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The BlotterThe BlotterJJululy 2012y 2012 MAMAGAZINEGAZINE
Hot and bothered to a fairHot and bothered to a
fair-thee-well!-thee-well!Laine Cunningham ALaine Cunningham
Awarward winner Micd winner Michael G.hael G.
Williams,Williams,
RicRicharhard Ong,d Ong, Phil JPhil Juliano,uliano, and and The
Dream JournalThe Dream Journal
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FRONT COVER, “Parisienne,” by
Richard Ong. Times 3.
Unless otherwise noted, all content
copyright 2012 by the artist, not the
magazine.
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“A Letter”Dear Mr. White: Today the deer attacked and
annihilated my hosta plants.Despite their being strategically
situated at the back door, protected by theproximity to my kitchen
sink window, somehow, and I assume under thecover of darkness,
young bucks stealthily approached and did the deed.Last year the
hostae survived until June 23rd, the year before it wasIndependence
Day week. The coral bells not so long. I like to think I knewbetter
and in a moment of blitheness – of hope – planted them
anywaybecause they’re very pretty and you can mix and match them
likeGaranimals and still end up with a nice garden. Unless all
you’re reallydoing is feeding the wildlife a little expensive nosh
on the side. It seems thatI’d be better off spending my money on
corn in fifty pound sacks, flingingit out off the porch in buckets.
The deer would be better fed, and I would-n’t have the mid-June
disappointment of a garden of stems-only poking outof the dirt like
a diorama of the 1917 shell-torn Ardennes Forest.Sure I’m grumpy
about it. When I didn’t do anything special – didn’t movethe hosta
close to the back door, didn’t hang bars of Irish Spring soap,
did-n’t string fishing line from tree to tree to make an invisible
barrier (ha!) ofmonofilament intended to frighten the deer in the
dark as they inadvertent-ly bumped against it (again, ha!), the
hosta tended to make it to the dog-days of summer. The more valiant
the effort the worse the results. Otherthan seventeen year old boys
attempting to get dates, I can think of few cir-cumstances in the
known universe where this is the case.Speaking of which, when you
are a parent, you believe that you can domany things. First and
foremost is to protect your children. I’ve been stay-ing home for
nine years, feeding, cleaning, teaching, and transporting mygirls
through their lives. Each day they need certain aspects of me
less.They can, with only a little assistance, run their own
breakfast railroad.This summer we will migrate to them handling
their own laundry. I stillmake lunches for school – because I like
the idea of surprises and healthyfood, and by assembling their
lunchboxes for them I can reasonably assureboth. Fresh raw
snap-beans. Cubes of canary melon. Ham and Havarti onwheat. A small
bowl of home-made chili. Carrot disks or a handful ofpeanuts. And I
try to help with homework, although too soon I can seethem working
math problems I cannot fathom. But theirs is nothing like my own
childhood. They never wander off to gofishing two towns away. They
never sleep outside in the woods on a sum-mer evening. I don’t even
let them go home with their friends without aconversation with the
friend’s parents. Am I being overprotective? Arethere more crazies
nowadays, or is there just more of everything? If I don’tprotect
them, will they inevitably be harmed? Or is it the hosta all
overagain?To be honest, I sort of feel bad for the plants. They’re
doing everything thatthey should be doing. Early in March the first
green-white fingers poke upthrough the dirt like the hands of
recently dead zombies. Like on televi-sion. Yes, television. I
suspect, Mr. White, that you would not be happywith the direction
that television has taken. The best show out there, stillcrafted by
people who have followed the arduous path of creative writingfor a
living, is called “The Walking Dead” and for all intents and
purposesits stars are walking, groaning, drippy-nasty animated
corpses. The worst?
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same by e-mail:[email protected].
sCAUTION
It’s been a long day. Oh,it’s been a long been alongbin along
binalong day.
Walking, groaning, drippy-nasty animated corpses, sans quality
writers, in ashow called “Survivor.”How did I get hooked on a show
all about death? Tricky question, E.B..There was nothing else on? I
thought that if I tried this, then there wasnowhere to go but up?
Actually, it’s quite something, a fabulous ensemblecast of relative
unknowns, seriously talented writers, and a plotline that youcan’t
ignore. And believe it or not, I was terrifically moved by one of
theepisodes – nearly to the point of tears. What does this say
about me? I amemotionally involved with zombies and care deeply
about mindless plants.That’s the twenty-first century in a
nutshell, I guess.And who am I to be perturbed by deer? Am I not
the invader in their space?I think I’ve been here a long time.
Twenty years of watching the ice pushstones up through the earth
into the back yard, watching the black walnutsfall, scattered about
by squirrels, root and send up their waving-hands leaves.Twenty
years of lightning and rain. Twenty years waiting for the
rhododen-drons to figure out how to bloom. The deer have a species
memory of whenthere was no house here, then the house being here.
For them it is probablya tiny bit of fluff in the greater
instinctual survival-education they pass fromdoe to fawn.Elwyn, I
don’t understand how events seemed to conspire to prevent my
hav-ing a nice garden this year. I know that a farmer’s actions
must be akin tothose of a parent. I think I was attentive, but not
smothering. Good plan-ning – at least what I thought was good
planning – analyzing where the sunand shade were going to be during
the spring and then where the hot rayswould pour down when the dry
days of August sauntered in. It’s a bit likecommitting whether or
not to let your child take the bus to and from school,or driving
them yourself each day. Perhaps the real question is: are my
children the hostae, or are they the deer?Is the act of planting
hosta an act of defiance against the inevitability ofnature, or an
inadvertent act of kindness towards it? And should I be mov-ing the
girls towards the bus, letting them cross the street without my
help,and stop effectively holding their hands each morning by
driving them.Because despite all of your best laid plans, in the
end children grow up, we’reall food for…zombies, and deer always
get their hosta.
