who “weren’t from around here.”Hank ignored him, sipped his coffee, anddidn’t quite gag. Ruby must have made itthis morning and left it simmering on theburner all day in order to reach this state ofcarbonization. He rinsed his mouth with

ice water that tasted of iron. Meanwhile,his hamburger sizzled on the burner. Thecook slathered butter onto a bun and put iton the grill, too. Apparently even thatcame fried, like everything else. Carl leaned back and stretched, crack-ing his knuckles. Hank cringed. The juke box started to play a scratchyversion of “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”Carl closed his eyes and hummed along,and then muttered, “The Last Chance is theZiegfeld Follies for these hayseeds. There’seven dancin’ here on Saturday nights. Livedancin’, like you said.” He turned to stare at Hank again, andthis time something about his gaze sent anelectric tingle zinging down Hank’s back.Carl’s voice sharpened. “You didn’t saywhat you’re doin’ in these parts.” “No, I didn’t.” Hank let silence growwhile Carl just stared at him. After a fewbeats, Hank relented. “I’m doing researchfor a story about ghost towns inOklahoma. I’m a stringer for the TulsaWorld.” A bell rang and the cook dumped hisfries and hamburger into a plastic basketlined with waxed paper. Ruby snatched itup and put the basket and a glass with hissoda on the counter. “Anything else?” Hank shook his head. She dropped his check on top of hisfries and flounced back to her refuge at theopposite end where she lit a cigarette.Hank considered complaining. He couldswear smoking in a restaurant violatedOklahoma law. Still, he’d never be here


again, and the place already stank. Carl chewed on his lower lip whileHank dug into his meal. Despite being greasy and a little crispyat the edges, he had to admit it was prettygood. At least the onions, lettuce andtomato were fresh. Carl watched him eat. “So ya work forthe newspaper, eh? That takes brains, andbook-learnin’.” His eyes narrowed.“Ya look like a smart guy. You a smart guy?” Hank frowned. The question andCarl’s tone were vaguely threatening, send-ing a quick chill through his belly. “I’mjust a guy. No different from anyone.” “Too bad. I could use a smart guy.”He fingered the straps on his briefcase.“When ya goin’ back to Tulsa?” “Tonight. It’s only an hour’s drive.” Carl’s eyes lit up and he beamed atHank. “I knew you was different. Daring.Why, it’s eighty miles if it’s an inch toTulsa. Ya’d have to drive like greased light-ning to get there in an hour.” Hank reflected that the speed limit onthe Turnpike was 75—hardly greased light-ning. He wished again Carl would goaway. Maybe he’d get the hint if Hank did-n’t respond. The juke box whirred, and the songchanged to an up-tempo version of“Summertime.” Carl drummed his fingerson the counter. Hank ate French fries andworked on his hamburger. When the song careened to a stop,Carl put his briefcase in his lap, opened it,and pawed through the interior. “I gotsomethin’ for ya. Some official doc-u-

ments.” This guy just couldn’t take a hint.Hank continued to munch on his fries andburger. He gulped down some Pepsi, but ittasted a little off. Maybe too sweet and notenough fizz. “Here it is.” Carl held up a manilaenvelope. It bulged, as if it held a sheaf ofpapers. “I been tryin’ to get these deliveredforever. Can you do it for me?” Irritation dragged Hank’s lips down.“Have you considered the postal service?” “Yeah. It keeps comin’ back.Addressee unknown, it says.” He pointedto a red stamp on the envelope. “They justneed hand delivered. I know Mr. Gettylives there.” “Why not deliver it yourself?” Carl looked away and closed his brief-case. “I can’t leave here. Not right now.But these papers, they’s real important.They’ll fix everything up for me, and forthe town folk.” Hank used the last of his hamburger tosoak up some of the catsup that had oozedonto the waxed paper. “I don’t really see—” Carl’s voice turned whiny andwheedling. “Come on. It’ll be easy-peasy.It just needs to go to the desk at the Mayohotel. Ya know where that’s at, donchya?” “Of course. It’s a landmark.” “Look, there’s a five-spot in it for ya.”Carl pulled a wallet from his suit coat andlaid a bill on the counter. Hank eyed it. “A five spot? Wow.”This guy was too much. “I could go to ten if that’s what ittakes. I told ya, this is important.” He added


another bill on top of the first. Anything to make him go away. “Keepyour money.” Hank slid the envelope tohis side of the table. “I’ll do it.” It would-n’t be much of a chore. He planned to bedowntown tomorrow anyway, for a realmeal. Maybe he’d try the new sushi placein the Blue Dome District. Relief washed across Carl’s features.“Thank you, buddy. I can’t tell you howmuch it means to me. You’re the tops.” Hank shrugged. “Think nothing of it.” Carl’s expression shifted from sunshineto storm clouds as quick as an Oklahomasky in tornado season. He glared at Hank,and his voice turned harsh and accusatory.“Mr. Getty, he’s rich. Real rich. If he don’tget these papers, he’ll find out and makeyou pay. He’s the one who can do it, too.” Hank did roll his eyes time. “OMG,mister. I said I’d do it for you. Give me abreak.” He glanced around the diner.“Where’s the restroom? I’d like to wash myhands.” And get away from you, yousmarmy little creep. Carl pointed to a corner behind thecounter. “There.” He lifted his briefcaseand stood, a broad smile on his features inanother lightning-quick change of mood.“Thanks again, buddy. Keep the money.Seriously.” He slapped Hank on the back.“You deliver them papers, now.” His coun-tenance hardened and his voice took aknife-like edge. “Or else. Mr. Getty, he’llknow and he’ll ruin ya. Don’t forget, now.Or else.” Hank pushed away from the counterand escaped to the diner’s washroom.

