David Adam Online

Writer's Block

2010-10-25T10:44:00.000-07:00

Man, have I got it bad.

I've been sitting here (off and on) since 10:00 this morning and I just can't figure it out. I've tried everything I can think of to get the juices flowing and I find myself rewriting the same handful of scenes over and over.

I feel lost is this story.
A screenplay I've been trying to crack for two months. Before that I did what every good writer should - an outline. But there were holes. And contradictions. And other problems. Still I pushed on with a first draft. Again it was crude, disjointed and downright terrible in places but I said, (as I so often do), 'I'll just keep going, get to the end and then start a new draft' So that's what I did.

Now here I am. Trying to figure out a story I would so love to tell. But it's so fucking frustrating. I go away, come back, change up the scenery, and at best I move forward an inch or two. The next day, any progress I made seems like it no longer works - or, I guess, never did. I told myself today I would write one complete scene. Any scene. But I haven't been able to. The day is young, mind you. But why does it have to be so hard?

I don't know if this makes any sense, cuz even my blog writing feels shitty but I had to do something. Write something. So here I am.

Anybody got any words of wisdom on the subject?

Right now I would so love to hear some.

D.A.

What Am I Reading?

2010-09-27T11:11:00.000-07:00

I just finished a phenomenal book I had to come on here and share. It's called "Kockroach" and its the debut novel from Tyler Knox, (not sure if that's a pen name, but it's pretty catchy). I picked up this book on something of a whim for a very good price at my local Indigo. Not only was I attracted to the cool cover art, I was also intrigued by the Kafka-esqe premise of a cockroach who wakes up one day as a man.
I've mentioned here before how I'm working on a series of stand-alone pulp novels, which collectively tell a larger, more existential story. The series is called The Mantra and I've only just recently finished my first draft of Book #2, entitled Impetus. Anyway, Kockroach, while nothing like Impetus in terms of plot, takes place in the world of American Existential Pulp, a genre aptly coined by Mr. Knox himself. At the end of the book, there's an entertaining Q&A with the author in which he cites various inspirations and influences for the book--the Kafka story, Metamorphasis, being the most apparent. Also, there's a brief essay on the genre of American Existential Pulp, (AEP), which I found truly facinating. I might add, The sensational 100 Bullets series of graphic novels to his already-extensive list of classic and contemporary works. If you haven't heard of it, I highly recommend it. But start from issue one, otherwise you're robbing yourself of a truly rich storytelling experience.
I've been searching for a more succint way to pitch my other The Mantra book, Minutemark, and AEP fits to a tee. Thank you, Tyler Knox.

Check out Tyler Knox's website at www.kochroach.com for more info

D.A.

Canadian Voices - Press Release

2010-08-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to offer an update on Canadian Voices, Volume Two, the anothology of poetry and prose in which I will be featured in less than a month. I just recieved the official Bookland Press press release. The PDF is a whole lot fancier but I can't quite figure out how to post that so here's all the info, including all 90-something authors, page count, retail price, and more. The book lauch is September 20th, from 6:30 to 9:30 pm at the Supermarket Art Bar in downtown Toronto. Hope you'll check it out.

MEDIA RELEASE

Canadian Voices is a powerful
and moving collection of prose
and poetry, which stretches
across the boundaries of age,
skin color, language, ethnicity,
and religion to give voice to
the lives and experiences of
ordinary Canadians. This
vibrant, varied sampler of the
Canadian literary scene
captures timely personal and
cultural challenges, and
ultimately shares subtle
insight and compassion
written by a wide spectrum of
stylistically and culturally
diverse authors.
Canadian Voices is more than
simply an anthology — it is a
celebration of wonderful
writing by some of today's
finest emerging Canadian
writers. This book is an ambitious,
lasting, and meaningful
work of literature that will not
soon fade away. It is an exceptional
reading experience to be
enjoyed and savoured.

CanadianVoices, Volume Two
An Anthology of Prose and Poetry by Emerging Canadian Writers

PARTICIPATING AUTHORS

PROSE

Valerie Albemarle
Dahn Batchelor
Sharon Bernas
Mayank Bhatt
Jessica Borges
Alison E. Bruce
Mary A. Bryant
Silene Bumbaca
Altug Cakmakci
Jack Caulfield
Shaheena Choudhury
Christina Clapperton
L. J. Clark
Dayle Cleveland
Cassandra Cronenberg Hunter
Juliet Davy
Susan Desveaux
Heather Dick
Sally Dillon
Michael Robert Dyet
Fran Edelstein
Jude Paul Fernandes
Frances Frommer
Marilyn Garshowitz
Jefferson Guzman
John R. Hewson
Steven Jacklin
Manny Johal
Fatmatta Kanu
Donna Kirk
Enxhi Kondi
Mary Ellen Koroscil
Karen Lam
Peter Lisinski
John Maar
Victoria E. MacDonald
David Mandel
Maria Pia Marchelletta
Louis Massey
Corinne Cast McCorkle
Cassie McDaniel
Braz Menezes
Michelle Monteiro
Yoko Morgenstern
Diksha Pal Narayan
Peta-Gaye Nash
Gord Pannell
Brandon Pitts
Waheed Rabbani
Elana Rae
Elizabeth Carina Ramos
Anu Rao
Larry Rodness
Philomena Saldanha
Mel Sarnese
Suzanne Schmidt
Steven H. Stern
Phyllis Diller Stewart
Urve Tamberg
R. G. Thompson
Linda Torney
David Tucker
Edwin Vasan
Herb Ware
Joyce Wayne
Saniya Zahid
Karol Zelazny
Zohra Zoberi

POETRY

John Ambury
Elizabeth Barnes
Kathleen Burke
Maurus Cappa
Dolores B. Carfagnini
Jasmine D’Costa
Josie Di Sciascio-Andrews
Emily Dunn
Iddie Fourka
Mary Craig Gardner
Zita Hinson
Jasmine Jackman
David Kimel
Ashley Maniw
Jatin Naik
Deena Kara Shaffer
Sheila Tucker
Sarah Zahid

BOOKLAND PRESS, TORONTO
BOOKLAND PRESS
6021 YONGE STREET, SUITE 1010, TORONTO, ON M2M 3W2
TEL: (800) 535-1774, WWW.BOOKLANDPRESS.COM
EMAIL: BOOKS@BOOKLANDPRESS.COM
ISBN: 978-0-9784395-8-3, BookLand Press, 360 pages, $25.95

How to plan your ACTION

2010-08-04T19:41:00.000-07:00

July 29, 2010
Volume VI, Issue 3
In This Issue
A Note from Miata
Feature Article: "Grabbing the Reins"
Abundance Bound Recommends: "Artist's Prosperity 101"

________________

Note From Miata:

Have you ever been horseback riding?

I ask because my 8 year old daughter is attending a day camp this summer where she is learning how to ride a horse. I'm thrilled because, truthfully, I haven't had the best experiences with horses. When I was about her age I went away to camp and during my very first riding lesson, I promptly fell off and broke my arm.

Now, of course, I don't want my daughter to be afraid like I was. After her first few lessons, I cautiously asked her, "So sweetheart, how do you like horseback riding?"

"I love it," she answered.

"The horses are so big," I said. "How do you get them to do what you want?"

She looked at me, and with the wisdom (and attitude) that only an 8 year old can manage, replied. "It's easy Mama. You just grab the reins."

I'll tell you that the simplicity of her answer made me smile. It also made me consider how often in our lives we think that situations are too big for us or beyond our control when, really, we just need to "grab the reins." We need to create some order and structure, develop a plan, and get whatever help and guidance required to turn the situation in the direction that serves us best. I realized that much of the work I do could be described as helping my fellow artists learn to grab the reins when it comes to their finances. How often does money feel like the "big bad horse" in your life, at every moment threatening to rear up and knock you off the saddle?

Starting this month, our next few articles and blog posts will focus on giving you some simple action steps that when applied, will help you start to walk, trot, canter and even gallop down the path to financial stability and confidence. Happy riding! :)

As always,

Wishing you happiness and prosperity!

Miata

Follow me on Twitter
Friend me on Facebook
___________________________________________________________________________

Feature Article
"Grabbing the Reins"

You've decided it's time to take control of your money. Bills keep piling up, creditors incessantly call, and now you know it's time to start. Sound familiar? You aren't alone. Over fifty percent of Americans have some credit card debt. The housing crisis still isn't over. The unemployment percentage hovers around double-digits. Many of us need to grab the reins and find a plan.

Where to begin, though? How do you start turning pennies into dollars, and dollars into ten dollar bills? Here's step number one:

Let's get the word out the the way. The dirty "b" word.

Budget.

Yuck. A budget feels like work, doesn't it? It's nails on the chalkboard. It's the singer missing the high note. A budget seems like hours sitting over a spreadsheet, tracking every box of macaroni and cheese, every stick of gum, every coffee.

No thanks.

I don't like that type of budget either, so let's change the terminology. You need to change the language to change the behavior. I'll propose a new approach. We should start with the job you're trying to complete. You're trying to practice well with your money so you have funds when you need it. We should use a phrase that conjures up the image of taking control, practicing great habits, and achieving your dream.

Instead of a budget, let's talk about a money plan.

Much like a play well performed or a song well played, I like the practice that makes a money plan perfect. Simply put, a good money plan creates successful money performance. It creates the standing ovation from your wallet that you're looking for when you practice and perform well. There isn't room here to detail the entire plan, but here are some important steps:

1) Write out how much money you earn in a month. Be conservative. You'll need to be able to live through those tough months when money isn't coming in.

2) List the expenses you can't live without. Financial planners call these "committed expenses." We'll call them rent or mortgage, basic groceries, utilities, and costs associated with your work, among others.

3) Now write those expenses you can live without, but currently enjoy. Financial planners call these "discretionary expenses," but we'll just call them gifts, cable television, eating out, and other "lifestyle" expenses.

Now here's the fun part. Before we subtract your expenses from income, it makes sense to see if either of these areas can be improved, doesn't it? Here are some questions to ask yourself, to see if you may be able to save some money.

1) Are there ways to improve my income? I never know the answer when I ask a client this question, but, surprisingly, nearly everyone says "yes, I can." Everyone has a variety of thoughts on how they could earn more money. But before grabbing the first income-generating opportunity, ask yourself a more important question: "Is the way I earn more money going to detract from my artistic potential?" If so, search harder for ways to earn dollars that are congruent with your life goals. Don't create a money plan which is detrimental to your life plan.

2) Are there ways to lower my expenses? Most people begin by cutting discretionary expenses, such as coffee or ice-cream. Generally, this isn't the first place professionals look, because although there might be a few opportunities to save a dollar here, the large savings is nearly always in the committed expenses area. Can you somehow change your rent or mortgage situation? Are there opportunities to lower utility expenses? Do you need both the land line and cell phone? How often do you watch cable television? Comb through each expense and ask yourself if there is a method to lower some costs without damaging your lifestyle.

Once you've examined both income and expenses it's time to do some basic math. Subtract your expenses from your income. Hopefully, there's money left over. If not, it's time to really sharpen the pencil and ask hard questions about income and expenses. If so, you're well on your way to working your money plan. Stay tuned to our website for that topic in a couple weeks!

©2010 Abundance Bound, Inc.

WANT TO USE THIS ARTICLE IN YOUR EZINE OR WEB SITE? You can, as long as you include this complete blurb with it: Abundance Bound was created to support actors, artists and creative professionals in the development of financial stability and independence. To learn how to begin the journey towards prosperity, register for the free resources available at www.AbundanceBound.com

WANT TO SEE MORE ARTICLES LIKE THIS ONE? See our Blog.
___________________________________________________________________________

About Abundance Bound

In providing financial education to actors, artists and creative professionals, Abundance Bound aims to illuminate our community's negative associations with money and translate the once-mystical process of money management into the language and experience of the Artist. All individuals deserve a financial fighting chance, and it is our commitment to employ the most innovative and practical methods to share this knowledge and activate the Artist's creative and financial potential.

You can learn more about Abundance Bound courses, programs and products at www.AbundanceBound.com

Abundance Bound, Inc.
PO Box 46517, Los Angeles, CA 90046
Toll-Free Info: 800.768.0281
info@AbundanceBound.com
___________________________________________________________________________

Abundance Bound Recommends

Artist's Prosperity 101

Continue your progress with a four-week crash course that integrates the fundamentals of the Artist's Prosperity System. Each module consists of audio coaching and worksheets that organize your money systems from the ground up. Instruction is offered in simple, manageable chunks so you can meet your artistic and financial goals without the overwhelm! Gain clarity AND confidence!

Click here to learn more

___________________________________________________________________________

©2010 Abundance Bound, Inc. All rights reserved.

What Am I Reading?

2010-07-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

Hidy ho, neighbourino!

I realize June was a little bit thin in the blog department, but I do have a life, you know? -- at least I'm trying to.

Yesterday I completed, (reading, not writing -- I wish), book #11 of what is, in my opinion, one of the best graphic novels of all time, bar-none, "100 Bullets."

For those of you not in the know, "100 Bullets" is an ongoing saga, (now over, though not yet for me), penned by the master crime-noirist, (my term), Brian Azzarello and illustrated by his supremely awesome other half, Eduardo Risso. Honestly, where one ends and the other begins in this Heaven-sent collaboration, I shall never dare speculate.

Book #11, entitled, "Once Upon a Crime", encompasses issues 76-83 of the increasingly complicated saga, (don't come in on this one, newbies, you'll be lost), and sports a killer introduction by none-other than Tom Fontana, (no slouch in his own right). The guy created one of my favourite show of all time, (Oz), along with a little show called Homicide: Life on The Street, not to mention a few others.

The series was always intended to go 100 issues, (or 'bullets'), which means I have only two more culminations to devour before saying goodbye to Agent Graves, Dizzy Cordova, Lono, Loop, Mr. Shepperd, (technically already dead, but still popping up on occasion), and the rest of The Trust and The Minutemen. Boy will that be a sad day.

But I digress.

Book #11 delves deeply into the origins of Mr. Sheppard, who met with an ugly, (and extremely cool), demise a few books back, along with the building showdown between the Minutemen and The Trust, which I've been waiting for since...well, at least Book #4 or 5. Not that I'm complaining. That would be like begrudging a spectacular meal cuz it wasn't the rich creamy desert. Speaking of which, Italian temptress, Echo returns in this installment, looking sexy as ever. I know she's a drawing but this girl makes Jessica Rabbit look like...well, still hot too, but a little on the plain side, if you ask me. I can't wait to see where her and her myterious painting fit in to the final picture. But if I've taken anything away from this masterpice of art, literature and pure pulpy goodness, it's that patience is the name of this game.

And it's one well worth playing.

But be warned, you may get a bit dirty.

D.A.

Mastermind

2010-06-21T11:45:00.000-07:00

Greetings gang,

Hope everyone had a good daddy day. Mine was extra special.

It's Monday and I find myself gearing up for another week of writing, pitching and networking like mad. I have to admit, the latter skill has often proved rather a tricky challenge for me in the past. I guess I've just grown accustomed to the solitary pursuit of my career goals and getting out of that habit can be anywhere from mildly disorienting to downright excrutiating.

Perhaps you can relate.

I suppose this percieved weakness in my game has a lot to do with my latest strategy of focussing primarily on creating a mastermind. What is a mastermind, you ask? Well, succinctly, a mastermind consists of two or more people of like-mind working together in harmonious pursuit of a common goal. The key terms here are "like-mind" and "harmonious", without which, one will only find themselves swimming upstream - not a pleasant experience, believe you-me.

The term was originally coined in Napolean Hill's infamous "Think and Grow Rich" and is singled out as the key ingredient to any successful endeavor. If you haven't read it, (or heard of it; where have you been?), I highly recommend you pick up a copy today. There are litterally thousands of different versions floating around out there, all of them very cheap, (and some even free). I like to listen the audio book on my Ipod myself. Here's a link to where you can find it, and tons of other FREE EBOOKS that will blow your mind. www.psitek.net. Seriously, this site is da bomb! (Do people still use that expression?)

Anyway, I've been concentrating pretty hard on obtaining like-minded representation over the last several months for my various works and whatnot. My hope is that a good agent who believes in me and shares my enthusiasm will work on my behalf and afford me some much needed leverage. Makes sense, right? Obviously. But before you can have what you intend, a comprehensive plan to obtain it is a must, followed by continuous, persistence. ACTION, people. Don't forget about action.
So whatever your goals, I strongly urge you to get out there and pursue them with confidence, and hopefully a healthy dose of humility, which goes a long way. Trust me.

Here's a cool video from a pretty cool site, www.abundancebound.com, that's all about the all-important mastermind.

Please cheack it out and let me know what you think.
http://www.theactorslibrary.com/archives/1024

Good look, and happy hunting.

D.A.

Canadian Voices, Volume 2 - Update

2010-06-15T13:20:00.001-07:00

Hi all.

A while back I posted about being published. Now, it's nothing big, I'm not going to be on Oprah or anything...I don't think... It's only a small little story I entered way back in February called "The Red Maple Leaf." It's about a young boy pondering the significance of Canada's most prolific symbol, (no, not #99), on the day of his mother's funeral, a soldier killed in Afghanastan. For the past few months I've been corresponding with the publisher, Bookland Press in Toronto, over minor details and now, I've been given a look at the cover, so I thought I'd post it up here and see what y'all think.

Ok, not really. I just wanted to post something, to be honest. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't welcome comment. Hell yeah, I would.

Be seeing ya.

D.A.

Simpsons Roundup!

2010-06-07T11:43:00.000-07:00

Okay, let's do this.

I've been meaning to get to this for nearly two weeks now but it just keeps getting pushed back, but NO LONGER! The Simpsons finale had the misfortune of airing the very night of the LOST-ACULAR extravaganza, so I had a bit of a dilema. Ultimately, I decided to record the latter and go with that, which I've gone with for many a season. Not my original intention, but in the moment, I surprised myself.

Have I any regrets?

None at all. Lost was good, but ultimately left me a little underwhelmed, (as did much of season six, which, perhaps I'll get to some other time), and my Simpsons season finale tradition remained intact, very possibly for the last time. Either way, I think I would have perservered. But at the time, it seemed like a difficult choice.

"Judge Me Tender"
05/2310
Season Finale

When Moe discovers a hidden talent for judging contests, he is approached by a television agent to join the AMERICAN IDOL judges' panel. Moe flies to Los Angelos where he tours the Fox lot and recieves some sage career advice. Meanwhile, Homer drives Marge crazy when he begins hanging around the house.

It feels so long ago, I barely remember the finer details on this one. I can remember more than one riff on Fox's other cash cow in previous seasons, (one of them also a finale, if I'm not mistaken), but that one was about Lisa and Homer. This baby was all Moe.

The truth is, I've seen far better episodes, particularly finales, but this one had it's moments. Actually, I find premiers and finales tend to disapoint because they're rarely all that special. I actually prefer the second-to-last episodes of the season. For some reason, they tend to bring more of the goods. Some of you may remember Homerpalooza, followed by a quaint, but good, Lisa episode to cap of season six, (or was it seven? Ah, who cares?)

The guest voices were all there. Two-timer, Simon Cowell, along with the entire American Idol cast did their thang to little or no effect and the story kind of fell into lazy territory during the later acts. There were still some good chuckles, though, don't get me wrong. No doubt, it'll get better with repeat viewings, when all those pesky expectations are forgotten and I can just chill-ax and enjoy a little time with my crew. I should also mention another two-time guest voice, Fox's head-honcho, Rupert Murdoch, who came in for a small cameo at the end. Least he could do, I'd say, for the show that keeps on giving.

Anyway, here's some stuff that stood out for me this first time around.

Flyby: An angelic Ned Flanders flaps skyward.
Bilboard: Krusty’s One Year Sobriety Special has been cancelled;
Chalkboard: "The end of Lost: It was all the dog’s dream.Watch us." (No, that’s not a legit spoiler). This was ironically, a highlight for me.
Couch Gag: Homer and Bart act out a Punch and Judy puppet show; Bart is ‘Punch’, at least until Homer starts strangling him under the stage.

I enjoyed having a, (minor), subplot featuring everybody's favorite pooch, (no, not poochie), Santa's Little Helper, struggling with -caugh- self-esteem issues after Moe insults him. Lisa makes it her mission to raise the dog's spirits, (yes I'm actually typing this). Those two don't usually do much together.

Homer: You never fail to nauseate me boy.
Bart: Just call me Barf Simpson.
Homer: I wanted to, but your mother said kids might tease you.

Homer: You can't close! I'll have to go home and drink better beer at half the price... and natural lighting!

Simon: How do you like LA?
Moe: It's a hell of a city. It's like someone stepped on New York and scraped it off on the beach.

Homer: That was awesome. I feel like the Tiger Woods of sex.

Another gem featured Ralph go on a profanity-laced tirade against Moe, which arugualbly got the biggest laugh of the night.

All in all, a fairly decent episode to cap off what I thought was an above average season. Some really good entries this year. Now come the reruns. Frankly, I'm ok with that. I've been saying for awhile now, The Simpsons needs to rest. Before we know it, though, that season 22 premier will be upon us.

Sleep well, my friends.

D.A.

Simpsons Roundup!

2010-05-31T11:31:00.001-07:00

Whooey, it's been awhile.

What can I say, I've been busy. My middle-grade novel, Flotsam, is off to a fantastic start and I hope to have it published sometime in 2011. A lofty goal perhaps, but I feel I've got a solid idea backed by a solid outline and even more solid marketing plan. That's all thanks to my friends at The Institute of Children's Literature, with whom I've been working for the past twenty or so months. It's a great program and I've learned quite a bit about the most lucrative fiction market around - children.

More on that another time. Right now, it's all about...

Whaa! Sideshow Bob! Or is it...?

"The Bob Next Door"
05/16/10
Bart becomes convinced that his new neighbor, Walt, is his archenemy, Sideshow Bob (guest voice Kelsey Grammer), disguised and back for revenge. But when Marge tries to convince Bart otherwise by taking him to visit the state penitentiary, a disturbing truth is revealed."

It's always good to see Bart's old nemesis. No, not Dr. Demento, (although that would be pretty good too). Kelsey Grammar reprises his greatest role, (I know, I know, but I stand by that statement), in this, his one-millionth Simpsons appearance, (or something close). It amazes me they keep coming up with ideas for old Bob, but they do and this one, a take-off of that John Woo classic, "Face/Off," works pretty well.

Everyone is, of course, smitten with their new neighbour, except for Bart, who would know that sultry, sinister voice anywhere, which leads to the best line of the episode: Marge: "A lot of people sound like Sideshow Bob. Like Frasier on Cheers." "Or Frasier on Frasier." "Or Lieutenant Commander Tom Dodge in Down Periscope." That one had me rolling in the aisles.

Bob's plan was refreshingly diabolical as well.
Not only did he go to such lengths as to trade faces with his cell mate, "Why do you keep measuring my face?", he also comes up with a great way to kill Bart without being prosecuted, namely to go to the five corners of Springfield and shoot him in one State, let the bullet hit him in another, have him fall in yet another, and have the police respond in still another State. Taken individually, where's the crime? Moohaahaahaa!

Great to have you back, Bob.

Here are a few other noteable standouts in this, the penultimate episode of The Simpsons, Season 21:

Bart: Mom, can I go?
Marge: Is your room clean?
Bart: No.
Marge: Good, that will give me something to do while you're at the game.

Homer: Aw, nothing is ever boobs or ice cream.

Waitress: All the good men are either gay or have no face.

Also watch for the memorable appearance of Homer's new, new, new neighbour, who moves in after Walt/Bob is shipped back to the big house - Flanders' fast-talking cousin.

Nice touch, guys.

I'll soon be back with my last roundup of the season, plus lots more good stuff, so don't you go surfing around.

Later,

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-05-16T11:27:00.000-07:00

Man, I've done a lot of these.
I don't know why but I can't seem to churn these out till we're about twenty-four hours away or less from another new one. I think it's new anyway. I'll have to check.

Last Sunday's Mother's Day ep. continued the trend of strong home-stretch outings. Only one or two more left. What really sucks is the finale just so happens to fall on the exact same night of LOST, (dear God, I can't wait!), so I'll have to rearrange my ususal Simpsons-watching tradition. Okay, onto the goodness.

"Moe Letter Blues"
05/09/10
As Mother's Day approaches, Moe narrates an episode in which he writes a letter to Homer, Apu and Reverend Lovejoy, who are vacationing with their children, and threatens to run away with one of their wives. While the trio tries to determine whose wife Moe is referring to, Homer, Lovejoy and Apu flashback to the imtimate moments they inititally ignored between Moe and Marge, Manjula and Helen Lovejoy. But when the boys return from their trip, they're in for the surprise of their lives.

In keeping with season 21's string of firsts, a Mother's Day episode is added to the pantheon. I'm pretty sure this is the first such episode of it's kind, anyway. Perhaps I'm forgetting something. This one was a little out there, which I don't mind, particularly when the last few have been more structured and linear. The narration by Moe seemed like more of a novelty than a story device, but again, there's nothing wrong with a show that's been everywhere and done everthing trying new shit. Thank God there's still new shit to try. I just checked my online source actually and apparently, this story was a loose take-off of the 1949 movie, 'A Letter to Three Wives', so maybe there was some structure in there, after all. Matt Groening has often said one of the show's more affluent inspirations has always been TCM, (Turner Classic Movies). For me too, by the way. Seriosly, that channel's a goldmine.

It was nice to see a few underused faces in the mix. Manjula (not the Jan Hooks version) and Helen Lovejoy. Hell, even Reverand Lovejoy, for that matter, who at least has had a few juicy storylines thrown his way. Also, Mrs. Bouvier, Marge's mom. Glad to see she's still with us, and fiesty as ever. I even caught her talking to her ex, Grampa. Careful, Abe.

Some other stuff I enjoyed was the awesome Itchy and Scratchy silent movie. Perhaps another nod to TCM, the Indian radio station featuring the show, Mahatma or Manotma, The Krusty cruise line, (no doubt, a first-class operation), weasel island, (a great place to get away...and see weasels, lots of'em), Low Blow Boxing and The Zii Dance game, but perhaps the peice de resistance, a guest shot from legendary Price is Right announcer, Don Pardo. You still sound great, Don.

Now for a few funny lines...

Moe: I moved here because on a calculator, the ZIP Code spells "boobs."

Homer: Go ugly up someone else's house, you penis-curling she devils.

Moe: Think of it as a wake-up call from a man with nothin' but a blow-up doll. And even she left me. Shouldn't have used helium.

Manjula: My eyes have more bags than the Darjeeling Limited.
Moe: Hah, that's probably a good one. (That Moe)

Kurt: Milhouse and I are next.
Otto: There's no suspense at your place. Even I hooked up with your old lady. Sorry, kid.
Milhouse: You were my favorite uncle, Uncle Otto.

All in all a fun entry. Onto next week!

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-05-08T22:43:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's that time again. Time for a r-r-r-round-up! (tryin' something new there, sorry). Gotta say I loved the heck outta last week's episode. Ditto the one before that. This year's shaping up to be pretty strong. Here's the official synop:

"To Surveil With Love"
05/02/10
A bomb squad mistakenly blows up Homer's unattended gym bag, releasing radiation into the city and authorities react by suspending civil liberties. Wiggum and his men install surveillance cameras around Springfield and round up suspected terrorists, inclusing groundskeeper Willie, but when monitoring the nonstop flow of video imagery proves to be too much, Wiggum enlists concerned citizens to help keep the city safe. Meanwhile, Lisa becomes fed up with being blonde so she dyes her hair a dark color.

As I said, a fantastic ep firing on all cylinders.
I thought it had a great story with some truly funny bits. All the stuff about cameras across Springlfield made for very solid satire chock full of biting social commentary. It really felt a lot like The Simpsons of old. I particularly enjoyed the B-story about Lisa going Brunette, (though I never really saw her as blonde; just yellow), and then, of course coming to her level-headed senses. The children's book about 'A Circle in Squaresville' (or something like that) was clever and spot-on. I also dug the bit when Bart found 'the blind spot' with his butt and Homer turned it into a zone of lawlessness. That's my doh-awg!

And now for a few memorable lines:

Mayor Quimby: Is this what the framers of the Constitution would want?
Wally: Well, I'm Wally of Wally's Framers, and this is exactly what I want.

Chief Wiggum: Now, just follow a little formula called PB & J. Peer at the monitor. Be judgmental. And jot it down. One way to remember that is A-B-C. Always Be Considering PB & J. But the single most important rule is the four As. Always Act According to A-B-C.

Queen Elizabeth: I'll miss that Ralph Wiggum. Reminds me of my boy.
Prince Charles: Oh, mummy, my cat's breath smells like cat food.

Principal Skinner: Ralph Wiggum will be standing in for your lectern.
Ralph: I'm a furniture.

Next week it's another new one. I can't remember when there's been this many in one strecch...not that I'm complaining...

Peace out,

D.A.

What Am I Reading? - Today I Am a Man

2010-05-05T14:20:00.000-07:00

I suppose I should remame this post, What was I Reading? cuz I finished this one about a month ago already, but I've been meaning to give it a little love ever since, and not just because I'm a friend of the author.

"Today I Am A Man" is a solid first novel by my friend, Larry Rodness, who, as I understand it, has been wrestling with this story in one form or another for many years, first as a screenplay, then a novel. His ability to find a publisher and get it out there is a testament to his hard work, passion and persistence and I, for one, really apreciate that, considering I have a few similar ambitions of my own.

The story is divided, not-quite-evenly, into two perspectives; that of an adult Steve Goldman, (the main character), following a bold decision to dish out a little street justice on his son's fifteen year-old bully - and the other, that of Steve, the young man, a recipient of bullying himself during an adventrous school year in sunny Califoria in the 1960s.
The majority of the story centres on the latter perspective as we learn Steve's sorted history with bullying and the lingering pain that went with it. By the time we get all the details, adult-Steve's motives for protecting his son at any cost are considerably more clear. The title refers, not only to young-Steve's impending Bar-Mitzvah, but also the journey of a thousand steps every boy must endure to discover what it truly is to be a man in this world - namely, taking responsibility for yourself, standing up for what you feel is right, and facing your own problems with dignity and courage.

I found the book to be a solid read with a few neat surprises thrown in. The prose moves quickly and the balance between the two time-periods was well-paced, creating a sense of urgency that kept me reading.

As I write this, Larry is hard at work on the daunting task of selling books. I had the pleasure of attending his book launch at Indigo Books here in Toronto, where he performed a series of selected readings and book signings. Since then, he's done a few more and is actively pursuing write-ups and reviews from around the country and beyond.
Recently, he was reviewed by The Jewish Tribune. You can read it here: http://www.jewishtribune.ca/TribuneV2/index.php/201004202899/First-time-novelist-takes-on-bullies.html

Great job, Larry. Keep up the good work and I'll be waiting to read the next one.

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-05-01T14:37:00.000-07:00

Yikes, maybe I should change the name of this blog to Simpsons Round-up, huh?

For the record, it is my intention to get back to other posts. I've just been really busy trying to get something going and the Round-up allows me to keep one foot in this blog-o-mine. I've recently started writing information articles for Demand Studios, which produces all sorts of content for sites like eHow, Answerbag and others. I'm still getting a feel for it, as I'm not much for non-fiction, (too disciplined), and the guidelines are pretty strict. I am having fun with it, though. Go figure.

Anyhoo, onto the Round-up:

"The Squirt And The Whale"
04/25/10
The Simpsons decide to embrace a cheaper, alternate source of energy by erecting a wind turbine in their backyard. But when Homer realizes some of the power is being directed to the local electric company, he decides to remove his home from the grid and becomes completely dependent on an unreliable source of power. Meanwhile, a storm erupts, trapping a 150-foot long blue whale ashore, and Lisa and Homer attempt to help the poor creature."