Sincerely,
Garry - [email protected]
July 2012
page 3
FFuu ee ll ee d bd byy
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The B l o t t e r
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Word by Wordeditorial services
SHARON KEBSCHULL BARRETTAUTHOR, DESSERTS FROM AN HERB GARDENAND
MORNING GLORIES (ST.MARTIN’S PRESS)
[email protected]://SHARONKBARRETT.COM
Thorough copy editing, reasonable rates
for authors, helping you get it justright before you contact
agents or publishers
TThhe Be Blloott tteer Mr Maaggaazizinneeannounces with pride
the winners of the
2012 “Laine Cunningham Novel Award”:
1st Prize - Michael G. Williams of Durham, NC,
for his novel “Perishables.”
2nd Prize - Michelle Barker of Penticton, BC,
for her novel “The Beggar King.”
3rd Prize - Tamra Wilson of Newton, NC,
for her novel “Home at the Lincoln Hotel.”
Honorable Mention - Marilynn Larew of New Park, PA,
for her novel “The Spider Catchers.”
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When the zombies came, Iwas at a potluck for my neighbor-hood
association.
Odd, isn’t it? For all sorts ofreasons, not just that I’m a
vampire.
It’s true, though, being therewhen the zombies showed up. I
wasten minutes’ walk from my place,down at the Reinholdts’
five-bed,four-bath McMansion. Gods, but Ihate that house. When they
movedin we didn’t have a neighborhoodassociation to stop them from
con-structing that vinyl-sided monstros-ity and no sooner had they
droppedthe last box in their front hall thanthey’d begun agitating
to start oneso they could make sure their placestayed the biggest
house in theentire development.
Typical mortals.Some of the more bothered
types went and talked to lawyers ortalked to the city or, in the
case ofMr. Jones-Magnum - the only per-son who’s been here so long
even Ihave cause to fear his attentions -talked to the city in the
presence ofa lawyer and, eventually, everyonewho cared shoved their
hands intheir pockets and slunk back uptheir drives in silent
resignation.The Reinholdts knew how the gamewas played and
immediately begancampaigning for Best NeighborsEver. With gift
baskets and mownlawns and good candy onHalloween they whittled away
justenough of the resentment againstthem that they got a
neighborhoodassociation started without being itsfirst victims. By
New Year 2002 itwas a done deal: Franklin Not FrankReinholdt was
elected chair of the
neighborhood association, with athree-member rotating board
tokeep the Reinholdts on a leash.Thus began their benevolent
dicta-torship of our neighborhood.
The neighborhood associa-tion’s authority, I should note,
doesnot extend to my yard. Oh, techni-cally it does but Mary
LouReinholdt always somehow seems toflinch when she tries to look
me inthe eye on my own turf. Every oncein a while she’ll come
around andtry to tell me one thing or anotherthrough the screen
door but shealways makes it fast and leavesfaster. Franklin Not
Frank won’teven show up. He can’t handle it.He’s a wuss. The deal
is, one of therules imposed on the Reinholdts –really on Mary Lou,
because we allknow Franklin Not Frank is not thebrains in that
operation – is thatwhenever the neighborhood associa-tion considers
a new restrictionaffecting a current homeowner’sexisting property
then the home-owner has to be notified before themeasure can be
considered. The firsttime I actually met Mary LouReinholdt was for
that very reasonabout four months after the associa-tion
started.
Thirty minutes after sunsetI’d heard a ring at my doorbell.
Iremember it took me a minute tofigure out that it was, in fact,
thedoorbell. No one had rung mydoorbell in years, not even
onHalloween. I turn the lights on likeanybody else but eventually
myplace acquired whatever psychicstain puts people of a mind to
ignore it and move on. My guess is,I turn the porch lights on a
little toolate and I leave them on a lot toolate and I’m never out
mowing mylawn and people notice the littlestuff like that. People
don’t noticethe house that always stays the sameso it fades into
the background andthey eventually learn to ignore thehouse where
the dogs yap all dayand the kids are always screamingbut they
notice the house that has avibe of being just slightly off. Ahouse
that feels and looks too emptystands out like an open grave.
Anyway, the doorbell rangso I walked downstairs and peekedout
the peephole and I could seeMary Lou standing there on thefront
porch with her lips pursed andher eyebrows knit together. Shelooked
just as pissed as all get-out,like how dare I not answer her, and
Ifigured she was a missionary orsome other kind of low-life. I
flungmy door open so hard the hingessquealed and at the same time
hitthe whole bank of switches in thefoyer so that the porch, front
hall,front stairs and walkway were allsuddenly flooded with the
brightest,whitest light possible.
A vampire never gets tiredof seeing surprise in a human’s
eyes.
“Mister...” She fumbled fora moment, and I made a show
ofstudying her face while she did. Iwanted to remember her but I
alsowanted her, whoever she was, toknow that I remembered her.
“Surrett.” I leaned my frameagainst the door and the
floorcreaked under me. I’ll say it, I’m notafraid to: I’m a great
big fat guy. I’m
July 2012
page 5
An excerpt from “Perishables,”the 2012 winner of The Blotter
Magazine’s Laine Cunningham Novel Awardby Michael G. Williams
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middling tall, about six feet if Iremember correctly, but I
weigh insomewhere around three fifty. I’dbeen out the night before,
and justwoke up, so I was in my blacktrench coat and wearing the
bootsthat give me a little lift and my thickblack hair was pointed
eighteendirections at once because I hadn’thit the shower yet and
she juststared and stammered.
“M... Mister...”“Surrett,” I said again.
“Withrow Surrett. And I don’t wantno damn Bibles or newsletters
orwhat-the-hell-ever, so get the hell offmy land.” I slammed the
door shutand flipped all the lights back offwith a smoothly
reversed pinwheelsweep of the same arm. Mary Louwas left standing
there just as blindas a bat. I could still see her outthere as I
stomped upstairs to getout of my club clothes and intosomething
more reasonable, like thebath, and I smiled to myself becauseI
could smell that she was a little bitafraid.