Amazingly, it was spotless. Old, with out-dated fixtures, but scrubbed and filled withthe crisp scent of Pine-Sol. Hands cleansed, he reentered the dinerproper. Carl had disappeared, thank God.Hank stood, wiping his hands, and exam-ined some of the photos on the wall. Onewhole set showed houses, barns, and busi-nesses shredded by a tornado, with the dateMarch 2, 1934 penciled at the bottom. Ruby paused beside him. “Ya interest-ed in history?” Hank gave a little start. “What? Yes,in fact I am. Why?” “I seen ya lookin’ at them pictures.They’s of the storm what hit back in ‘34.What them rich furriners did after, wellthat was even worse. They plum destroyedthis place.” Her mouth turned down andshe softened her tone. “The Dutchmanwhat founded Carl’s Corner, he had a planto save us, but he done got sucked up inthat there tornado and no one never seenhim again. He just flew up in the sky anddisappeared.” The hairs on the back of Hank’s neckprickled. “The founder? That wouldn’tbe Carl Vanderdecken, would it?” “How’d ya know? Yeah. After him,some out-of-town yankee investors”—she spatthe word out like it was poison on hertongue—”took over the local oil fields.Swindled all the locals outta their rights. Itwas the death of this place.” She pointedto another photo of a man standing in anArt Deco hotel lobby. “That there’s Mr.Vanderdecken, ‘bout a week afore God’splan took him to his greater reward in heav-

Copyright 2019 Max Griffin 9 Corner Bar Magazine

en.” Hank peered at the black-and-whitephoto. He recognized the lobby of therefurbished Mayo Hotel, the rumpled whitesuit, and the Indiana Jones style hat. Theman in the photo carried an old-fashionedleather briefcase. The man was Carl, thevery man who had spoken to him minutesbefore. “I know him. He was just here. Heleft me an envelope to deliver.” She tipped her head and narrowed hereyes. “Ya gone daft? He’s done been deadfor years now. That’s a tale to scare kidsand idiots. My Granny Great, she used totell it when I was a wee one. She’d say howthat poor Mr. Vanderdecken’s ghost stillhaunts what’s left of our town. He’s sup-posed to have papers what need deliveredto our savior in Tulsa. Papers what’ll bringjustice to us town folk.” She sniffed.“Pastor says tales like that’s the voice ofLucifer, and we shouldn’t be spreadin’‘em.” Hank glanced back at his place at thecounter, at where Carl’s envelope rested.“There was a man who was talking to me.He sat next to me while I ate my sandwich.He gave me that envelope to deliver inTulsa.” “Ain’t no one done been talkin’ to you‘cept me, Mister.” Ruby scowled at him. “Ithink ya need to take that there en-vel-opeand go, afore you rile up folks with themold tales.” She pointed at where he’d sat.“I left change on the counter for the tendollars ya put on top of the check. Take itand then best ya jest get along.”

Fear jittered down Hank’s spine andsent needles prickling out hisfingertips. Hank hadn’t left any money onthe counter. Carl had. He scanned the interior of the diner.Ordinary people huddled at the tables.Food sizzled on the cooktop. Dust motesfloated in the dim light. Then, in one corner, an image flick-ered, deep in the shadows. A forlorn figurein a rumpled suit and carrying a briefcasebeckoned. Carl. He threw a ghoulish grinat Hank before he faded to nothingness,leaving behind naught but dust and memo-ry. But first, before vanishing to the netherworld, he opened his mouth and utteredtwo words. Hank couldn’t hear them, buthe knew what the man said. “Or else.” v

Copyright 2019 Max Griffin 10 Corner Bar Magazine

Copyright 2019 Hayden Moore Corner Bar Magazine11

‘Already have I once been a boy and a girl, and

a bush and a bird, and a silent fish in the sea.’(Empedocles) It was impossible to tell where the skymet the sea. While the wind-swept watersbelonged to a different realm of Time, thesame physics shaped the clouds, the loftedand impalpable water droplets above a still-life identical in form to the manic wavesbelow. Both realms of Time were definedby a graceful roughness, a pair of acerbicnymphs harsh to the eyes but smooth tothe soul, a paradox that left the solitary wit-ness confused and in the stupors of ecstasy.Had she taken a photograph of the oceanbefore her and held it just above the inde-finable limits of the water on the horizon,those captured waves would superimposethemselves upon the concealed clouds. Thesky was the portrait the sea saw of itself inits mind’s eye. The cold north wind blew her grittyblack hair onto her cheeks and over hershoulders, down her bare chest and ontoher lap. Aeolus was providing her with a bitof corporal comfort as the sun failed topenetrate the clouds, the sun that had notshined for a week as Winter had turned toSpring only in the calendar. Time and itsfickle children, The Seasons, followed their