This is the kind of quirky, sweet, off-beat story The Simpsons did so well once upon a time and, in the climate of cynical, angry-disguised-as-hip humor The Simpsons actually had a hand in starting, it's nice to see them attempting to buck the trends by being lighter with more artful and heartfelt sensibilities. Don't get me wrong, I love South Park, (as do Mike Reiss and Al Jean as per this week's chalkboard gag). I also think Seth McFarlane is a talented, funny satirist, (despite certain other's opinions). But The Simpsons at its best is so much more than just mean-spirited parody, and even witty social commentary. It is that perfect blend of humor and heart that makes most forms of storytelling work for me and The Simpsons, to their credit, do not seem to have forgotten. They've just been around a long time and produce a much more varied array of stories.
My point is, I apreciate them standing out from the crowd with a simple, dare I say sweeter story to play off the whole Matt and Trey drama. I doubt that was their intention, per se, but it just reinforced for me why the world may still need The Simpsons.

The opening joke about TIC-TAC-TOE: The Movie was classic as was all the stuff about wind energy up until Lisa discovered the whale, Bluella. It was kind of surprising to see them blow up the whale and I actually believed there would be some explanation after the break - but there wasn't. After the whale died and Homer and Lisa tried to save it's mate, I felt they were going for something a little more serious, which threw me in a good way. I'm always delighted to see this show get back to the art of storytelling. Did everything work? Probably not, but as I say over and over on these roundups, most episodes iron out their wrinkles with repeat viewings. I've little doubt this one will live up to that premise.

Here's some other good stuff from the ep:

- The chalk board gag, which read: "South Park--we'd stand beside you if we weren't so scared." (Nicely done)

- Ralph Wiggum's "Kid-power" and Barney's "Burp-Power" at the Energy Expo.

- Homer comforting Lisa, then turning to Bart: "I'm trying to be a sensitive father you unwanted moron!"

- The bits with the endangered sharks and Homer's invisible dog.

Homer: "From now on, the Simpsons are living...intermittently."

Comic Book Guy: "Behold! I am Captain Kirk from Star Trek 1! 2 ... 5 ... Generations ... Boston Legal." (As an unabashed Star Trek fan, that had me in stitches)

Homer: "I'm not made of money, I'm made of man meat and an a skeleton."

Antonine: "Without that horn, I can't make a living."

Next blog will be about something other than The Simpons, folks. Promise.

D.A.

Simpsons Round-Up!

2010-04-24T21:41:00.000-07:00

Just enough time to get in a quick round-up.

Last week's episode was refreshing. Nothing flashy or guest-voicy. Just a solid bro-mance between Homer and...Chief Wiggum?

It happened. And here's the proof...

"Chief Of Hearts"
04/18/10
Homer is completing his court-ordered community service when he befriends his supervisor, Chief Wiggum, by offering him one of his sandwiches. Touched by the act of kindness, Wiggum assigns the other convicts unpleasant tasks, but allows Homer to join him at the picnic table. They continue to grow close, but when the Chief gets injured during a botched bank robbery, Homer doesn't come through when Wiggum needs him the most. Meanwhile, Bart becomes addicted to Battle Ball, a Japanese game made up of plastic balls and magnetic cards, and his family and teachers try to help him kick the habit."

I could be wrong here, (let's face it, I'm not), but I don't recall The Simpsons ever having a Chief Wiggum-centric storyline. A few times he's had a small b-story, but mostly he's on the periphery with Eddie and Lou - where he belongs.
Just kidding. I actually couldn't believe it when I realized this was a first for the soon-to-be longest running show in history. I didn't think there were many of those left - plausible ones, at least.

All in all, nothing really stood out upon first viewing. As I've said before, The Simpsons - even those post-911 - are like fine wine. They get better with repeat viewing. Ok, so that anology isn't exactly air-tight. What I mean to say is, I'd venture to guess it'll be good for a few laughs on a rainy Saturday afternoon when I'm all "I barely remember this one."

Here's a few standout quotes:

Homer: Community service? But that's work! What about jail?
Judge: Community service!
Homer: No, I want to go to jail. Free food, tear drop tattoos, library books that come to you. I'll serve anything but the community!

Marge: That's drug talk. But I could be mistaken. Just let me listen to a little more out of context.

Bart: How'd a pull up like you get a great card like that?
Ralph: My not-dead grandma sent it from Tokyo.
Bart: Ralph, I will play you for that card.
Ralph: Okay, but if I win, you'll have to teach me how to play this game

Chief Wiggum: I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Cops don't have a lot of friends. Civilians are afraid of us and other cops just remind of us things we want to forget. That's why your friendship is so special to me.
Homer: Chief, me too.
Snake: Umm, you know I've been back here for like ten hours. Any chance of a bathroom break?
Chief Wiggum: Thanks a lot jail bird. Now I have you on burglary and killing a moment.

Chief Wiggum: Who are you, the rules police?
Lou: No, we are the police police.

Blog to you soon,

D.A.

Simpsons Roundup!

2010-04-18T12:18:00.000-07:00

Hello all,

Once again I cut this one a bit close to the wire, since there is a new Simpsons on tonight, (I think). Last week's ep was Mr. Burns-centric, which I believe hasn't been done in awhile. There was a time, of course, where it seemed every other ep featured Springfield's most prolific 114 year-old man, but alas, those days were of a simpler, more naive era -- say, circa 2004-2008-ish...

Okay, let's get this party started.

Last week's installment, entitled American History X-Cellent, (a nice title), goes a little something like this:

"American History X-Cellent"
04/11/10
When the police are called to diffuse a rowdy crowd at Mr. Burns' estate, one of the officers recognizes priceless stolen paintings on the walls, and the maniacal billionaire is taken downtown for questioning. With Mr. Burns gone, Smithers takes charge of the power plant. But when employees take advantage of his good nature, he exacts revenge by forcing the employees to work night and day. These unfair working conditions prompt Homer and his crew to devise a plan to bust out Mr. Burns."

What can I say? This one had loads of potential, and some nice moments, but ultimately, fell kinda flat with me. I'd love for this show to really bust out of the box and get back to leading the pack when it comes to zany, irreverent satire, but sadly, I fear that ship has long sailed. Don't get me wrong, I love The Simpsons and I ALWAYS WILL, (caps=emphasis), but I am getting a bit tired of the same old thing, not to mention trying to defend said same old thing to every Tom, Dick and Harry who thinks they could do better.
I will say, I loved how this ep began, in a prison cell with Mr. Burns preparing to meet his maker. A nice little bit of non-linear storytelling, by the "story" descended rather quickly, for my taste, into the usual shtick, (is that how you spell it? Never mind).
Anyway, I loathe to be seen as 'hating' cuz I'm not. So I'll go into some of the more positives to get the sour taste out of my mouth.

A few good lines of note:

Homer: The war is over and the future won. Past never had a chance, man. (preach on, brother.)

Bart: (glad not to be Lisa's kid) If I was in your tummy I'd poo in your throat. (A sweet line, spiced with vintage Bart)

Burns: The power plant's new annual Fourth of July picnic is this upcoming Saturday.
Homer: Woohoo!
Mr. Burns: I'm afraid you misunderstand. This picnic is for me, you will all be spending your Independence Day slaving away in the hot summer sun with no pay, lotion, or gratitude.

Moe: Get your throwing stuff! Turn the protest into a riot!
Milhouse: How much for a tomato?
Moe: Fresh stuff for a dollar. Rotten is two bucks.
Kirk: Son, do you really need the rotten? I mean, it's not like you're actually gonna hit him.

Guard: It's time for a cavity search.
Mr. Burns: Oh, I haven't cavity in forty years.
Guard: I wasn't talking about your teeth.
Mr. Burns: Nor was I.

Mr. Burns: And that's where we came in. Now, without further ado, here's what happened next. But first, I'll daydream about a sport utility vehicle, a crispy chicken sandwich, and a wonderful blue pill!

A few moments of note:

- Liked how the prison warden was addicted to 'H' (Helium) Whoa, that's good satire.
- Good to see Smithers running the plant. Bout time he got his cumuppance, (probably very wrong spelling there). It was nice to see him non-chalantly fall through the trap door by Mr. B's desk and just casually come back.
- Nice to see The Plant introduce a medical plan that covers illness, (thanks a lot, Obamacare).
- Smithers taking 'an important call' that was a telemarketing survey. Plus he wanted to go back and change one of his answers from 4 to 5. ("I'm wasting your time?")
- Bart and Lisa's little b-story about raising ants. That was kinda forgettable, but I liked when Santa's Little Helper ate them all - particularly the last one. Oh, that dog.
- Patti and Selma are dead! (Not quite)

On a sidenote, I thought Southpark was an awesome parody of TRON last week. It was all about Facebook and how it's turning us into mindless status-mad drones. (Gee, ya think?) I urge you to check it out. Now that really is good satire.

Feel free to post a few comments. They're free, and oh so refreshing.

See you next week.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen - Part 3

2010-04-12T14:28:00.000-07:00

I've been promising it for weeks now and here it is...the third and final installment of my monumental Chapter Thirteen...

Everything about this place felt familiar. The road; there was something about it; something. The sound, as his filthy 91’ Cutless tore up the gravel beneath her bald tires. The landscape. On either side of him, trees––mostly bare, but strangely reminiscent of…something… He’d been in the area a few times. Perhaps that was it. But never on this road. Had he?
About a half a mile up, he saw squad cars; two of them; one marked and one not. Something about them called back to his reckless days on the Brooklyn beat. He and partner, Colin McKee took a high-speed chase, (more like joyride), across The Long Island Expressway and four city blocks. They must have cost the city thousands in damage that day; not to mention countless endangered lives. Still, it was fun as Hell. Good times…
“What, no welcome-wagon?” he muttered, rolling up toward the foot of the clearing. Not a soul to greet him; he almost took it personal. Somehow, he’d grown accustomed to her big bubbly eyes hanging on his every move. Good old Fiorentine. Only a matter of time, he thought, mischievously. Down, boy. Been there. Done that. The company ink and so forth. Besides. The girl was just a contingency. ‘In Case of Extreme Horniness Break Glass.’ There were plenty of other fish in this shallow pond.
Take Cynthia, for example; a wet dream wrapped in a tight little package. It nearly killed him to go so slow with her. The way she moved; the way she smelled––even after a good sweat––especially…drove him into a certified frenzy. These days, the sweat came easy. That fancy new cell phone wasn’t the only added accessory to his evolving bachelorhood.
The weeks after Bluemont were like a bold new awakening; unleashing a whole host of budding passions; like sushi, which she introduced him to; (just something about raw flesh), but easily, the most surprising––was his morning run regimen.
He was amazed how effective a little activity could be in the morning to clear the mind and expel the toxins. Hell, he was down a full two cups of coffee.
At last he stepped out of the car and took a proper look around: Shesh, what a depressing spot…and began walking…
Yes, he heard it, or rather, sensed; in that inexplicable way an animal perceived danger. But he was trying not to listen. What was there to fear, after all…from one’s own mind…? Plenty… la, la, la, not listening…
In the distance he heard footsteps. “Who’s there?” A voice barked from the trees.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” The chiseled frame of Lieutenant Estes emerged; his uniform filthy, as were his hands, which looked as though they’d been in the dirt, digging…
“Detective Merrimac. I’m sorry, sir, I thought––”
“Understandable. Where’s Fiorentine?” Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could swear he saw something in the sturdy Latino’s typically-stern stare, right at her name. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear it was something ugly.
“She’s up ahead, sir. Looks like we’re hot on a trail, of sorts; some faint tracks in the dirt. Simmons and Windell are on sweep...”
“You do know there are wild animals in these woods...”
“Yes, sir, well aware.” he said, trying to hide the resentment. “I grew up around here.” Keith smiled.
“Very well. Let’s have a look.” Estes nodded and started back into the trees.
More deja-vu. It seemed to intensify with every crunch forward. Perhaps he had been through these parts, he considered. It was possible. He’d lived in Maplewood long enough to have driven roads, absorbed landscape, and have no specific memory of having done so. Things like that were known to happen. But there was no way––not one chance in holy Hell he’d ever walked this trail before…
“Sir?” Estes was waiting––and Keith was, for some reason, stopped. “Something wrong?”
“No,” he replied, hoarse. “Just a feeling,” he finished, desperate to save face. “Let’s keep moving…” Estes shook his thinning head, almost undetectable…but not quite. Snot-nosed little spic––oughta’a string him up by his greasy brown–– “Would-you-SHUT-UP!?” he snapped at thin air––and looked around…
The trees seemed normal enough. But something was out there. Estes was staring at him like Nurse Ratched at the end of Cuckoo’s Nest––right before the lobotomy. “I, ah…didn’t say––”
“I know that, I…look, can we just get on with it?”
*
The olive-skinned lieutenant took a moment to snap himself out of this Abbott and Costello nightmare. “Yes, sir. It’s…not much further...” It had to be one of the longest conversations they’d ever shared––and to Estes, hands down the strangest.
*
A few dozen yards up, Lisa Fiorentine uncovered two more possible footprints. Within her sight, Sergeants Bill Simmons and Amara Windell were sweeping the scene.
“Sir!” Simmons called anxiously. Fiorentine was startled and, for a split second, looked sharply around for a male superior.
“You’ve got something?” She adjusted.
“Yes, sir, I think so,” he said, panting from just the short trek up the hill.
The woman stood up strait and grabbed another digital shot of the murky trail. It was strange in a way. The unmistakable sense of satisfaction she felt every time another print revealed itself in the semi-frozen mud. Or some small piece of garbage, thought discarded by careless teenagers, turned out to have possible significance. These were all little pieces to a most horrific puzzle; one a small part of her wished never to solve.
Still, it was kind of exhilarating…
As a youngster in Sacramento, while all the other girls played Barbies or My Little Pony, Lisa was hard on the case of some manufactured mystery; (usually more Nancy Drew than Silence of the Lambs). Her insatiable dissatisfaction often proved useful, at any rate, (if not a shade unnerving). But then, so was the guilt; treating another’s misfortune like some sort of game. One feeling held her back, while the other pushed her forward. Together, they kept her sane.
“What’s this?” she asked, and again came the high of another step closer. The marks were subtle; and to the untrained eye, nothing more than the whims of Mother Nature. But there was something else about them. Something almost…organized…
“I wasn’t sure at first. Hell, I’m still not sure...must have looked this spot over a half a dozen times before I noticed the pattern.” Fiorentine looked closer. She saw it too. “As I’m sure you can guess, sir, it’s consistent with…well with, um…”
“With being dragged…” she finished; then looked off into a particularly dense portion of the woods. “So where do you suppose it leads…?”
*
“Windell!” The middle-aged woman marking the scene looked up to her fellow crusaders. “I want you and Simmons to follow this trail…” ordered the girl, little more than a child. “Get some equipment together...”
“Yes, sir,” she said, unsure of herself. In this new era of CSI: Maplewood, no able-bodied officer was expendable. Amara Windell had spent the majority of her twenty-nine years behind a desk, and well-suited to every predictable minute. Now, all of a sudden, she was out in the thick of things, scouring potential crime scenes for evidence of foul play with officers, in some cases, half her age. Her oldest daughter had more years on this girl giving the orders…
On her way to the squad car, she brushed by the young Estes, escorting the real star of this show. “Good morning, Detective Merrimac,” she greeted without stopping.
“Almost didn’t recognize you, Windell, with all that fire in your eyes...” Windell smiled. What a charmer.
*
“Detective Merrimac! Glad you could make it.”
“Makes two of us, hon…” Fiorentine turned up to metaphorically scratch her head––then laughed politely. Did he just call her––? “Time’s money, Sergeant, what’s say we sink our teeth in,” he said; before muttering something inconspicuous under his breath…
Lisa looked quizzically at Estes who simply shrugged. What he said sounded faintly derogatory, but she couldn’t be certain. It almost looked as though he were arguing with…himself… “Sir, are you alr––?”
“What is that, the million dollar question today? I’m wonderful, now let’s get this show on the goddamned road...”
For nearly a half hour, she meticulously went over all evidence accumulated, beginning with the clear eyeglass lens, which they must have missed a dozen times before she finally came within a snake’s tail of stepping on and smashing to pieces. The detective eyed it, glib, as though its chance recovery was barely worth the effort. Coming from anyone else, she might have taken it personally; but his simple indifference only made her more eager. Above all else, (even more than to see justice done), she so desperately wanted to impress this man; for whom she had developed complex, and very deep feelings––
“I know that, by itself, this doesn’t look like much, Keith––” She stopped herself. Keith however, didn’t seem to mind, smiling that charming smile, which melted so many women before her. Out of the corner of her eye, Estes looked like he was going to be sick. “But…Lieutenant Estes here has also uncovered footprints, we believe…”
*
Keith looked sharply at the statuesque officer to his left. In return, he received one of the coldest, most disciplined scowls he’d ever been shot. He thinks I’m a threat, he thought; and it was him; not some dark spot at the foot of his psyche. Only one Captain of this ship, he thought––again, more sure of himself…and started to walk...

agreed

Food for Thought…

Something downright strange was going on. (conclusion the third).
Perry couldn’t put his finger on it. Perry had no fingers. He did have thoughts, though. Powerful ones. No, that wasn’t the word for it. There was no word for it.
This vessel was one stubborn little bugger. Much moreso than the last. Night and day, for those hell-bent on metaphor. But it was no mere question of comparison. Nothing so simple as then versus now… Two sides. Same coin.
How can this be…? This was…borderline insubordination. Un-fucking-acceptable–– Still, the question was valid. This vessel was strong. No matter––he’d run across stronger. But what about the fear? The doubt? The lingering resistance…?
Fuck the fear. Screw the doubt. And as for resistance…
‘The Resistance must be squashed! It must be identified, sought out, and crushed for all time, under the crippling weight of its own inefficiency!’
A promising mantra, (which sounded much better in Spanish).
Perry had confidence––a creature such as he went forth armed in perpetual supply. Nothing could touch the ineffable quality he possessed. Not of this world. Or the next. Nor the thousand thereafter. However atypical the dramas of recent events, this vessel was of no consequence. Just a blip on the radar. No more. No less.
So what if it were the first ‘blip’ of its kind…the first he had ever seen in a very, very long time...?
*
“This is it,” said Simmons assuredly. “Nothing beyond this point.”
“It can’t be.” It all looked the same; trees every which way––for miles... “How can this be it?” Windell added after an extended silence. Simmons had no answer. He seemed just as puzzled, and as painfully out of his element as his exhausted compatriot. Eyes, ears and manpower. That was all they really amounted to in this new, post-Pollack age. And neither one had much of either.
Windell especially, who, after nearly three hours on her feet in the blazing sun over unforgiving ground, looked about ready to drop. Still, she tried; like a woman ten years younger and with far more field-experience. The last thing she wanted to appear, after all, was obsolete. “Maybe he got wise and took more pains to cover them up.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Simmons entertained. “But why not go back; you know, to cover it all?” He might have been a good deal younger than the plucky grandmother of two, but he sweated just as profusely. On top of that, his right knee was killing him––and not just from the labor. At his current rate, he might not make it to fifty. “Guess we should call in the cavalry,” he said, expecting––and hoping she would agree. “Can’t follow a trail where none exists...”
“Guess not…” she concurred––though not quite committal. He could see she wanted to find something––and could sort of see why. When all this was over, she would likely be thanked for her contribution––however inadequate––and shuffled back to Police Headquarters where she would spend the remainder of her days making coffee, typing reports and answering phones…rain, sleet, snow or shine––getting nothing but old.
“Careful––” he called, noticing her slowly get shorter…then looked down at her boot, where the earth was up to her swollen ankle, and still rising…
“Oh my!” she blurted, embarrassed.
“Here.” He stuck out his stubby hand and pulled her out gently…
“Something must’ve been digging around here,” she said, back on solid ground. “An animal, like a fox, or a…” Simmons looked up.
“You still wanna call for help?” The look on her face showed gathering courage. What a find it would be. What a feather in their caps. Did they dare hold off on the reinforcements? Did they dare go it alone? Windell grabbed at the two-piece shovel and handed it over without a word. Simmons began to dig.
*
Estes kept his distance; watching the pair go over markings in the half-frozen dirt. For anyone else; Davies perhaps––he’d have been right there with them, on his hands and knees to explain every minor detail. He was not, by nature, a man ruled by ego––but he was a man, nonetheless, and tempted to take credit for what was largely his discovery. All the same, he resisted; crouched on a rotting stump with a half-eaten ham sandwich.
There was a moment there––perhaps even two or three––where he could swear Merrimac was not even listening. Fiorentine babbled; on and on with nary a breath between as she pointed to one set of tracks versus another, desperate for his faint nods of interest, or the occasional ‘mm-hm’ to will her forward. But something in his eyes, when he had not noticed anyone watching, suggested a disturbing vacancy. The lights were on, but purely for effect. In that brief interval, no one appeared to be home.
It began with their clumsy eye-contact out by the clearing, before he and his little groupie went to pat each other’s backs. The veteran detective had given him a deep, hostile look that sent a cold shiver down his impeccably-aligned spine. A look that said, ‘don’t cross me, boy. If you know what’s good for you.’ Estes was hardly intimidated; but somewhat unsettled––
It was becoming harder and harder for him to deny; to others, not quite so much, but to himself, the façade was damn-near broken down. It might not have been so bad, he thought, taking another token bite of his sandwich, if it were anyone else but her.
Without realizing, he was up on his feet; the sandwich thrown to the ground in disgust––or was it frustration? And, before he could reign it in, all eyes were on him––
“I’m going for a walk,” he said, as though unaffected. Fiorentine looked on with puzzled bemusement. Merrimac came off a shade more smug.
“Something the matter, Lieutenant?” he asked. And Estes held his tongue.
“No, sir,” he replied, without turning his head. “It just seems you two have things well in hand around here. I thought I’d go check on our roving trackers...”
“Sounds like a good idea,” offered the smarmy detective. Fiorentine added nothing. “Just don’t get lost out there.” Again with that arrogant smirk; (like a finger jammed down his throat). Estes returned the empty gesture with a painted-on grin, flashed for both their benefit, then turned to head off.
“Now where were we, my dear?” He could still hear them, edging out of earshot. Good. Those two could have one another, he thought, dragging his mind out of the gutter and on to more pressing matters. He reached for his mic-phone and called Simmons––
“Go ahead, Lieutenant...” getting Windell instead––
“Where’s Simmons?” he asked, crass. “I thought this was his phone…”
“Yes, sir, it is,” she replied. “Simmons is a little busy at the moment…”
Whatever. “How goes the trail-blazing, Sergeant?”
“Actually, sir, the trail’s run cold.” There was a shaky hesitation in her usually-pleasant delivery. “However,” it continued, “it seems we may have uncovered an even stronger leg to stand on…so to speak…sir…” Lieutenant Estes stopped dead in his tracks, (which also happened to coincide with the faint lines in the thawing dirt).
“Don’t suppose you’d care to elaborate.”
“Well, sir, I could but…it might be better if you saw for yourself...”
“I’m en route,” he said, strides getting longer. “The others are, um…otherwise engaged…”
“Acknowledged. Windell out.” The spring had returned to his sturdy step. At last; something worthy of his expertise––and authority. An air of responsibility; of duty washed over him, clearing all else away. This day might not turn out so bad after all.
*
“So what do you make of it?” she asked, just dying to know. Keith knelt down beside her. Her sweet scent was pleasant; inviting in a playful, non-committal sort of way. But when mixed with that thin layer of forest and sweat…intoxicating…
“Looks pretty solid,” he commended, stealing a glimpse of her firm backside. “But not quite a closed case, Lisa…if you follow...” Right away, she turned her pretty head; perhaps a little over-anxious to acknowledge his unusual familiarity.
“Did I say something wrong, Sergeant?”
“You called me Lisa,” she said, smiling bashful. “I’m just wondering if you hit your head recently.” Keith returned the shy smile.
*
Though his was more polished. She’d seen the smile before, which tended to present itself whenever he turned on the charm; usually in the company of a lady. Christ! She was the lady. Could this be happening? Surely not. It was just her imagination taking her to places reality dare not permit. On the other hand, maybe that birthday wish had finally kicked in. Stranger things had happened. Stranger things were happening…
*
“Some things are long overdue,” he said, eyes penetrating…
“Careful, sir. The ground is starting to melt.”
“That’s not all, I hope...”
“Where, um…where was I?” She cleared her throat awkwardly and zeroed in on the nearest footprint. “I, ah…I mean if I had to guess, I’d say this was made from a…tennis shoe, judging by the pattern the sole makes. Most notably here…” She pointed toward the top-right, around where the balls of the foot dug in most prominent––
“I disagree.” His stare remained unchanged, bordering on intrusive. Fiorentine looked up again into his haunting eyes, more with questioning encouragement than schoolgirl infatuation. At last, he broke away and referenced the print with his finger.
“A boot did this.” He continued. “Probably galoshes, and quite sturdy, at that. Pair of Timberlands maybe…”
“How can you be so certain?” Her expression did little to hide her astonishment. Her eyes were like saucers and her lower lip was practically below her chin.
“Don’t feel bad, Sergeant. I’ve been at this a lot longer than you,” he said, trying not to condescend. “See…” Again he gestured the weak imprint, which seemed to exhibit more definition with each flimsy examination. “This heel is deep, as though it were dug in. A tennis shoe would barely leave an imprint. You’re right about the rubber soul, I suspect. Might have a Beatles fan on our hands.” The smile returned, and not a moment too soon.
“Makes sense.” She nodded, clearly impressed. “Guess it must pay to have all those years under your belt.” She was teasing. Honestly, openly teasing.
“Got more than years under there, sweetheart.” Her short smile morphed into an infectious grin. There was no denying that one. The girl had lobbed in an easy serve and he eagerly returned. Not the best timing perhaps, but still fun.
*
“I’ve also got pants,” he added with a boyish laugh that was no less charming. Fiorentine for all her misgivings, reciprocated with a sultry laugh of her own. It was a hell of a time for him to let loose his legendary playful side––even though she’d had fantasies not all that dissimilar––rip-roaring, spine-tingling fantasies…
“You’re too much, Keith.” Her tone was knee-deep in sentiment. When it came to the mystical art of seduction, she too was no novice. Being female, she was even less a stranger to subtlety and, for the first time in just about ever, spoke his name without the slightest trace of embarrassment or apology.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, leaning in. She felt goose bumps stand to attention up the back of her neck. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re just enough...” She turned her head gracefully and met his hard stare without so much as a flinch.
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve used that line before?”
“I probably have.” Their lips were inches apart. Only a question of time, one of them thought; and both of them knew it.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t doubt your sincerity?” she asked, lips inching ever so closer…
“Can’t think of one.” Sweet mercy those eyes. She couldn’t hold out much longer. “There have been others, though, you know that. A man gets lonely…”
“Is that so?”
“So it is.”
“Why, Detective, you’re not trying to––” But before she could expel the pointless flirtation, his lips were on hers. And not long after…hers were on his.
*
“Detective Merrimac.” A mediated voice broke in. The girl pulled away.
“Keith, there’s…there’s someone…”
“Just ignore it...”
“Are you there, Detective? Come in please, it’s urgent.” Keith sighed. Estes; fifty feet away and the man still knew how to kill a mood.
Keith sulked the entire trek, short as it was, to meet up with the all-business lieutenant and his two inept protégés––Windell and this…Simmons guy, whom he did not quite know but reminded him of ‘George’ on Seinfeld. On the mic, he’d said it was urgent; that they were apparently, and improbably, on the verge of some crucial discovery. Him too.
Fiorentine was back in game-shape before he could blink. Must be losing your touch, loverboy… As before, Keith had a strange feeling about his surroundings; alien and yet somehow familiar. Like deja-vu all over again. That’s right, this whole place just reminds you of a nightmare you had recently…while you were sound asleep in your warm, safe bed… The two were close now; close enough to hear voices. And digging. Fiorentine pushed the last of the branches aside and caught a clear view of all three––
Windell was the first to greet them. She looked exhausted; and filthy. Still, never had she seemed so…alive... “Detective. Sergeant. You’re just in time.” She stepped aside, though it was unnecessary, for the two men digging were hard to miss.
“In time for what?” Keith asked foolishly.
“Sir!” Simmons called out. His round, bald head was sweating profusely and his shirt did not fare much better. If not for the smell, he might have looked just out of the shower. Estes stopped and signaled for Simmons to do the same. Whatever the man’s shovel had hit, Estes felt it too.
“The end of the trail,” Windell responded, belated. Keith shot her a curious look, then took several measured steps forward, Fiorentine close behind…
“Oh dear God…” Clearing away the last of the discarded earth, Estes loomed over the six foot hole he and the surprisingly strong Bill Simmons had dug in just over eighteen minutes. His blemish-free, olive skin turned suddenly a pale white, and he too took a sizeable step back before climbing all the way out–– “Looks like we can call off the search,” he continued, all the life draining out of his normally level voice. His eyes did not move from the center of the hole––this crude, insensitive grave…
One by one, the others joined in, each one displaying a similar loss of composure, unique to their respective sensibilities. Fiorentine gasped––horrified, yet strangely intrigued. Simmons, still panting for breath, wiped his sweaty brow and looked on the verge of throwing up. Windell was not much different, except instead of nausea, hers was an intense, almost violent sadness, and she struggled to hold back the tears.
Last but not least, there was Keith, who took everything in the way he usually did––calm, cool and collected––almost…empty…much like the partially decomposed body before him. Lifeless, hopeless, filthy and…stinky, pee-yoo... All except for one spot, still caked in dry blood…where her left ear had been––
“I’ll get on the horn to Cuen,” he said, unemotional. The end of the trail indeed, he thought, so far as Susan Laterna was concerned.
The larger one left, led to the monster who put her there.

And there you have it, (for those of you still reading; thanks a lot, by the way). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed not only this very long chapter, but the previous 12 as well, all of which can be found in the archives of this blog.
My plan is to put out a Kindle Book of these chapters, which collectively make up Volume One of my grand horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (Man, I like saying that). In the meantime, I continue to query agents, publishers and, well anyone willing to be queried...
If you like what you've read, (or Hell, even if you don't), do me a favour and let me know. Feedback is my nourishment...and I'm starving... (caugh)

See you real soon with all sorts of exciting new meanderings.

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-04-04T13:53:00.001-07:00

Yes, it's that time again.

I have to admit, I've been especially looking forward to this episode of The Simpsons ever since I read a small blurb about it last summer. The Simpsons have never gone to The Holy Land, after all. Plus, Israeli-Palestian humour always goes over so well. Also, I'm a big Sashsa Baron-Cohen fan and when I heard he would be voicing the pushy Israeli tour guide, I envisioned a winner.

Which it was...for the most part...

I admit, after only one measly viewing, its hard to remember, let alone fully apreciate all the sublte nuances to any Simpsons entry, ('old' or 'new'), but this one had a few leaps in logic I felt weren't entirely necessary. Maybe I'm just holding my greatest television influence, (Star Trek: TNG notwithstanding), to a higher standard. Anyway, here's the round-up. Feel free to play along...

"The Greatest Story Ever D'ohed"
03/28/10
When Homer is playing noisily in the yard, it disrupts Flanders' Bible study group. Coaxed by the Reverend, a frustrated Flanders takes it upon himself to redeem Homer by inviting the Simpson family on his church retreat to Jerusalem. Unappreciative of the history and culture, Homer would rather hang out at the hotel's breakfast buffet than tour the city. But when an eccentric tour guide, (guest voice Sasha Baron Cohen), takes the group to famous monuments, including the Dome of The Rock and the Wailing Wall, Homer proves he is not beyond salvation."

I thought the entry had a truly epic feel sorely lacking in many episodes these days, (even the movie). In fact, this story might have made a better movie than the one they actually went with, but I won't go into that here. I will say, however, I think the best thing The Simpsons can do from a creative standpoint is to go off the air for a few years and focus on a series of films, either theatrical releases, direct-to-DVD, (or Blu-ray), or even television specials. A Sideshow Bob or Mr. Burns-themed adventure would be a kick.
This type of approach would, I believe, re-invigorate an ineffable element to The Simpsons continued relevance - the need to be missed. Viewers need to miss The Simpsons. They, along with it's very creators, need to take a break, let people miss the show and slowly build up a new apetite for the yellow-skinned five-some's illustrious return.

Ok now back to the episode at hand.