That’s how I came to be amember of the neighborhood
asso-ciation’s board. It was early. Somepeople were probably just
gettinghome from work. Others wereprobably out on their
porchesenjoying the April evening. Bywhatever means, from
whateverplace, someone heard that exchangeand the next month I got
a notestuck in the screen door by ananonymous neighbor: a
resolutionto restrict the weight of dogsallowed as pets in the
neighborhoodhad failed, and I had been elected tothe association’s
board in absentia.
The dog thing was probablywhat Mary Lou came by to talkabout.
I’ve got a Doberman namedSmiles. He weighs 150 poundsbecause I feed
him some of my ownblood once a week. When I have togo to town on my
own, or when Ileave him out front for the day to
guard the place, I leave him on achain that’s too big for a
large manto grasp in one hand because that’sthe only chain Smiles
hasn’t brokenyet.
That got my attention, so Itook the position on the board.What
the hell, you know? Even we– especially we – can act on a whimand
that was mine in that moment.
Being on the board turnedout to be pretty low-impact. Onceevery
six months I went to a potluckat the Reinholdts’ damned houseand
we’d have a semblance of ameeting. I’d walk Smiles up there -no
lead, I’d hate to see the leash thatwould work on him if he
neededone - and drop him off in theReinholdts’ fenced back yard.
Hewould spend the entire evening sit-ting on their back porch
watchingme through their series of Frenchdoors, ignoring their Jack
Russellnamed “Killer”. Killer usually justbarked until he passed
out.
The night the zombiesshowed up was the night of ourspring
meeting. It promised to be apretty dull affair. The autumn
meet-ings are always the ones wheresomebody gets pissed because
theirneighbor isn’t raking enough fortheir liking or otherwise shit
in thedonuts and somebody needs tothrow a hissy fit over it.
Spring, on
the other hand, is easy-going.Spring is when they’re all dusting
offthat old landscaping software andtalking about maybe this year
they’llactually build those garden beds. It’sa time when they
imagine every-thing will be exactly the way each ofthem,
individually, wants things tobe all the time. As such, it
usuallyinvolves nothing more fraught thana lot of sitting around
munching onstale cheese balls and avoidingFranklin Not Frank’s
“world-famous” jellied beef loaf.
Don’t ask. I don’t even knowwhat jellied beef loaf is. I asked
onetime and all I got in return was,“Oh, eh.... heh heh... think of
it as akind of sausage.” Franklin has thisweird vocal tic he only
displayswhen I directly question something.It always starts with
this half-heart-ed chuckle and then he avoids giv-ing me a straight
answer.
That particular spring it wasremarkably warm - global warminghas
finally caught up with us, Iguess - and we’d not had a singleflake
of snow the whole winter.Raleigh isn’t exactly in the Alps butwe’re
used to seeing a little winterweather. Not so that year, and
we’dspent the first half of March withdaytime highs in the 80’s. As
it waswarm the night of the meeting I’dmade do with some old jeans
and astained t-shirt from the ’82 World’s
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Fair. You remember, the rainbowwaterslide kind of logo thing
withthe flame icon at the far end and1982 WORLD’S FAIR on the
nearend of the slide?
Come to think of it, maybeyou don’t remember. Oh well. It wasa
fun time. Got to see the Budweiserhorses, the Clydesdales.
You’veprobably seen the ads.
Me and Smiles went up thestreet at an easy pace. I was
bringinghomemade biscuits and a batch ofambrosia salad. I love to
cook,though I’m not particularly good atit. What tends to surprise
most ofmy fellow kind is that I also love toeat. Most of us can’t
keep fooddown, our bodies reject it outrightand it just comes back
out, but mymaker was a smarter one than mostso she made me eat
early and oftento teach me how to keep it in longenough to fool
folks. I was, as youmight expect, not one to shy awayfrom an ample
meal in life and so Iwas glad to take up eating as ahobby in
unlife. I might never loseanother ounce of weight in all thetime I
spend on this earth but atleast I can eat for hours and nevergain
an ounce, either. It’s a smallcomfort, but with us every
sensationcounts.
When I got to theReinholdts’ place, I skipped ringingthe
doorbell and just walked Smiles
right on around to the fenced backyard. The moment my
handtouched the latch on their gate,Killer went ballistic.
Mary Lou knew by thesound that I must have arrived andcame out
on the back porch to greetus. She took one look at Killer andher
shoulders sagged in a quiet sigh.For the first time in a long time
Ithought I detected somethinghuman in Mary Lou’s body lan-guage but
then the Stepford pro-gramming kicked back in and shesmiled as best
she could.“Withrow,” she said, trying to purrand coming out
sounding wrong.“So glad you could make it. I’m sureyou’re very
busy.”
“Oh yes,” I responded, theambrosia and the plate of
biscuitscradled in my arms. Smiles sat bymy feet and sniffed the
air audiblyin Mary Lou’s direction. “Beenworking on some new
stuff.”
“That’s nice,” she intoned,and then she turned and walkedback
inside, leaving the doors hang-ing open. She couldn’t even
handlethat much small talk with me. It wasnothing new.
A thought sometimesoccurred to me in those momentswhen Mary Lou
so visibly bristled atinteraction with me: what if it was-n’t just
that I’d pissed her off that
time on my porch? What if MaryLou was one of those people whocan
just tell when something isn’tright? What if every time I spokeshe
got those tingles up her spinethat said, That thing is not a
humanbeing? There are vampires whobelieve that sort of sixth sense
is outthere, in folks whose great-great-great-grandfathers lived in
one ofour towns and somewhere along theline figured things out and
now,generations later, they have scattereddescendants who can
simply tell,through some genetic memory orotherwise inherited gift,
that some-thing isn’t right about us.
Me, I don’t know what tothink about that. I don’t
explicitlyconsider it impossible – I’m a vam-pire, I know a human
being havingsomething like a gut feeling aboutus is way down the
list of crazy-assthings that can happen – but I’venever known
anyone for whom thepossibility was a real concern. MaryLou had made
me start to give itmore thought, though, and for allthat my
presence clearly made her alittle unhappy I have to say the
feel-ing was mutual.