own course. She smiled at the sky to thinkof the affinity she shared with them. Whileshe was only a mote of dust upon a sub-atomic piece of space and Time, she stillexisted just as surely as the clouds and thesea. The unblinking eyes beneath the sur-face of the earth and the water did too.Perhaps that was the price of consciousness,to sacrifice perpetuity for a moment in thesun and in the water. Nothing could begained or lost if Time were not the greatravisher. To have and to love was to sacri-fice Time for that thing and that thing sheloved. Nothing meant anything unless allcould be lost. She scratched the buddingscales just below her waist. They looked likeemeralds and responded to her fingernailslike pliant jewels. Growth could only springfrom destruction. Growth always entailedpain. To call her form amphibian wouldbetray the two worlds that battled for herprimacy. She still answered to the name ofAkaste whenever somebody called for herattention or tried to objectify what couldnever be a fixed form. Her oceanic namemoored her to the shallow waters whereterra firma still beckoned for her bare feetto imprint its surface, a quality water couldnever offer. But the earth was harsh, eventhe sand that was battering her face, her

“NEITHER FISH NOR FLESH”by HAYDEN MOORE

young face, that spent more time sub-merged than in the faceless wind. Waterwas the absolute embrace, the boundlesswomb beyond the womb that fostered thefaltering forms that lived and died in its ele-ment. But her parents were as earth-boundas roots, a pair of dividing and sub-dividingcontradictions in relation to her. She wasthe moon to their earth, a star to theirlamppost, a restless fish to their fishermen’shands. Here she sat upon the shore, the siz-zling bubbles of the lapping water failing topull her back into the sea as it flowedaround her seated body and ebbed backinto its greater self, relentless and failing.She looked down at her lower half. If shekept this up, she would be ready for themystic depths of the sea by next week. Ifshe kept this up, she would never walkagain. It has been said that temperature deter-mines the sex of a person while in thewomb of the mother. But nothing has beensaid as to what determines the element aperson is suitable for once the sex or sexeshas been realized. Perhaps the air blowsupon a baby’s brow and excites some secretthing within. Maybe the earth sings a silentsong and fixes the infant to the hardness ofthe world. Fire, being the great ravisher,consumes that which it calls for, an ashenexistence of carbon nothingness. The seamust emit a sparkling spray that stains theface of the neophyte, a dripping stigmatathat points to a secret law: This way theTruth lies. But Truth is not a tyrant. Truthis truth, that eternal thing that is onlyrevealed in glimpses. If the sea was the

Truth for Akaste, her parents and everyonearound her were the enemies to Truth. Theearthbound people she knew were like theear-worms in her head that ravaged herflowing thoughts: ‘You have to wearclothes’, ‘If you stay in the water any longeryour skin will fall off’, ‘We need to talk to aprofessional about this’, ‘There’s no suchthing as mermaids’, ‘Do you have any ideawhat lies beneath’, ‘This is just a phase’,‘There are far more things in heaven andearth than are dreamt of in your wateryphilosophy’, ‘No more swimming for amonth’. If she had made a list of the phras-es that were pernicious to her Truth, thephrases would win as the list was endless.Akaste sighed as she realized that the ear-worms were actually squirming rationality.Nothing she knew for herself was rationalin the wind-weary eyes of the land dwellers.Just as her lower-half was changing, herupper faculties were changing too. The coldNorth Wind was deafening in her ears. Shefelt a slight vertigo as the waters within herear canals swirled in accordance with thesea, a dual microcosm within herself. Sheneeded to step into the embrace of the seaand hear her brethren who were silenced bythe oppressive sky. She looked up at thepetrified air of grays and blues, a dead skypretending to be a living seascape. Akasteclosed her eyes as she felt the weight of theair upon her. She was at the bottom of thetroposphere, a fish who had delved toodeep in the place with no shelter. Pools andbathtubs, deep puddles and ponds werenothing but the festering simulacrum ofthe sea. Food above the water tasted like


ashes now. The lips of the boy she kissedmonths before had felt like animated stone,a living corpse dripping with conceit.Another series of concentric scales blos-somed along her thighs. The beginning wasthe end. The way down was the way back.She slid along the wet sand. The trail herbody left behind was an oblique line point-ing to her fate. This was the pathway of thesea-turtle, that ephemeral path etched intothe sands of the shores of the whole worldin Time without measure. A surge of waterwashed away the sandy trail before herwhole form found the full embrace of thesea. The north wind was consumed by thewater. She listened and she heard. Akaste was born as most babies were,in the full embrace of the mother as shecried to feel that she had come to this bar-ren stage of fools. Had she the reckoning ofthe young lady she had now become atbirth, she would have crawled back into hermother’s womb. But change had ruinedthat warm and wet place that nurtured abody meant for the ocean. That belly-sizedOceana burst and banished Akaste to thedry place where eyes had to blink andbreaths were always empty, no matter howhard she fetched breath. For many, child-hood and adolescence are imbued with ahyperborean light. Pain and anguish weresuperficial as imagination and absence ofresponsibility presented a vast playground.Perhaps that was merely the chimera ofchildhood that memory cast in the mind ofthe weary adult. But Akaste struggled forevery step, every breath as she bore the bur-den of a creature out of her element.