I really enjoyed Sasha Baron Cohen's voice work in this. It reminded me of the old days, with Hartman, Lovitz and of course, Albert Brooks, who had zany fun with the character and created a personality truly unique to this 20-plus year old show. Knowing many an Israeli, I can say he absolutely nailed the aggressive, almost 'pushy' characteristics so often exhibited by these colorful and truly 'chosen' people. (Ha ha)

Some more things I liked:

- Bart's offensive, yet hilarious line after reading papers shoved in the Wailing Wall: "Reading prayers and ignoring them, just like God."
- Krusty, upon discovering there's no Hell in Judaism, heads to "The Gaza Strip Club."
- Bart telling the Israeli girl she doesn't fight like a girl, or even a Milhouse. "I don't know what is Milhouse?"
- Homer calling a camel, "a sand horse, car of the desert"
- Homer ordering a falafel with pepperoni, sausage and extra cheese.
- "Some of us don't eat pork, some of us don't eat shellfish, but we all of us love chicken.

That last one just about says it all, folks.

...and some pure-Simpsons dialogue...

Ned: Our bible study group is going to the holy land next month. I'd like to take you and your family along as my guests.
Homer: Hmm, let me think. Take my family to a war zone on a bus filled with religious lameos in a country with no pork in a desert with no casinos. Where do I sign up?
Marge: Homer, I can hear your sarcasm from inside the house and the dishwasher is on.

Marge: This country is so historic, for all we know Jesus could have given a talk in conference room C.

Reverend Lovejoy: God has never given up on anyone
Ned: What about Sodom and Gomorrah?
Reverend Lovejoy: He lovingly destroyed them.

Marge: Homie, you're alive.
Homer: I am more than alive, woman. I am the chosen one, who shall unite all the faiths of the holy land. I am the messiah.
Marge: But you still have the passports right?
Homer: Oh yeah, gotta keep track of those. THE MESSIAH! has the passports.

Jacob: What? Israel people are pushy? How about you experience a few genocides and see how laid back you are. We were perished from Spain. Thrown out of there. They allow everyone in Spain. But for us, Jews, no flamenco, get out. I'm pushy? Please. You stay there surrounded by your great enemy Canada. Try sitting here for two months, then we'll see who's pushy.

Nicely done, gang.

Not sure if next weeks is new or not, so I may or may not have another one of these standing by. Either way, I'll be posting part three of chapter 13 of volume one of my epic horror maserpiece, (yup, nice and simple), An Axis Oblique. (long overdue, that's for sure)

D.A.

Guess what? I'm getting published!

2010-03-31T13:50:00.000-07:00

Yes it's true, though it may not be entirely what you think.
A month or so back I submitted a short story to Canadian Voices Volume Two, an anthology of short stories, novel excerpts and poetry. You can find it in the archive section of this very blog, if it strikes your fancy.
Anyway, I just recieved word that my story, "The Red Maple Leaf," has been accepted and will be published sometime this summer. The publisher is a small, independent company called Bookland Press. www.booklandpress.com. They're based here in Toronto.
It's small, but definitely gratifying, considering I wasn't too sure about the story to begin with. This is the first time I'll be seeing my words in print, even if it is barely 2000 of them. Gotta say, I'm looking forward to it.
The hope is, I can build on this albeit small inroad of progress by leveraging it into new relationships with like-minded writers, editors, agents and publishers. I do have a few novels burning a hole in my hard drive, after all.

I'll continue to blog about my first experience into the terrifying world of publishing as it unfolds. Hope all you fellow aspirers out there will find it informative, and maybe even a little inspriring.

Cheers,

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-03-28T12:44:00.000-07:00

This one's right on the wire, considering we're a mere hours away from another new episode.

Last week's featured one of my faves, Sarah Silverman as a precocious fourth-grader who turns Bart's fragile heart to mush. Women...

"Stealing First Base"
03/21/10
Principal Skinner announces that Mrs. Krabappel was called out of town and budget cuts dictate that, until she returns, the school's two fourth grade classes will merge. Bart reluctantly shares a desk with Nikki (guest voice Sarah Silverman) and develops a flirtatious rapport. Bart talks to Grampa about his new crush, and at Grampa's suggestion, gives Nikki a kiss. But when Nikki starts giving Bart mixed signals, he swears off women forever. Meanwhile, Lisa's classmates ostracise her for being an overachiever, and First Lady Michelle Obama, (guest voice Angela Basset), a self-professed nerd, comes to Lisa's defence."

This one had its moment's. Among them...

-Nelson bonding with a blind student, who soon "surpases the teacher."
-The elaborate Koyaanisqatsi-esque Itchy and Scratchy montage, which Homer and Bart enjoy - in 3D! (Guess they made another movie)
-The little cameo from everyone's favorite Jackie-O-wannabe, Michelle Obama, (voiced by Angela Basset for some reason. Seriously, me thinks they should have given her a better part).
-The AWESOME kissing montage when Nikki revives Bart via mouth-to-mouth. Among the great screen kisses, I noted, Rett and Scarlett, Ripley and Alien, Sammy Davis Jr. planting one on Archie Bunker, and (Nu)Spock and (Nu)Uhura, (the distinction must be maintained).
-The somewhat disturbing display of affection between Willy and Principal skinner. Let's hope that little sub-plot stays nipped in the bud.

Some funny lines:

Ralph: I cheated wrong. I copied the Lisa name and used the Ralph answers.

Superintendent Chalmers: By now you've haard that one of our fourth graders did something that 100 years ago would have been completely innocent but in today's over litigious society has been blown completely out of proportion.

Michelle Obama: That's right, Lisa, as an avid organic gardner I've read your blog.
Lisa: Flotus1 is First Lady of the United States, one.
Michelle Obama: Yes, I wanted just flotus, but someone had it.
Ralph: That's me because I swim with my flotuses on.

Another solid, if a bit forgettable, outing. Next week, (or tonight's) episode takes the Simpsons where no cartoon has gone before...the Holy Land...No, not Chicago. Israel, baby! Should be a doozy.

D.A.

What Am I Reading? Fanboy and Gothgirl!

2010-03-22T13:58:00.000-07:00

Hi there and welcome to my second exciting intallment of 'What Am I Reading?' For those of you who missed the first...for shame... Okay, I forgive you. You can find it in the archives, in any case. Anyway, in there, I explain the intention of this little exercise, which is to give all you kids out there an idea of how to stay inspired. You know, keep that fire burning under you for those long, lonely days of scratching and clawing and cold...so cold...

Where was I?

Right, 'What Am I Reading?' Well, I'm currently reading three books at once! Impressive, huh? It was actually four, but I just finished one; the one I'll be talking about today, go figure. Two novels and two non-fiction, (financial, cuz I kinda need a little guidance in that area) and the other's a novel called Today I Am A Man, written by a friend of mine named Larry Rodness. He's a first-time author and going places, but I'll have to save that for a future installment.

The Astonishing Adventures of Fanboy and Gothgirl, (actual title), is a book I found in the 'last copies' bin at my local Indigo. It's a young adult novel written by Barry Lyga, his first but not last. The reason I picked it up was because I'm something of a fanboy myself on occasion and I guess I gravitated toward the title. Mainly though, I'm interested in the children's/young adult fiction market and decided a while back to immerse myself in stuff I'd like to emulate. I recently re-read The Chryslids by my hero, John Wyndham, which I haven't read since 10th grade and it was even better the second time.

Fanboy and Gothgirl is essentially about an awkward fifteen year old boy who is depressed. Believe me, I can relate - but that's another story never to be told. He's something of an intellectual and a huge comic book nerd but has next to no social experience and a stressful homelife. Since I'm not much of a reviewer, I won't go into too many plot details but I found it to be a well-paced, fairly moving story about growing up and accepting change and...all that fun stuff. As well, I found our 'fanboy' to be an intriquing, very relateable lead character, with which many teenagers can no doubt identify.
When he meets Kyra, (aka Gothgirl), he finds someone even more antisocial than him. Their relationship is surprisingly complex as is the character of Kyra, who is portrayed with considerable depth and realism. I found this to be true of all the characters, actually, even though through the first third or so of the book, I had my reservations. I had thought them to be a bit on the 'cliche' end of the spectrum, until they - along with the storyline - started to go in directions I didn't expect. I particularly apreciated the somewhat unresolved conclusion and complementary theme of change and acceptance being more matters of internal perception than external perspective, but maybe I'm just a moron who reads too much.

Though this was his first novel, I've recently discovered Barry Lyga's growing body of work, including a sequel to this very book called Goth Girl Rising, written, (I presume), from the point of few of Kyra herself. Who knows, maybe I'll even give it a read some time.

I've just completed an outline for a middle-grade novel called Flotsam, which I hope to move forward on soon. Writers like Lyga are excellent sources of inspiration. If you want to check out this book or this author, or if you'd like to learn more about reading...(just kidding), check him out here. http://barrylyga.com/new/

See you next time and remember kids, give a hoot, read a book.

D.A.

Cannibal Girls!

2010-03-20T16:32:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to give a quick shout-out to my good buddy, Jonny, who invited me to The Bloor Cinema last Thursday here in Toronto for a screening of the digitally remastered horror classic Cannibal Girls, starring Eugene Levy, Andrea Martin and...his dad, Allan Price!

Ok, chances are you've never heard of it. That's not too surprising, considering it a thirty-eight year old movie, (I think - my math's a bit rusty), and never got beyond a few theatres in its initial run. It's great claim to fame, you could say, is that it launched a shitload of prominent Hollywood careers, namely the aforementioned Levy and Martin in their first starring roles, (this is before SCTV, people).
Perhaps the biggest name though would be Ivan Reitman, father of Jason, but more importantly, Meatballs, Ghostbusters, Stripes and many more. Another big name, who I did not know about prior, is Earl Pomerantz, who proved he's a much better writer than actor. Earl, for those of you who don't know, went on to huge success as a TV writer in Hollywood. The man created the frickin' Cosby Show! How's that for your resume?

Anyway, the first, and only time I saw this movie was way back in the early 80s when I was a wee lad and my brother and I caught it on CityTV. The first scene has full-frontal nudity so, for two prepubescents such as ourselves, it was like finding the holy grail. Unfortunately, the idea of cannabilism didn't sit too well with me back then, (I'm all for it now), and a few, shall we say, graphic scenes scared me off after about twenty minutes.

Good thing I have friends in high places, though, cuz this little gem deserves an audience, not so much for the scares, (of which there are one or two - sort of), but the laughs, which are plentiful - and I dare say, much better than most of the shit released today for this often-maligned audience.

The gala was followed by a short Q&A with Allan Price and Alan Gordon, (another unfortunate victim). All in all a very enjoyable evening. Thanks, Jonny.

The film is soon to be released on DVD. If you're a fan of b-horror, independent film, or just any of the names on the bill and want to check out some of their earliest work, I urge you to fire up the bong and give it a go. I can guarantee it'll be better than at least the last four or five SAWs or Final Destinations.

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-03-17T13:21:00.001-07:00

Another week, another round-up.

I gotta admit, I was a bit preoccupied last Sunday due to an unexpected fender-bender mere minutes before the opening credits. I was forced to miss it completely for the first time in...lets just say many moons. Sure, I've missed episodes before but not without a contingency plan. This particular incedent caught me with my (figurative) pants down. Not to worry, though, all is well. There was minor damage to my car, but nothing serious where it counts, and repairs are swiftly underway. As for The Simpsons...

Thank heavens for time-shifting.

"Postcards From The Wedge"
03/14/10
When Bart fails to turn in his homework, Mrs. Krabappel sends a letter home about Bart's behavior. Despite Bart's best efforts to intercept it, Homer reads the letter, and he and Marge visit Principal Skinner for a parent-teacher conference. Furious, Homer punishes him, but Marge takes a more sympathetic approach. When Bart realizes he can pit Homer and Marge against each other to his benefit, his scheming reaches new height.

Flyby: Crow, complete with call/Short open.
Couch Gag: The couch is a piñata broken open by Ralph Wiggum, and OFF spill out when he whacks it.

Here are a few noted highlights:

* House M.D.
The name of the Itchy & Scratchy cartoon Bart is watching is "Mouse M.D." and parodies the TV series House M.D. starring Hugh Laurie.
* The Jetsons
The "educational" film the children watch at the beginning of the episode has several hints of The Jetsons style conveniences and technologies.
* Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
Marge suggests that the family eat lunch at a restaurant called Crouching Tiger, Hidden Eggroll, a play on the title of the 2000 Ang Lee action movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

and some choice dialogue:

Homer: I say this boy needs more homework. I don't have to do it with him, do I?
Principal Skinner: No.
Homer: Pile it on. I want him to be Korean by the time he's done.

Lisa: You would mess up mom and dad's marriage just to get out of doing some homework?
Bart: I would end all life this planet to get out of doing fractions.

Homer: I want to eat at Moe's express.
Marge: The last time you ate there, you spent three nights at the mall jail.
Homer: That was last week and you're still bringing it up!

Marge: I don't mind if you pee in the shower, but only if you're taking a shower.

Homer: We can't let Bart drive us apart, he's the reason we had to get married.

Homer: If you're out of my sight, you must constantly twitter me what you're up to, even though I don't know what twitter is and I have no desire to find out.

I enjoyed it. Okay, I know we've covered a lot of this territory before. Homer and Marge fighting, Bart not doing his homework and trying to manipulate, well...everyone, but the story took a turn when Homer and Marge discovered they liked being neglective parents. Homer, I can see, but Marge? The Springfield Subway system was interesting as well. Why not? The town's infrastructure is set up for damn near everything else. It was also nice to see Bart in school, doing homework for a change. All in all, a relatively grounded story with some solid Simpsons humour sprinkled throughout. I expect to get more and more out of repeat viewings, as is typically the case, (for me, anyway)

Feel free to disagree.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen (Part 2)

2010-03-11T13:31:00.000-08:00

This is it.
The middle portion, or 'Empire Strikes Back' section of Chapter Thirteen.
Hope you enjoy.

–––––––––––––––
For the first time in weeks, Patrick McAllister felt like being awake. He did not feel well exactly. His stomach still churned. His head still pounded. And every last part of him ached, leaving him empty; no––more like…drained…
His mother expressed a desire to expose him to some fresh air and sunlight. But even he had his doubts he could stand it. What prompted him out of bed this fine morning was not one, but rather a string of disturbing symptoms. His nightmares were worsening. He could scarcely dream at all anymore without that cold, hateful voice reaching out from beyond the silvery depths of…somewhere.
Might wanna save your strength, little guy…
And he believed it. To whomever it belonged, this voice meant the ugly things it said, and could most certainly carry them out with sadistic brutality.
He had no concept, of course. And no context. Not of the words––nor the voice––which he’d long stopped speaking of to others. As young as he was, and frightened, he knew it would come to no good.
An image, so clear and compelling, was the real culprit. A dream within a dream; so vivid, it would not leave his mind. In school he would draw all the time. He was not the most social child. Friends came easily enough. At seven, one just needed to be there, ready to play. Still, Patrick was always most comfortable alone.
From the toychest, he retrieved what supplies he needed and then, as though guided by some higher power, began rather innocently, to draw. The shapes flowed effortless. First he drew a neckline, then shoulders, moving the blue pencil to complete the shape of a head; a face, eyes bulged in fear; they too were blue. No––brown; and submerged in horrified tears. Her mouth was red. But not from lipstick. This red came from within, staining her teeth and tongue, which hung partially over her puffy lips in a helpless scream.
The image was clearer, growing moreso by the stroke. In no time, he finished the shape of her torso, and was touching up some finer detail. Who was this girl? Had he seen her before? No. Except in his dream–– She’s sitting next to a man; the bad man, he’s almost certain. Though he wears a disguise. She’s frightened of him. Screaming. Crying. He’s hurting her. Not only does he see it, he can almost…feel her pain…
When finished, it looks rough. Even at his best, he can only approximate, (most of his practice devoted to spaceships and fire trucks); sometimes, they’re nothing at all; the collective spew of subconscious. With age, he’ll begin to call it art…but for now…
“Patrick? Patrick, honey, what are you doing?” He was so wrapped up, he didn’t notice her soft, subtle approach; his mother, looking exhausted and ecstatic, all in a single dumbfounded expression. “You’re coloring!” she marveled, startling him half to death. “Does this mean you’re feeling better?” Again he did not reply. He simply lacked the words.
“The fever hasn’t broken,” she muttered. “How bout your tummy…?” At last he moved his tiny head from side to side. “No it doesn’t feel better, or no, it doesn’t hurt?” He mumbled, incoherent. “Did you draw this?” she asked, giving up. “It’s very good.” She pulled up a chair to examine more closely. “She doesn’t look very happy, though. Is she sick too?” Patrick nodded a lazy ‘yes’ this time; as good an explanation as any.
“Oap––think you forgot something, sweetie. What happened to her ear?”
“It’s gone…” he whimpered. Perhaps he should tell her, he thought; force her into understanding...but how? He hadn’t the words, let alone the stamina to withstand an interrogation. “He took it,” he finally decided. “Now she’s sad. And afraid...”
*
Mary listened, staring into the drawing with alarming understanding. Much of her face was submerged in red. Blood? She hadn’t wished to see it before; hadn’t even considered it before. For the first time, she began to see how little she actually knew of what went on inside his impressionable little head. A voice of authority ran suddenly through her own. ‘It’s always the quiet ones. They’re the ones you gotta watch out for.’ “Who?” she barely managed, still reeling from the frightful premonition.
“The bad man…” he whispered, coming to tears. “He hurt her real bad. And…others…” He jumped as she took a step back. “Make him go away, Mommy. Please.” The woman said nothing, a single tear struggling not to run down her cheek…
“I will, sweetheart. I promise…” His pain overwhelmed and she swept him up, rocking him back and forth. Together they cried.
*
Down the hallway, only two doors from his brother, Nicky heard weeping; a sound to which he’d grown quite accustomed. His mother did so often. He barely even saw his brother anymore, but suspected more than his share of wasted tears. For what? Their father? A tummy ache? The cancellation of Yu-gi-oh? Who knew? Who cared?
As usual, nobody noticed when old Nick was in pain. Who had time when cute little Patrick had a nightmare or two? Certainly not his mother; the past few weeks had made that abundantly clear. His father wouldn’t have put in the time either, even if he weren’t the source of all his raw hurt; and confusion. Dear God, please make this feeling go away...
Perhaps he wasn’t giving them enough credit. Adults seemed so sure of themselves. He’d never known a problem they could not solve. Never had a feeling, which did not, in time, fade away––pleasant or otherwise. But this was different. He knew it with a budding maturity the others were all too blind or self-absorbed to pick up on. Everything was different now. And none of it would ever be the same again.
He was almost ready. Just a few more essentials. Some shirts, socks, underwear; plus the new iPod for the bus. A cell phone sure would’ve been nice too, he thought bitterly. The gym bag was three-quarters full. Not long now. He was genuinely excited. Despite his youth––and so-called innocence––it was not a feeling that came easily to him, (especially these days), and if not for the––shit––someone was at the goddamned door–– “Nick? Nick, can I come in…?” The sound of her voice, all loving and chipper, made him angry. Why now, he thought, sliding the bag under his bed. “Please, Nicky. I want to talk to you.” Forget it, lady. You had your chance. Now do me a favor and run along. “I’m coming in,” she announced, and he adjusted himself––
“What’s the matter with you? I was calling your name, didn’t you hear me?”
“I was busy,” he shrugged. His mother rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I asked you. The next time I call your name, Nicholas, I expect you to answer me.” He smiled to himself. That could be a problem, he thought.
“Nicky, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The next time you call me, I’ll be sure to answer. Is that why you came in here?” The woman sighed and moved toward him, body language painfully awkward…
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. The boy did not answer. “Is it me? School?” Part of him; a part he was unconscious of, wanted desperately for her to throw her arms around him; to rock him as she had when he was a small boy around Patrick’s age. He wished he was Patrick. “Is it…your Dad…?”
“I told you, it’s nothing. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
*
For a second, she nearly did. With Patrick, words came easily, but Nick had a way of making it so very damned hard. “I’m going to take Patrick for some ice cream,” she said. Not the smoothest transition, but to the point. “He’s feeling better, isn’t that…?” Her voice trailed off. More awkward silence. She wondered if he cared. “We want you to come with us. It’s been so long since we spent any time together, just the three of us. That’s important to me, you know.” The boy busied himself with his computer, one ear open to her and the rest on some shoot-em-up online bloodbath he knew full well she disapproved of. “Well, what do you say…?”
“Do I have to?” The trap of all traps; how to answer...
“No, you don’t have to, but I’d feel much better if––”
“I think I’ll stay here then.”
What could she say? She had in fact opened the door. “By yourself?”
“You just said––”
“I know, I know.” To her astonishment, Mary found herself missing buxom young Cynthia more and more. At least she seemed to have some sort of rapport with the boy; similar to that with her husband, (which was the problem)… “Fine. You can stay.”
*
“Really?” A hint of surprise crept into his indifference. If not for his hurry, he might have marked the occasion. Extending his bedtime? Perhaps. A raise in allowance? No picnic, but doable, nonetheless. But all that was childsplay next to the brass ring––the whole house to himself. He almost wished he weren’t leaving.
“On one condition...” Of course. How could he not have known? “You and I are going to have a good old fashioned sit-down when I get back. Get some things strait.” The boy wore a look any parent should have easily recognized as irrational excitement. “You’re growing up now, Nick.” She went on anyway. “Now that your father is…well, you’re the man of the house. And with that comes added responsibility. It means our relationship will have to change some. Does that sound like something you can handle?” He was careful not to let his true feelings show.
It was too perfect. He knew it his best chance for success; far better than to simply sneak out the front door while she slept. Man of the house. How little she respected him, to think him foolish enough; naïve enough to jump for joy at her shallow praise. The man of the house was gone. Nicky could not replace him, nor would he ever wish to try. How disloyal she must believe him. How forgetful.
Ten minutes later, they were gone; and five minutes after that, young Nicholas McAllister stood in the atrium with gym bag in hand, staring at that mammoth oak door. A curious sensation engulfed his unstable spirit. It could have been fear. Or nerves. It could have been a piece of undigested food acting up––but it was none of these things. The sensation, he secretly knew, though dreaded with a fiery passion––doubt––had begun to take selfish hold–– Goddammit, don’t think. Thinking equals standing still. Just go. Take a swift, deep breath, grab the bag and one last look, then do what you promised...
The phone was ringing. If only he’d been more in tune with this new attitude, he might have just walked out that door and never looked back. But the phone was ringing. His next course of action seemed clear. “Hello...”
“Nicky?” That voice. Friendly. Sarcastic. Familiar.
“Cynthia?”
“Hey, least you haven’t forgotten…” He wanted to laugh––for several reasons. In spite of his feelings, it was good to hear her voice. “Is your mother around?”
“Are you ever coming back?” The words escaped without warning. He had not meant to come off so juvenile; so childlike and unsophisticated––with her especially. “Direct and to the point. That’s my Nicky. As a matter of fact I am, you silver-tongued devil. I was actually calling to find out a good time to drop over. Mind if I speak to your mother?”
“She’s not here,” he blurted. The concept itself just sounded so damn good.
“Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. I was hoping to talk to her. So, um…who is there? Did you get a new…? Did, um, your Mom hire someone new?”
“No.” He hesitated, worried she’d drop everything to save him from himself.
“Well I hate to sound petty, kid, but that’s comforting to hear. So what’s the situation? You’re not…? I mean there is someone…right?” Nicky cleared his throat.
“Nope. Just me. And in case you’re wondering, I’m doing just fine.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Not yet. “Still, maybe I could come over…” The boy after all, was only ten; and his obvious reluctance must have made him sound guilty of something; as though he had something to hide. He did, of course, but that was a separate issue altogether.
“That’s okay. I’ll just tell her to call you.”
“Are you sure? It’s no problem, Nick. Really. In fact, I’d fell a little better if––”
“I said no,” he snapped. And there it was again––more likely, it had been there all along. In Nick’s short experience, it always was. On some days, his nerves were a fortress of stability. On others––like today––little more than a thin layer of smoke and mirrors. “I’m not as helpless as you think I am. I’m old enough to be left alone for a couple of hours.”
“I know that, I just meant…I mean I thought it might be…never mind…” Her condescending tone only fueled his lulled fire. For an instant, he foolishly thought it might be different. The girl was back, after all. Perhaps he’d misjudged her. But why now? And for how long? He could stick around to find out; the option was not lost on him. But his desire for a new beginning burned hotter than ever.
“Whatever. I’ll tell her you called.”
No matter. Soon he would be gone. They could ignore him all they wanted. He knew full well they would not. His only regret was that he would not be there to hear them crying. In a way, it was better now that Cynthia was back in the picture. His mother would need a shoulder to cry on. Let them regret together. If misery did indeed love company, as he’d so often heard them all say, the match would be made in Heaven.
–––––––––––––––

One more part to this mondo-final chapter, (of Volume One), coming soon. In the meantime, I'll be posting some other, unrelated goodies between now and then. Stay tuned...

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-03-07T12:27:00.001-08:00

This one's a little long in the making, I realize, but hey, sometimes I try to have a life. In all seriousness, I've been busy plotting a children's novel for a writing course I'm enrolled in. It's for middle-grade readers, 9-12, and my (working) title is Flotsam. Eh? Eh?

Moving on.

Two Sunday's ago, The Simpsons celebrated black history month, (a long-overdue first for the family), with a flashback episode. Here's the synopsis, plus a few noted highlights.

"The Color Yellow"
02/21/10
When Miss Hoover asks her students to research their family history, Lisa is horrified to discover that most of her ancestors were a motley crew of horse thieves and deadbeats. But while rummaging through the attic, Lisa happens upon a diary kept by her ancestor, Eliza Simpson. As Eliza's story unfolds, Lisa learns that her family was part of The Underground Railroad, a group that helped slaves escape to freedom. Eliza recounts liberating a slave named Virgil, (guest voice Brown), but when Lisa presents her findings at school, some of her classmates refute it, leaving Lisa determined to exonerate her family's name.

A bit of a departure from recent fare, which is good as far as I'm concerned. This show has been around for 20 years, I expect them to be taking huge risks at this point. Why not? What have they to lose? Their legacy? That is firmly cemented, even though many believe they're way past their prime, (which they may very well be), in time, all that will matter is their influence on both TV and popular culture as a whole and noone can deny that with a straight face.

That being said, the episode, while fairly high on story, was a little low on jokes. Again that's ok. There was a time when this show could weave a thoroughly satisfying yarn. I particularly enjoyed seeing our characters in the civil-war South. Here's some other stuff I liked:

- Colonel Burns demanding they switch the waltz's tempo to 4/4 cause he didn't like these kids and their modern dances. Pure Simpsons.

- All the kids at Springfield Elementary preparing thier Obama speeches.

- The scene in the attic with all sorts of Simpsons memorobelia, including Homer's space suit and Mr. Plow jacket, Extopolopikettle (or whatever), funzo, and...shit, I need to see it again...

- The Canadian flag, (again!) Even though that particular flag did not exist until 1963, (0r maybe 4) Worst continuity ever! (ok, not even close). I'm positively tickled yellow the show went to Canada two episodes in a row! Why not just move Sprinfield over the border, baby? Maybe next year.

- The fairly big revelation about the Simpson family delivered, of course, by Grandpa. Yes, folks, the Simpsons have African-American blood. Why the heck not?

Here's a good quote to illustrate it, for those of you who missed it.

Lisa: We're 1/64 black!
Bart: So that's why I'm so cool.
Lisa: And that's why my jazz is so smooth.
Homer: And that's why I earn less than my white co-workers.

And here's a few others of note:

Homer: If i were you I wouldn't take it to the past. I lived in part of that past, and I got out for a reason.

Ralph: Mr. Luther King had a dream. Dreams are where Elmo and Toy Story had a party, and I went there. Yay, my turn is over.
Principal Skinner: One of your best Ralph.

Next week it's the oscars so no round-up. However, I may just have a few other things in store... mwoo-ha-ha-ha-ha!

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen (Part I)

2010-02-22T14:53:00.001-08:00

Kay, kids, think you've waited long enough. Here's part one of the last Chapter in Volume One of my masterpiece horror-epic, An Axis Oblique. (Everybody got that?) Hope you enjoy.
For those of you just tuning in, (where the hell have you been?), Chapter's One through Twelve can be found within the index of this very blog. And it's all free, free FREE! I'm just that insane!!!

Sorry you had to see me like that.