About the manuscript thing- I’m a painter. Officially,
my“grandfather” was the painter.Officially, I’m just an heir
whoreleases the occasional found workand burns the proceeds to fund
anutterly failed attempt at a career as a
July 2012
page 7
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novelist. It’s a shitty cover if you carewhat people think, but
I don’t carewhat people think. Mostly.Sometimes I care a lot. Pride
is usu-ally what gets us in the end, all of us,human or
otherwise.
The rest of the board wasthere already and Franklin was
busytalking sports with Kathy Sams andHerb Watanabe. Franklin isn’t
asports buff, and neither is Herbbeyond the usual water-cooler
talk,but Kathy can’t get her head out ofit. Kathy played on the
women’sbasketball team for one of the localcolleges, back in the
day, and she’s abigger sports nut than anyone youcan think of. When
I walked in shewas busy haranguing Herb andFranklin over their
picks for anoffice pool on the basketball tourna-ment.
“Why the hell did you putMontana in as going to the Sweets?Have
you ever watched Montanaplay? Every year they field the tenguys in
the whole state who are oversix feet and not busy throwing balesof
hay across a field somewhere.This year they just got lucky!”
That’s what I heard comefrom the living room. HerbWatanabe was
trying to respond butKathy was fed up with trying toexplain it to
him. Kathy officiallyconsidered the rest of us, whoranged from
Herb, in the office poolbecause letting the boss take a fewbucks
from him was a way to fit in,to me, who couldn’t care less with-out
bursting a vessel from the effort,
to be lost causes. There was, she hadsaid one time over dessert,
some-thing wrong with people who are sodisconnected from their
communi-ties. Kathy’s team in college hadbeen good - very good -
but this wasbefore ESPN was giving a damnabout women’s sports. I
don’t haveto be a sports fan to know thatwomen get a lot more
coveragethese days, and that’s a good thing,but Kathy was pretty
bitter. She’dwon a national championship butno one she met ever
recognized hername
Kathy and Herb hadbecome, over time, the only reasonsI didn’t
walk from the board oncethe novelty of sticking it to theReinholdts
wore off. Well, OK,that’s not true. The reason I didn’twalk was
because I still enjoyedsticking it to them even after it was-n’t
new anymore. Eventually Iwould’ve gotten tired of that,though.
Probably. Kathy and Herb,on the other hand, they’re goodfolks. They
joined the board in part,I have come to realize, because theywanted
to keep an eye on busybod-ies like the Reinholdts but in
partbecause they also thought the HOAthing had potential. They were
justpeople like anybody else, suspendedin mid-air between a healthy
dislikefor pointless bureaucracy and sin-cere optimism about their
efforts. Igenuinely had no problem withthem once I got to know
them. Ididn’t exactly start sending themfruit baskets every
Christmas but I
had no reason to distrust them andcouldn’t manufacture a good
reasonto ignore them if I saw them outwhen I was walking Smiles, so
Iguess I have to say I liked them.
Dinner itself was the usualfare. We’d all brought a side dishand
Mary Lou had done up a roast.Franklin had his jellied beef loaf
outon the table and as usual everyonewas kind of avoiding taking
morethan the amount exactly necessaryfor the sake of
politeness.Conversation wound around theothers’ jobs - Herb is an
architect,Kathy a programmer, Franklin doesadvertising jingles and
Mary Lou isa property manager. Herb talkedabout how no one cares
about gooddesign, and the conversation brieflybrushed up against
how peoplethese days just like to live in thebiggest box they can
squeeze onto aquarter-acre lot, but Kathy caughtMary Lou looking
uncomfortableand so she steered us away into ask-ing about
Franklin’s latest work.He’d supervised auditions for a cam-paign
selling candy bars, and thatwas his big victory of the last
sixmonths: kids all over the countrywere humming a tune he’d
pickedfor them whenever they stuck a dol-lar in a snack machine at
school.Everyone stayed politely distantfrom probing me about my
“profes-sional” life, until Franklin said whathe always says.
“Your grandfather was alsoan artist, wasn’t he?”
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I shrugged. “He certainlywas.”
“Quite a gifted landscapeartist in his day,” Franklin said tothe
others, as though he had toexplain it to them every six monthsor
they’d forget. I always hate thispart of our conversations.
NormallyI sit there and let it happen aroundme but that night, for
some reason,I spoke up.
“He worked in a lot ofthemes,” I said without looking upfrom my
plate. “Landscape was justto pay the rent.”
“Oh,” Franklin replied, try-ing to save face, “I didn’t mean
toimply that his art was limited, it’sjust that landscape is what
he’sknown for.”
“I didn’t know anyone wasknown for landscape,” Mary Lousaid over
her glass of blush. Shesmiled at me, and I looked up tomeet her
eyes. Mary Lou had a
funny look on her face, and Ithought again of that mythical
sixthsense.
“John Turner,” I said arounda mouthful of broiled pork. “18thand
19th century. Hans Heysen,Monet, lots of well-known artistshad or
have landscapes as some oftheir best-known work. And it’s
stillquite popular. There’s Paul Sawyier,in Kentucky. Let’s see,
Kurt Jackson,he does mixed media sea-front stuff.Very impressive.
Lots of stuff ofCornwall; he also does some pho-tography.” I
shrugged and satstraighter in my chair, set my forkdown on the
plate, took a loud gulpof meat. “Landscape is a veryrespected
theme, still, even if somepeople consider it ‘fuddy-duddy.’”