Throughout her conscious years, she wasoften bound to her room where the lightthat entered without the filter of water tor-tured her. Sea salt was poured into thebathtub in heaps, day after day, as her skinstruggled to remain on her flesh. Shebreathed in the water more often than shedrank it. Children made a mockery of herwhenever she left class to run out onto thebeach and jump into the sea. A pile of chil-dren’s clothes lying sporadically on theshore meant Akaste was somewhere in thedepths just beyond the horizon trying toestablish some kind of compromise withPoseidon before she had to answer to theEarth and the Sky when she surfaced. Butwhen she often surfaced, after weeks ofwandering the desert of the earth, her par-ents would be waiting for her on the shore.Her first experience of accompanied flightwas when her father first caught her swim-ming away the latter half of the school day.He jerked her up and carried her by herleft-wrist the half-mile back to her house,her little feet dangling just above theground, her discarded clothes tucked underthe other arm of her ruthless father. Thetown watched. They always watched. Akastewondered how eyes cursed with eyelids, thecurse of living above the water, could starecollectively for so long, for so many yearswith hardly a blink when they watched herbeing ripped from the world she shouldhave been delivered into. There was noneed for blinking beneath the water. Forcreatures such as her, blinking was a gesturejust as much as a smile or a flap of the tail-fin. Aquatic beings, those with eyelids,


blinked carefully. Blinking above the waterwas a sign of the barbarism of the Earth.Thoughtless blinking meant nothing just asthe countless repetition of words devolvedthem into blabber, a ticking sound andnothing more. But nothing vast enters thelife of mortals without a curse. Her dualityrequired compromise. She was forced toblink through her formative years. Unlessshe was in the water, the Automatica of herearth-bound family and neighbors did notcome naturally to her. Every breath, everystep and every blink was a conscious actionreminding her of what she was not meantto be. Out of the water, the world wasrevealed in quick glimpses, there could beno completion. As Akaste glided within the currentthat flowed out to sea, her arms drifted toher sides. Her webbed fingers danced uponthe vicissitudes of the water as her velocityincreased with every scale that surmountedthe obstacle of flesh. Here she could hearthe world. This was the realm of universalfluency where a laugh could span oceansand a scream the circumference of theglobe. The desolation above the waters wasnothing but an echo chamber. It forced theliving to come together in order to hearone another, a false gathering with darkoutcomes. Even the human ear—a lingeringshell from its origins—was a mockery of thefaculty of hearing. Air was a trim reckon-ing, a child of oblivion a step away fromwhat was to come for everyone. By the timeAkaste had reached the open ocean, herfeet were singular. She was swimmingthrough the hands of creation. What took

eons on land, took moments here. Everyflapping of her budding tail was a millionyears above. The dear, hidden things onher body that breathed the water werebecoming more efficient and seamless withevery fathom she dove. This world of twi-light where the moon and the sun weresubject to the water was a sparkling realmof discovery for Akaste. It was not the lightpenetrating the depths, it was her eyes see-ing the depths and the secret lights theyheld. The bottom of the ocean was not acold dark place, not in its entirety.Whether it was a molten vent or an irides-cent octopus, an electric eel or a shimmer-ing and eyeless fish without a name, thebottom of the ocean was just another illu-minated attribute of the vast sea. Here,here she would remain with fish that wouldbe her chambermaids, here should wouldfind her everlasting life. And shake theyoke of inauspicious flesh from her world-weary scales. Two years before, when Akaste turnedthirteen, her parents let her spend the dayas she chose. Without a word, she stum-bled out of the house and towards thebeach. It was still cold outside in spite of itbeing the thirteenth day of April. An etio-lated light fell on the beach. By the timeAkaste first put her feet in the sand, shewas already liberated from her ‘costume’ (soshe called her clothes, or any clothes follow-ing the incident with her father some yearsbefore). She never thought of herself asbeing naked. How could aquatic lifeformsever be naked when the water clothedthem? But even in the open air, her clothes



made her feel like she was bound upon aWheel of Fire. Garments of any kind werebinding and false. Clothes were suffocating,almost as much as rooms, especially forAkaste. She closed her eyes as sheapproached the lapping waters: ‘Anotheryear on shore had passed, another year—Calloused hands fell upon her bony shoul-ders. Akaste opened her eyes and saw thesea but felt his heavy breaths on the napeof her neck rather than the saline air,breaths that smelled like death, the manydeaths of her brethren. “What’s a pretty little thing like youdoing out here not wearing nothing?” Thegrizzled voice demanded of the back ofAkaste. “I don’t know if I should keep youor throw you back. This is a strange fish. Afine one but a strange fish.” Akaste closed her eyes again to seeksome safe place in the darkness of herself.The man’s hands jerked her around to facehim. She pursed her lips as the full force ofhis miasmic breaths fell upon her smellingsense organ. “Nothing to say for yourself? You deaf?Or can’t you speak?” He shouted shakingAkaste by her shoulders. “Guess you can’tever tell anyone about me. I’ll never forgetyou, my pretty mermaid.” Akaste opened her green eyes andblinked at the ruined face of the man. Hisnose was infected with the squirming pur-ple worms of the pub while his eyes werethe color of the urine of a sick cat. His iris-es were colorless, a dull hue tendingtowards the circular oblivions at their core.Half of his drooping lips smiled while the