–– Thirteen ––
January 28, 8:03

“Over here.” A voice called over the hill. At first he was startled. There wasn’t much difference between a female scream of enthusiasm and one of holy terror. In four years with the Maplewood Police Department, Pete Estes had heard both.
“What is it?” he asked, coming up on her kneeling form. Fiorentine didn’t look up, engrossed in the tiny focal point already inside the small, transparent evidence bag.
“I’m not sure,” she replied, examining it through plastic with her thumb and forefinger. Estes continued to approach, stopping just a few steps behind her.
It was a long shot to begin with. Eighteen year old Susan Laterna had been missing for more than two weeks and just about every other stone had been turned and re-turned. Any other time, they’d have pegged her a runaway. But these times were far stranger than most.
For several weeks, people had been…disappearing all over this once-sleepy town with no apparent rhyme or reason. Not all turned out the same, of course, but an alarming number were as yet unresolved. At least Richard Pollack had a clear enough preference, which in time, led to a pattern. These days, everyone was apparently fair game.
For a split second, she seemed to be grasping at thin air. Estes moved closer, but as she turned to face him, the rounded shape of a single eyeglass lens caught a piece of stray sunlight and its smooth, reflective surface revealed itself like a hidden image in one of those 3-D art posters.
“This could be just the break we’ve been looking for…” she said, apparently serious. Indeed, if it were, he’d eat his hat. Still in the plastic, he gave it a once-over. Items such as this could be found almost anywhere around Newbury Park. People traipsed up and down these vast acres all the time. He’d done so himself on occasion, back in his carefree youth.
“Now all we gotta do is find someone walking around with one lens in his frames,” he remarked dryly. The woman did not react as intended, with a smile or a submissive chuckle. Instead, she reached up and snatched her clue back from him. Estes wasn’t much for sarcasm. This was why.
“You make it sound like a dead end,” she said. “A needle in a haystack, maybe, but one half-decent print and we’re back in business. Anyway, I’m sure Keith will appreciate it on merit.” There was something about her voice when she invoked that man’s name, which made him want to throw up. He might well have done so, too…if not for the ringing cell phone...
“Fiorentine,” she answered, adjusting to her feet––then looked him right in the eye as if to rub something in his nose. “Detective Merrimac, it’s good of you to call, sir.”
“Speak of the devil…” he muttered before turning off…
It wasn’t as though Estes disliked his gruff, charismatic superior; not like some he could name––but wouldn’t. He and the crass lead detective had just barely crossed paths, in fact; not since Mitch Barrett’s tearful funeral. Now there was a real role model.
At the service, he’d tried to engage him on the ice-cold investigation; some faint traces of ash in the lieutenant’s carpet. Both men knew full well Barrett didn’t smoke; (as did everyone, the way he went on about that Nicotine gum).
“Could be a relapse,” the detective dismissed him off-hand––which took care of that.
It wasn’t so much Merrimac, in any case, as her. The way she always looked at him; fawned over him; catered to every whim…but mostly, it was the way she threw herself in his face every time he felt like swaggering onto the scene. ‘Oh, Keith, thank God you’re here. Whatever would we do without you? Touch me, Keith. Fuck me. Do whatever you like with me, Keith. Keith, Keith!’
He stopped himself. Jealously was unbecoming.
“Estes?” He heard her perky voice call his name. “Estes, where did you…?” There it was again. He looked up from the crude shoe print he’d uncovered. “Pete!”
“I’m here!”
Within seconds, she was coming up the incline.
“Why’d you walk away like that?”
“Did I?” He feigned ignorance. “Guess I was eager to get back to the sweep. One good gust of wind, after all, and a perfectly good lead can get buried for all eternity.” Fiorentine looked over his shoulder.
“Guess so.” She did not sound the least bit certain but was clearly anxious to relay some other juicy tidbit. “Merrimac’s en route,” she said, almost giddy. “Who knows? Maybe there’s some kinda connection between my lens and, um…this…”
“Finally decides to grace us, does he?” he snarled, then looked up at her round, saucer eyes. That’s it, he thought angrily. No more snide remarks. Not even to myself…
“What was that?” she asked, still lost in her girlish euphoria.
“Nothing,” he said. And that’s just what he meant.
–––––––––––––––
“How the hell can it be nothing? My son is sick, Dr. Pierce; from a so-called ‘viral infection’ that you diagnosed. And now you’re saying…just what are you saying?”
“Please, Madame, if you’ll just––”
“Goddammit, just tell me what the hell is wrong with my son!”
Randal Pierce took a step back. These were the moments he dreaded. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; unless she was a mother––then all bets were off.
The woman eyed him menacingly.
“As I said, Mrs. McAllister, I’ve found nothing wrong; not physically, at any rate…”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve run every test I know, and all indications say your son is in perfect health.” Again, she seemed ready to pounce; to protect her young at any cost, like any good mother––as he’d expected. “Now it’s possible; very much so in fact, this…whatever it is, will indeed run its course, as predicted.” He swallowed, uncomfortable. Here goes nothing… “There is, however, another possibility.”
*
“There’s a private wing at Tempest Medical...” the smug, Doogie Howser reject started in. Mary was about ready to button that goddamn second button on his trendy Polo dress-shirt. “…equipped with the latest MRI technology; the finest physicians and most current research conducted on the pre-adolescent cortex in…well, probably the world. I could arrange for a consultation with Dr. Lucien, the administrator. Perhaps––”
“Wait a minute…are you saying my Patrick needs a shrink?”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m simply offering an alternative, which, until now, had not been considered.” Mary stood from her uncomfortable chair and began pacing back and forth. She was troubled by the direction this conversation had taken. “Your son is withdrawn.” He pressed on. “You’ve said so yourself. He sleeps all day, has no appetite, no…social interaction…” The woman remained silent. Facts were facts. “On top of all that, recent family events would be fully expected to…impede the progress of any treatment, be it biological or psychosomatic.” Mary looked up. He had to go hitting her where she lived. “Listen, Mrs. McAllister, I wouldn’t presume to advise you on a matter I frankly know little about. Nor am I qualified to make any kind of psychological diagnosis. I am however, qualified to recommend an evaluation. Not because I think he’s unstable. Just to cover all bases. Doesn’t that sound reasonable?”
*
The woman continued to glare as though he’d just told her he had a room full of bunnies in back he was about to give cancer. “Reasonable…” she repeated. “The word seems to have lost all meaning…” The doctor remained silent. He could almost see the rusty wheels working inside her heavy head, struggling to turn. He waited a minute––then two. His silence would be far more convincing…
“This, um…consultation… How soon do you think you could––?”
“Within the week, I’m sure of it,” he interrupted; perhaps overeager. “Suffice it to say, the sooner we get the ball rolling…”
“That soon?” Her judgment again appeared to waiver. The good doctor braced himself. “I’ll need time to explain it to him, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. There’s nothing at all to be ashamed or embarrassed about. I think it’s crucial he understand that. If you like, I’d be happy to talk with him. However, I should stress, if we don’t seize the closest opportunity, if for no other reason than to rule this all out, we could have a long wait on our hands…”
“What about money? Things are a little tight right now, I’m not sure––”
“I’m confident we can work something out. There are circumstances whereby consultations such as these, and even subsequent treatment if that becomes necessary, are fully covered by insurance. I’d be happy to look into it.” Now there was nowhere to go.
“He might still improve. You said so yourself, this could all be for nothing.”
Dr. Pierce nodded. “It’s only a precaution. A wise one, at that.”
“Very well.” She conceded. “Make the preliminary arrangements. I’ll, ah, have a talk with him tonight. He’s awfully young to comprehend something like this. I’m having a little trouble myself…” she muttered, underbreath.
“My door is always open. And if you don’t mind my saying, he strikes me as keenly perceptive. I wouldn’t be surprised if he understands a lot more than you think.”
It was several hours before he allowed himself the sweet privilege of self-adulation. What a profound turn of events, indeed. But then, there were no coincidences. He knew he saw something in the boy off the bat; something his loud-mouthed mother could never perceive, let alone comprehend. Yes. From the moment he looked into the glossy, textured eyes of this boy, Patrick McAllister, he knew, intervention had descended.
“Dr. Pierce?” McGrady’s plump receptionist opened the door in mid-knock–– “There’s a Dr. Lucien on line three. Returning your call?”
“Yes, Gretchen, thank you. Would you mind…?” and she graciously took the hint. As soon as he confirmed total privacy, he cleared his parched throat––and hit the flashing button––
“Maurice!” he beamed cautiously. “I’ve got some exciting news.”
–––––––––––––––
“There’s been another murder––” Keith Merrimac sat on the edge of his unmade bed, trying to feel surprised. It seemed as though the words, or others to that effect, had replaced ‘hello’ in the local vernacular.
“What in God’s name is going on?” he wondered aloud. There could be no denying now, if ever there could, that a copycat of some sort was about, out there on the loose.
“That’s supposed to be your job, Detective,” replied Captain Thornhill in his gruff, no-nonsense delivery. “I’ll give this to Davies, seeing as how full a plate you’ve got already. You can hit Newbury Park. Fiorentine’s there with Estes and a team, sweeping for the Laterna girl. A witness just came forward; saw someone matching her description wandering the road side...”
A disturbing flash rattled his sleep-deprived mind. He could picture the image almost perfectly. “Merrimac? Merrimac, are you there?”
Penny for your thoughts…
“Sorry, Captain, I…didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Try warm milk. Or better yet, lay off the late nights with strange bedfellows. I can’t afford to have you sleep-walking through another shift, you hear?”
“Loud n’ clear,” Keith replied, but was lying. He heard the words, alright; received the order, disguised as ‘advice’––but they were neither loud nor clear.
“Good,” the captain went on, oblivious; (either that or he didn’t care). “Do me a favor and call Fiorentine, give her a heads up.” Oh I’m sure that can be arranged...
“What?”
“I said give her a call. Something wrong with your hearing?”
“Sorry. I thought I heard…nothing. Never mind. Consider me en route.”
* * *
Another beautiful day. Keith found it funny how they seemed to coincide with one of the worst strings of viciousness in recent memory––at least since the last. He wasn’t sure how, but somewhere along the line, he seemed to have stumbled into some sort of blissful groove. He perceived the whole world now on a much deeper level. He reveled in its energy; drank it in at every opportunity. He was still a part of it. At one with it; but at the same time, felt strangely detached; almost…above…
“How’s it going, Sergeant?” The events of the past several weeks had brought on, among other things, one of the most earth-shattering, life altering shifts in his altogether predictable lifestyle...a cell phone. He swore he’d never have one; never even get near one unless absolutely necessary. The times, they were a’changin.
“Detective Merrimac, it’s good of you to call, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve been eager to try this thing out anyway. How’s everything?”
“Slow, but we may’ve just caught a break. Are you on your way over?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Thornhill mentioned something about an eye-witness?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir. A motorist just reported seeing someone who matched the girl’s description hitching a ride around Newbury Park.” An image of her, this pretty young thing strolling the roadside in skin tight blue jeans ripped through his mind. It confused him, feeling more like a memory than a conjured-up representation.
“Didn’t know people were still that stupid…” he mumbled.
“It’s more than we’ve gotten anywhere else…seems to be paying off, at any rate. I’ll fill you in when you get here.” Someone ought’a fill you in, you little cock-tease…
The car swerved out of control and Keith slammed on the break. A symphony of horns followed the unexpected maneuver. His car sat idle, halfway over the shoulder–– “Detective Merrimac? Keith, are you alright…?” Keith breathed deeply; in; then out. Who the Hell said that? “Sir, is everything––?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant.” He grabbed the phone and pulled himself swiftly together. “Just a bump in the road. Everything’s…just fine. See you in a few,” and hung up.

There is another part to this chapter but it's so frickin' big, I decided to split it in two for the purposes of this forum. Stay tuned for part two! Plus, got another Simpsons Round-up coming soon! Haza!

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-02-20T13:01:00.001-08:00

Hey y'all!

I'm almost a week late with my Simpsons Round-up, but that's cuz I'm a lazy bastard, plus I've been working like mad to send out a submission package for my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique. Maybe I've mentioned it once or twice. The first twelve chapters can be read here on this blog! Lucky number thirteen is scheduled to be posted soon.

Kay, on with the show!

I won't lie, last week's was near and dear to my heart. Here's the officical synopsis:

"Boy Meets Curl"
02/14/10
"Homer takes Marge out for a romantic evening of ice skating and hand-holding, but upon entering the rink, they encounter a curling team practicing. Marge and Homer take to the ice and discover their love for the sport, and soon after, join the curling team and compete with them in the Olympic trials. Team Springfield claims the win and moves on to the 2010 Vancouver Games, where Bob Costas, (guest voicing as himself), covers the action. Meanwhile, sleazy vendors inroduce Lisa to the world of collecting Olympic pins, and before long, Lisa is hopelessly addicted."

Show Title: The Simpson family clad in old-style clothing flying over in a car similarly designed like the one from the 1968 movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
Billboard Gag: None.
Chalkboard Gag: None.
Couch Gag: The scene switches to the inside of a gypsy wagon where a fortune teller passes out tarot cards with each of the five Simpsons pictured. She deals Grampa the Death card with Maggie pictured, but he quickly deals it back to her and she collapses on her chair. [edit]

Aside from The Simpsons heading North of the border for the--count'em---third time. (The first was my hometown Toronto for a movie shoot, then onto Winnipeg for some free perscription drugs, woo-hoo!), the episode itself was pretty solid. Yes, it was littered with the usual absurdities common to most episodes over the last ten-plus years, but it also had a pretty straight-forward narrative, which I strongly apreciate.

Anyway, here are my highlights:

- Homer and Marge missing date night so they catch the movie, "Love Formulaic," starring Ben Affleck.

- Agnes Skinner's priceless flashback to the Oslo Olympics in 1952, where a pre-natal Seymour ruins her life for the first time, kicking from inside her belly to cost her the gold medal for pole-vaulting. Of course, I might mention the obvious continuity contradiction, if I weren't sworn never to mention it again under penalty of torture... (cough--Armin Tamzarian--caugh!)

- Marge enjoying another classic episode of "The Real Housewives of Shelbyville," where everyone speaks with a thick New York accent for some reason.

- Bart's new Canadian friend, Millhoose and possibly a Canadian Nelson, who laughs: 'Hoo-Hoo' when he punches Millhoose in the goot!

- A surprise appearance of the mysterious 'Boob Lady' last seen guiding Homer's spiritual epiphany in The Simpsons Movie. She was from Alaska. I guess that's close enough. Must be a snowboarding fan.

All in all, a fun romp with lots of rewatchability. The b-story with Lisa was a bit underwhelming but somewhat consistent with her addictive personality. (Anyone remember the Cory Hotline?) The writers might have been commenting on the reasonably severe street-kid problem cursing the streets of Vancouver twelve months out of a non-Olympic year. At one point, Lisa, looking pretty strung-out, was on the corner playing her sax for change, (wearing nothing but lots of strategically-placed Olympic pins). Riske perhaps, if Southpark, Family Guy and the rest of them hadn't already pissed all over that line a long time ago.

Next week, I'm pretty sure we've got another new one coming. If so, you know where to find the round-up.

Later, and Go Canada!

Dollhouse

2010-02-13T15:44:00.000-08:00

Hi there,

I just wanted to take this (brief) opportunity to say goodbye to Joss Whedon's Dollhouse. We hardly knew ye.

I can't say Dollhouse was my favorite show, by any means, though it is, (was), one of the few I watched regularly, (again, due to my respect for Joss Whedon), and when all was said and done, (last Friday, for those of you keeping track), it turned out to be a neat little show.

Little, I say, because it went barely two seasons. One very uneven and the other a slow-ish, but steady climb to potential greatness. Yes, there was some great stuff there in the last eight or nine episodes. The arc moved swiftly and with many surprising twists and turns. And, while the end might not have been totally organic, (me thinks Joss poured much of seasons three and four into the latter half of season two), it was pretty damn good TV.

I'm a big Joss Whedon fan. Buffy The Vampire Slayer remains one of my favorite shows, (and one of TV's best of all-time). It helped redefine serial shows in the 21st century and many of todays great ones, (Lost, I'm looking at you; 24, Heroes, if you like, and many, many more), are a product of Joss Whedon's game-changing sensibility and style, blending stand-alone metaphorical allegories with season-long story arc and series-long character-arcs. He seemed to single-handedly usher in the TV on DVD/DVR phenomenon, which now dominates most of our viewing habits.

That said, Dollhouse never totally found its footing. It works fairly well, though, as a two-season mini-series, complete with great science-fiction-style concepts and questions that blur the lines between 'right' and 'wrong', 'good' and 'bad', etc. It explores, (for my money), facinating philosphical terrain, mostly around issues of identity and the role of technology in our blisteringly-fast moving society. What makes you you? Is it your body? Is it your mind? Your memories? Your environment? What if we one day had the ability to free ourselves totally from such limitations and live forever as 'ourselves', going from body to body, human identity to human identity...it's all pretty heady, but timely and largely unexplored in such a popular and potentially large-reaching medium. Questions worth asking, I'd say.

I think shows like Dollhouse, it's predecessor, Firefly, (which did so well on DVD they made a follow-up movie), and even Lost, which has benefited tremendously from a fixed end-point, are the way of the future for American TV. Short two-four season lifespans that play out a lot more like their Brittish counterparts. Excellent for the short attention spans of the modern media-savy.

So farewell Dollhouse. Thanks for the (short-term) memories.
If you're a fan of Joss Whedon, challenging sci-fi, or just unconventional TV, I urge you all to check out the complete series when it comes to DVD.

D.A.

What Am I Reading?

2010-02-11T13:33:00.000-08:00

Okay, here's that new segment I blogged about a few weeks back.

As a writer, I read a shitload, (and I recommend you all do too, if you've got a similar ambition). I suppose its part of my 'process' so to speak, to do a little reading before I work on whatever I happen to be working on at the time.

The book I just finished is a small kind of satire called Apathy. It's the debut novel of Paul Neilan, an author about whom I (obviously) know fairly little, but expect to hear more from in the future. I know that sounds kind of cliche, but I honestly believe it.

The story, such as it is, centers around Shane, a young man with no sense of direction and no particular interest in one. The book's title, Apathy, perfectly captures Shane's disposition. He drifts from one town to another, (by Greyhound bus), job to job, drinking himself into a stupor most every night, (and day), and as a hobby, enjoys stealing salt shakers, (yup, you read that one right). It struck me as more of a character-study than a plot-driven story, but that's not really a criticism. I actually enjoyed the character quite a bit. He's funny and, at times, rather insightful.

The plot revolves, (loosely), around a murder mystery, whereby Shane is brought in for questioning. He, of course, shows next to no emotion regarding the victim, an acquaintence, who happened to be deaf and taught him to swear, (quite colorfully), in sign language. There are a slew of off-beat, kind-of noir-ish characters throughout, who all, to one degree or another, seem to suffer from the same numbness as Shane.

I suppose I would describe the book much like the blurb on the front cover, which likens it to a novel version of Office Space, the cult movie about office drudgery by Mike Judge, (of whom I'm also a big fan). A good chunk of the story takes place at Panopticon Insurance, where Shane works as an alphabetizer in the most mind-numbing, spirit-crushing environment known to contemporary man, (save perhaps prison).

If you're looking for a short book, quick-witted and fun to read but not overly heavy with some crude humor, I encourage you to check out Apathy: And Other Small Victories, by Paul Neilan.

Caution: Do not operate heavy machinery after reading this book.

D.A.

Lost!!!

2010-02-09T13:16:00.000-08:00

Not too much to say today. Just wanted to give a quick shout out to the best genre show going...Lost. Last week's supersized premier was about as jaw-droppingly awesome as I could have expected and tonight's, while Kate-centric, should move things along swimmingly.

Tons of questions, like what happened to Sayid? What's up with Desmond? Is he the constant, moving back and forth between timelines? Will we see Shannon? Well, that one's not too crucial but I'd definitely think it was super cool. I do wanna know what the hell's up with Walt after all these years of sweeping his storyline under the rug. Now's the time, people. Make it happen.

Anyway, for all you Losties out there, hope you enjoy tonight's ep as much as I.

D.A.

Simpsons Roundup!

2010-02-07T12:35:00.000-08:00

Hey now!

Time for another (quick) Simpsons Round-up.

Last week's was called "Million Dollar Maybe" and the synopsis goes as follows:

"Homer blows off Marge to buy a lottery ticket and winds up winning the million-dollar jackpot. Fearing how Marge will react if she finds out the reason Homer missed their date, Homer keeps his newly inherited fortune a secret and spoils his family with anonymous gifts. When Bart finds out, he and Homer spend the money like its going out of style, including buying front row tickets to see Coldplay in concert."

As you may have guessed, Coldplay was in the episode, at least frontman, Chris Martin, not sure about the other lads. I thought the stuff with the wedding toast was kinda corny, but used to great effect for an ending that actually made sense in connection to the beginning. Kudos. I guess we can add millionaire to the list of things Homer has been. Too bad it didn't last. Now that would have made an intereting arc. Hey, there's an idea. Why not try a multi-episode storyline, say three or four, just to shake up the monotony. At least make fun of the concept. I mean, it is the new television standard. I'm sure there's some fun tobe had at it's occasionally-conveluted expense, no? Anyway, back to the episode. To be honest, nothing but the resonably touching ending particularly stands out to me at the moment. It had some nice jokes. I enjoyed Bart manhandling Homer in the zero-grav airplane. Ditto for the groom at the wedding citing Season 2 Madmen as part of the special bond between him and his new blushing bride. Plus, I liked the subplot about Lisa introducing a video game, (a Simpsonized Nintendo Wii - I forget the joke name for it), into the retirement castle for Grandpa, Jasper, Old Jewish Man...and the rest. The nurses destroyed it when the old folks started regaining vigor and their jobs became too hard. Now there's some interesting satire. I mentioned the ending, which had Homer and MArge in a hotair ballon, performing their "Lets Call the Whole Thing Off" duet, which was sweet. It's not often one gets to hear the entire version of that particular classic. It kinda got me thinking about the final scene of the final Simpsons episode. At some point it will happen and I expect to see something fairly emotional, fairly poignant, fairly absured. Marge and Homer flying off in a ballon over Springfield might be interesting. Whatever it is, I know there'll be at least one tear in my eye.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Twelve

2010-02-03T13:59:00.000-08:00

Kay let's do this. As promised, here's Chapter Twelve comin' at ya.

–– Twelve ––

Seventeen miles west of Maplewood, at approximately 10:54 the following night, Susan Laterna made the worst mistake of her young life. Had it been any other night, she might’ve been home, or at her boyfriend’s, fooling around and going too far before settling in for some late night TV. Anywhere really, other than Newbury Park––
Heading deeper into the trees, her mind ran across the unpleasantness. It began that afternoon, around a quarter to two. School wasn’t much more than formality senior year. She attended class often enough, to avoid suspension, but little else. Still, most days, she probably would have been there. But not today. Today was a free day––Mr. Petalli had the flu. For as long as there were teenagers and high schools to house them, a substitute teacher for last period meant only one thing:
_____
“I’m going home.”
“What?” Adam Lipinski, who spent more time in the weight room than the classroom, sounded like a child tantruming in the toy department. “I thought you were coming over.”
“Petalli’s not here, Adam. You expect me to waste that?”
“So you’re not coming…” he pouted. Clearly, the boy had an attention problem––or perhaps he simply disliked the idea of her making a decision without his consent.
“Just cut with me,” she offered.
“You know I can’t do that. How the hell can I skip my own make-up exam?”
“Fine then, we’ll meet up after.” Adam appeared to gnaw on her thoughtful compromise; then, as though stumbling onto his most brilliant idea ever, (which could well have been true), unzipped his tattered backpack…
“Well, long as you’re going, take this with you…” His hand emerged with a Ziplock baggie half-full of ‘oregano.’ Susan sighed, grabbing it before anyone noticed.
She didn’t enjoy carrying such things around, particularly at school, where she was a ripe target for certain faculty members with major league chips on their shoulders. Nevertheless, she’d done so willingly, blinded by her love for him; or fear of losing him; this tactless, witless, hopeless young stud with more muscles than brain cells, (and with whom she’d grown quite accustomed to making her girlfriends jealous).
“Keep your cell on,” he instructed. “I’ll text you as soon as I’m done.”
* * *
There was just something about a bag of weed in front of a pothead. Susan would never have considered herself to be such, but sitting there in her parent’s basement with Dr. Phil blathering on about teenage eating disorders, it wasn’t long before she was off and rolling.
She did not make a habit of smoking alone. Half the fun, she found, was the company, wild thought flowing aimless through a smoky green tint. Hours later, she would think herself careless. How hard would it have been, after all, to pack it all neatly away? In the end, it would have cost a cool forty-five seconds. She’d give the world to have those seconds back.
No one was supposed to be home, she had reasoned; not at that hour. No one was ever home at that hour. But this time. This one and only time, a cell-phone battery sat idly in her father’s desk drawer.
_____
At present, she was coming up on some lights. And sounds. Yes. Faint sounds of the street. Of civilization! Her feet were exhausted; her mind, still clouded. But the man with the wire-rimmed glasses was still unaccounted for, so she pushed ever forward.
*
Derek “The Duke” Laterna pulled into the driveway at around 3:00. He was not accustomed to being home quite so early; not on a Saturday, let alone the middle of the week. The street was bare, with only a few stray cars by the roadsides, and it suddenly occurred to him just how accommodating his neighborhood was to would-be thieves.
Might be time to upgrade to Home Shield, he thought, locking his near-new black Lexus SUV as he clomped up the walk. Stickers might be just as good, though, he reconsidered. The Duke was a fairly high roller, after all; or had been, once upon a time––when the stakes weren’t quite so high––and he had a whole lot less to lose.
_____
“Say that again, Manny, I…I can’t…my phone’s dying, fuck!”
In his lower-middle years, old Duke was a player of a much different sort. ‘STOCKS, BONDS, TRADES AND TIPS––whatever your business or pleasure, old Duke had you covered. ‘A strait shooter.’ It said so right on his business card.
The whole battery debacle didn’t help his hand-made reputation one bit. It implied incompetence, or at best, shady tactics. John Wayne didn’t use slight of hand, or slick manipulation to get what he wanted. John Wayne shot from the hip. Nevertheless, it was he, Derek, who had let it run dry. And he, the always reliable and doubly-prepared broker of the year, (three years running), who had failed to keep his spare charged.
_____ The man had a strange feeling from the get-go. An odd aura was about; something in the air, suggesting it’d been breathed recently by a younger, pinker set of lungs. He had no proof, of course; but sharp instincts were as important in his risky line of work as a well-cut suit, clean fingernails and a firm handshake.
“Hello!” he called out, not sure what to expect. The house remained quiet. His mind went from eased, to puzzled, to downright pissed upon stumbling, quite literally, onto a black nylon bookbag left carelessly in the middle of the floor.
“Susan…” He couldn’t believe she cut class again. At this rate, she’d be lucky to graduate. “Susan, where the hell are you?” he shouted, opening the basement door; but no light came from her cozy little sub-hideaway. Perhaps she was in school after all. Perhaps she just decided to leave her…books…at home…
In his younger years––before the trappings of marriage and family swallowed him whole––The Duke was a gambler. Not just a gambler. The gambler. Kenny Rogers even wrote a song about him. Back when he was at school in California––a time of loose morals, wet pussy and endless possibility, he was well known in certain circles. His love for excess was every bit as legendary. Back then, he understood with perfect clarity the seductive potency of pure youth mixed with freedom. He smoked, drank, fucked, shot, snorted…and oh boy, did he play. Even now, at any casino in Vegas old enough to remember, there were those that would rank him hands down the best there ever was.
As he climbed the winding staircase, thoughts of those turbulent times gained momentum. He wasn’t much of a dweller. Life was what happened now. Everything else was hazy recollection or narrow speculation. For most gamblers, there were hot streaks and cold. Some called it luck; others, karma. But no matter the name, he was starting to sense the tides slowly shifting.
“Susan!” he called out again, his feet inching nearer toward her bedroom door. It was that boy, who’d set him onto this tirade of nostalgia, switching his track from numbers and NASDAQ to those oh-so-precious days of yore––so precious, in fact, he dared not taint their memory with over-pontification. Even now he could just see him, slapping his hands all over her; shoving his dirty little prick into every orifice…
Twenty years ago it would have been him with some other girl’s clueless father. And that, if for no other reason, was why he had to put a stop to it. The battery had all but left his anxious mind. It was that punk’s pimply face he saw now. The quiet only convinced him more of their lustful misdeeds and, with his anger reaching a critical boil, The Duke drew both barrels––
Only to find nothing worth shooting for. No boy. No girl. Nothing but––
*
Green. Patches of it peaked out from under the melting snow. Susan believed it her favorite time of year. Years ago, she might have thought different. To a child, summertime in Maplewood was the epitome of every carefree fantasy. But the older she got, the more she’d come to appreciate the poetry of mid-term.
An oncoming car released her from her chronic-haze. Still clutching the roach, she ducked toward the library. So stoned…she thought, unable to keep the world from swaying. The car flew past without incident.
She’d had her fair share of experience with pot, but most, if not all was at night, and usually indoors. It refreshed her to be out in the bright sunshine––very bright, she couldn’t help but notice. Her eyes began to tear from its harsh intrusion and she fought to keep them open. A whimsical noise startled her out of yet another day-dream. Her cell phone was belting out Grease’s ‘Summer Nights,’ obnoxiously enough to call her lame-taste into question. Retrieving the purple flip-phone from her coat pocket, she checked the display:
Expecting Adam; not realizing barely an hour had elapsed, and not even he could fail that fast. “Oh shit…” She noted the number. Was it even remotely possible? Could her mother have come home to find the exposed baggie? Or worse?
*
Her father waited one more ring before hanging up. He was furious. Not only was the girl dumb enough to get mixed up with brainless dicks, she was also a stoner–– and not a very sly one at that. The bag sat out in plain sight atop the nightstand, taunting him. Half of him wanted to smoke it. The other half wanted to flush it down the toilet.
Perhaps he was a hypocrite. Scratch that. Most definitely. He didn’t care. Susan could live a thousand years and not go around the block near as many times as old Derek in his legendary prime. There were things he could say; stories he could tell her that would send her screaming to the nearest detox clinic; if he weren’t so afraid to relive them.
Stop it! he contained himself. Stop it right now or you’ll regret it. There were some skeletons that belonged in the closet. Some that, if ever allowed to taste the sweet light of day, would destroy all that they touched. He could not help his past at any rate. Escape it––he’d been trying all his life. But strangely enough, he found that the more time distanced him from deeds long done, the harder it was to forget.
Goddammit, this isn’t about me. It’s about a young girl spinning out of control. But was that it? Was it really? Or was it simply his control from which she was slipping? It didn’t matter. As long as she lived under his roof–– He stopped himself. All in good in time, he thought. For now it would have to wait. He was still on the clock, after all; and nothing––not even ungrateful, delinquent daughters, came before priority one. Now where did I leave that damn battery?
*
Dead. Susan tried one last time, moving toward the sounds of faint traffic, and still nothing. She decided that if she lived through this, she would take her father’s unrelenting advice and never leave home without a spare battery again.
Behind her, a twig snapped and she spun with a reflex she did not know she possessed. Darkness. At best she could see maybe ten feet in front of her. It could well have been wind, or a squirrel within earshot. Likely, but not definite. For all she knew, the man could be watching her right now from behind his wire-rimmed glasses…
_____
If she’d gotten home just fifteen minutes earlier, she would have run into her father, who himself, sacrificed nearly twenty in the hopes of catching her in the act. She rounded the street corner cautiously, hoping to find her mother’s car in the driveway instead of ‘The Duke’s’ imposing SUV, but to her surprise, the asphalt appeared unimpeded.
She entered the house quietly just the same, resisting the urge to snack, and went strait upstairs. Someone had been there alright. And not just someone. She could smell the faint residue of her father’s detestable aftershave. Since when did he come home in the middle of the afternoon?
She was already fearing the worst by the time she reached her closed bedroom door. To the untrained eye, everything looked reasonably undisturbed. But to hers, (despite the noticeable redness), all was slightly askew. She caught another whiff of his powerful scent––the man even smelled intimidating––then caught sight of the note:
I want to talk to you.
The six little words sent a shockwave through her full body-buzz. There was no way on earth she was going to like what he had to say. The only advantage she had was time; and if that was correct, perhaps there would be a way to soften the inevitable blow.
She doubted quite strongly that anything short of unscheduled surgery would shake the broker of the year, (three years running), off his proverbial high horse. In theory, all she had to do was stay out of face-to-face range during his prime parenting hours. In the morning, he generally left a good hour before she woke up. And as it was, the man had a ridiculous morning ritual that could doubtfully accommodate her.
That left only evenings. Most of the time, the two scarcely talked at all. After dinner, she would retreat upstairs––or down––where everything essential to teenage survival lay close at hand. But he was no better. After dinner they were lucky to get a full sentence out of him before he disappeared behind the walls of his office. Since childhood, she’d often speculate about what went on behind that beige, spackled fortress.
Once when just was about nine or ten, she found his bottom left drawer unlocked for the first time ever and inside, sifted inquisitively through a stack of Club and Swank magazines as well as a mysterious glass vile filled with sugar. After that, he was never so careless again. Perhaps it was because he knew; sensed that the contents had been disturbed in some way, much as she had with her bedroom.
‘Summer Nights’ filled the tiny pink sanctuary and she reached for her cell phone––(a Christmas gift from The Duke, incidentally)––in lieu of quality time. Nothing to worry about this time, however. She recognized the number all too well, and welcomed it in the wake of the alternative:
“Did you pass?”
“Who the hell needs English anyway?” Adam muttered. His patronizing, downright rude tone hadn’t changed an iota. Nevertheless, she found herself strangely comforted by his oafish self-absorption. Better to spend the evening with him, she thought, engaged in one-way conversations and passable sex, then even ten minutes with her father, who, with one damaging look, could effortlessly unravel her fragile esteem.
“I’m sorry,” she offered. “I was just trying to be supportive.”
“Oh. So it’s supportive you’re shooting for, huh? Well, how’s about you bring some of that over here?” She was grateful to be on the phone so he could not see her eyes rolling.
“Sounds like a plan,” she replied, still a trifle under the influence.
“Hurry up,” he snapped, effectively killing any chance for a mood. “I’ve had a bad day and I could use a little herbal refreshment.” Oh, how romantic. “Hello…?”
“Yeah. Sorry, I’m…I’m coming...”
“Well don’t take too long, okay? Weed’s not all I’m jonesin’ for...” The phone was dying out, and Susan took it as divine bullshit-intervention.
“Alright, I’ll see you soon.” Her reception was fading...
“What?”
“I’M COMING!” she screamed, then hung up. Packing everything as it’d been before, Susan Laterna took one last look at her comfy, pink bedroom. I’ll be back tonight, she thought. After all the tension’s dies down, and old Duke’s just too tired to deal with me… But she wouldn’t. She would never see this room; this house; or anything else tied to her sheltered young life as long as she lived.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. And left.
* * *
“So what brings you out here?” Susan looked up. Dirty. Hungry. Cold. And most of all, dazed––a lingering side effect from a joint smoked far too early.
“I beg your pardon?” she mumbled. The stranger laughed, shifting his peculiar gaze ever so slightly from the dark road in front of him, then back in a flash.
“Well, do you make a habit of wondering the neighborhood at night or…is this just my lucky day…?” This time his eyes remained straight ahead. Susan looked him curiously in the profile. She was trying to decide whether that was innocent wordplay or something more sinister. “Cold?”
“What?” she blurted, nervous. Again she saw that smile; so impeccably calm; like a kind man on a slow Sunday drive. But there was more to it. This may have been a big mistake, she thought.
“Are you cold?” he clarified. “I could turn up the heat...”
“No. No thanks, I’m fine.” But she was anything but. This was the stuff of horror movies, and her hazy mind raced through all sorts of unsettling scenarios best left un-conjured.
“On my way home myself…” he said after some uncomfortable silence. “Just out visiting...” His words, while still a tad mysterious, seemed harmless enough now. Perhaps it was merely lingering paranoia. Still, her caution felt eerily justified. The man, for his part, did little to put her racing mind at ease. He just kept his eyes staring directly ahead. Those dark, empty eyes behind a clunky pair of wire-rimmed glasses…
“Visiting?” She tried to sound calm.
“Yup. House call. I’m in furnace repair,” he said. “As you might imagine, this here’s my busy time. Don’t normally make evening runs, but…well it’s cold out there…and this customer’s been loyal for near twenty-five years...”
“Awfully nice of you…” Her voice sounded smoother. In all likelihood, he was every bit on the level; just a kind citizen who saw someone by the side of the road; someone who needed help. So he stopped. What was it her father always said? ‘Nine times outta ten the simplest explanation’s the one to bet on...’ Yeah. This explanation was simple enough. But what about time number ten?
“…and, well, far be it from me to turn my back on a man in need…” The stranger was finishing his thought just in time for her to tune back in. “No, sir, not me…not how I was raised…” He shuffled. “Guess it also applies to um…women...” Wait a minute. What was that? Was it her imagination, or had the mysterious Samaritan looked her up and down when he thought she hadn’t noticed? “Speaking of which…you still haven’t answered my question, hon...” Question? Was there a question?
“Pardon?” It took her a moment to sort through her anxiety. It felt more like an hour. “Oh. I, um…got into a little fight with my, um…boyfriend...” she mumbled.
Again, the driver smiled, almost undetectable, as though he did not wish her to see. “Boyfriend, huh? So was it a ‘fight’ fight or an argument-like? He didn’t––”
“No. No, nothing like that. Just a…friendly little…disagreement…”
“A lovers quarrel, eh? Well I’m not surprised. A pretty little thing like you could sure make a man’s blood boil over.” As hard as she tried, Susan could not seem to steer the conversation. Something was happening inside her; something beyond mere paranoia; beyond irrational panic. This was intuition.
“We’re coming up on my neighborhood,” she lied. “I’d just as soon not have my father see a strange car drop me off. You can let me out here.”
“Somethin’ I said, honey? What’s a matter, don’t like my company?”
“It’s fine,” she said, life draining out of her. “I really do appreciate the lift but…”
“I don’t see any houses around here. Sure you’re not just tryin to get rid’a me?”
“Please,” she managed. “We’re close enough. I can walk the rest of the way.”
“Careful now. “I’m libel to take offence.”
“My father knows I’m out here,” she blurted. “He’s waiting...”
“Oh I’ll just bet he is. Who wouldn’t be? I sure know I’ve been. Hell, if I was your daddy, don’t think I’d ever let you outta my sight...”
A single tear; one that she’d been struggling to suppress for the last quarter-mile, escaped down her flustered cheek. She wanted to let it out. All of it. She wanted to scream for all to hear, but at the same time, did not intend to award him the satisfaction.
The driver took notice. “Mmm, yummi. Now here comes the fear. That part’s always my favorite. I’m hopin’ to see more tears, though…think maybe you can…?” For the first time since she’d so stupidly gotten into his rusty old car, the stranger turned his head ninety degrees and looked directly at her; almost…in her… “Listen to me,” he said. “I’m like a kid at Christmas. Patience, that there’s the name of the game. ‘Sides, I’m sure there’ll be plenty’a tears to come soon enough.” Then he laughed a cruel, sadistic laugh.
Susan had never known true terror. Not with every card on the table, until that very moment. It seemed to entice him all the more. But with all his sly mannerisms, and subtle expressions…he had not noticed…what she was doing…
“You know, I think you girls just get prettier and prettier with time. Yes, sir, I’m not ashamed to say it…” On her right, she could see the outskirts of Newbury Park whizzing by. That might be okay, she thought. Not as good as a row of houses lighting up the night, but sufficient. She had her cell after all; (low battery not withstanding). “But who are you kidding anyhow, sweat pea?” The voice was like a distant echo. She was thinking now; fighting her crumbling synapses and mental malaise; fighting for her life. And all the while, her trembling fingers fumbled away inside her jacket... “Girls like you––sooner or later, you’ve all got it comin.’ Acting all ‘look at me’ and defiant. Swimming with bloody gums in shark-infested waters...”
Her fingers searched harder. And finally, just as she’d all but given up hope of a happy ending… “Oh now what’s a matter? You were being so chatty. Don’t tell me the ol’ cat’s got your cute little––” In a flash, she grasped what she’d been fishing for; a once-opened, once-sprayed can of mace disguised as Binacca; (another gift from dear old Dad, to which she’d rolled her eyes in reluctance). She had no idea whether it would work or, more importantly, whether her own reflexes would meet the challenge in their current condition. But it was this or nothing. And now or never.
“Ahh! Goddam BITCH!” Success. Her surprisingly steady hand performed beautifully under unusual pressure. Good to know, she thought; for next time. And then, in another moment of divine inspiration, she did what she had only seen in movies, with no idea whether it would work. The man was in agony, forced to remove the ugly pair of glasses, which gave his otherwise bland face its only personality, rubbing his tearing eyes fiercely with one hand, clutching the wheel with the other.
The car, now out of control, screeched to a near-stop as she gripped the hand-brake and pulled with all her tiny might. The blinded stranger who, to her relief, did not want to die himself, hit the brake and finished what she’d started.
“You just bought yourself a very painful exit, little girl,” he fumbled on, trying not to relinquish control of the twisted situation. With unyielding determination, his hand rubbed and rubbed his swollen eyes under his glasses. The other was off the wheel, swatting the air beside him in a feeble attempt to grab her…
But Susan was in the driver’s seat now––(metaphorically) ––and, with fresh optimism, she unclicked her seatbelt and kicked the passenger door until it burst open–– She had only a dozen seconds at most to catch her breath and assess her desolate surroundings... ‘Operation Survival’ was now into phase two.
Her legs were unfortunately much shakier than her hands as she hobbled towards the dark woods, looking back only once; just long enough to see the man reattach his glasses and spill out of the vehicle…
_____
The sounds of traffic; a clearing in the woods were upon her at last. And Susan moved steadily toward it. Her heart began to beat slower. Only moments before, she was nearly convinced it would thump right out of her chest. Her mind’s dull edges were sharpening too, and the finer details of her chilly surroundings came slowly into focus...
The cars were much closer. Almost on top of her. So close in fact, she could make out the song snippet blasting from some young punk’s radio as he zoomed by. It was over. A few dozen steps forward and she would be among people. All she had to do was flag someone down. If necessary, she was prepared to step into oncoming traffic…
The beeping noise caught her by understated surprise–– It took a second to convince her it wasn’t just in her head. But there it was again; choppy. The battery, it seemed, while nearly drained, was not quite dead after all. What to do…
Just a little further. ‘Summer lovin. Had me a blast…’ The tune cut through her bulky coat pocket, bouncing off every snowy stone and twig. Shut the fuck up, she pleaded. Just a few more steps… ‘Summer lovin. Happened so fast…’ A breeze flew across her face, and the phone beeped again. Without thinking, she pulled it from her coat just to––
“There’s a good girl...” A cold voice panted into her quivering ear. It was no hallucination. A hand slapped sharply over her mouth, muffling her spiritless scream. The phone fell hard to the ground, sending the mostly-dead battery off in a separate direction. “Now we’re gonna have us some fun, aren’t we…?” he said, licking the back of her sweaty neck… “Nearly forgot how rewarding a good chase can be…”
With one final burst of panic, she swung an arm wildly and slapped at his unseen face. Something, which she could not see, snapped neatly free and fell listlessly to the ground. His grip, nonetheless, did not waver; only tightened; his swift, panting breath all over her soft, exposed skin. It was the last thing she would ever feel––
before the world as she knew it, fell forever in darkness.