Istopped. I was starting to get pissedoff, and my tone was showing
it. Itake a finished piece - one I’ve beencareful to make using an
aged can-vas, a supply of paints it’s hard to
find anymore, timeline-appropriatebrushes, all the things needed
toproduce a work that’s effectivelybeen counterfeited even though
Ireally am Withrow Surrett and Ireally did paint it myself - and
showit to a curator or a dealer and theycheck the signature and
then theycluck their tongues and say some-thing about how I was
lucky to findit because surely there must not bemany unknown works
by my“grandfather” left and then theylook at me like I’m the
world’s worstleech, like they can’t believe I valuemy supposed
ancestry so little as toplace a high price on it.
Mary Lou arched her eye-brows and made an ‘o’ with hermouth. “I
had no idea,” she said.Everyone else chewed in silence. Shemade a
little ‘mm’ noise to indicateshe wasn’t finished, like she’d
justrealized that perhaps she shouldclarify her statement. “I mean,
I had
July 2012
page 9
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no idea you were such an avid stu-dent of art, being a writer
yourself.”
“Well,” I replied, “Fiction isan art.”
“Yes,” Mary Lou replied, socompletely and blissfully tactful
thatno one could ever accuse her of try-ing to draw me out. “But
there’s areason they call it ‘arts and letters,’isn’t there? I
mean, there’s an art towriting, yes, but they’re not thesame
thing.” She lifted an elbow topoint it at her husband,
gesturingcasually with the same arm holdingup her glass of wine.
“It’s not likewriting music, or, say, painting.”
I know what bait smells like,and I didn’t bite even though I
wasdefinitely in the mood for it. InsteadI just shrugged again.
“Maybe so. Iwouldn’t know.” Saying that washard - the part of me
that starved ina one-room apartment over anappliance store in
Asheville for fiveyears while I learned that landscapesare so
important to the history of so
many artists because landscapes willsit still long enough for
you to prac-tice your craft, to learn, to experi-ment, to compare
the results of onetechnique with another, to learn thelittle inner
cues that tell you whenyou’re doing something right, whenyou should
just keep working andnot over-think it for a little bitbecause
you’ve got that vibe; thatpart of me wanted to throw some-thing.
The part of me that has tomaintain a public life just normalenough
to go as unnoticed as possi-ble, though, that part of me had toride
herd on everything else insideand it won.
Mary Lou was clearly tryingto come up with something shecould
say in response to that non-reply, something that would cementher
conversational victory, but I cuther off at the pass by jamming
myfork into the sliver of jellied beefloaf I’d gotten and shoving
thewhole thing in my mouth.
No one had ever seen any-one else actually eat the jellied
beefloaf before. Shocked silencedescended on the table, and
evenMary Lou’s pupils dilated a hair’sbreadth when she saw me do
it.
I chewed, and chewed, andchewed. Jellied beef loaf, it turnsout,
is a kind of sausage. Note thecareful use of that phrase,
though.Imagine taking deviled ham andstuffing it into a sausage
skin, thenbaking it or frying it. It doesn’t turnhard, but it’s not
complete mush. Ittastes of salt and bland flesh, sothere’s nothing
remarkable there. It’sjust meat-flavored stuff you put inyour mouth
and you chew. I waschewing a lot of it at once, and Ichewed with
merciless slowness.Chew. Chew.
Chew.Franklin was watching to
see what I thought, whereas MaryLou and Kathy and Herb
lookedlike they were waiting for me to top-ple over dead.
I swallowed the slice, raisedboth eyebrows slowly, and then
lift-ed my hands over the table. I wasvery careful to give the
impressionthat I was either going to reach forother food or I was
going to try tocover my mouth before projectilevomiting. I let that
second or threestretch out, and then I reached forthe plate with
the rest of the jelliedbeef loaf on it, carved a generouslength of
it and lifted it onto myplate.
“Delicious, Franklin.” Inodded at him, and then smiled. “Ihad no
idea.”
I picked up the entire sev-ered portion, one long and greasytube
of dull beige-pink, and bit itoff like a candy bar. “Mmmmm,” Isaid,
tonelessly, still smiling. I tookanother elaborately slow bite.
“Yes,”I went on, rolling it around mypalate, pausing to let the
bouquetexpress itself, then jawing it again.“Delicious.”
The B l o t t e r
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After that, Kathy eventuallypicked back up the mantle of
con-versation and wore that yokethrough the rest of dinner. She
triedto talk about the artistic side of pro-gramming - elegant
designs, smoothoperations, helpful commenting -and tried to use
that to tie into writ-ing in an attempt to build a bridgebetween me
and Mary Lou. Herbhelped her out as best he could, andover time it
turned into Franklinand Herb and Kathy talking abouthow corporate
structures obscurethe creative efforts of the individualsin their
employ, no matter how cre-ative any one of them is, even ifevery
individual in the organizationis trying to be creative. As
theyturned into the Bad Luck Club,grousing convivially about the
hard-ships of cubicle farms, Mary Loukept watching me eat as I
finishedoff the rest of the plate of jellied beefloaf. If Mary Lou
was onto me, ifshe wanted to watch me for whatev-er it was that
raised the hair on theback of her neck, I was happy togive her
something innocuouslybizarre: a taste for jellied beef loaf. Ieven
smeared some on a biscuit andate it like pâté to keep her on
hertoes. I smiled the entire time.
Franklin had just askedHerb and Kathy if they were readyfor him
to bring out dessert andthey had made the appropriate nois-es about
how it was too much butthey’d love to try a little when I real-ized
two things: Herb and Kathywere lovers and that I’d just heard acar
accident in the distance.
I doubt it will surprise youto learn that vampires have
remark-ably keen senses. I heard screechingtires and a car horn and
then thedistinctive tin can crunch of metalagainst an obstacle and
I could tellfrom the sound that it was probablythree blocks
away.
No one else had heard it atfirst, so when I looked up and
around towards the windows at thefront of the house and the
streetbeyond the others all started in sur-prise.
“Hear something?” Kathyasked. The slight tremor in her voicetold
me she and Herb and Franklinhad grown weary spending the
lastfifteen minutes walking on eggs.She was jumpy.
I looked at her for amoment and nodded towards thewindow.