other was subject to gravity. Akaste feltheavy, heavier than she did when sheawoke from an oceanic dream and foundherself in the darkness of her bed wherethe ceiling seemed to be on top of her. Hishands were pressing down on her tremblingshoulders, the sand was consuming herinchoate feet. “Now how about just a little kiss foryour daddy, eh? Just a little kiss and youcan go back from where you came?” Akaste swallowed as she felt his handsslide down her shoulders and along herback. She imagined her skin tearing fromher flesh as he did so. The man leaned inwith half his lips puckered. Just as she felthis hands reaching the place nobodytouched, she leaned into him. She openedher silent mouth and parted her lips. Therewas no other choice. Her teeth clampeddown on the man’s split lower lip, theupper teeth meeting the bottom through apenetration of flesh. When her upper andlower jaw were tightly clenched, she shookher head violently as the blood of the manpoured into her mouth and onto the sand.She was a predator of the sea as her eyesrolled into the back of her head avoidingdamage both physical and psychological.After a series of shaking, the greater por-tion of his lower lip had parted from hisform. Akaste spit it onto the bloody sandand walked towards the water. All that shecould hear was the beckoning song of thesea. The man’s screams and cries andmoans were suitable for the chorus of seag-ulls. The salt water washed the salt bloodaway and Akaste vowed never to return to


terra firma. But love, even the love of par-ents bound to the earth brought her backthat night. It was the love that a child couldforgive even when it banished her to herroom for a month. Forgiveness neverentails duty. Akaste’s only duty was toreturn. She never spoke of what happenedon her thirteenth birthday on the beach.That lump of flesh on the sand waspenance enough for her, food for crabs.The oceanic world always found a way tocircle the square, even on shore, to tendtowards dominance. Just as the lappingwaves pulled away rocks as surely as theypulled away the sand, Akaste felt the waterpulling apart her spirit while her parentsheld her body fast through guilt and rules. The pressure at the bottom of the seaprohibited many life-forms from penetrat-ing these dark waters. But for Akaste thiswas not so, this was a reversed night skyseen from an inverted mountain peak, thetremendous weight of the sea above her likethe full embrace of a benevolent giant.Stars were metaphorically replaced by blink-ing and crawling things on the bottom,neon-signs of bars and restaurants werenow the neon blood of invertebrate crea-tures drifting by with multifarious means ofpropulsion. Volcanic vents mocked theinstability of nuclear power plants withtheir bright orange finesse, radiating poten-tial life with the heat from the earth’sorgans, a poetic confession from the plan-et’s subconscious. A monumental skeletonof a sperm whale provided twilight shelterfor wriggling things while eyeless snakeswithout taste pecked away at ancient flesh

preserved on its towering rib cage, a linger-ing simulacrum of life tending towards aghost. Down there, even the dead were safewithin the place outside of Time andbeyond the reckoning of most spaces. It wasa place unto itself, a singularity withoutremorse, the graveyard of the sub-aqueousworld where the living always visited.Nothing was wasted. But to call it the bot-tom was deceiving. From the perspective ofthe even deeper places of the earth, thiswas a majestical roof. Earth upon earth, skyupon sky, deep space expanding at an ever-increasing pace; Akaste realized there wasno motion in space. To exist in the infini-tude where the center was everywhere andthe circumference nowhere, was always tobe where she was. The only question waswhich element a lifeform chose to occupy.She remembered a teacher saying thephrase: ‘As false as water’. Nothing couldbe further from the Truth, she realized.Water always followed its nature. Evenwhen it was frozen, it waited with all of itspotential energy, perhaps for millennia,until it thawed and carried on. To hell withwitnesses to confirm its Truth. The only fal-sity were the channels that water flowedthrough, the hidden chasms, the pipelinesand artificial propulsions that deluded air-breathers into believing water was an ele-ment subject to their power. Waterparksmight be the greatest abomination on thewind-swept world, she thought, as she drift-ed along the bottom of the ocean. A singu-lar question haunted Akaste, somethingthat comforted and frightened her, often atthe same time. Was she the only one of her


kind? Certainly, there must be others. Orwas she an anomaly, some kind of shy andsilent prophet signifying the superiority ofthe sea? With every flap of her buddingtail-fin, Akaste was at once searching foranother while fleeing from the same. Shefelt herself heading towards the very thingthat was behind her. Her head wanted toknow while her instincts flapped throughthe water in harmonious protest. She feltlike an aquatic snake eating its own tail rep-resenting infinity and zero at once. Theeternal question mark of existence penetrat-ed throughout the infinitude of water,earth, air and fire. The questions that swamthrough Akaste at the bottom of the oceanperplexed her only in their lack of answers,not in their omnipotence. Uncertainty wasthe state of the universe. Any equation cal-culating otherwise was nothing but primalgroping in the dark, a cave painting of alion seen by a lion after consuming thegrunting painter. In the flowing distance,Akaste could make out a trinity of palelights. What was living was never bound tofixed routes, especially in the ocean.Curiosity and necessity forced sentientthings to wander. But these three lights fol-lowed a set course, looking neither aboveor below. Something about their quality asthey grew larger through proximity remind-ed her of the planes approaching the smallairport behind her town at night. Theplanes reminded her of automated insectsas the humming of their approach providedsomething for her eyes to follow duringthose sleepless nights. While it was a poormetaphor for a fish descending to the bot-