One of my all-time faves, I must say. One more chapter to go before Volume One is complete. It's a long one. But first, I've got more blogging to get to. I must get this Lost-gasm off my chest--next time.

D.A.

Canadian Voices

2010-02-01T14:12:00.000-08:00

I know it's been a while but I've been kinda busy working on a new short story. It's called, The Red Maple Leaf, and its written from the point of view of a little boy who lost his mother in Afghanistan. I've been working on it for some time now, trying to get it ready for an anthology book called Canadian Voices, Volume Two. The book is being put out by Bookland Press, a Canadian publisher who had tremendous success a couple years back with Canadian Voices, Volume One. Both books are designed to showcase up-and-coming Canadian writers with a diverse selection of short stories, poetry and novel excerpts. I urge you to check it out.

http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Canadian-Voices-Volume-One-Anthology-Canadian-Anthology/9780978439552-item.html

Anyway, I got my story in late last night. It turned out pretty well, (I hope). Either way, it was a blast to write, a real challenge and if, for whatever reason, it doesn't quite work for this publisher, I'll be sure to shop it around someplace else. (And post it up here, of course).

Don't panic.
Regular blogging should be getting back to normal now.

Coming soon:

The long-awaited Chapter Twelve of my momumental horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (only two more to go, people). Plus, a new exciting installment of Simpsons Roundup!, and 'What Am I reading?'

See you soon.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Eleven

2010-01-22T13:46:00.000-08:00

Now we're getting down to the nitty gritty. I don't know what that means but it sounded good in my head. Must remember to get that thing fixed. Anyhoo, here's Chapter Eleven of my mondo-epic, An Axis Oblique. Only two more chapters to go after this one. Then your free taste is cut-off - chicka! Damn, I wouldv'e made a kick-ass drug-dealer. Never too late, I suppose. Let's see how this writing thing pans out first.

–– Eleven ––

“––whatever the heck you want to see, Harold, I just don’t care anymore…” Brenda’s nauseating drone went on and on…and on… “…a perfectly good Starbucks across the street and you have to opt for some dingy coffee shop, just so you can save a few lousy pennies…” The words stung like spikes in his temples as the intolerable glare through the filthy window took ample care of his retina. “…and then, instead of just admitting you’re too cheap to shell out for two venti peppermint mocha-chinos, you go off on some tangent about malnourished children picking beans in South America for four and a half cents an hour, I mean really…” In search of relief, he pivoted his balding, bulbous head every which way but round; his always-nervous mind threatening to give in to his much-too-fragile senses…
And that’s when he saw it.
“Harold, are you even listening to me?” Brenda’s nasally squawk morphed into one long, androgynous humm… “Harold? Harold!!? What is the matter with you?”
“Do you believe in fate, Brenda?” he whispered, staring gapingly past her.
Brenda Blylevin, his upper-middle-aged consort with premature liver-spots and freshly-touched cherry roots, pulled at her powder-blue sweater; (the one she considered a miraculous alternative to a sensible diet and exercise). “Fate?” she cackled, like he’d just pinched her padded rump. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about destiny. The mysterious convergence of exactly the right place at exactly the right…” Harold looked up at his companion of two and two-third years. She stared into his giddy round eyes as though he’d just put a bullet into her precious Yorkshire terrier.
The man sat a mere thirty feet away, nursing a paper cup of coffee whilst engaged in pleasant conversation with a plain-looking young girl on the right side of pretty. He was cleaned up some; different shirt; perhaps even a shave or two in between…but short of being a cruel figment of his own paranoid imagination, there was no mistaking that grinning fool for the angry schizophrenic who stuck a gun in his grumbling belly and carved a scarcely detectable souvenir into his chafing lower lip. “I think, darling, I may have just stumbled onto mine...”
Brenda continued to stare him down with bitter contempt; then at last, turned her head toward the unseemly couple. “Are you…are you gawking at that girl right in front of me?” she asked accusingly. Poor pathetic Brenda; forever doomed to miss the point.
“Keep your voice down.” He shushed her. “I’m not gawking at her, I’m gawking at…” He huffed. “I’m not gawking, okay? I’m observing…”
“Oh is that what you call it? Well she’s old enough to be your––”
“Would you forget about the goddamed girl,” he bellowed. “I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Brenda kept staring, desperately trying to piece this together.
“Stop staring,” he blurted a bit harsher than intended; a good thing nonetheless, for no sooner had her shifty pupils bounced back to him, did the man take superficial notice. Harold looked away. Surely he must recognize me, he thought. But to his mild surprise, and utter confusion, the man looked right at Harold Prescott, perhaps with a hint of faint recognition, but nothing more––then returned to his own frivolous flirtations.
“I…don’t believe it...” he muttered.
“Harold, if you don’t tell me what all this is about, I swear I’m going to––”
“The man…” he said calmly. “That man, sitting right over there with the annoying little smirk on his face…he’s the one I told you about…” The clueless woman continued to regard him with an open jaw, as though he were speaking Chinese. “Remember, that policeman I told you about? The one with the split personality? Not to mention small arsenal tucked away in that Oldsmobile rust-bucket…”
“Oh, him!” she squealed, relieved to finally be let in on the big mystery. “Where?” Her gaze shifted back to the mismatched couple. Harold rolled his eyes. “Certainly doesn’t look all that menacing. He doesn’t even look like a police officer…”
“Oh just be quiet, Brenda, don’t you think I know the man who, not two days ago, jammed a gun into my ribs and threatened to put my lights out?”
“Okay, okay, calm down, I believe you,” she said––then managed to slip an ‘if you say so’ under her condescending coffee breath. “Wait, you’re not thinking of…”
For a split second, he found himself actually considering the giddy prospect of confrontation. Surely this would be an ideal place; a public establishment, broad daylight, plenty of witnesses… “No. No, of course not. The man is unstable, I told you. There’s no telling what he might––” He stopped.
Just what pray-tell was he planning to do? He’d been so content simply to have this upper hand; to watch without being watched in return, actual action very nearly escaped him. What a waste it would be.
“I’m gonna get his plate number,” he decided.
“His––? Oh, Harold, no. You said so yourself, the man is dangerous.”
“I can’t let this slip through my fingers,” he said, pouring through his jacket. “Now where in the hell did I––Brenda, do you have a pen in that purse of yours?”
The woman returned to her favorite ‘you’ve completely lost your gutless little mind,’ expression, then began shuffling through her gigantic ‘bubbie-purse.’ “Oh my dear Lord...” she sighed. Harold sat impatiently across from her, narrowly resisting the urge to snap his restless fingers; one eye fixed firmly on the couple in the corner…
“Hold on, I’m looking…” A ruthless frustration came over him before her powder-blue sleeve finally emerged with a sterling silver Cross pen.
“Okay,” he began, snatching it out of her hand and scrambling for a piece of napkin. “I’m gonna slip out discretely and find that piece of shit car of his while you keep an eye on––” But before he could finish, his window, opened barely a crack as it was, began once again, to marginally close…
The man and his young companion were shuffling into their respective coats and exchanging mindless pleasantries. Each had a telling look in their eye, as though in on some delicious conspiracy. Harold was sick to his stomach––and envious as hell. Some guys had all the luck, he thought…and nice guys finished last.
“They’re leaving...” said Brenda with a sigh of relief. “I think it’s for the best, Harold.” But Harold was barely listening. The smarmy stranger formed a cock-eyed smile. For a split second, his eyes danced in Harold’s cold direction yet again. But this time, feeling especially brave, Harold did not look away. That’s right, you bastard. I know exactly who you are; what you are. You can treat me like just another face in the crowd, but we both know the sorted truth. The man held his stare a half-second longer.
“Just forget it, Harold,” she added, supportive as ever. Harold hardly heard; his mind a million miles away as all life shifted into slow motion...
He watched the happy couple stroll across the shop floor, past their tacky booth and out the greasy glass door. He took in every feature; every nuance of the man’s chiseled face. He would not forget it, as Brenda had so callously suggested. Not as long as he lived. Instead he would remember––with every last ounce of his weary being.
–––––––––––––––
Keith held the door for his newest witness/companion/conquest. She might just prove indispensable. On the other hand, (though he would not have shared it with her), her info was most likely useless. He knew all too well that this womanizing dentist’s untimely demise was probably connected––if not directly caused by the questionable actions of the second victim that morning––young Sonny Duval, (or Duvaliente); a most shady individual at the very least. And at most…
Just get back to the girl, you dolt…
_____
“Well, I suppose I could…hold off on my plans for now…if you really think I might be of use…” she had taunted, batting her long wistful lashes.
And the ‘understatement of the year’ award goes to…
“Cynthia, I don’t want you to do anything that would make you uncomfortable. And I’m certainly not trying to back you into a corner…” Yet. “I mean, if your heart’s set on putting this town far behind you, Hell, I might just pack a bag and go with you...” Again she laughed. Good God, what a laugh. I wonder how she screams… “It’s just that my conversations with Mrs. McAllister have proved less than forthcoming…”
“Say no more,” she replied, goofy smile still firmly in place.
_____
And it was still there now, in fact. He and the girl traded glances like a couple of horny teenagers as he walked her to her Honda Accord. “Well, guess this is it,” he said sourly. The girl fumbled casually with her car keys before unlocking and shuffling inside. She sat for a second, looking up at him like an eager kitty waiting for her saucer of milk. Keith strategically placed an arm to make it more deliberate of her to break their connection. The impersonal, electronic reminder sang incessantly to indicate the door was not only ajar––but still wide open––in case she had something more to say.
“Guess so,” was all that she did––at first. “Perhaps I should get your number...” Keith raised a brow. “I mean to your office. As soon as I’m, you know, settled. That way you can contact me if you find yourself…in need…” Again he smiled innocently. The girl was blushing now, and he wondered whether she could tell how much he liked it.
“Absolutely.” He played along, fishing for his wallet. Thumbing through the leather slots in search of an extra business card, he flipped nonchalantly past a stack of useless clutter; among which, a laminated driver’s license with a stranger’s face in the center. In the blink between it and the next trivial item, he wondered how he’d come into its possession––and why the face seemed so familiar. At last he came out with the black disposable Bic he kept on hand for just such emergencies.
“This has all my work-related contact information,” he said, scribbling something on the back. “And this is my home number, in case you…” He looked into her stunning brown eyes, “…need it for any reason. Any reason at all.”
She took it.
“Thank you,” she said with a grin that would not leave her face. “Guess in the meantime I’ll try to find a motel nearby, or something…”
Can you say ‘putty’…?
The whole thing couldn’t have gone smoother, he thought with a healthy streak of manly pride as he watched her faded sedan roll slowly out of the parking lot and toward the busy intersection. I can’t wait for next time, a shady voice pronounced deep from within…or perhaps, not so deep as he liked to believe.
A gentle breeze nuzzled his tingling cheek and he closed his eyes to better soak it in. For the first time in years, he felt glad for things like murder, mayhem and darkness. Not because they were good things, of course. In all his years in law enforcement, they’d driven him to unspeakable lengths, dragging him down to levels he could never have foreseen possible to go. But now, those same miserable, despicable forces of nature had led him to her––Cynthia Caldwell––the light at the end of this bloody long tunnel.
The pleasing warmth of winter sunshine infiltrated his senses. He marveled at all that lay in front of him; baffled by how little he’d managed to see before. A peculiar sensation overwhelmed him all of a sudden as he openly stared into the full, blazing sun––similar perhaps, to deja-vu, but not nearly so dismissible. There were other eyes just as intently glued to this beautiful ball of bubbling fire…thousands, he just knew. In this insignificant instance, several independent natures were converging into one; a singular flow of consciousness, from which an entire legion of thought-fueled inertia propelled. Good gravy, when the heck did you become such a tree-hugger…? The uninvited presence reached out from beyond its unspeakable void to slap him silly.
HONK!!! Keith returned just in time to incur the wrath of some sour-faced soccer-mom at the throne of a royal-blue Caravan. It seemed he so happened to be standing in the center of a space. The driver flashed him an angry grimace, as if untouchable inside her fiberglass fortress. It was then that he noticed the handicapped permit resting on the dash and looked swiftly down to a similar symbol, half-covered in slushy rock-salt.
You’re goddamned lucky, lady. If not for the day I’m having I’d bleed you right to the bone and feed on your earlobes for supper… Keith stepped aside with angry eyes: That’s right, bitch. Not gonna be inside that car forever… The woman avoided his stare altogether as she pulled into the coveted space, which seemed to her now, not nearly so important.
She took her sweet time. Keith’s feet remained planted, daring her to try her luck. But the once-aggressive woman could not get out of his heavy sight fast enough. She walked quickly past, hands in her pockets and eyes strait ahead. Keith let her go, as the lion sometimes did with the antelope when his head was tired and his belly full.
In truth, he got off on the fear; absorbed its nourishing energy. The seductive power lifted him over these foul, wretched creatures, who liked to talk a big game, but when push came to shove, typically fell over without incident. The blissful rush accompanied him to his waiting Supreme, just a few spaces down, and seemed somehow to gain potency over the long ride home.
* * *
He could hear the phone as he fumbled with his key––before ceasing abruptly––
The ID screen displayed only a blank space where a number should be. He thought nothing of it, much too preoccupied. The familiar apartment was unusually cold, prompting him to raise the thermostat a few degrees before tending to his eager voice mail:
“Detective Merrimac, this is Arthur Davenport calling on behalf of my client, Hartley Beckonsworth.” Keith barely listened, taking in his surroundings. “Please note that from now on, I, and not Mr. Beckonsworth himself, will be handling all matters, big and small, pertaining to he and/or any members of his family, just so there’s no further misunderstanding. I can be reached in my office Monday through Saturday until five. The number is…”
Keith tucked the obnoxious voice to the back of his mind. Meredith Beckonsworth. Why did that name send a chill down his spine? No, not quite a chill–– More of…a thrill... He shrugged off the nagging sensation with an involuntary shudder.
Two more calls followed: The first, a recording, from some woman congratulating him on his pre-approved Classic Visa, for which he had even less patience. Sexy voice, though... The thought brought him back to Ms. Beckonsworth. Meredith… Melina… Cynthia… Was his mind ever tired.
The next call was the hang-up he’d so narrowly missed. The dial tone filled the room and he sighed in disgust, crossing the hardwood. Does it have to be so hot in here…? He stopped at the thermostat and nudged the room down a couple degrees. His feet crossed the cold kitchen tile and the name flashed again inside his head––Meredith…
_____
Juanita Duvaliente brought the name up as they sipped strong coffee in her kitchen that slight, somber evening. “I don’t know if it will bear any relevance at all but…” Her voice trailed off, allowing her thoughts to catch up. “When Sonny was in school; in college, about seven or eight years ago, there was a girl...” Again she stopped talking. But Keith understood well enough.
She’d never met the young lady, but Sonny had mentioned her––once. At the time, she’d thought nothing of it. But after that strange call from the officer in Willimantic; and those stories on the news, other thoughts had been shamefully entertained.
_____
Mere hours before his progressive rendezvous with sweet Cynthia, he’d placed a call to the father of said girl, last name Beckonsworth, couldn’t be bluer blood, in the unlikely hope he might shed some light on her fresh-faced college suitor, Sonny Duval––particularly his extracurricular activities. A long shot, he knew it. Man’s gotta start somewhere…
CRASH––!!!
The jar of pickles slipped out of his hand and into pieces––
“What the Hell’s a’matter with me?” he mumbled, going for a mop and dustpan.
He had the mess cleaned in no time. In fact, he had little memory at all; only brief flashes. It was almost as though he’d retreated to the back of his mind for a bit. Yes, that was it. But, no. Not retreated exactly. More like…pushed…
A sudden shiver ran through him, and he wondered why it was so cold in there.
Sure someone didn’t just walk across your grave…? There it was again. A thought, which seemed to come, not from his own consciousness, but somewhere deeper down.
At the thermostat, he experienced an odd bout of deja-vu. The needle remained where it had been all day, and yet he was certain he’d raised it. Enough, he scolded himself, and notched it up a few more degrees.
Nothing had changed in his refrigerator. The shelves were bare as ever; even moreso without the pickles. The freezer offered little else. A near-empty drum of Ben and Jerry’s; a few frozen dinners; fish sticks; and a stack of hamburger patties wrapped in foil. Before he could think, his hand reached out and snatched the nearest Hungry Man.
Perhaps, had he more mind for protein, he might just have come across the hearty mystery meal, tucked conspicuously behind all those frozen hamburgers. It too was wrapped in tinfoil and, when the time was just right, would taste heavenly. Smothered in my own secret sauce… the voice whispered softly…careful not to disturb its gracious host.

Stay tuned for a new semi-regular feature I like to call, "What Am I Reading?" Should be good for a few laughs, (I hope), plus maybe even a smidge of insight into what I choose to read and how it influences my wrting at the time. Trust me, it sounds more complicated than it is. Just thought it might give me something to write about, as well as impart a few of my --achem!-- techniques on all of you wanna-be-writers out there, (myself not entirely exluded).

Till we meet again.
Stay literate, my friends. And drink plenty of fluids.

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up!

2010-01-20T13:15:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been a bit over a week now and I still haven't got a damn review up for The Simpsons 450th. Well, not really a review, I suppose. More of a round-up.

The episode, entitled,"Once Upon A Time in Springfield," was reasonably solid, (for a 21 year old show). Like many of their gems, this one was Krusty-centric and featured a surprisingly-good guest stint from Anne Hathaway. Here's the official synopsis:

In the landmark 450th episode of THE SIMPSONS, Krusty is approached by two network executives who want to bring on female co-star, Princess Penelope, to increase the show's female demographic. The onstage and behind-the-scenes rapport between Krusty and Princess Penelope grows and before long, Krusty asks for his co-star's hand in marriage. Meanwhile, when Mr. Burns puts a stop to the free donusts at the plant to cut costs, Homer, Lenny and Carl decide to meet with a head-hunter who speacializes in nuclear workers and opens their eyes to opportunities free of draconion donut-cutting measures.

Couldn't have put it much better myself. Guess I'll just highlight a few noteworthy nuggets that stuck in my funny bone.

Upon seeing Princess Penelope for the first time, 'girling up' the Krusty Show, Millhouse remarks: "First girls ruin Sex in the City, now this."

Famed cartoonist extraordinaire, Glen Larson, (The Far Side), guest voices as himself, hired to work in the Cap City Nuclear Plant to whip up fresh cartoons for emplyees to stick on their wall, (and not get).

One hot and heavy Hollywood romance is referred to as, "QueenLatifaRod."
Can you guess the happy couple?

At Krusty's wedding, featuring guest voice, Jackie Mason as, (who else?), Krusty's long-suffering father, Rabbi Haiman Krustofski, Bart wonders where Mr. Teenie is, seeing as he should be Krusty's ring-bearer. Krusty explains he locked him in the Torah room till the wedding was over. We then see Mr. Teenie wreaking havoc on every chosen-person's favourite holy book. (Mmm, that's good sacralige!)

In a last-ditch effort to convince Princess Penelope not to go through with the wedding, Bart pulls out Krusty's first wife, a chain-smoking hippie, (whose name I don't remember), and former catwoman, Ertha Kitt, who is voiced by herself, (apparently). It sure sounded like an impression.
All in all, an episode worthy of syndication, where constant repetition and, perhaps, (illicit drug use), will cement it the title of classic Simpsons gold! Bravo, guys. And thanks for all the laughs.

Immediately after the episode, Fox broadcast an hour-long (psuedo) documentary in honor of The Simpsons 20th anniversary. The special, entitled, "The Simpsons 20th Anniversary Special - In 3D! - On Ice!" was hosted by Morgan Spurlock, of "Supersize Me" fame and was a nice little tribute, though I personally could have used a little more meat. All that aside, it was fun to watch people like, Dan Rather, Mike Judge, Seth McFarlane, (yes, even him), Matt Stone and Trey Parker, and so many more recount their favourite Simpsons moments, or at least stuff they admire about the show.
Like I said, the special was a bit light on analysis and heavy on sentiment, not that I particularly mind that. I just think it's high time somebody with some teeth came out with a real hard look at The Simpsons and it's massive, though largely uncredited impact on, not only the landscape of contemporary TV, but also society in general.
There was some of that, I suppose, by not much. One such example might be Spurlock's visit to a real live nuclear power plant, as well as a brave expedition to uncover the show's most devoted nutjob - I mean, fan. (Hello, kettle? It's me, Pot. Um, yeah, you're black). There was also an ammusing little rant from a representative of the Catholic Church or anti-defammation league or whatever. To be honest, I don't think it was all that serious.
In short, I love The Simpons with all my heart. Always have. Always will. That said, I can't help but think the best thing for it now would be to rest. I still laugh. (At this point, its ingrained in my DNA - damn, I'm gonna have lucky kids), but I truly believe what the show would benefit from most is to be missed. Then, perhaps, in a couple years or so, come out with a new product. Another movie? Maybe. Personally, I'd love to see Mr. Burns as the villain - or Sideshow Bob! Maybe even a series of well-spaced DVD/Blue-Ray adventures. This way, the creative juices, and talent, are given the chance to recharge.
Just my two cents. One thing's for certain. Whether still in production or in memory only, The Simpsons legend will live forever!

Thank God for that.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Nine

2010-01-11T14:28:00.000-08:00

Hold onto your hats, kids. Here comes Chapter Nine!