“Thought I heard some-thing, but it could just be my imag-ination.”
The others looked towardsthe windows, too, even Mary Lou,and then I
heard the horn again.
“Was that a car?” Franklinlooked out in that general
direction.
“I...” I paused, considered,went on. “I’d swear I heard a
caraccident just a second ago.” I setdown the last of the current
biscuit.“But, you know, it could be any-thing.” I looked the other
directionat the French doors off the diningroom and Smiles was
still sittingthere watching me. He’s a prettygood gauge of when
weird stuff ’sgoing down, but he can also be mis-leading. His only
job is to protectme. If people are dead in the streethe doesn’t
really give a damn unlessI’m one of them. Killer, on the otherhand,
forgot Smiles just longenough to run to the fence and startyapping
his head off.
The car horn soundedagain, closer this time, and thenheadlights
splayed against the frontof the house. The horn was moreinsistent
than before, and Franklinwalked to the front windows to sur-vey
what he could see beyond theshrubs they’d placed there for
priva-cy. “Someone’s just pulled up in thedrive,” he announced.
I knew that something verybad was about to happen becausefrom
outside I could hear Smilesstart to growl.
I wasn’t going to start crazy
paranoia talk out of the blue so I satat the table and watched
the livingroom and foyer. Franklin stood inthe bay windows,
watching the carin the driveway, and narrated for usas the guy got
out of his car and ranup the front walk to the door.
“What’s he look like,” MaryLou asked, and Franklin shrugged
ather in the dramatic, both hands outto the side, both shoulders
pumpingup and down way of an actor onstage.
“He’s just some guy,”Franklin said, but it was cut off bythe
doorbell ringing frantically:RING-A-RING RING-A-RINGRING-A-RING,
and then the guystarted beating on the front doorand shouting
something we couldn’tmake out.
“Aren’t you going to answerit?” Mary Lou had stood from thetable
and was trying to shout overthe noise, Franklin looking back at
July 2012
page 11
-
her uncertainly. His hand hadn’tmoved from the blinds; he
hadn’tmoved from the window. “Answerit,” Mary Lou shouted,
andFranklin took two hesitating stepsto the door. In those few
seconds,the guy’s shouts had become lesscomplicated and more
coherent.Whatever he was yelling before wasjust a muffled jumble of
syllables,but now it was easy to make out:Help me, there’s been an
accident, hewas saying. Help me, please; I need tocall the
police.
Kathy and Herb were stillsitting at the table with me, and
Inoticed that they had brieflytouched hands under the table,
bothlooking to the other for reassurance.Definitely lovers. They
weren’tgoing to do anything, and it didn’tlook like Franklin would
either. Istarted to stand up, my napkinfalling out of my lap and
into themiddle of my plate, but Mary Louhad already made for the
door. Theguy was still tap-dancing on thedoorbell so I couldn’t
make outwhat Mary Lou said to her husbandas she went by him but it
was uglyand her face was set as hard as ananvil. With one twist of
the knob
and a practiced sweep of her otherhand she’d undone the dead
boltand yanked the front door open.The stylized, decorative ukulele
onthe back of it - tiny, with threestrings instead of four, little
woodenspheres suspended on twine suchthat they would bang against
thestrings when the door opened -twanged a wild chord and the
othersall jumped a little in anticipation ofwhat they might
see.
The stranger on theirdoorstep was, in fact, just some guy.He was
in his late 20’s or early 30’s,dressed in khaki slacks and a
solid-color oxford button-up. His close-cropped black hair and his
coffee-colored skin cooperated to makehim look a little younger
than hemight actually be, and his wide, redeyes and choked speech
indicatedthat whatever had happened outthere, he had just now
started sob-bing over it. His head was turnedaway from the house,
in the direc-tion he’d come, but when the dooropened he whipped
back aroundand stared at Mary Lou, lips quiver-ing, for a long
moment before hesaid anything.
“Holy fuck,” he mumbled,
his voice strangled and high-pitched. “Oh, god, we have to
callan ambulance, I just ran some guyover in the street.” Other
than hisvoice reaching for the top end of thescale and shaking
wildly, he sound-ed pretty together. Shock, I figured.Turned out I
was right, because heinterrupted Mary Lou when shestarted to say
something inresponse: “But...” He shook hishead at her and she was
quiet. “Butthen it happened again,” he said.
We all blinked at once.“Franklin.” Mary Lou was
very calm. “Go and get the tele-phone and call 911.” Franklin
wasquick to obey, and disappeared intothe kitchen immediately. Mary
Louhad never taken her eyes off the kidat the door, and this time
he let hertalk. “Now,” she said, voice even,“Tell me exactly what
happened sothat we can help you.” She reachedout and took the kid’s
elbow and ledhim out of the doorway, into thefoyer, and closed and
locked thedoor behind him. He sank into anarmless chair between two
large,fake plants - a chair I’m pretty sureMary Lou would only let
someoneuse in the event of an emergency, sothe kid at least had
that going forhim - and took two deep, raggedbreaths. “Actually,
first,” Mary Louadded, “Have you checked on eitherof them? Do they
need first aid?”
The kid shook his head andhis eyes went wild all of a
sudden,
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The B l o t t e r
The Blotter Magazine’s
book publishing imprint,
PencilPoint Mountain, and www.paintbrushforest.com
present Tree,
a collaborative, all ages, fine arts book illus-trated by
members of Paintbrush Forest, agroup of artists from the Orange
County,NC, area. Proceeds from Tree support theHaw River Assembly,
a NC environmentalorganization. Check out www.paintbrushforest.com
topurchase prints of the original book art, tomake a donation, and
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-
his pupils wide like saucers and thewhites bulging out at me.
Trust mewhen I say that I know the look ofmortal terror on a human
being.This was that, and everyone in theroom recognized it from
firsthandexperience or from ancestral memo-ry.