tom of the sea, the same physics were inorder. But this was absurd. She was far toodeep for anyone up there to fathom. AsAkaste lingered just beyond the skeleton ofthe whale, the water that was compoundedby the waters above—those seamless layersof water through which the various ecosys-tems determined by light and pressurepressed downwards—was displaced in a waythe waters of the surface would be by apassing boat on a cloudy night. Soundbored its way through the liquified pressurechamber betraying its source as the abom-inable rumble of the engine banished thesoft chorus of the deep. Akaste felt her nowfully-formed scales from a region just belowher belly-button to the precipice of hermagnificent tail-fin bend upwards. The per-functory retreat of these pliant jewelswarned of something foreign approaching,a known unknown baffling not in its con-struction but in its location. She blinked.Nobody saw her fear. The week before Akaste chose the seaprovided an intensive study in what it wasto live within four walls and a ceiling withno exit. Without warning, she had beencarried away from the seashore on a cloud-less Wednesday. The arms that pried herbellicose body from the sand were not herfather’s. These arms were stained with thegreen-ink of superficial profundity, a collec-tion of forms and phrases from the twomen’s wrists up beyond the limits of theirwhite sleeves. She vomited when shesmelled the air that puffed from theirarmpits as they carried her. The two menonly referred to her in the third-person


before a prick from an unseen needle madethe crystalline sky spin before all turned toblack. When she woke up, Akaste wasbound by her wrists to a bed with starchedsheets in a white room with fluorescentlighting. She realized that this was the hellof the wind-swept world. Vertical steel barsmarred the light that fell through the soiledwindows. Oblique shadows marked thetimeless Time that passed as disembodiedhands fed her pills, took her blood pres-sure, and provided her with food. A fishpulled by the mouth from the deep andfinding itself flapping in the sun on thepoop of the boat must have felt like this.She never spoke to the woman who sat byher bed. No matter what questions wereasked of Akaste, she merely continued toblink at the cracked ceiling, her handssqueaking as she clenched her parched fin-gers. She dreamed the dreams of the pris-oner. Open spaces without articulationwere the scapes that formed in her druggedbrain. There was no sea. Not even in herimagination. There was only the Purgatoryof where she was. It was neither here northere. On the seventh day, her bindingswere released and Akaste was able to roamaround the cell. She was a wingless bee, atailless fish, a silent girl without a sea. Inthe light of the barred windows, the disem-bodied hands of the Others were revealedin all of heir horror. The ravages of the dryworld revealed themselves in the age spotsand wrinkles, the warped fingers and theyellow nails. Each and every person on theearth was bound to become a monster. Thebeast’s many hands were an abominable

exhibition of perverted existence. On theeve of the seventh day, when the lightglowed through the muck of the window, amoment of blinding beauty within theInferno, Akaste leaned against the steelbars and heard a rumble. Her crackedhands gripped the bars and pulled. The sin-gular piece of successive bars pried off ofthe window just as a collection of sea-grasswould in a turtle’s mouth. A gentle gesturecould move mountains and lay barren thesea floor. How she was able to pry herselfthrough the narrow slit of the windowwhere the dry air was allowed through wasimpossible for Akaste to understand. Sheclosed her eyes and thanked the magic ofthe octopus, that alien being, the pinnacleof the actuality of the escape artist. Whenshe was free from the purgatorial cell,Akaste smelled for the sea. Everything wasflat here, nothing tended towards theshore. In a stroke of irony, a seaplane withits tell-tale form flew over her head. Shewatched as it traced an invisible line in thesky as it descended to the very place shewas seeking to avoid such things. By thetime she reached the shore, her feet werebloody and her scales dying. Once herstarched blue gown was discarded betweensome sand dunes, she limped to the waterand fell onto the sand. The moment thewaters of the eternal sea bathed her, whathad been a ritual became a confirmation asher scales were replenished and the drugsin her system were washed away. A faintsong trickled along the waters that lickedher feet, a song in the same scale as herheart, the harmonious song of herself.