–– Nine ––
January 5, 9:18

“Where are you going?” Nicky whined, as though thoroughly entitled to a full explanation.
“Nowhere special,” Cynthia softly replied. “I just need to get away for awhile.” It was strange for her, being back in that kitchen. So much in it reminded her of Henry.
“But why?” He persisted.
“Honey, could you give us a moment alone please?” His mother tried to alleviate the pressure. For a moment, it seemed as though he had no intention of complying––until in a huff, he stomped off with bitter feet.
“I hate to have to do this to him.” She sighed. “He’s been through so much in such a short time. But that’s exactly why it’s the perfect––I mean, better he hate me than––”
“Me?” The woman must have known it was where she was headed. “With all due respect, Cynthia, it’d be a flat out mistake to make this about me or anyone else. If it’s a fresh start you’re after, do it for yourself. I can handle my own affairs just fine.”
“I didn’t mean…” She began backtracking, then thought better of it. “I’m sorry.”
The woman was looking at her now, much like a stuffy psychiatrist would a juicy fixer-upper sprawled out on her couch. “You mind if I ask you a question?” she asked, (which, technically counted as one). “Why did you come here?”
Cynthia looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
“To Maplewood,” she clarified. “What exactly were you looking for?” The question caught her off guard and she stood frozen for a moment.
“Who says I’m looking for anything?”
The woman raised her brow. “My dear, everybody’s looking for something. I just naturally assumed you had a reason.”
Cynthia held true to her naiveté. Of course she had a reason. She had thousands. Leaving home had, in fact, been the one truly adult decision she’d seen through thus far in an entirely self-indulgent existence. She said none of this out loud, of course. Heaven forbid.
“You know what?” Mrs. McAllister broke in at last. “Never mind. Your reasons are your own business,” and proceeded to empty the dishwasher.
Cynthia wanted to reply. She’d seen a new side to Henry’s nagging other-half these last two weeks; one far more palatable. She didn’t want to impede the woman’s gradual de-clawing with more cold silence. Nevertheless, she had no real response.
“How’s everything with Patrick?” She changed the subject instead.
“Oh I’d say about as inconclusive as ever.” Her tone was considerably lighter. “If only that one had half the vocal capacity of his brother, there’d be no mistaking his road to recovery…or progression into…God only knows…”
“I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” Cynthia offered, and stood up. “Anyway, I guess I’d…better be…”
Going. Yes, it was that time indeed. Just like that, she found herself back at the beginning. She had no destination when she set out for what would eventually become Maplewood. She’d just sort of ended up there. Wonder where we’ll end up this time… she mused silently. One thing was certain. Her aim would be a whole lot higher.
–––––––––––––––
Come on baby light my fire…
The chill was like something out of Dostoevsky.
“Hey I’m a person too, man. Least you can do is acknowledge…”
Keith Merrimac looked up. The young man in jet-black eyeliner stood shivering with a soggy cigarette hanging out of his pierced black lips, then moved on to the next nearest nicotine junkie.
It suited him just fine. He was not in the habit of doing favors for pissy street punks on his best days; let alone this freezing motherfucker. What disturbed him was the curious fact he had not even noticed the kid standing there for almost a full minute. By itself, that might not have seemed so unsettling, except…it wasn’t the first such occurrence.
Sounds like someone’s losing his mind…
And there it was again.
He could not quite put his finger on it, but every so often, he felt, or rather…heard…something––someone; thinking thoughts that were not his own…
Or were they?
Real existential stuff there, Sheriff. Not too late to become a philosopher. Look alive first; got yourself a stray kitty at ten o-four…
The vaguely familiar Accord pulled into visitor parking and, after about a half a minute, out stepped the girl with a featured role in his most recent fantasies. Cynthia, the McAllister nanny with the mischievous brown eyes and lightly-streaked hair was slowly approaching. Well what have we here? But, as he stood there in the shallow cold, he knew far better than to look a sumptuous gift horse in her beautiful mouth.
“Hello there.” He stopped her. At first, she swiftly looked him over, confused… “Hi,” she said with measured unease. “Detective…”
“Merrimac. Keith.” License to kill… “Cynthia, right? From the…” She nodded in slow recognition. “Something I can––?”
“Hmm? No. No, not…I mean…yes…” She took a breath. “I’m not really sure, to be completely honest,” she said. “I’ve got some…information…I thought maybe...”
Oh? “What kind of information?”
“Well I don’t…it’s about Henry––Dr. McAllister…?”
Keith could barely contain himself. Her soft, pallid skin looked so warm and inviting. It was all he could do not to reach out and––easy, big fella. They all put their tampons in one wing at a time… “Something you couldn’t disclose before?”
“Well no, it’s not…I just…I mean, I’m sure it’s not even relevant to…” Clearly she was struggling with something. “I was hoping that maybe his wife would have said something by now. But, since I’m kind of on my way out of town for awhile…not exactly sure when I’ll be back…if I’ll be back…”
“Alright.” He put out his cigarette. “How bout we talk inside? Or better yet, there’s a coffee shop right around the corner, if you’d rather someplace...a little less formal…” Her eyes were onto him. He’d seen that look a thousand times before. So practically, had every man…and something about them said loudly and distinctively-clear there was just no way in Hell she was ever going to fall for––
“Okay, sure.”
Keith smiled. “Great. Just let me run upstairs and grab my notebook…”

Was this really going to be all business?
The question dogged him all the way up to his office and then back down again. On his way, he managed a glimpse of her checking hair and make-up in the scratchy plaque bolted into the aging brown brick.
Go get’em, tiger…
He intended to.
*
“So do you come here often?” she asked off a steaming hot sip.
The detective restrained a chuckle. “I think that’s supposed to be my line.”
“What? No, I didn’t mean…I meant to conduct interviews. For your job?”
“Oh. Oh yes. Well…” he thought about it. “No, not...” and settled on: “Sometimes.” Cynthia smiled again. When at first, he’d suggested the coffee shop, she was somewhat taken aback, but decided to accept solely on faith. If you couldn’t trust a cop, after all… But now that they were actually here, complete with nervous looks and sweaty palms, she had no doubt that this ‘Detective Merrimac’ had more than coffee on his mind.
“So, how do you wanna do this?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You did say something about the McAllister case, didn’t you? I’m all ears…”
“Oh no, not…exactly. It’s actually more about Henry himself. You know, his, um…character…” Cynthia stopped, unsure of how to continue.
Was she really going to do this?
The detective was waiting, looking her dead in the eyes.
Forgive me, Henry...
*
Keith used the next twenty minutes to take it all in. There was gossip awhile back concerning the Todd girl; the cold, empty expression on his face the day of her funeral, but he wouldn’t have guessed it by looking. Sure there were suspicions. Even assumptions. But infidelity was not murder.
“Am I to assume then, that you and Henry were, um…?”
“What? Oh no. No, no, no, we were just friends...” And for a fraction of a second, he detected a wisp of regret in her defensiveness. “Henry never even made a pass at me…” Her eyes shifted down to her coffee.
Hook...
“Find that pretty hard to believe,” he said, recognizing a window when he saw one. When it came to the ladies, he was no slouch himself. The girl tilted her head slightly askew and met his heavy gaze for only an instant…then smiled shyly…
Line…
*
And that was more or less how it began. All he really had to say. Cynthia Bernice Caldwell, vulnerable, angry, consumed with confusion, frustration and most of all loss…was lost herself. In earnest, she hadn’t been fishing for a compliment. She really didn’t have to. This one just jumped in the boat. And, for reasons beyond her clouded comprehension, and perhaps, eventual regret…she did not throw it back.
*
Sinker

Only four more to go and Volume One is in cyberspace. Thanks for reading.

D.A.

Simpsons Roundup!

2010-01-07T13:25:00.001-08:00

Hello hello and happy new year!

Okay now that that's outta the way, time for another Simpsons Roundup! New episodes have been few and far between of late but next week ought'a make up for that in a big way with the 450th (yes, you read me right), episode extravaganza, featuring an hour-long documentary hosted by Supersize Me's, Morgan Spurlock to commemorate twenty friekin' years of the yellow first family.

Onto the ep...

Entitled, "Thursdays with Abie", the story centers around much-maligned Grampa, (Abe), Simpson and a new twist on a long-running gag. For years, Grampa has gone on and on about anything and everything in his life, real or imagined, (he once saved Christmas with Mr. Burns and Santa Claus), to an audience of largely deaf ears - and I don't just mean Jasper. In this ep, after a lackluster visit to the Wet'N' Wack World (formerly the John F. Kennedy Naval Museum), Abe parks himself on a 'shark' bench while the family head to the show featuring Slimu the octopus, (some funny bits in there too). On the bench, he meets up with a young reporter, Marshall Goldman, who not only likes Abe's stories, but wants to feature a weekly column around them. Oh my!
The story is somewhat of a parody of "Tuesday's with Morrie", a popular book about a young reporter and a dying man, by Mitch Albom, who turns in a fine guest spot in the episode. (He wanted to steal Abe away for himself, but settled on Ralph instead. Good choice.)
Anyway, as the column gains more notoriety, Homer becomes jealous, having the gall to wonder why Grampa never shared any of his stories with him, like the time he met Clarke Gable, (depicted in classic flashback fashion), and convinced him to read Gone With the Wind. With a little snooping, Homer uncovers a dastardly plot by Goldman to murder Abe in an effort to up the drama and, no doubt, the planned-book sales, (bastard). Never fear though, cuz, good son that he is...eventually...Homer comes to the rescue and together, he and his old dad stop the evil Marshall Goldman and meaningfully reconnect. (tear)
There's also a sub-plot about a stuffed lamb from Mrs. Krabappel's classroom, which Bart takes home - and Lisa accidentally destroys. It's not quite as strong, to be honest, (though experience tells me time and many repeat viewings will make it a whole lot funnier), but it's always nice to see Mrs. K and the 4th grade gang, particularly Nelson, (who sports a fairly unhealthy attachment to the lamb, poor guy), Martin and, of course, Milhouse! (Whazzup!).
Have no fear, faithful readers. All ends well, though, with Grampa letting Homer take the lead in non-sensical whimsy that night around the dinner table.
That's out grampa.

As I said earlier, next week should be a pretty snazy affair. Might have to brush off the old tux and tophat. I can't wait to bask in all the syrupy Simpsons love.

Till then,

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Eight

2009-12-29T13:29:00.001-08:00

Okay kids, gonna try and close out the year on a high note with a little more Axis Oblique, chapter 8 for those of you counting, (and if you are that means you're actually reading, so thanks). This one's a long-ish one, so settle in with some cocoa and prepare to be taken away...

–– Eight ––

It was nearly the new millennium when Perry got first official wind of the Baka Mumfaru; an anciently-old order bent on eradicating all ‘unseen evil’ from the face of the earth. Good luck. In the spring of 1988, he caught a tabloid news program proclaiming the outfit instrumental in the casting of three poltergeists from a farmhouse in rural Kentucky. More luck.
Several years later, while lounging in the dorm room of a U of C co-ed, he came across an article, conspicuously pushed to the back of The New York Times––‘Exorcism: Myth or Magic?’ The Mumfaru was actually cited as one of several ‘underground’ societies specializing in paranormal paranoia––things conventional science had no hope of understanding; still, from what he heard, Perry had no reason to feel threatened. Not that he ever would…
“I’m thinking of writing my memoirs,” Sonny once said to a friend he occasionally had sex with.
“Oh, is that so?” she teased; Meredith Beckonsworth; his first casual romance––smart, rich, idealistic––and crazier than Satan. “Sounds like an awfully quick read to me…” then paused to complete a thought on her computer. “Say, I don’t mean to be critical but, shouldn’t you get through college first?” Sonny scowled from behind her pretentious copy of the New York Times she kept on the nightstand to read before bed, (as though the Campus Chronicle wasn’t quite ‘current’ enough).
She could be a real bitch sometimes.
Sonny didn’t need college. He had shitloads of experience. He’d been around for centuries. Dozens. Hundreds. Drew breath from every conceivable corner of this earth and beyond, and still felt every bit his vivacious eighteen years.
“You don’t think I could?” Quietly, he baited; an underscored anger in his insecure voice, which he struggled to suppress.
“Well, no, it’s not that I don’t––”
“It just so happens I’ve seen quite a bit in my time…”
“Okay, fine. Look, do we have to talk about this right now? I’m sort of in the middle of something…”
“Sorry,” he sulked. “Almost forgot chemistry was your life,” and slunk out of the room.
* * *
Meredith and Sonny first met in a lecture. Something to do with neo-McCarthyism. Or neo-Marxism. Same diff. It could just as well have been neo-Nazism for all the interest he’d paid. She caught his attention straight away. He strolled in late, of course, (by about a week), attracting two hundred-odd eyeballs, each a glare with contempt…
“Um, you might want to sit down before someone throws something at you.” Her saucy voice whispered from the row just behind him. Sonny was no stranger to strange voices, but this one was by far more alluring.
Meredith wasn’t exactly beautiful in a conventional sense. She wasn’t ugly either. More like somewhere in between. He took her suggestion to heart, sitting down in the seat right in front of her. His books remained packed.
“I’m Sonny.” He leaned in, half expecting her to fall at his feet.
“I’m busy,” she replied, eyes down. Saucy…
“Okay, then.” He sat back, hoping to gain a little sympathy. All he got was a leering impatience from behind her red-frames, matching a frock of wild, frizzy hair.
“Would you mind not staring at me?” she eventually said in her typically holier-than-thou tone. “We’re kind of in the middle of a lecture here…”
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realize you were listening,” and went silent.

“Look I’m sorry, okay?” At the mid-break, she loosened her tight screws. “It’s just that this class is a sore spot for me and I didn’t want to miss something important...”
“Not a problem.” He nodded. And after an appropriately dramatic pause… “Does that mean we can study for the mid-term together? I haven’t a clue what the hell’s going on.”
That earned him a laugh––sort of. It was more of a hybrid; half sigh, half snort. But it worked like a charm.
After that it was smooth sailing––more or less. In it’s entirety, their association only lasted about three months, but in all that time, he never forgot how his silence had been key to her conquest; how something inside seemed to snatch the reigns at just the right moment and say shut yer yap, will ya? Let her do all the heavy lifting….
It turned out to be sound advice.
The two went through their ups and downs––and further downs––but generally tended to play rather well off the other’s distinguishing quirks. At the end of the day, they were lovers far more than friends…which made things much simpler, when not needlessly complicated.
It had been a difficult afternoon the night he took comfort in her waiting arms. Sonny was fighting a losing battle with time and doing his best to keep oblivious.
After all, other people had mood swings… Right?
“Is something wrong?” she asked innocently. If she only knew the half of it.
“What?”
“You just seem…you know––distant. Is it your mid term? I could help you with it. You know, after my chem final.” Can’t you see I’m reading, you cunt…?
His thoughts turned violent as he sifted through some lengthy op-ed on the back of her fancy New York Times… Nothing but nonsense in big words… “No, it’s not that.” A long silence followed, save for Meredith clicking away at her keyboard. “Sometimes I’m not sure I belong here…” he mumbled, reaching the part about ‘demonic frequency quotients.’ Is this hard news or X-files fanfic…?
“What’s that?” She barely acknowledged, engrossed in her cyber-tutorial. “Sure you do. You’re just overwhelmed, that’s all...” Ain’t that the truth…
It didn’t matter much, whether she listened. Sonny knew she could never understand; and eventually, he would have to…no––no, this was his battle and he was going to fight it alone. Just look at her, you babbling brook…so ripe...
For a long while he watched her from the bed, typing at improbable speeds. He focused on her right leg. Ooh that thigh… It was swinging hypnotically––rapidly, back and forth, like a pendulum––on crack. Her slender fingers periodically ran through that thick, luxurious red hair to keep it from getting in the way of those beautiful, hazel-nut eyes... She obviously knows you’re watching…
Suddenly, she turned around as if able to feel his heavy stare. “Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I’m just on a bit of a roll here; wanna get this thing finished by midnight…”
“I want you,” he said, kind of out of the blue.
“Okay, but just let me––”
“Now.”
Slowly she turned around again, doing that hair thing, but consciously this time. “Well...someone sure needs a release…” The smell of her filled his panting nostrils and he could barely contain himself.
The sex was incredible; always one of the noted highlights of their special arrangement. But that night, it was especially raw. “And now I must get back to work,” she said after about twenty minutes of afterglow. Didn’t ask for your fucking life story…
Hmm. Sonny got to thinking––about the places he’d been; the people he’d––no wait, those were just fantasies. Except…
“Earth to Sonny. Don’t just lie there, I’ve got work to do…” She rolled off the bed to get back to her computer.
Go ahead. Tell her. Ten to one she laughs in your face…
“I’m thinking about writing my memoirs,” he said––testing…
“Oh, is that so?” she teased. “Sounds like an awfully quick read to me,” and paused to complete an online thought. “Say, I don’t mean to be critical but shouldn’t you get through college first?”
“You don’t think I could?” You just never learn, do you…?
“Well, no, it’s not that I don’t––”
“It just so happens I’ve seen quite a bit in my time.”
“Okay, fine. Look, do we have to talk about this now? I’m sort of in the middle of something...”
“Sorry. Almost forgot chemistry was your life,” he sulked, slinking out of the room.
Looks like you lose…
–––––––––––––––
Let’s get something to eat...
Keith was beginning to feel nagging hunger pains. “You know I could really use a bite. How bout you?”
“I’m not sure how you can think of food at a time like this.” Mitch Barrett stood across the long metal slab cataloguing scores of frozen human tissue. “It’s all I can do to keep from yacking all over the floor...”

It was just the two of them down in that spooky makeshift morgue. Merrimac had practically volunteered the man to stay late after everyone had cleared out; no doubt in punishment for showing him up.
“Guess I’m just not as sensitive,” the detective said, rubbing his own grumbling stomach.
“Can’t believe the guy who did this is the same one who bloodied up the Bluemont mensroom just last week. Talk about karma. Sure as hell didn’t see that one coming…”
Keith let slip a short, half-smile. “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling more sure of Hell by the minute.” He took his hand out some kind of fleshy organ, half-thawed. “Pass me another glove, will ya?” Nuff’a this dimestore banter, I say. I’m about hungry enough to eat a goddamed–– “Cheese-steak. You want?”
“Hm? No, Sir, you go ahead.”
“Come on, Lieutenant.” Keith pressed, considerably jovial. “Think we could both use a break. It’s not like the body parts are going anywhere…”
*
Mitch Barrett didn’t care much for Keith Merrimac. That was no secret. Sure, they worked well enough together. He respected the chain of command, after all. But the man behind the rank…was another matter entirely. On some level, he had to admit, he could see an appeal. That casual, scruffy, ‘just-got-out-of-bed’ charm, he’d seen first hand, could crack even the toughest of exteriors but, for some reason, never his own. Perhaps it was because deep down, he knew it was mostly an act; carried over from his more adventurous days in mean old Manhattan.
Barrett grew up in small town Indiana; perhaps not as fancy, but he valued his nuts and bolts perspective. Merrimac just didn’t seem to grasp the simple niceties of close-knit community living. To him, Maplewood must have looked like a modern-day Mayberry. It wasn’t until Richard Pollack put them on the big-city map that he even started to tuck in his wrinkled shirt––and that, he suspected, was more for the TV cameras.
“Nother beautiful night in paradise, eh Lieutenant?”
Barrett looked over at him from his slightly lower vantage point in the passenger’s seat...
“Beg your pardon?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make light,” he murmured, adding, “Almost forgot who I was talking to…”
“Sir, where exactly are we going?” Barrett was getting impatient, and, for just a split second, witnessed a very subtle, practically imperceptible color shift in the man’s sparkling greenish-blue eyes.
“Bluemont.” The detective answered swiftly.
“Bluemont? But I thought you hated––”
“I told you I wanted a cheese-steak; and unless you wanna drive halfway across town…” He leaned back smugly. “Relax. I’m sure one’a them places is bound to toss you a salad or something…”
Barrett sat hunched in the slightly broken seat, staring out the window. His thoughts drifted from one insignificant observation to another; the ugliness of the car’s upholstery for one, not to mention unsanitary filth. This was going to be a long night.
The silence stretched on into the Bluemont sparse parking lot. They seemed to be playing a game with each other, either consciously or sub––or both…each trying to out-ambigufy the other through a careful regiment of selective non-verbalization.
“Try not to be so chatty, Mitch. You’re talking my ear off.”
The detective blinked first.
Indeed, the tone lightened up some once inside the monstrous shopping complex. No more macho headgames, or childish doses of silent treatment. By the time they sat down in fact, they were almost downright hospitable.
As soon as he got a few bites in him, Merrimac seemed like a different person––again. His trademark charm came rushing back, to the point where even Barrett was taken in––almost… “So tell me something, Mitch.” he asked, near meal’s end. “What made you wanna be a cop, anyway?” The question caught Barrett off guard.
Up until then, the conversation was very impersonal––like he liked it. He took a moment to answer as he swallowed a mouthful of Diet Coke. “Well, I ah…don’t really…s’pose it all started with Starsky and Hutch,” he laughed. “And by the time I was about ten or so, it was more or less in the blood…” He looked up at Merrimac’s almost sinister smile. “I guess as I got older, it came more out of a desire to do some real good in this world.” He stopped, feeling far too exposed. “You probably think that’s a little naïve.”
“Not really,” he replied; sauce streaming down his chin. The cheese-steak was inhaled in not quite sixty seconds and by the look of him, hardly satisfied.
“What about you?” Barrett asked, surprised by his own genuine curiosity.
“Me? Not that complicated really,” he started, sipping on his extra-large ice water. “Mostly, it was for the authority. Plus the chicks.” He chuckled. “You know, that whole man in uniform thing.” Barrett didn’t flinch. “Still, by the end of my training, I think I was more attracted to the power than anything else.” Barrett looked down at his chimichanga. “Guess that kinda shocks you, doesn’t it, Barrett?”
Barrett for his part, wasn’t all that shocked. Intimidated maybe. Disgusted, certainly––but not especially surprised. “Well, no reason it should, Lieutenant. The best way to control a criminal mind is to understand it; even identify a little.” Barrett took another small bite––and swallowed.
“Is that the way they do it in New York?” he asked. And Merrimac looked almost caught off guard…before refashioning a sultry smile…
“The good ones, you could say…” he sneered, finally wiping his mouth. Barrett remained silent. “You really think sickos like ‘mensroom’ give two shits about your code of honor, Barrett? As far as they’re concerned, if you’re stupid enough to live by one, you probably deserve to die by it too. That what you want?”
“Gee, I’m sorry if I hit a nerve, sir.” Barrett backed off. “It was only a question,” and went back to his supper, which tasted better than ever.
“You almost finished?” The detective snapped at him, embittered––then with a forced civility, added: “I’m pretty anxious to get back to it.”
And just like that, in what felt like the blink of an eye, the two were back in the morgue, as though none of it had ever happened. As soon as he caught glimpse of one discarded appendage, Barrett felt every bit as sick as predicted. Merrimac on the other hand, appeared quite at home. By all accounts the food sat well with him; a little too well for the lieutenant’s taste...
“Hey Barrett, you okay over there? You look a little…” But Barrett didn’t want to give his boss the satisfaction, so he swallowed hard––and sucked it up.
“Just fine, sir. You?”
“Actually, I’m still a bit hungry. Feels like I haven’t had a decent meal in ages.” Barrett couldn’t tell whether he was sincere, being a smart-ass, or just trying to keep his subordinate at a continuous unease.
“We could always close up early…”
“I’d much rather get this finished,” the detective said, eyes buried in the rotting forearm on the table before him. “But you can take off, if you like. I mean if you’re really not up to it. I completely understand.” Barrett looked up at him curiously.
“Really? Cuz I thought you said––”
“I know what I said. Just forget it. It’s my fault for dragging you outta here in the first place. You go on. Get some sleep. I’ll be done in a jiffy.”
Several hours later, he was on his imitation-leather couch, sipping noodles from a hot cup of store-bought soup and watching soccer highlights on the Spanish channel, down to his last Nicorette. His appetite seemed to magically return almost as soon as he and Detective Merrimac parted ways––not entirely surprising…
The man had always seemed more or less unstable, but his curious words and actions that evening went far beyond anything he’d personally witnessed. The stress of the Pollack murders, coupled with this latest mess must have been getting to him. Barrett wasn’t exactly sorry to see it––just a little creeped out.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK––
At first, he thought he was hearing things. It was almost four in the morning, what kind of a fool would––? KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK–– Okay, that was definitely a––KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!! Barrett went for his gun.
–––––––––––––––
There were nights he wasn’t proud of, when Sonny would lie awake in his childhood bed––and think of her. She was his first, after all. His most memorable, and she left his life without so much as a word. He longed to look at her even one more time; to smell her sweat as he fucked her. She was such a tease. There was no other way to see it after what she did. Sure, maybe he did get what he wanted––but he wanted more.
“Sonny, what are you––? STOP THAT!”
His thoughts were unintentional; uncontrollable, as bizarre fantasies of a night that never took place flashed in and out of his head. Just fantasies…
“Oh God, PLEASE! No, please, Sonny, DON’T – !”
Nothing more.
–––––––––––––––
Barrett swung the door open, ready for just about anything. Anything except––
“Detective Merrimac. Sir, what are you––?” Looking past him, he could see no sign of his rusty Oldsmobile eyesore. “Did you walk here?”
–––––––––––––––
“I’m not in the mood for the tortured soul bit, Sonny. It’s late. And I’m tired.”
“I know that. I just wanna talk.”
“Talk? Well can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“I promise I’ll be quick.”
“Fine, come in.”
“Not here.”
“What?”
“Let’s take a walk.”
“Sonny…”
“A quick one. Come on, Mer, I need you tonight.”
–––––––––––––––
“Saw your light on. Thought I’d see if you were still up.”
“Did you find something?”
“What?”
“At the coroners’, sir. Did you––?”
“Oh. Yeah. I’m not sure…”
“Well which is it?”
“You never liked me much, did you, Barrett?”
“I beg your––”
“It’s okay to admit it. We’re off the record here.”
“Nevertheless, sir, I really don’t think we should––”
“The thing is…after all these years, I still can’t seem to figure out why. Mind if I––?” With brute force, he pushed his way in as Barrett instinctively stopped him––
“Yes, actually. It’s late.” Merrimac ignored him completely. He looked odd; even moreso than before––as though in some kind of a trance...
“So what is it? Why won’t you tell me?”
Barrett realized there would be no way to politely sidestep––
“You’ve got it all wrong, sir.” He conceded. “It’s not that I don’t like you; more like don’t understand you…” By this time, the man was on the couch. “This being an excellent example.”
“Go on...” The man sounded almost like a psychiatrist.
–––––––––––––––
“You’ve been so––distant lately. I don’t get that. Sometimes I don’t get you.”
“So that’s it then. It’s over?”
“What? No. How can something be over when it never properly started to begin with?”
More mind games. Who does this bitch think she is…?
–––––––––––––––
“You know, its people like you that make this world so susceptible to people like me…” he said, purposely taunting him with a drag off his freshly-lit smoke.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a lamb.” He looked up. “Tell me. Are you at all familiar with the Biblical role of the lamb, Lieutenant?”
–––––––––––––––
“You’re scaring me, Sonny.” For a split second, the words seemed to register. Sonny experienced a mild, dizzy spell and stumbled a few steps backward…
“Sometimes I…scare myself…” he managed. But there would be no more backpedaling. The girl made it easier, of course–– They always do...
“Sonny, are you––?” But she could tell simply by looking it was a wasted question. “Let me help you,” she finished, placing her warm hand on his cold shoulder.
–––––––––––––––
“If I didn’t know better, sir, I’d say you were threatening me.”
“Is that right?” Merrimac snarled, casually standing from the couch... “Well if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried...”
“I am worried, sir. About you. These last few months have obviously been more trying on you than I first thought. Why don’t you just––”
–––––––––––––––
“Tell me what I can do,” she pleaded, caressing his tight shoulder blades. At last, the very words he longed for––and though she couldn’t detect it, his eyes turned a shade even darker...
“Do?” he asked, innocent. “Well for starters, you can try not to fight...”
–––––––––––––––
“Here’s the thing, Mitch.” Merrimac began calmly, all the while slipping on a pair of disposable rubber gloves––just like the ones he’d been wearing most of the night. “I’ve been trying to put this off for a while but––I’m afraid I’m gonna need a warm meal.” Barrett responded with a nervous, though not entirely insincere chuckle.
“What is this? You’re…you’re gonna kill me or something? Because I don’t like you? Jesus, Keith, I knew you were crazy but––”
“You called me Keith,” he blurted, still impeccably rational. “Christ, it’s about time…” Barrett had had enough, bringing his weapon into plain sight. “You shouldn’t play with guns, Mitch,” he said. And it was the last bit of civility he had left to display––before engaging Mitch Barrett in the fight of his life…
–––––––––––––––
“Sonny, what are you––STOP THAT!” But there would be no stopping him.
Sometimes in his nightmares, he would see her face––not with a sparkle in her eyes or roses in her cheeks. Instead, she was…blue…pale…lifeless… Her hazel-nut eyes rolled back in her head; her red, full lips now a bright purple and, along her white, slender neck, the unmistakable mark of pressed fingers.
In those dreams, he had scattered glimpses of a blade slicing into her tender flesh. An axe chopping away at pure bone and hands snapping them apart like spicy Buffalo wings. Sometimes he saw blood…and dirt…and semen, all mixed together under cold erratic breath. These were the images of a deeply troubled mind. One without closure.
For weeks after, he would partake in the grueling searches; even lead his fair share. He spoke to friends, family, casual acquaintances. The police were relentless and, if not for his own true concern, he might well have taken their persistent questioning personally. But Sonny wanted every avenue explored. Meredith didn’t deserve to just disappear without a trace. And Sonny wasn’t about to let it happen without a fight.
–––––––––––––––
The scratch was regrettable. Keith was genuinely surprised when the man dug that sharp fingernail into his cheek, just inches from his right eye. In the end it just made him angrier. As he wiped away tiny beads of blood from the side of his mouth, the pumping adrenaline exhilarated every part of him. Barrett put up a spirited fight, as expected, but he certainly didn’t see that fingernail coming. It’s the surprises that keep things from feeling routine…
Wrapping the body’s left hand in the garbage bag he’d brought from home, he set out to remove all evidence of his having been there. Cops knew all the tricks, after all. And he, being a homicide detective for going on thirteen years, knew exactly what they, (or most likely he), would be looking for. He, of course, left no fingerprints and was even careful to make sure that the murder weapon was an item from Barrett’s own kitchen, rather than something traceable to anyone outside.
The scratch stung like hell, though. Cuts heal… The entire process took about an hour. There were highly-believable signs of forced entry, a fairly heated struggle and finally, a trail of Barrett’s own blood to show his resourcefulness in the face of his surprise attacker.
The final piece came last. Using the victim’s own knife, he preceded to severe the hand he’d come for; the one with his skin cells embedded. It might also serve to inspire a brand new collection…or maybe just a late night snack…
He glanced out the window just long enough to notice the budding daylight and made one final survey to ensure the utmost efficiency. Just before leaving, his eyes inadvertently met Barrett’s and for only the tiniest of split seconds, something inside him seemed to weaken...
Better get going. Big day ahead…
* * *
He slept like a baby that night. It must’ve been that full course meal he had around sixish. It was rare of him to spring out of bed with such zeal and enthusiasm, but something inside seemed to click in a way not seen for some time.
Almost all morning he felt light as a feather––carefree. In an unprecedented maneuver, he even elected to go for a light jog after breakfast in lieu of coffee. The phone call came just as he returned––
“Y’ello!”
And that’s when all Hell broke loose.
* * *
In all his years on the force, he could never manage to get over the jittery feeling that befell him before walking onto a murder scene. He’d seen quite a few in his day; men, women, children––sometimes all three in various gruesome combinations. When all was said and done, he’d pretty well seen it all.
“Keith!” A familiar voice called out as he took his first steps across the threshold. Sergeant Fiorentine was approaching, looking almost apologetic for her forthrightness. “Detective Merrimac,” she self-corrected.
“It’s alright, Sergeant. How you holding up?”
“Bout as well as any of us, I suspect. I just can’t believe this is happening.”
“Truth really is stranger than fiction,” he offered, sagely. “Which one of you got here first?”
“I did, sir.” Keith shifted toward the source of the subtle accent. Lieutenant Estes was standing promptly nearby; his posture impeccable. “I’d like to put in a formal request to be on the investigation...”
“One thing at a time, Lieutenant. You feel up to a report?” Keith felt confident that even if he wasn’t, he’d pull himself together long enough to give one. In all honesty, the detective couldn’t blame him. He too felt the onslaught of emotion. Barrett after all, was a good man; someone they all knew––who served under his command…
Estes went on to relay a point by point account of the circumstances surrounding his discovery of the body after receiving a phone call from the morning housekeeper, and Keith summoned the courage to glance over at it every now and again. It was badly bruised and beaten; even mutilated in places––and there, in plain view for all to see––his left arm, cut off at the wrist. The sight of it made him want to throw up. It was no secret the two of them weren’t exactly friends, but not even on his worst enemy would he have wished Mitchell Barrett’s brutal and tragic end.
Not if he were human.

Happy New Year one and all. See you in '10

D.A.

Avatar

2009-12-26T20:41:00.001-08:00

Just thought I'd throw my two cents in on a quiet little movie that could really use the word of mouth.

So I saw Avatar last night, the latest epic extravaganza from everybody's favourite cinematic uber-visionary, James Cameron and...well...

I was impressed.

I'm far from the authority on James Cameron. I've enjoyed several of his films, but there are most definitely gaps in my knowledge of the man's signature catalogue. Nevertheless, I think it safe to say this was vintage Cameron at his best. The story was good. Functional, but not particularly challenging or surprising. If the talkbackers over at Aintitcoolnews are an indication, (which they probably aren't), I am not alone in listing ways in which the story could have zigged when it invariably zagged. A few characters could have been fleshed out more, I suppose. The Norm character jumps out as a prime example, (for me anyway). There were some hints of tension there, right around the film's midpoint, where hero, Jake seemed to be rubbbing good-natured Norm the wrong way. Also, the Giovanni Ribisi character seemed, at times, a little conflicted morally and, while I liked the understated manner with which this was presented, I would have liked more of a payoff. Something. Anything to suggest he had been affected by this experience. Alas, I do not believe this story was as concerned with growth as it was spectacle. I don't mean that in an irresponsible way. Quite the contrary. It felt like a conscious choice on the part of the storytellers, which is fine.
Now, on to the only part that really matters...
The effects and overall design of this film were nothing short of masterful. That being said, I did not feel they were 'over-the-top' or particularly intrusive to the narrative flow. They served the vehicle nicely; spectacularly is more like it and, if what 'they' say can be relied upon, and this is indeed among the first of a whole new breed of 3D films and inspired storytelling, I think it sets the bar pretty high. Still, the sky is the limit and I would expect someone to come along one of these days to combine the brilliant visual techniques of Cameron with some truly revolutionary storytelling. Guess we'll see. But I'd bet on it.

Either way, I look forward to seeing it again...once all the pixie dust has settled.

D.A.

What did you think of the movie?
Was it everything you hoped for? More? Less?
Maybe you went in without any expectation. (Good for you, by the way).
Tell me what you think. Seriously, I'd love to know.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Seven

2009-12-24T14:24:00.000-08:00

Things are getting a bit stale around here, so I'm injecting another dose of AO, or An Axis Oblique for you non-nerds, (what the heck are you doing here, by the way?). Seriously though, I've been bogged down the last week or so with things far less interesting. Apologies.