It’s interesting, actually,there’s been research done on
this.There is an evolutionary advantagein people looking all crazy
whenthey’re real scared. One article aboutit said, basically, that
it’s how cave-men knew when someone was com-ing up behind them.
Bottom line,when one person sees another per-son do that - eyes
wide, pupils dilat-ed, whites of their eyes just all overthe place
- it produces fear in theobserver as well as the observed.
Ittriggers the fight-or-flight mecha-nism.
It does not trigger that invampires because a lot of the
basichuman instincts simply shut downafter the Big Bite. That
doesn’tmean it gives us a warm fuzzy,though. In the movies, it’s
alwaysDracula running around with thatstupid grin, his fangs
hanging outlike a TV antenna got stuck in hiswindpipe, people
screaming up anddown the countryside. It isn’t likethat for us, not
really. We - well, thesmart ones, anyway - try to avoidcreating
fear as much as possible.Fear gets people talking. Fear makesit
hard to keep something secret andit makes people overreact.
Whenhumans start shuffling around andlooking to each other for
guidancewe start hoping they’ve got theirtorches and pitchforks
well out ofreach. Fear makes people do crazythings.
“No, they don’t need firstaid,” the kid said, shaking his head.I
wondered what the hell was takingFranklin so long with 911.
“No,they...” The kid threw his hands upto his face and pushed back
the skin
around his eyes. “They’re dead,” hemumbled. “And... they look
dead.They look... really dead.” We weresitting in silence, and then
the kidwent on after a second or two.“They look like they’ve been
dead along, long time.”
Kathy and Herb both heldtheir breath, and Mary Lou wrin-kled up
her forehead. “What do youmean?”
“I mean they were corpses,”he said after a second. “I mean
therewere corpses in the street.”
“Dead bodies in the street?”The Mary Lou Reinholdt that
askedthis question was not one humanbeing concerned for another;
shewas the wife of the president of theLondon Towne neighborhood
asso-ciation.
“Dead bodies... walkingaround,” the kid said, and then heturned
to one side and puked hisguts out all over one of Mary Lou’splastic
plants.
Franklin chose that momentto emerge from the kitchen. “Icalled
911; they said the policewould be here soon.” He looked atall of
us, looked at the kid trying towipe his mouth on his sleeve,looked
back at Mary Lou. “Theysaid they were already close by, so itwould
be quick?” Franklin’s expres-sion was one of confusion
andbewilderment. Mary Lou lookeddown at the stranger, then up
atFranklin and made a motion with
one hand, against her other arm. Irealized she was trying to
mimeinjecting something. She thoughtthe kid was drug-addled.
“OK,” she said to him, tak-ing a step back, and Franklin
doingthe same, very casually. “So what’syour name?”
“Jeremy,” he coughed.“Jeremy,” Mary Lou said
very gently, “We’ve called the police,and they’re on their way
to help. Inthe meantime, I think if we go out-side and look again
you’re going tofind that you’ve imagined some-thing very terrible
and it’s shakenyou up very badly.” Mary folded herhands together in
front of her. “Doyou want to go outside and check?”
Jeremy looked at her withhis red-rimmed eyes and thenlooked over
to the door and shookhis head violently. “No way, lady, noway,” he
panted. “No way am Igoing back out there.”
“Well, Jeremy, that’s up toyou.” Mary Lou was 110%
conde-scension. “I’m going to go see, andI’ll be right back.”
Before anyonecould say anything - thoughFranklin did at least open
his mouthfor just a moment - she’d whippedthe front door back open
and goneout, pulling it shut behind her.
Kathy and Herb were look-ing intently at one another, bothhands
still clasped under the cornerof the dining room table, and Icould
hear Smiles growling again
page 13
July 2012
-
outside. Killer was barking his stu-pid little walnut of a brain
out. Noone noticed as I slipped in perfectsilence out the French
doors ontothe back porch. I may be a lumber-ing fat-ass but any
vampire worthhis salt at least knows his wayaround some gauzy
curtains and asimple door latch.
The back yard was silent fora moment when I stepped outside
–Killer ceased his yapping just longenough to look at me, and
Smiles’growl stopped as soon as I was in hispresence again. For
those few sec-onds I closed my eyes and openedmy ears and let my
senses roll outacross the yard, then over the fenceand into the
adjacent lots, on outacross the neighborhood. I couldhear
televisions in several houses, acough that sounded like it
wouldn’tget better anytime soon – had to beOld Lady Jenkins, the
one with allthe in-home care – a couple ofradios tuned to a local
call-inrequest show.
I could hear soft footstepson grass, someone shifting their
feetback and forth.
I could hear shuffling, shoesscuffing against asphalt as though
adrunken man were staggering downthe street.
And another.And another.Very softly, I could hear
Mary Lou praying under her breath.I opened my eyes, and the
night was gone. Darkness is noenemy of mine, and these old
eyescan slice right through it. Smiles waswatching me, waiting
patiently for acommand. I signaled him to stayand went out the gate
to the frontyard.
Mary Lou was standing atthe curb, on the grass, looking oneway
and then another and shiftingher weight between her feet. Herlips
were moving but I don’t think
she was exactly in charge of whatwas coming out. Fight or flight
isnot an instinct many people arereally at home with anymore
intheir insulated little lives.
I strode up and cleared mythroat from about six feet back.Mary
Lou whipped around withwide eyes, took a moment to recog-nize me,
then turned back andlooked mutely up the street. I tooktwo more
steps to stand beside her,and followed her gaze.
Three corpses in their one-time Sunday best were
staggeringmindlessly in small circles in themiddle of the street.
They wereprobably thirty, maybe forty feetaway. If they had noticed
us yet theydidn’t have much in the way ofshowing it. They just
turned andturned and turned again, arms stiffby their sides, hands
clenching andunclenching reflexively.
You’ll not mind I don’tdescribe their faces.
“Whu...” Mary Lou wasoutside the mind of someone whocould form
words for the moment.