What was lost was found and found inabundance. When the three-eyed beast was uponher, Akaste stared at the pair of blinkingeyes within the glass face. They had a lookof dumb wonder, the wild white hairs ofthe man’s head and beard a sign of hisexcitement. For the first time in years,Akaste wanted to speak. She felt a primalurge to tell him her name and describe theplace they both occupied under far differ-ent terms. But the element she breathedwas fundamentally different than the ele-ment the old man did within the confine-ment of his mechanized beast. Wordswould never penetrate the thick glass thatallowed him a distorted glimpse of Akasteand her world. The old man might as wellhave been looking at her through an impos-sibly long telescope on the surface of themoon. She thought of swimming by him,forgetting that the encounter had everoccurred, but something held her fast.Somehow, the workings of the wind-sweptworld were new to her again and she want-ed to see. It reminded her of looking atphotographs with her parents from herchildhood when she was at the beach andsmiling without worry. The pictures werenothing but two-dimensional ciphers signi-fying whatever she chose but there wassomething comforting about them. But thiswas no picture. Here she was and there hewas. But they were not. She could see theobjectivity in his wizened eyes as he staredon at her. His gnarled hands were busybefore him as his crooked fingers markedwith age typed away. Akaste looked behind

her for a moment. The skeleton was stillthere, the sea creatures of the deep stillpecking away at the gray flesh with indiffer-ence to the spectacle just ahead. When shelooked back, the three-eyed beast was clos-er. The old man beckoned her with hishand, a benevolent gesture of the grandfa-ther she never had. Akaste smiled and witha flourish of her glorious tail-fin, she swamin a spiraling pathway towards him. Theold man stroked his long beard and smiledback when Akaste pressed her hands on theglass of the machine. His eyes looked upand down the girl, his pale blue eyes seem-ing to penetrate her form as the gaze of thescientist soon replaced the look of agelesswonder. For the first time in her life, espe-cially in her watery element, Akaste feltnaked. The eyes of the scientist had objecti-fied her. She pulled her hands away fromthe glass and covered her breasts. A faintrumble through the glass signified hislaughter. Yellow rows of teeth marked byblack rot magnified the old man’s laughterinto a hyena’s cry. Akaste kept her handsover her chest as if she possessed twohearts. Tears were streaming from the scien-tist’s face while the tears that Akaste shedhad no beginning or end in her element.The paroxysm of laughter within the beasthad reached such a magnitude, the glasssounded like it was mechanized as the cruelnotes rattled it. Something within Akasteforced her to remain and watch. She want-ed to see how long he would mock herbeing, her form, her self. Just as the laugh-ter had reached its crescendo, when the sci-entist’s face had turned from red to purple,


he stopped. The resonation remained assuch a performance took time to subside. Asupplicating palm pressed to the windowbegged pardon of Akaste. She hesitated fora moment but nodded to the palm. Theold man nodded and smiled without reveal-ing his Time trodden teeth. Akaste shookher head to stop her ears from ringing.Whether it was the laughter, or the sight ofit all that assaulted her inner ears, wasimpossible to know. When she returnedher liquid gaze to the three-eyed beast, thescientist was seated again. His head waslowered. It looked like he had forgottensomething or was regretting what had justhappened. In the end, he was just a tiredold man, Akaste thought. When the metalhand closed around the waist of Akaste, itwas too late for her to swim away. Shewatched in horror as the mechanized soundthat found form was pulling her towards acage at the back of the beast. She closedher eyes and tried to pry herself free of thestainless-steel hand. Nothing was to bedone. By the time she opened her eyes, shewas imprisoned in the the steel cage. Forthe first time in her element, she felt wet.For the first time in her element, she wastrapped. Here she was in the boundlessdeep barely able to take a breath. Only thetemperature of her tears differed from thewater around her, that water that was neverbound bar steel bars. Water was true to theend. The man within the three-eyed beasttitled the vessel upwards and Akaste’s hairfell backwards with the violence of theascent. As the light grew and the pressurediminished, Akaste could feel her spirits

dwindling. Rather than watching theapproaching surface of the water play withthe light of the sun, Akaste watched as thedeep became darker and tended towardsblack. She tried to stop breathing but hernervous system betrayed her. When all wasblack beneath her, when the warmth of theshallow waters warned her of the open air’sapproach, she closed her eyes and felt aprick from something next to her. v

Corner Bar MagazineCopyright 2019 Hayden Moore 21

I rejoiced when Lacy Huffington cuthis right forefinger off in his bicycle chain.

I had a few good qualities as a kid. Iloved old people. Okay, I had one goodquality, and it was appreciated by a handfulof the older folks while being underappreci-ated or outright despised by the others.That said, I had no character to speak of,and because of that I had no personalityother than the one who demanded thateverything in life go my way or not at all. Alife of adversity has a tendency to changethings for the better, to develop characterand wit and personality, but right now I’mtalking about what kind of kid I was andhow I was elated when the neighborhoodbully Lacy Huff-Puff, as we called him, per-manently lost one of his most importantfingers. I would have been happy enough ifhe had chopped off a pinky finger, but thefact that he stupidly stuck his forefingerbetween the bike chain and the chainwheelwhile his little brother Gerald was rotatingthe pedals to a maximum spin made fire-works go off all over my body, and I wasn’teven there to see it! Had I been there, Iwould have been outwardly horrified butinwardly so gleeful that, even at my youngnine years, I could have formed a new reli-gion. I was always good at getting peopletogether anyway, like a director. I could,

and still can, inspire others towards excitingideas and ventures. I don’t have too manyopportunities to do such things these days,but there have been times when I couldreally rally the troupes.