–– Seven ––

The McAllister home was built from the unforgiving ground up in the late 1990s. When they made the down-payment, it wasn’t much more than a flat lot of sand and rock, but the blushing young couple saw limitless potential. Mary was with child at the time, and Henry…well, Henry just needed an all-consuming project, to occupy his wandering mind.
Sure enough, during the blithe early years, he put in a great deal of challenging, painstaking work to bring out of it, the absolute best he could. After building a nice-sized deck in their modestly-sized backyard, he finished the basement, widened the driveway and, (perhaps his proudest achievement), planted a first-class garden on the ample front lawn.
Cynthia was staring out at it now. It was cold inside the living room––and dark. Outside, she could see Mrs. McAllister having a quiet conversation with a man she could only assume was a relative. He was putting his arm around her; a gesture she seemed wholly uncomfortable with, and Cynthia took note of how vulnerable she looked.
She’d done her best to be helpful the last few days, moving into the guestroom, disguising her brutal discomfort with hospitality, menial errands and backbreaking housework. The funeral was small; quaint. She didn’t know a soul, of course, and while the rest of them cried, and grieved in their own particular ways, Cynthia mourned mostly in silence, attempting to grapple with her own complex emotions––alone.
The front door came open and Nicky puttered all the way down the hall before heading upstairs. He’d been that way since it happened––quiet, distant. Cynthia noted a number of separate occasions where his mother tried to engage him; (or at least get him to smile), but thus far, all of her best intentions had gone doggedly rebuffed. There was no way to imagine the bleeding thoughts of a child whose hero had been taken away from them forever. Cynthia knew all too well. It was a pain she still carried, and likely would––always…
“Nicky…?”
Yet she followed.
“Sweetheart, can I come in?” Standing outside his uninviting bedroom door, she got no answer. “Nick?” she said again, gently pushing the door open... “Honey, I just wanted to––”
The television was on and the blanket had been rumpled as though recently slept in, but to her surprise, the kid was nowhere in sight. A diversion, she thought smugly. Pretty smart.
When she found him, he was in his mother’s room, in the dark, on the edge of the bed. She could barely make out his tragic young profile. It was heartbreaking. And suddenly, she realized it was the most she’d actually felt in days.
“Everything okay?” Even as she said it, she knew how incredibly stupid a question it was. “I mean…” She could easily make out the vacancy in his suddenly more mature stare. In his hands was a framed photograph. “I’m here.” She continued. “I mean, I know I’m not him, but…if you need someone to talk to…about whatever, I just want you to know…” The boy gave no indication he was even listening. “I know what it’s like...” she blurted. “To lose someone,” gaining momentum… “and Lord knows the last person I ever wanted to confide in was my mother, so…” The boy remained painfully silent, so she opted to leave it at that, and retreated…
“Why do people die?” he asked with her halfway out the door.
She stared at him, hapless. Oh, is that all? “Well,” she began, coming toward him once again. “I don’t really…I mean, I wish I could…” How to answer… You’re losing him, her inner-child of trauma whispered urgently. “Your Dad once told me you had a goldfish…”
He nodded. “He died too. Did they go to the same place?”
“Well, I don’t…really…” She cleared her throat, regrouping, and said: “Everything that lives, Nicky, dies…eventually… It’s just the way things are; the way they have to be…do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Well…try to think of it like this. You love summer vacation, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Because it’s fun, right? And you don’t have to go to school...”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of time when it’s hot, or raining, and there’s not much to do.” He looked at her, tears struggling not to run rampant. What am I trying to say here? “But that doesn’t matter; because instead of feeling happy, you might feel…bored; restless even. Until you close in on September…and get homework and tests and have to get up early…then how do you feel?”
“I don’t know. Sad?”
“Right. Because sometimes, you don’t always appreciate the moment until…” Perhaps this wasn’t the best analogy. “Does that make any sense?”
“I guess so…a little...”
“Good. Well––and here’s what I’m trying to say––some people think that, if we didn’t ever die…we’d never be able to…appreciate how important; how special it is…to be alive. Now, does that make sense to you?” She was beginning to wonder herself.
“I don’t know. Sort of.” He answered in a manner hardly convincing. “You’re saying that people need to die so that they can have fun while they’re alive?”
“Yeah. Something like that.” The boy simply shrugged, seemingly unable, (or unwilling), to grasp such a concept. Cynthia had to admit it did sound far-fetched. Why do we die? she thought bitterly. How in the hell should I know?
“Is that their wedding photo?” She suddenly felt desperate to change the subject.
“I just wanted to see them both smiling,” he replied. Cynthia considered this a moment before joining him inside the perfectly preserved moment in time. To her surprise, it actually made her feel a bit better. She decided not to push the issue further for one day. Instead, the two of them just sat awhile; first five, then ten, fifteen and even as much as twenty minutes without one single word between.
*
“Cynthia?” Mary called for the third time, and still got no answer. “My goodness, where the hell is that girl…?” By the kitchen, it occurred to her, she could well have skipped out. Henry was gone after all. No more fringe benefits. Still, there was something about her reasoning that no longer sat well.
“Nicky…?” Hmm, no answer there either, which might have been intentional. The boy hadn’t exactly been behaving like a model child in recent days. If only she could find the right words; the right gesture to reach him, she might just be able to see light at the end of this dark, miserable tunnel.
“Well, well, what’s this?”
Both were suddenly present and accounted for, fast asleep in her very own bed. He looked so peaceful lying there; that monotonous, slightly angry expression replaced by one of enduring calm. She wondered whether she’d ever again have the pleasure of seeing him that way awake. Of course you will. It just takes time. Time. Her eyes bounced over to the clock radio on the nightstand. It had been nearly two hours since she last checked in on––
“Patrick?”
So quiet. The boy seemed to operate on only one frequency. She gently pushed on his bedroom door and a sudden must and darkness overwhelmed her. “Patrick, are you––?” She stopped, glimpsing his still figure under the heavy covers.
His body was so…small; so fragile. Sometimes, when she went in to hug him, she feared he might break; (not that he would ever think to complain). Approaching, she tried to imagine what it must be like to be so easy-going; (clearly not one of her own distinguishing character traits). Maybe he gets that from Henry…
It was only as she drew closer that she started to become suspicious. The boy was practically soaked in sweat. Feeling his forehead, his hair felt as though he’d just come out of the shower. His temperature, however, despite all indications, felt relatively normal. “Oh, Patrick,” she whispered. “My poor little baby...”
“Mommy…?” He surprised her as his eyes inched open…
“Shh, yes sweetie, I’m here.” With what strength he had left, he strained to sit up.
“He’s here, Mommy…he’s coming...” There was an urgency in his voice, unbefitting of the last few days.
“Who’s coming, Patrick?”
“The bad man.” he answered, tears welling up around his already-puffy, brown eyes. “He’s coming to hurt us...”
“Shh, no honey. Nobody’s coming to hurt you. It was just a bad dream.” There was something to be said for his timing. While of course concerned, and frightened of all she may not yet know, in the back of her mind, she was also almost happy to have him this way, if only for a little while. Now, more than ever, she needed someone to take care of. And, after all, who on this earth could have possibly needed her more?
–––––––––––––––
Krieger…
The rock formations were brilliant––so detailed in their intricacies. Something inside him suggested the settlement was surprisingly nearer than first thought; though he was quickly beginning to doubt the words of strange voices unwilling to match with a face.
He’d reached the tail end of his journey. For more than a decade, he’d done nothing but eat, sleep and dream his all-consuming quest. It had been only three weeks since he left that small, painfully-uninteresting excuse for a town. What finally led him there formed the basis of a story, not even he could bring himself to completely believe. It was his very denial, however, that somehow solidified its validity in his own ringing consciousness.
He’d been walking for days. Out here, at the edge of the astral plane, the mountains literally touched the clouds and the heavens were near enough to be seen with naked eyes. If not so thoroughly exhausted, (or completely uninterested), he might well have stopped for a closer look. But there simply wasn’t time. Duty, after all, could not afford rest.
In the distance, he could vaguely make out the crackles and unpredictable patterns of firelight. The path draws to a close, he thought; one of the first he’d allowed himself, and had almost forgotten how rewarding it could be to have one’s own faculties all to oneself. The fire was brighter still, growing moreso the nearer he drew. To his amazement, he felt anxious. The elders could be heard now, chanting faintly in their ancient language.
The caves were suddenly much darker, and Krieger was beginning to sense a presence far more powerful than any he’d ever known. At last he could make out the divine shape of a gentleman, draped in robes just a few metres away. It was time.
“You have traveled a great distance...” a raspy voice stated. Krieger knew better than to respond right away. “Have you news worthy of our holy salutation?”
Carefully, he stepped forward. “I have.”
“Continue.”
“I bring news of the creature…” Krieger went on, shaky. “…known across time and countless human culture––as…la Parra Finico––Perry Finch…”
“Continue…” the elder repeated.
“…news, which pertains to its ultimate destruction...” he finished, a bit dizzy. The elder went silent, and forced him to wait there alone for several more minutes in near pitch darkness…
“Step forward, thy faithful servant, Krieger…’”
Krieger gasped unexpectedly, startled at the sudden sight of a hunched-over, elderly form standing a mere few feet in front of him. The man looked as though he were hundreds of years old. His dress was exquisite, a flowing white robe decorated with an assortment of ancient and divine symbols, some of which he recognized; (though most he did not). The man’s skin literally hung off of his old bones, and a long white beard concealed the majority of his frail upper body. “You are aware now, of with whom you speak?” Krieger nodded, unprepared. “You bring news, Minion. News of the creature that calls itself…Finch…?”
“Yes,” he promptly confirmed. “The creature draws human breath no longer...”
“You have proof of this?” Krieger remained silent. Proof?
“Only my own two eyes,” he said. “Slain by my own weapon, its tainted blood spilt in accordance to ritual, flowing down the femoral artery, from above to below, as decreed in––”
“Your account is in error, Brother Krieger.” The Priest interrupted. “The maniacal creature of which you speak has not been transitioned to its eternal darkness, as you so unremittingly profess...”
Krieger was stunned. He’d never known a representative of The Order––a High Priest, nonetheless––to mislead or be misinformed in such a blatant manner.
“You’re mistaken,” he stated bluntly. “With all due respect…what you say is…impossible…I myself was physically present for the entire duration of––”
“Your victory was one of self-profession. The elders recorded decrease in its particle frequency, but for a brief interval. Your assigned extermination has been unsuccessful, young one. Your duty remains clear, and your task, incomplete.”
The shadowy figure retreated back into the nothingness from which it apparently came, and once again, Krieger was left by himself––
Impossible, he maintained. I was there. I looked into its coal, devil eyes until drained of all but the white of an empty shell vessel…and could not be more certain…
PERRY FINCH IS DEAD!!!
Isn’t he?
Krieger was suddenly faced with the frightening possibility of his own impatient carelessness; his own selfish lack of reliable execution. For the first time, he allowed himself the mind space to wonder: What if Perry Finch had managed to cling to some undetectable scrap of life in that all-too-brief interval between death and eternal oblivion? What if somehow, he’d found solace in yet another unsuspecting host carrier?
What if––? Dear God…
Damn you, Perry Finch.

Stay tuned for Chapter Eight - plus a few other special surprises I'm working on.
Happy Holidays!

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up

2009-12-16T12:56:00.000-08:00

Okay, so another new Simpsons last Sunday and another attempt at Simpsons Round-up. As I've stated earlier, I'm not much of a reviewer, but my love for The Simpsons, (warts and all), is undying.

The episode was called "Oh Brother, Where Bart Thou?" and it aired on 12/13/09. Here is the official synpsis:

One snowy day in Springfield, Lisa informs Bart that she and Maggie share a bond that Bart will never understand because he doesn't have a brother, so Bart asks Homer for a baby brother. When Homer denies Bart's request, Bart makes his way to Springfield Orphanage to find what he thinks is missing.

All and all, a pretty decent ep.
As always, I find eps get better with repeated viewings so even if I didn't love it, it typically tends to grow on me. Not to say I didn't enjoy plenty. Off the top of my head what stood out was the dream sequence, (a-la Homer's sleep dream many seasons ago), where Bart goes to sleep babbling no dream could convince him he needed a brother and ends up in Bro-land, (or something like that), and encounters a cavalcade of famous brothers, (featuring a slew of guest voices). Everyone from The Marx brothers, The Manning brothers, (Payton, Eli and lesser known older brother, Cooper), The Blues Brothers, Sideshow Bob and Cecil!, the Super Mario Brothers and The Smothers Brothers, who performed a joke in their signature back-and-forth bickering-style. For me, this was the best part and a great demonstration of how clever and funny The Simpons can still be.

After the dream, Bart becomes obsessed with getting a little brother. This idea, I should mention, was triggered after Lisa teases him he can never know the true bond of sisterhood shared between her and Maggie. I may want to point out, a-la Comic book guy, Bart did have a big brother in Tom, (voiced by the irreplacable Phil Hartman way back in season three), and Homer, of course had Pepsi, ugm, Pepe.

Anyway, after attempts to inspire romance between Homer and Marge, with sexy results; (the Kama Sutra DVD they watch with 'Sextras' was particularly good too), Bart eventually gives up on getting his brother the 'traditional way' and visits the orphanage, which boasts the sign, "Adopt American" out front. But they aren't much help either. Fortunately, a little orphan boy overhears his heartfelt request and decides to break out of the orphanage to be Bart's little brother.

Other highlights for me included Nelson popping Birth Control pills he thinks are 'Tack Ticks', which make him ultra-emotional, the South Park gag, (which was really more an homage than a joke, still...), and the other dream where Bart imagines a third sister, (Kim Catrall), as he carries their shopping bags as they gab about sisterhood and shopping and sex, oh my...

Guess that about does it.
Like I said, there was plenty to love in the ep and with time, it will be sure to blend seamlessly with the rest of the catalogue.

Until next Sunday...

D.A.

P.S. Let me know what you think. Comments are always welcome, (not that I'm desperate or anything)

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Six

2009-12-12T15:05:00.001-08:00

It's that time again, boys and girls. Here's chapter 6:

–– Six ––

In times of crisis people often looked to the Good Book. Some in search of support; others, explanation. But most everyone did so for meaning. Perry never really understood that. The Bible offered few answers, if any; mostly just questions. In more than ten-thousand spins of this godforsaken rock, he’d lost track of how often that preachy piece of flowery prose thumbed its sanctimonious pages at the scores upon scores of wretched little followers.
What puzzled him to no end was their inability, or perhaps, their unwillingness…to learn…
Take death for example:
Only the stunted mortal mindset could conjure a concept so flawed and inaccurate as eternal paradise for a life built upon service; or by the same token, perpetual damnation for lack thereof. For whatever reason, so many of them felt entitled to kindly continue forever in some form or fashion – without any real proof. Talk about self-importance.
Someone might suggest that with all his experience, Perry would have grown accustomed to their antiquated quirks. But for all his expertise, he found the exact opposite was usually true.
“Better run through the jungle...”
He had to admit though; despite vague discomfort, this was a welcome change of pace, (or at least scenery). It was chilly with all the windows rolled down, (so the idiot could smoke himself silly). There were subtle, yet distinct differences between the outlook of a healthy young man on the cusp of his prime, and that of an habitual chain-everything on the fast track to middle age, (or maybe the grave). For one thing, the colors seemed to sparkle a little less in here. And the world as a whole had a slightly more ‘lived-in’ feel to it. It wasn’t so much a criticism, as…an observation...
“…un through the j’ngle…”

Keith was singing. Sort of. His voice was barely audible against the song itself and with the windows all the way down, plus the noise of his car, (which sounded about ready for a tune-up), he could scarcely hear himself inside his own head. “…don’t look back…”
He was halfway surprised to catch himself inside a lyric, but continued just the same, all the way through the chorus and into the next verse. For days, the sunshine had been falling on him in an entirely new way. There were moments where everything seemed to sparkle, and tingle all over, as though he could feel his own cells in mitosis.
He wondered how he’d failed to see things this way before; his body replenished from the warmth of Earth’s ever-guiding star. The world was a wondrous place. The sights, smells and sounds were all so invigorating, so…simple, yet deceptively complex; so…
“What the…?”
…goddamned…annoying––
From out of nowhere, this plastic, hybrid Volkswagen piece of shit thumped his rear bumper. “Fucking Christ!” The Cutless was stopped at the stop sign, and Keith caught sight of the rear-view mirror; where a small, awkward-looking man waddled nervously toward him.
“Yikes, I’m…really sorry…” he blathered. “I guess I was…I don’t know, daydreaming and didn’t see your brake-light, are…are you okay…?”
Keith looked up, rubbing the back of his neck.
“License and registration please.”
The pudgy man sort of swallowed. “Oh. Um…I beg your…”
“What are you, blind and deaf? Show me your driver’s license, sir. And your vehicle registration before we do this the hard way…”
“Well I, ah…is that really necessary?” The fat oaf was starting to sweat.
“Do you want me to step out of this car, sir?” Keith snapped, adjusting the sun-visor to play off his gleaming Maplewood shield…
“Okay! Okay, Officer. I certainly don’t want any trouble, I didn’t…” The man began fumbling around his back pocket and finally emerged with an overstuffed wallet. “If you’ll just bear with me a moment...” Flipping through all that clutter, cards fell clumsily to the pavement and the awkward character scarcely seemed to care; (although the impatience in Keith’s voice might have had something to do with it). “This is my, ah, license…and, um, the registration…is, I believe here in the glove––”
Keith snatched it like a pigeon in Central Park. For a moment there was silence as his fingers scanned the laminated card, long enough for the sweaty buffoon to take clear notice of the holstered Berretta on the passenger’s seat.
“Says here you were born in Montana.”
The fat man attempted to relax.
“What’s that? Yup. Yes, siree…moved here about…two years ago, I guess…and I, um, haven’t––”
“And it’s expired.”
“Oh. Yeah, well, I…can explain, see…”
“Save it. Now listen, I don’t know how they do it out there in Backwoods, Bumblefuck, Mr. um…‘Prescott…’but here in Connecticut it’s a federal offence to operate a Class D vehicle without a valid driver’s license…”
“Oh…well now, come on, Officer, I hardly––”
“Hardly what, Harold? You calling me a liar?” he baited, glancing back at the card.
“Liar? What––no…oh, Dear God no, I would never––” Keith made certain the sweaty hick saw him reach for his gun before grandiosely stepping out of his vehicle.
“If there’s one thing I hate worse than laziness, it’s a no-good criminal…” He crowded the man.
“I didn’t…say anything, Officer, sir, I just…now, ah, you’re not planning on using that, are you?” Keith could all but smell the intimidation. Intoxicating...
“What, you mean this?” he challenged, bringing the pistol against the man’s pudgy, round face. “This frighten you, Mr. Prescott? ‘Cuz there’s no reason it should. Not unless you’ve got something to be frightened over…” The barrel slid up and down Prescott’s stocky torso. Keith could literally feel the poor slob’s sweat forming with urgency under his mustard-colored shirt. Polyester. Figures...
“Whoa! What are you…you’re not going to––” Keith smiled. Here was a man moved to blind panic over little old he; spineless…cowardly…expendable…
“Tell me something,” Keith asked, the barrel sinking…pushing deeper into Prescott’s Pilsbury flesh. “Who in God’s name would miss you?” The question was met with a giggle.
“I beg you’re––”
“Oh come now, Harold, don’t give me that, it’s a simple question.” Keith moved just a tiny bit closer, “If I pulled this trigger, right here, right now…would anyone actually notice? Can you honestly name even one person?”
“Well…I, ah…hmm…”
“Do it! Just give me one name; one genuine and, well obviously pathetic excuse for a fool that’d shed so much as a single tear if I wiped your fat, sweaty ass from the planet right here and now on the side of this suburban back street.” Keith could feel his thumb growing increasingly itchy on the trigger... Oh come on, who would know…?
“I’m not sure if…I mean it would probably…wh-wh-what gives you the right, sir, to pull out your…your pistol there and play God with my life anyhow? Officer, um…”
“This isn’t about me, Harold. Now name someone. I really don’t see why it’s so difficult. Throw out one goddamned name and we can forget this whole thing...”
“Well I…really don’t see why I should even have to play this ridiculous––”
“I don’t really give a shit what you see, Harold…now do it or I’ll shoot you. Is that clear enough?” Keith cocked the weapon slowly, loudly enough to be heard beyond the shadow of a doubt. “You think this is a game? Am I playing with you now?” Harold, meanwhile, looked about ready to burst into tears. “I could kill you, you miserable waste of existence. You do nothing, understand? Nothing but take up space.” He stopped. “And you wanna know something? I’d probably be doing you a huge favor.” then ominously went into his back pocket for a tiny Swiss army knife…
“Whoa! Now what are you––?” A single tear rolled down Prescott’s rosy cheek.
“Yup. I could start you off on…an indescribable adventure. How bout it, Harry? You up for it?” The blade pressed into Harold’s fat face. “Aw, who am I kidding. You’d only fuck it up!” Okay, enough foreplay...
“Ow!” The man yelped. “What the…?” The mark was small and hardly noticeable, like a paper-cut. But it certainly bled easily enough.
“Whoops. Sorry about that, friend. Here, let me get that…” Gently, he wiped the fresh blood from the man’s quivering cheekbone, then licked his finger clean.
Tastes like fear…
“Alright! Sir, I’ve had just about en…enough. Now I don’t know the law very well. Certainly not to the extent that you do, but I’m pretty sure that this…” Prescott swallowed hard, determined for once to finish his thought. “…these scare tactics of yours are not standard procedure. Now if you’re going to charge me with something I suggest that you get on with it because, I have to say, I’m quite looking forward to speaking with your superior down at that station of yours…”
“Shut up, Harold. And speak when spoken to.” The blade, featured so prominently only moments ago, was now nowhere in sight. Ditto for the gun.
*
“Your license’ll be up for renewal in a few weeks,” he said, sounding different; calmer… “I’m gonna have to hang on to this, I’m afraid.” The man’s tone had miraculously become much friendlier and more subdued as he retreated back into his car for a pad and pen. “I’m issuing you a temporary permit. See to it you’re brought up to date by then…” he said, tearing away the hand-written permit…
“Yeah…ah, yes. Yes, absolutely…Officer...will do…” Prescott noted his eyes were now back to a shimmering green. Somehow, he could tell this was a different man all of a sudden. It was the damdest thing, but he decided not to rock what was obviously a very unstable boat. “Th-thank you…” he managed. “You know. I mean, for not…”
“You just be certain to heed what I said, okay? Next time I might not be so forgiving. Now go have yourself a pleasant day, and drive careful.”
Harold watched in amazement as the crazy cop got back in his car. Almost instantly, he could hear some tedious, seventies rock riff, blasting without boundary…
–– layin in a travelin band, yeah!
Well, Im flyin cross the land, tryin to get a hand,
Playin in a travelin band...
Driving off into the very oblivion from which he’d come, the officer kindly waved. Harold simply stood there, dumbfounded on the side of the road, trying his best to wrap a stressful and now exhausted mind around the sudden one-eighty––when a gold Toyota rolled up to the stop sign behind him at long last.
Bad timing, he thought. Story of his life.
–––––––––––––––
“I don’t understand any of this. How does a man behave one way in broad daylight and turn into something completely different after dark? It doesn’t––”
“Alright, Raymond, that’s enough.” A voice spoke from the shadowy alcove. Raymond turned to face his Uncle Paulo before shrugging him off in frustration. “What’s done is done.” The old man continued. “There’s no sense in second guessing so far after the fact. Now, the police will be here any minute. What we need to do; and what Juanita needs us to do, is gather our composure and present a united front, understand?”
The core of the Duvaliente family was gathered in the kitchen. Most of the mourners had gone home; some on their own volition; others practically forced by intense discomfort. The rest remained to help with what had become an even more serious predicament than first thought––or ever imagined. Among them were Paulo, Cesaro’s oldest living relative; with her on that awful day more than twenty-five years ago in Manatzas; a place so close to what she imagined Hell must be like, it would burn in her memory forever. Edward was there too; her brother-in-law of almost forty years––and of course, Raymond, Edward’s and her late sister’s son, now in his mid-thirties.
“Oh, Sonny...” Juanita groaned softly, reemerging at long last after a lengthy absence. “Sonny, my dear, sweet Sonny, how could you have been so…” But she could not yet bring herself to speak the thoughts in her head; thoughts that betrayed her. Instead, she just cried. To the others, it seemed like all she’d been doing for days.
“Juanita.” Edward finally spoke. “What do you want to do?” he asked, and as simple a question as it may have been, no one had actually thought to pose it.
“Yes,” Paulo echoed. “Everyone’s been talking around you, but no one’s been talking to you. Now Sonny was special to all of us, and we all want to protect his memory…”
“Not to mention your privacy,” Raymond added.
“Yes. But, as much as we all loved and cared for him as though he were our own, he was your boy and only you can decide how to proceed with this…new information…”
The room went eerily silent. She seemed lost in heavy contemplation, as though attempting to weigh her own wishes against those she speculated Sonny’s might have been. From time to time, the men looked at her, and each other; trying to show respect while underscoring the rising urgency. The police, after all, would be there soon.
“We will show them,” she said after almost five full minutes. The others traded looks before finally, one of them decided to ask the question on all of their minds.
“Yes, of course.” It was Paulo. “But…how much?”
“Everything,” she replied definitively. “No more secrets.” Edward was the first to approach, gently placing a hand on her pale, bony shoulder.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he said. “God will be with you.”
“Yes,” added Raymond. “And so will we.”
*
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Duval. I’m Detective Merrimac, we spoke on the phone, and met briefly the other day.” Keith was in reasonably good spirits, despite the fact he was standing in the doorway of another murder victim in his once-peaceful town. He hadn’t expected to return here so soon after notifying the family of Sonny Duval’s untimely demise, but there was something in the mother’s tone of voice that morning––something that went beyond grief. To Keith, it had sounded more like…blind panic…
“Duvaliente.” One of the men spoke under his breath as he made his way inside. A white-haired gentlemen, who spoke with a thick Latino accent.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You said Duval. It’s Duvaliente.”
“Oh. I’m, ah, very sorry. It’s just that the, ah…Sonny had the name ‘Duval’ on his driver’s license when we…my mistake…”
“Sonny preferred a more American name for business and well…I suppose just to blend in more seamlessly,” his mother explained down the hallway and up the stairs.
“I see. And, um, what business would that be?” Keith inquired.
The woman paused in stumped contemplation.
“Sonny was involved in all kinds of endeavors. To be perfectly honest, Detective, I’m not sure how he made most of his money.”
“Well it’s not entirely unusual for a young man to keep things from his family,” he replied, trying not to offend––and yet somewhere inside, a strange skepticism––and familiarity…lingered…

Old Ghosts…
It was strange being here. This house. That woman, and the others. They all seemed so… familiar; so frightfully distant, though oddly comforting at the same time. Moving through the modest dwelling, Perry took in all the sights, the sounds and even the faintest smells of what constituted a whole nother lifetime. Everyone there was a stranger to him and yet, in some capacity, he felt as though he’d known them all for years. This is the way to my old room, he thought. I wonder if anything’s been changed…

“––’d never thought to look but I––well, I suppose I was just afraid of what I might find...” The woman had been speaking but Keith’s mind was temporarily elsewhere; a problem with which he’d been dealing, off and on, for a few days now.
“It’s perfectly understandable, Mrs. Duvaliente. I can only imagine how difficult this has been for you.” He hoped his reply was somewhere in the ballpark.
“Thank you, Paulo,” she said, turning sternly to the entourage in the doorway. “I’d like you to leave us alone now.” The white-haired gentlemen appeared uneasy, but after a few tense seconds, left quietly, and took the posse with him.
“Be careful, Detective. It’s not quite dry yet.” She said once they were alone, and slowly made her way to her late son’s closet, doors open just a sliver.
“So I’ve noticed…” The smell was consistent with disinfectant. He watched her fragile fingers slowly pull the doors apart.
Keith looked on in disbelief. At first glance, the closet seemed ordinary enough, packed with clothes, a few old board games and other childhood keepsakes, but in the far left corner, up on the shelf, he saw a Tupperware container about the size of a cereal box. It was filled halfway with water, or more likely, melted ice, and from his approximate distance, gave off the muggy, yet distinct scent of formaldehyde…
“What in God’s name…?” But he trailed off in mid-sentence for he could easily make out the contents by then... A hand. “When did you––?”
“Yesterday.” She interrupted. “Late last night, I should say. I suppose I was in shock, or something. So I waited a little longer than perhaps I should have.” Keith was in close, examining but not touching. He had little doubt it was recently severed, but for what possible purpose he could not yet begin to speculate. Late night snack? Fun, maybe?
“Mrs. Duvaliente, please listen to me carefully. Do you have any idea how, or more importantly why Sonny would want a human hand packed in ice to keep in his bedroom closet?” He couldn’t believe he was asking such a question.
“Detective, I can assure you with every fiber of my being that I do not.”
“Of course,” he said quickly, suddenly realizing something peculiar about all this; (well, more so). “Why would he pack it in ice if he knew it would melt?” He posed aloud, though the question was really rhetorical.
“Well…” She was thinking. “We do have a chest freezer––but the motor’s been broken for some––” She stopped. Keith tried his best to be gentle––but firm…
“And where exactly is that?”
* * *
The woman was visibly shaking. They were standing in the garage before a large Kenmore freezer buried under boxes and clutter. Carefully, Keith began clearing them away, then tried the stubborn lid, which seemed frozen shut––
“It’s still plugged in,” he said, feeling the top, and tracking the long, hidden chord all the way to the wall outlet. “How long did you say it’s been this way?” He struggled in a more or less futile attempt to pry the door open with his bare hands.
“I’m sorry? Oh, um, at least a few years. Since we lost the key. I can’t tell you how many times I asked Sonny to throw it away but he just…” Her voice trailed off and again, she looked about ready to cry. Keith looked around for something––anything to pry the stubborn lid.
“Here...” A voice called from the doorway, startling them both. Keith turned around to see the younger man standing there holding a crowbar.
“Raymond, I thought I told you to wait inside.” Juanita snapped.
“You’re trying to get that open, right?” He moved forward, ignoring her, and graciously helped jimmy the heavy lid with their combined strength.
“Good God…” Keith whispered, the strong smell triggering a wave of nausea, (which he fortunately managed to control). The young man wasn’t so lucky. Juanita simply gasped.
The freezer was packed with an assortment of what appeared to be, (and certainly smelled like), human body parts; arms, legs, appendages of every shape, size and color.
And then of course, were the heads.
At least three, at a glance. One in particular seemed almost to be staring back at them; its features kept eerily intact by the freezer’s rigid cold. Packed along the bottom were several carefully placed freezer bags containing everything from human tissue, to full sized organs.
“I’ll, ah, need to call in the coroner,” Keith said after a fairly long pause. The mother remained silent, staring into the frozen grave her own flesh and blood had apparently dug for a whole host of unsuspecting victims. She was now his latest, and hopefully last, wearing an expression the cynical detective would not soon forget.
Keith felt something similar, though not quite as emotional. When he’d woke up that morning, Sonny Duval was a victim of senseless murder; a man to whom he’d intended to bring justice. Now he was merely one of what seemed like a number of disturbing components to a much larger puzzle.
So much for loose ends… a familiar voice sparked indifferently from within; not quite so deep as before. It was true enough. This was most certainly, no end at all. Not by the farthest cry.
For Keith Merrimac, it was only the beginning.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Five

2009-12-05T14:36:00.001-08:00

Recently, I finished 'cleaning up' the first thriteen chapters, or "Volume One" of my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (please see the post-index for related entries), and, aside from querying various agents and/or publishers the 'traditional way,' I've also planned to package it into a Kindle Book for Amazon's increasingly popular e-book reader platform. A good friend of mine, (with whom I'm also collaborating on a comic book), has agreed to do a series of drawings for the final product, which I hope will not only enhance the material, but also help it to stand out in that highly-competitive marketplace. I should be putting it out there, so to speak, as soon as I have a good cover image.