It is said that there arestranger things in heaven and earth,et
cetera, and they ain’t kidding. Iknow the world holds some
esotericand arcane shit because I’m one ofthose things myself but I
had neverseen the dead literally walk. I mean,we’ve all seen the
movies, right? Ihave, anyway. Shit, for a solid threedecades all I
had to watch at nightwere old movies on UHF channels.These fellas
weren’t exactly Night ofthe Living Dead and weren’t
exactlyFrankenstein. No one could confusethem for a mutant or a
junkie on abad batch. They were dead things,plain and simple,
walking around.They did not moan, they did nothiss or howl, they
just turned inslow circles, around and around,their eyes locked in
front of them.
“Go inside,” I said to Mary,very softly. “Just go inside. Lock
the
door behind you.”She still wasn’t very capable
of listening and just stood there. Istarted to get antsy. Surely
theywould notice us eventually, right?Surely they would sense we
werehere: smell us or hear us or see us orsomething. They were
dead, yeah,but in the movies that’s always howit happens, right?
Someone screamsand then the zombies all stop whatthey’re doing,
turn slowly andcharge. I really didn’t want to be inthat scene of
the movie. I alwayshated those parts the worst, whensome idiot
loses their shit and getseveryone else killed.
I put my hand around MaryLou’s chin and turned her head sothat
she looked me in the eye. Withall the force of personality I
couldmuster, I drilled into her mind withmy own and said, very
distinctly,“Go inside and lock the door and letno one in or out.”
There’s a reasonwhy the Count always gets what hewants when he’s
alone with some-body in the vampire flicks. Maryfoggily turned
around and startedstumbling back towards her frontdoor.
I watched her go, checkingover my shoulder to see if the
threewalkers up the road had heard us oranything, and as she neared
thefront door she reached for the knob.The door opened before she
gotthere, though, and Franklin NotFrank poked his head out.
“EVERYTHING OKAYOUT HERE?” he called to me,unnecessarily loudly.
He was scaredand wanted to demonstrate toeveryone that everything
was pre-cisely OK out here.
I heard the scuffling in thestreet stop, and turned around
tolook. None of the walkers werelooking at me, but they had
turnedtowards the house, and the frontdoor, and the source of the
shout.They started shuffling towards the
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The B l o t t e r
-
house and their stiff arms started totwitch.
I will kill that man beforethey do, I swear to God, I
thought.What I said, however, was yelledover my shoulder. “Get her
in thereand shut that fucking door!”
July 2012
page 15
Final Tidbits: We’re thrilled by the response to the Laine
Cunningham Novel Award. So many of youare out there really working
at the writing game! Beach reading - get your child or grandparent
a copy of Tree, published
by PencilPoint Mountain (www.pencilpointmountain.com,) an
imprint of The Blotter Magazine, Inc. What is an imprint? It’swhat
happens to your right cheekbone when you are a wise-ass to Evander
Holyfield. Need karma-reparations? Make a donationto The Blotter
(www.blotterrag.com.) Buy a Blotter t-shirt while you’re there,
we’re almost out and want to place another merch
order. And, as always, visit your local independent bookstore,
faithful to a fault and with plenty of air-conditioning! Stop
spinningin circles, asking, “Where have I seen that girl in ‘Hunger
Games’ before, or was it something I misremember in a dream?”
Open
a book, turn on the local jazz station, grab a handful of
pistachios, call your Dad - there’s some concern about your car
title,and give someone you like a kiss, they deserve it, and if
they don’t, well, you do. Got it? Good!
The DreamJournal
real dreams, real weirdPlease send excerpts fromyour own dream
journals.If nothing else, we’d loveto read them. We won’tpublish
your whole [email protected]
School is always a good-dreambad-dream. I can’t find myschedule.
I can’t pull up mypants. I can’t get to class on time.I don’t know
anyone in my classand I can’t remember anythingabout the subject.
Halfwaythrough, I’d like to go home, butthe traffic of other
students miresmy feet in an agonizingly slowlinoleum slog down
hallways thatall look alike and jut at architec-turally unsound
angles. I want togo home, I think, but where ishome? Is it my
parents’ oldhouse, long sold so that theycould retire to warmer
climes? Isit a beach house full of memoriesof fine sunny days? Is
it my ownfirst apartment, or first pur-chased house, or is it the
house Ilive in right now, with my familyand my current life?
Strange howI can’t grasp all that and justshow up to class on
time.
MEH - Chapel Hill
CONTRIBUTORS
Richard Ong is a renaissance man whose colorful career spans
fromworking in the engineering sciences and information technology
toshort story writing, poetry, photography and painting. At the
moment,he is engaged in writing a screenplay for an independent
action filmcompany in California. Richard currently resides in his
cluttered, mustybedroom office in Scarborough, ON, Canada.
Michael G. Williams is a native of the mountains of Western
NorthCarolina and has lived in the Triangle area since 1992. He
believestraditional publishers have to make one major psychological
shift tosurvive the explosion of self-publishing and ebooks:
publishers musttransition from acting as gatekeepers to acting as
guides. In an era inwhich anyone can produce anything and put it up
on the Kindle storetraditional publishers must begin to market
themselves to compatibleauthors rather than the other way around,
offering their expertise andmarket access to help creators make
their work better and more wide-ly recognized. In addition to
writing almost exclusively in first-personabout vampires, private
investigators, magic and hackers who live onthe moon, Michael is
also an avid runner, walker and bicyclist, playerof tabletop
roleplaying games, reader of books, decade-long partici-pant in
National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org) and heoccasionally
reviews comic books as Klarion atwww.pinkkryptonite.com. The
character of Withrow was created for agame in 1998 and Michael has
been writing him ever since. Michaelcan be reached at
[email protected]. Visit
www.robustm-cmanlypants.org/perishables for information on
obtaining the rest ofPerishables.
Phil Juliano lives in Minneapolis, which may or may not be
theAsheville of the ice-fishing and indoor-mall-water-park set.
t