Two days after Huff-Puff lost his point-er finger, Augusta Puissant, the neighbor-hood girl bully, chopped off her left thumbwhile she was showing off with her father’sshockingly sharp chef knife. She was tryingto cut celery like she saw him do countlesstimes, or so she whined through millions oftears. Augusta was twelve and pretty and atomboy, and she was mean to every neigh-borhood kid smaller than her or quieterthan her or different than her. She especial-ly liked to pick on me, of course, whichmade my enjoyment of her losing thatthumb extra-special. And this time I wasgiven the privilege of watching it happen!Oh, sure. I screamed and ran to tell mymother what had happened, but that wasall just part of the play-acting. Just undermy supposedly terrified skin and bulgingeyes was a kid so happy that Augusta Piss-Ant was bleeding all over her lemon-yellowsweater that the only thing that could havemade me happier was if she had bled todeath in the process. But she didn’t. Shedid turn a ghostly white, whatever shade ofwhite that actually is, and so I cut my losses

Corner Bar MagazineCopyright 2019 Scáth Beorh 22

“THE WEEK OF THREE FINGERS”by SCÁTH BEORH

and was glad that she had at least cameclose to death. I believed in an afterlifeeven then, but was uninformed about itsparticulars. Truth is, I had been taught thatif a person died who had not gone throughthe ritual of the all-important Sinner’sPrayer, this person, upon death, would sim-ply go to live in Hell for eternity. Not veryBiblical, I know, but most Baptists aren’t.

Lacy Huff-Puff got stitches and cameback home the same day he lost his finger.Augusta Piss-Ant, poor thing, lay in thehospital a whole week, and what made iteven better was that it was during theChristmas holidays!

I’ve saved the best for last.Tony Toronto was too old to be part of

our neighborhood gang of twenty-some-oddkids ranging between the ages of six andtwelve. When I was nine, Tony was alreadyfourteen. When he did come outside,which was rare, he even bullied Lacy—a featthought nearly impossible to accomplish.

And one time—no, I think it was twice—Tony slapped Augusta across her freckledface so hard that her nose made a crackingsound. Why? Because she had screamed athim to shut his stupid pie-hole and gohome. I was there both times. Thrillingdays those were! Anyway, I hated ‘TonyTomato’ more than I hated anybody onEarth. That kid haunted my days, mynights, and even my dreams! He’d show upat my dream-school and dream-stalk me,dream-sneer at me, dream-threaten me,dream-taunt me. It all began when I wasseven and he was twelve. He started pickingon me and pushing me around, I told himI was going to tie his ears behind his headand kick his ass out of my yard, and thatwas the beginning of it all. Well, that andthe time I told him I thought his motherwas the ugliest woman I had ever seen inmy life. No, I should have never said that,but I was somewhat outspoken as a child.

Tony Tomato lost his right middle fin-

Copyright 2019 Scáth Beorh Corner Bar Magazine23

ger. You can probably imagine what he wasdoing with that middle finger when he lostit, but I bet you can’t imagine how he lostit, so I’ll tell you.

My father had a chicken coup filledwith speckled roosters and hens. He hadbought them as chicks a few monthsbefore, and by the time Christmastime hadrolled around they had grown up to a pret-ty good size. Well, one day the Blowhard’sdog Cougar got loose and navigated himselfacross six backyards straight toward myfather’s chicken house. While the dogdined on this hen and that rooster, myfather thought it might be a great time totry out his newly acquired WWII vintage.30-06 rifle. I found myself at once in awe,terrified, and, yes, electrified to no end thatCougar—or anything having to do with theweirdo Blowhard family—was going to die abloody and infamous death. And I wouldget to watch!

Long brass rocket-like bullet in cham-ber, my father the sharpshooter stood likethe soldier he had once been, his feet setapart and planted firmly, his eye cold andcalculating, his finger hovering around thetrigger of that death machine like a beearound a springtime flower.

Deep breath, hold, hold—Crack!

And down went Tony Tomato, whohad been trying to retrieve Cougar, good-hearted boy that he was, from a sure andinstant death.

‘Daddy! You killed Tony!’My father, the strong and silent type,

shouldered his rifle and strode out to theremainder of his chickens—I think theremay have been one still standing, but bare-ly—took lie of the situation, then steppedover to the Toronto boy and yanked hisblubbering self up off his knees. ‘Damnedmutt,’ was all my father said.

‘Maybe you’ll get him next time,Daddy. Split him right down the middle!’

Tony Tomato was as white as a sheet,and I knew what color that was. Colorless.Except, of course, for his shirt and pantsand hi-top tennis shoes all painted a beauti-ful bright tomatoey red.

My father cleared his throat. ‘Maybenext time, Tony, you’ll know not to be dis-respectful to your elders.’

‘Yeah—yessir,’ was all the bleeding fin-gerless buffoon could say, but unexpectedly,this horrific comedy added yet a newdimension to my nightmares concerningthat bully of all bullies, and I was well intomy twenties before visions of Tony Torontoand his fingerless hand stopped waking meup in freezing sweats. But, if you want topsychoanalyze me, this story is proof posi-tive that I was permanently scarred by achildhood that may have only given me onething—a backbone I wasn’t born with. Ortwo things, but I’ll let you be the judge asto whether I have a sense of humor or not—something else I was born without. v

END TRANSMISSION

Copyright 2019 Scáth Beorh Corner Bar Magazine24

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