Anyway, here's chapter five:

–– Five ––

Finally, some nighttime…
Keith was awake. Big surprise. No matter how hard he tried, his mind would not stop racing. His immediate surroundings seemed different somehow; almost as though he were seeing them with a whole new set of eyes; familiar, yet…strange…
What he needed was rest. The whole Pollack debacle had taken its toll, leaving him weak and disillusioned. And now out of the blue, there was this. More brutality. More innocent blood. Honestly, how could any man sleep?
Being there, at the McAllister residence that afternoon was simply too much, much too soon. What a waste. Just some ordinary everyman; husband and father, going about his life the way all should have the right to. The wife was a mess. The image of her collapsing to the ground; that little boy in her arms, he would not soon forget. Poor woman. Poor family.
I could sure go for a snack…
Rummaging through his half-empty fridge, he grabbed at anything edible…and found some leftover chicken tucked way back behind the econo-mayo.
Plopping down on the sofa, he spread out and went for the remote:
Nope, no…please no…not in a million––wait––nope, no…crap, shite, next, ah-ha… ‘Croc Bounty’––with that Aussie bloke down in the Outback. Keith watched awhile, feasting. Just looking at those cold-blooded carnivores laying merciless waste to whatever suited them seemed to stir something primal inside; those cold, empty eyes, oozing ‘fear me; for I eat everything’ were a true inspiration.
Lest we leave out the million-dollar grin…
The grand ballet that was nature danced all up and down his head, sending his body all atingle as he tore into that chicken…and yet, somewhere in between ruthless images, there was her––the young nanny. What was her name again? Samantha…? No. Cindy…? No. Cynthia…that’s the one… She had to have been…oh, at least half his age; (maybe not quite). Still, the thought of her getting out of her crappy blue car to face him with those majestic brown eyes under not-quite-dark enough sunglasses...made him horny as hell...
Hm. Hardly satisfying…
Ten minutes later they were scraps.
A wave of fatigue overtook him. Food, much like thought, needed space to digest.
* * *
The telephone was in mid-ring. Keith found himself still in front of the TV. There were chicken bones in his lap, which fell between the cushions as he reached for the phone. “Yeah…”
“Merrimac. What in God’s name were you up to? Phone must’a rang six times.”
“Hmm? I’m sorry…sorry about that, Captain, I…what time is it?”
“Almost ten. Officer Sparks says there’s someone here to see you.”
“Christ,” he said, rubbing the excess sleep from his eyes. Mary-Ann McAllister. That’s right. He did say ten. What was he thinking? “Tell her I’ll be right there.”
“Okay but that better not be a load’a––”
Keith hung up, standing to go brush his teeth. Luckily, he was already dressed from the night before, so he splashed on some warm water, followed by a dab or two of generic cologne, and rushed out the door.
* * *
The sun seemed stronger, more formidable a presence as he stepped out to greet the new day. The older he got, the more time played with his burnt-out perceptions. Sleep was a mere means to replenishment, nothing more. Without it, there would be no separation of one day to the next. Sure, there was night. But the hours themselves stretched on endlessly, forever...
Yet somehow, not today.
For the first time in ages, the morning felt fresh and brand new, like when he was a child. The sky looked clearer; the breeze more refreshing…
On the way to the station, he listened to 104.7, the generic fogey rock station, catching some Credence Clearwater in mid Revival...
– ust got home from Illinois.
Lock the front door oh boy.
Got to set down take a rest on the porch.
Sure don’t make’em like this anymore…
…magination sets in, pretty soon I'm singin
Doot doot doot lookin out my back door…
* * *
“Tell me something, Detective. Do you enjoy keeping people waiting? Is it like a power thing for you?”
“No, Ma’am, of course not. The traffic was just––”
“Oh please...”
“I’m sure you have more pressing matters. If you’d like to reschedule––”
“No. No, please, let’s just do this...” She cut him off, shaky, and at last, he could see what was really there. Not anger; (at least not just anger), but…loss. Fear. A part of him took comfort in it. And pleasure. “So, is there someplace we can go, Detective? Like your office maybe?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, absolutely; and please, feel free to call me Keith...” He swerved somewhat sharp, heading toward his locked office; the woman dragging behind...
Away from prying eyes, she softened considerably. “Would you like a tissue?”
“Please.” She accepted.
“Mrs. McAllister,” he began, all business, “can you think of any particular reason your husband might have been involved in an…altercation…of this nature…?”
Her eyes, barely dry, broke into a scowl. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your husband. I know this is difficult but do you know of anyone who––?”
“I thought you said this was a random act, Detective.” Her voice was rising back up toward angry. “Murdered? Henry was no saint by any means, but––”
“Mrs. McAllister, I’m just trying to––”
“I don’t think I like what you’re insinuating, Detective Merrimac.”
“Keith. Please. I’m not insinuating, Mrs. McAllister. Your husband was…involved, so to speak, with a previous investigation of mine, that’s all; one, which could conceivably be linked to the recent Richard Pollack––”
“Richard Pollock? You mean the rapist? But I thought he was––”
“He is. But we haven’t yet ruled out the possibility of some…superficial connection.” It seemed to take a moment or two before the admission could penetrate.
“I can’t…I can’t hear this...” She stumbled, regrouping. “The, um, investigation, to which you’re referring is, I assume, that of Miss. Todd…and I doubt you have any idea of the fresh wounds you’re salting…”
“Ma’am, I’m not trying to––”
“I need to be home…need to be with my babies…” she babbled. “…if you’ll excuse me, Detective…” And turned tail…
“No, of course not, and please it’s just…Keith…!” he called, wondering if perhaps he’d gone too far.
Bite your tongue…
crept a thought from seemingly nowhere.
*
Mary waited until completely shielded by her frosty fortress of solitude, then cried. Slow tears, she found, could be perfectly suited to pain. The slightest inclination of one and more were most certain to follow. For a good five minutes, she just let them come. “Bastard…” was all she could manage, grateful no one could see her.
It was a long drive home; lonely. She used the time to think.
What will I do now? she considered, a wide array of angry possibilities running through her grief-stricken mind. Though difficult to accept, it remained the only relevant question left.
–––––––––––––––
¿Qué ahora haré?
The question dogged her mercilessly as she sat in the dark, empty bedroom. It would never be changed; not one square inch for as long as she lived in this house. “Sonny...” she whispered, tears welling up. “Sonny, Sonny!” The welcome numbness was beginning to wear off. Her only son was gone: Sonny Luis Duvaliente––dead at twenty-eight.
Her aging grey eyes bounced off the light coming under the door. Sonny’s bedroom was like a boy’s of high-school age; posters plastered all over the walls, shelves stacked with track trophies and other mementos from a still-fresh adolescence. There were years unaccounted for, and she wondered, as she’d done so often in the past, how well she truly knew him.
He was always a quiet boy, but still active in his way; particularly when it came to appearances; things like sports, school, and occasionally girls. There were times, however, when he’d look at her with a dark, chilling vacancy, as though he were not even there. It was a look she’d seen before; knew all too well from her days in the old country. ‘Menos que ser humano,’ were the words she had silently spoken on that dreadful day––less than human; terrible for someone to think of her own flesh and blood.
“Juanita…” Paulo was calling her from the alcove. She ignored him.
Sonny had been her ‘child of miracle,’ or so they had proclaimed. It was the only way they could accept his bizarre introduction to this world: the emergence of life in the midst of so much death and suffering. She and a handful of others were saved somehow, spared the unspeakable fate of their fellow detainees at the hands of the Militia.
She gave birth to him hastily, atop a filthy slab of metal used for slaughter and converted into a gurney by her husband, Cesaro and a handful of others; family, friends and strangers. All were as one under the weight of such tyranny. A man stood guard outside the tent, but could do nothing to hide her screams as she berthed her baby boy. And when finally, he was born, the first sounds to fill his untainted ears were of gunfire, spiked with anguish––and terror.
Apart from his mama’s bloodied sweat, Juanita was convinced Sonny’s first sights were of the animal who’d attacked them mere moments before; General Sanuela; the man responsible for most of the carnage on that horrific day. It took several deep gashes into his leathery skin before he had finally seen fit to let go. Cesaro discovered them shortly thereafter, neutralizing him crudely with the Louisville Slugger he’d stolen from the commissary storehouse. Perhaps if he had been more of a monster, and finished the evil degenerate before he could strike back, her kind and gentle husband would be with her today––and so might her Sonny...
Juanita was on her feet at last, unable to stand the sight of this room a moment longer––and took her first step toward the door––into a tiny wet discoloration on the carpet. Curious, she looked down and noticed another such spot almost right next to it; wet, sticky…and dark. Then another…tiny drops of what she could only assume was water had formed an inconspicuous trail. Without thought for what she might encounter, she followed it to the paint-chipped closet doors and slid them apart as if to get a sweater.
A wave of nausea came up and, before she could suppress it, vomit spilled out all over his faded turquoise carpet. This was the first true confirmation of one of her most carefully-guarded fears. The first solid evidence of Sonny’s mysterious other side. And she wished like hell she hadn’t found it; or done something sooner.
The point was of course, moot; an empty wish to begin with, and far too late for wishful thinking. However she chose to rationalize; whether she liked it or not, those eyes, much like the closet doors in front of her face, had been opened for good.

I'm still trying to get the translation just right, from my original Wordfile to this. Call it a work in progress.

D.A.

Simpsons Roundup!

2009-12-01T19:31:00.000-08:00

Hey there, and welcome to my first attempt - echm! - first edition of Simpsons Roundup!

What is Simpsons Roundup, you ask?

Just a semi-regular critique or, in some cases, summary of Sunday's newest entry into the pantheon of Simpsons lexicon.

I'll try to keep this a regular thing but it won't always be tops on my list of priorities. Nevertheless, if it catches fire like I know it will, it's popularity could crash the whole Internet!

Let us begin.

Last Sunday's ep continues a streak of strong outings during the month of November. I know, many of you out there think the show has gone stale and at times, I can strain to see your point. The fact is, the sense of humor is, in my humble opinion, as sharp, witty and potentially observant as ever it has been. This week's episode, entitled, "Rednecks and Broomsticks", (11/29/09), featured Lisa joining a group of wiccans. The synopsis is as follows:

"After getting lost in a game of hide-and-seek, Lisa wanders into the forest and discovers three teenage girls, including Cassandra, who are practicing Wiccans. Though she is skeptical of their spells, the girls assure Lisa that they never hurt anyone and ask her to join their coven. Just before Lisa is inducted into their pact, Chief Wiggum arrives and arrest the three girls for witchcraft and Lisa becomes the star witness in their trial. Meanwhile, Homer starts hanging out with Cletus and his hillbilly friends when he discovers that they make moonshine."

Overall, I liked it. As it's been a few days, many of the episode's finer points have already begun to escape me but I particualrly liked the Bambi joke early on in the first act where The Simpsons car spun out onto a frozen lake and slammed into Bambi and Thumper. Also, I thought the Cletus story worked well too, using the character for something other than some dopey aside or one-liner. Don't get me wrong, I love those too when they work, but Cletus has been around long enough, I think, where, by season 21, we could give him some more meat.

The way the two stories came together was also effective, as the tainted moonshine got into the town drinking water and caused an epidemic of temporary blindness, (blamed on the witches, of course). Moe too, had some great stuff, particularly, the mob jokes, where he eggs an angry crowd of gawkers into chasing him just to keep them fired up, as well as a good bit with the annoying travelling game, 'Bonk-It,' which Homer throws out the window only to have another angry father in the next car, throw his own kid's Bonk-It back into the Simpsons car.

The guest voice was Neve Campbell, which I didn't know till I read the end credits.

All in all, I found it to be a solid entry which, as most episodes do, get better with repeat viewings. Not sure yet if next week's is a new one. Either way, I'll try and keep this thing going - for a while.

D.A.

Got an opinion? Think I'm out to lunch? Or maybe right on the money? Leave a comment. Hey, it just might be the best decision of your entire life!

An Evening With Stephen King

2009-11-26T10:21:00.000-08:00

Last week, I had the good fortune to head down to The Canon Theatre in Toronto for An Evening With Stephen King.

I'd say I'm a fairly average Stephen King fan. I've read all the "Dark Tower" books, (highly recommended, by the way), plus a handful of others, like, "The Dead Zone", "Hearts in Atlantis", "Desperation", "The Stand" and proabaly one or two I'm forgetting. I've also read a few short stories. I think that qualifies me for a night like this, but there were people in that theatre that could probably quote the man, line for line.

I do admire the hell out of him. For anyone who wants to write books for a living, there is no greater role model. The man's track record is almost superhuman when it comes to, not only spine-tingling and strange, but also sheer volume. He seems to put out a couple 600+ page books every few years. This latest one, "Under The Dome", clocks in at something like, 1200. I don't know the exact page count, but fuck!

Anyway, the whole thing was pretty darn cool. After an Oscar-like video montage of the man's impressive catalogue, local TV and radio personality, George Stroumboulopoulos, (you know that ain't no stage name), came out and briefly introduced one of popular fiction's most legendary storytellers. A man that will go down as the 20th century poster boy for his profession. Stephen King.

The next part, while entertaining, was basically just a regular old reading. Mr. King, (may I call you Stephen?)-- Stephen read a few choice pages from his latest take on the Simpsons Movie, (just kidding. Sidenote: For more on The Simpsons, check out my Simpsons Round-up, coming soon!).
After it was done, 'Steve' threw out a couple jokes to sooth his apparent nerves and George came out again to introduce another horror-legend, and no stranger to strange himself, Toronto's own, Mr. David Cronenberg.

Why David Cronenberg?

Well, aside from being one of the most noted horror/weird filmakers of his generation, and, as I said, a Toronto native, (guess that cut down on travel expenses), Cronenberg adapted Kings's aforementioned, "The Dead Zone", (great book and tv show as well), for the 1983 film, starring Christopher Walken as Jonny Smith and Martin Sheen as a George W-esque Greg Stillson.

The two men sat down to an intimate conversation before 500 or so adoring admirers and waxed on about inspiration, adaptation, (both have experience in graphic novels), narrative choices, as well as the changes to their respective approaches to writing and storytelling in today's tech-savvy, Google-ready world of McResearh. Not that I'm knocking it. Hell, I'm using it right now!

All in all, a good time was had by all, certainly me and my good buddy, Kev, (a much bigger King fan, I should add). Afterwards, we waited around for like, an hour to buy an autographed copy of his newest. A needlessly complicated raffle won us the honor. Yes, I said to buy, not win, said copy. And no, Mr. King, (Stevie), did not personally sit for the signing. That was done sometime beforehand, (hopefully the same day). Again, I'm not knocking it, just throwing in a little sarcasm for enhanced readability.

Ok, guess that about sums it up.
It was definitely an interesting experience, or 'evening' (more like an hour and a half), peering into the mind of a true living legend all up close and personal. I even plan to read "Under The Dome" one of these days, though I do have a few books to sift through first.

Seriously, thanks for the great stories, Steve.
Keep on writing.

Anvil

2009-11-21T13:31:00.000-08:00

I just saw a really great documentary called 'Anvil: The Story of Anvil' and I had to come on here and talk about it.

The story surrounds two lifelong friends, Steve Kudlow, ("Lips", to legions of hardcore rockers and most of his friends), and drummer extraorinaire, Robb Reiner, (no, not Meathead), both from Toronto, (which also happens to be my hometown), who decide from the ripe age of fourteen to be rockstars - and, for thirty-plus years, refuse to take obscurity for an answer.
It was directed by their lifelong fan and friend, Sasha Gervasi, who did a fantastic job capturing the essence of these guys, their passion, struggle and enduring friendship, not to mention deep devotion to eachother and to Anvil.

I have to confess, I'd never heard of Anvil before hearing about this movie, which, I understand, has been rocking the festival circuit for some time, but, like most of you, do know fairly well their many high-profile admirers and, dare I say, imitators. Bands like Metallica, Guns and Roses, (more specifically, Slash), Anthrax, Twisted Sister, (ok, they're not so high profile nowadays), Scorpions, and more. In fact, Metallica's Lars Ulrich speaks at length about listening to Anvil as a teenager and rediscovering their many timeless tunes lo these many years later. Songs like "Metal on Metal", "666", "Jackhammer", "Tag Team", "This is my Life", etc. (download a few for yourself and try em out), off an impressive fourteen album discography that includes classic titles like, "Forged In Fire", "Backwaxed", "Hard N' Heavy", "Back to Basics", "Past and Presence", "This is Thirteen", the list goes on and I hardly do it justice.

Okay, before you say it, no, I do not work for the band or have any connection to them whatsoever. The music, though good, quality stuff, isn't why I'm championing these guys so much. It's the movie I most want to recommend. Why?
Well, because at the end of the day, it's a deeply moving, deeply inspiring story of two friends who refuse to give up on a dream and seem to enjoy following it as much, if not more, than it's inevitable manifestation. I liked these guys a lot and could feel their strong passion and unbreakable bond. Perhaps, as someone who knows the cruel sting and, maybe worse, casual numbness that goes with rejection after rejection, setback after maddening setback while the world around you goes on fine and dandy and can't quite understand your devotion, I needed to see there are others out there that go through shit as well, and that, yes, it is possible to come through to the other side - no matter how many times you stumble. Even if you can't quite relate, though, everyone does have their stories and dreams, some realized, many long cast aside. For those people, I urge you to check out this flick. It just might get you banging your heads to a different tune.

D.A.

Want to know more about Anvil?

Check out their site here:

http://my.tbaytel.net/~tgallo@tbaytel.net/anvil/

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Four

2009-11-14T23:20:00.000-08:00

And so, it continues. Hope you're enjoying Volume One of my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique. Today's installment is Chapter Four. To read the three previous chapters, plus the prologue, simply scan the post index and take your pick.
Now, without further adieu...

–– Four ––

The Community Medical Center was a welcome addition to the evolving Maplewood landscape. There were a few local drop-in clinics in the area already, but nothing to rival this state of the art family facility. Even the closest hospital, while more than adequate, was little more than a nuisance to the average impatient patient, with its bloated wait-times and stuffy bureaucracy.
The waiting room at the CMC was almost luxurious by comparison. It was spacious, spotless and quite methodical in its carefully-researched aesthetic. Certain walls were painted soothing shades to bring out their calming influence, while others donned dreamy works of art; bright, colorful and always symmetrical.
Cynthia was unconscious of her tennis shoes tapping the anti-microbial carpeting. Across from her, a small boy about the same age as Patrick fidgeted next to his mother, sobbing and carrying on…while all around, people grew exceedingly intolerant...
“Sue Brevetski?” the Asian nurse called, and a very pregnant woman hoisted herself up from her chair and waddled off after her.
“How you doing, Patrick? Any better?”
“No…” he squeezed out. She wasn’t expecting much else, but didn’t want to appear unsympathetic to this roomful of strangers. With the overhead clock, she crosschecked her wristwatch. At least one was off. Either way, the boy’s mother was late.
“It hurts…” whined the child across the way.
“I know, honey. Just a little bit longer.”
“Mommy!”
“What do you want me to do, Eric? Everybody has to wait, okay? There’s nothing I can do.” It didn’t take a keen observer to see she was fed up.
“Sonya Belange?” the nurse called from the alcove. Behind her, an elderly couple acknowledged. Cynthia looked on, while on her lap, Patrick was fast asleep.
About five minutes later, the nurse re-emerged to a chorus of raised heads: “Roberta Luan…?” A woman in the second to front row stood up, excited.
“Cynthia…” Spinning around, she saw Mrs. McAllister coming toward her; hair tied back, wearing a dark brown winter coat with a white, imitation-fur collar. Her boots were tracking slush across the carpet and, though she did appear to notice, did not seem to care. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, sitting down. “I had one more house to show and figured on plenty of time, but…these people…” She sighed––then stopped, turning attention to Patrick. “How is he?”
“Bout the same,” Cynthia replied. “He just fell asleep about ten minutes ago…”
“Well…at least he’s resting...” she said, eying the room suspiciously. “Has he been throwing up? Did you give him anything to eat?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“What about medicine?”
“Only two teaspoons of Children’s Tylenol, which I found above the sink.”
“And…?”
“He said it didn’t help.”
“Well what else did you try? Do you even know anything about first-aid?”
“I have two younger siblings, Mrs. McAllister,” she said, “and plenty of hands-on experience. I’m also certified with the New York State Lifeguard Association, trained in CPR and many other life-saving techniques, in case you’d like to check up. I promise you, if there was anything else I could think to do I would have done it.”
“Well then. I guess there’s nothing left to do but wait and see what the doctor says.” And that was that––for awhile.
The two sat in silence…ten; fifteen; twenty minutes…before the nurse re-emerged from what seemed like her hiding place. “Gil Galavann?” A man in his mid-to late thirties looked up from behind a seven month-old swimsuit issue.
“Jesus…” muttered Mrs. McAllister; “That guy doesn’t even look sick.” and eyed him doggedly all the way down the corridor. “Maybe I should say something.” She may have been waiting for Cynthia to respond––but not long––for, before she could open her mouth, the anxious woman was halfway toward the reception desk…
She couldn’t do much but watch as the two of them argued at a barely-strained whisper; the former turning and pointing toward Patrick routinely––but to no avail. Cynthia figured the receptionist dealt with people like Mrs. McAllister on a semi-hourly basis.
“I tell you there is no reasoning with these people,” she said, tail tucked between her legs. “For Christ’s sake, all I want is for them to look at my son…” She stopped, clearly distraught––and crazy.
“I know, Mrs. McAllister.” Cynthia tried to sound reassuring. Mrs. McAllister looked up, placing a hand on her son’s tiny head, sliding it down to softly caress his back.
“You say you were a lifeguard,” she inquired…sort of…
“Four summers strait.”
“Henry never mentioned that.”
“He didn’t know. And you’re right. He never did delve too deeply into my credentials.”
The woman laughed to herself and Cynthia couldn’t help but feel a little insulted.
“Don’t take that personally,” she said. “If there’s one thing my husband’s a sucker for it’s a pretty face.” Cynthia was even more offended now––and flattered.
“How did it go with Nick?” She changed the subject. “Did he give you any trouble?”
“Nothing serious.”
“You know if that one wasn’t feeling well he’d be screaming it into a megaphone,” she said, looking down to Patrick with soft eyes. “But Patrick here just isn’t like that at all…” She was stroking his face now. Except for his tiny mouth, quietly pushing the air from his child-sized lungs, one might never have known he was in such discomfort.
“Patrick McAllister…?”
“Right here!” his mother blurted, waving her arms like the next contestant on The Price is Right. Cynthia rose with more dignity, looking out at the sea of angry im-patients: Those that were once my allies are now my enemies, she thought. Oh well.
* * *
The office was off-settingly generic and unimpressive. The doctor keeping them waiting went by the name of Pierce; a young man, or so Mrs. McAllister had been informed during her less than subtle questioning of the patient Asian nurse.
“I thought Dr. McGrady was on call today.”
“Dr. McGrady’s on sabbatical, Ma’am. There’s no need to worry, though. Dr. Pierce is an excellent physician,” she responded, making sure she got out cleanly.
“Wonderful. Shit! I can’t believe my luck this morning. First Henry, then the Diego showing, and now this…I mean, what kind of family doctor abandons his patients during the busiest cold and flu season of the calendar year…?”
“I’m sure the doctor on call knows what he’s doing.”
“Not to worry...” A young man in his thirties was strolling in, wearing a white lab coat with a chart in hand. “Dr. McGrady left you in good hands, I promise.” He looked the three over, extending a hand to the nervous mother. “Mrs. McAllister? I’m Dr. Randal Pierce.” She took it with an insincere smile. Pierce seemed oblivious, shifting his attention to the groggy little boy on her lap. “And you must be Patrick...” he said. The child acknowledged with a non-committal nod. “Not feeling too good, huh? Well, why don’t we have a seat up there on my special table and see how to fix you up, okay?”
“Okay...” Patrick made no fuss whatsoever as Mrs. McAllister stood up and carried him to the paper-draped examination table.
“Has there been any nausea, fever…?” Cynthia, who was about to speak––
“No.” Mrs. McAllister cut her off. “But he does have a temperature.” But Pierce had already felt the boy’s head and did not need her diagnosis. Moving over to a countertop, he opened up a drawer and retrieved a plastic-wrapped ‘popsicle-stick’...
“Okay, Patrick, now I want you to open your mouth real big and stick out your tongue like you’re making a silly face…” Unenthusiastically, the boy obliged, (though his face wasn’t all that silly). “Good. Now say ‘ahhhh!’” The child sounded more like a wounded animal. “Oh come on now, I know you can do better than that...”
“Ahhhh!” he repeated, considerably louder, which was good to hear.
“Open up now, as wide as you can…” With his free hand, the doctor began feeling along Patrick’s throat. “His glands are a bit swollen…some hints of a budding infection; antibiotics ought’’a clear you right up. It’s probably a good thing you came to see me when you did.” Mrs. McAllister was abnormally quiet. Removing the stethoscope around his neck, he positioned it against the boy’s back from under his shirt. “This little guy’s just to help me hear your heartbeat, Patrick, okay? Nothing to be afraid of. Though it may feel a little cold.”
The doctor instructed him to breathe in through his nose and exhale normally, over and over as he moved the stethoscope around periodically. After about thirty seconds, he retrieved the device and went back to the desk to write a prescription.
“I’m going to put him on penicillin to start with. Have him take one immediately then another before bed. Continue twice a day till they’re gone and I’ll schedule a follow-up in two and a half weeks, but be sure to call me if his condition worsens…” The young doctor continued with his instructions as Cynthia’s mind began to wander.
He was kinda cute, she observed; if one went for that straight-laced, J-Crew-type… Then she caught sight of something sinister––just barely––as he hiked up his sleeve…the traces of one badass tattoo concealed not quite all the way up his forearm. Now that was more like it.
Out in the parking lot, the woman re-sharpened her edge, spouting noisy opinions on everything from Dr. Pierce to the A.M.A, fully preparing to take on Hell itself, if it became necessary.
Cynthia was relieved to finally be rid of her when she took Patrick to fill his prescription. And so it was she who saw them first. Arriving a good ten minutes prior, she thought them an illusion; reflections out of focus…even as the flashing lights drew closer… Then why is there a man coming down the McAllister driveway, stupid…?
Good question.
She parked across the street; (a Squad car in her usual spot), and noticed a man coming toward her; about fortyish, and dressed rather shabbily in plain clothes; kind of scruffy looking for a cop, she thought, getting out of her car…
“Mrs. McAllister…?”
“No, um…she had to stop at the Drugstore. What’s going on?”
“Forgive me, Miss…?”
“Caldwell. Cynthia...”
“Miss. Caldwell, I’m Detective Keith Merrimac with the Maplewood Police Department. I’m terribly sorry to have to inform you of this but…this morning, your employer, Dr. McAllister was found murdered at the Bluemont Palisades Shopping Center.” The words took a moment to register––which felt like forever…and as soon as they did, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.

Thanks for reading. Comments are both welcome and appreciated.

D.A.

Minutemark

2009-11-08T21:41:00.000-08:00

In honor of my pulp-thriller, Minutemark, advancing in The Writer's Network Screenplay and Fiction Competition, (Yipee!), I thought I'd celebrate by posting a working synopsis.

The intent of this story is much more in line with the hard-boiled, noir-ish page-turners penned by the likes of Ian Fleming, (James Bond), Raymond Chandler and others. Though meant to stand on its own as a novel, Minutemark also acts as a companion piece to five other stand-alone stories, which collectively make up the six-part saga, The Mantra. The next book in the series, Impetus, is currently being written.

Running in short, succinct chapters at approximately 115 000 words, Minutemark paints a stylized picture of a past and present world, where no one is quite what they seem, says what they mean, or means what they say. Filled with intrigue, pathos, adventure and a slew of colourful characters who use aliases to cover their aliases, it spans several decades and surrounds a self-estranged man and his crippling regrets pertaining to his two estranged children; one whom he fears it too late to save, and the other who longs to save him.

MINUTEMARK

Who is Sam Jett?
And why do so many seem to want in his head?

Estranged son, David Drake has flown all the way to Paris just to make a connection, only to be brutally rebuffed over and over, left in limbo at last by a ransacked apartment with one possible clue to his crude disappearance––
To top it all off, he’s been followed.
By the government, no less. They too want their piece of Sam Jett, with whom they’ve an old score to settle. After years of cold trails and downright indifference, it takes veteran war-horse, ‘Mr. Wednesday’ and his kindly old ‘missus’ to put things back in order, setting their cataracted sights on the man’s next of kin, in the hopes he will lead them right to him.
Then there’s Bianca.
A disfigured old adversary, she has taken and tortured Sam Jett to extract her mysterious reward. But is that all she’s after? Or is there, perhaps, something even more priceless between them?

But who is Sam Jett, anyway?
And what makes him so special?

To some, he’s insignificant; an aging playboy with a hasty bravado and flare for frivolity.
To others, a war hero turned spy, trained to survive and steal secrets, (or thoughts), straight from the mind of the enemy.
Some may even know of him best as a philanthropist and collector of rarities.
And still, there are those who would see little more than a scoundrel; a liar, manipulative, without one bone in his body worth trusting.
Though by far, the majority would simply dismiss him. A mere shadow of who he used to be, he now lives a reclusive, tentative non-existence, soaked in booze and self-loathing. A hermit on the verge of full mental collapse.

So who is Sam Jett, after all? And, perhaps more importantly…
How on earth did he get this way?

If there’s hope anywhere to redeem him; not the crafted persona, but the man who lies somewhere beneath, it rests squarely with David, disgruntled in his own right with a lifetime of regrets to prove it, and so many questions.
Now at the precipice of fatherhood himself, he seeks out his reclusive “father-by-birth,” Sam Jett, a fantastical figure he remembers mainly from cheques made out to his family and half over-heard stories that were mostly good fiction.
A man who, when last he’d inquired, wanted nothing to do with him.
Too bad.
Every bit as stubborn, David tracks this disparaged old hermit to Paris, where he lives out what remains of his not-so-golden years, embittered, veering into senility.
When he rudely goes missing less than twenty-four hours after their disastrous initial encounter, David risks life and limb to recover him alive, amazed along the way, to learn what he never dreamed possible; that most of those embellished stories––might turn out to be true after all.

As mentioned, the next book in the 6-part The Mantra saga, Impetus, is nearly through a first official draft. I'm having a blast with it so far, (as I did with the first), and can't wait to see how it shapes up.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Three

2009-11-04T20:07:00.000-08:00

You asked for it. Okay, maybe not in so many words but I know you were thinking it. So here you go, no need to keep persturing me. Chapter Three of my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, for which, incidentally, I've been sending out queries again after a fairly lengthy hiatus. For earlier entries, please check the Post Index over there on your right.

–– Three ––

Just a few hours before his death, Henry McAllister had the Grand Slam Breakfast at Denny’s, right off the Langferth Expressway. Normally, the cholesterol alone would have dissuaded him, but on this particular morning, heightened anxiety had trumped other considerations. It was time, he thought, soaking up the last of his syrup with a half a piece of toast. It had been a good four, maybe five minutes since he looked her straight in the eye; Abigail Waike, sipping her steaming hot tea. She really was a sweet kid. And part of him really hated himself. It’s not that he meant to hurt anyone. He had a disease.
“I don’t think we should see each other any more.” There, he said it. It was out there at last. Poor thing. She was looking at him with those pouty, puppy dog eyes, which usually made him want to ravage her but––no––must stay strong. “Please say something.”
Her expression changed.
“What do you want me to say?”
She had to have seen this coming. Not today perhaps. Or any time soon. But surely somewhere down the line.
“Sweetheart this isn’t about you,” he attempted clumsily. “It’s about––”
“I love you, Henry.” She interrupted him, then paused, probably just for effect. And, though tempted, Henry held his tongue. “If you can honestly say that you don’t love me back…well…I guess that’ll be that.”
“Abi, honey, you’re my hygienist.” He stopped. What more was there to say? “Look, you know I’m married. And you… You’re a beautiful, smart, sexy…sexy…sexy girl…” Off-track, off-track, off-track. “What I’m trying to say is…you’ll have no trouble attracting the right kind of guy.” About to break in, he held up his finger–– “I have to make it work with my family. My boys…are the most important thing in the world to me, you know that.” He sighed. “Then, of course, there’s Mary…”
“The Ice Queen,” she murmured. “I thought you ‘fell out of love’ with her…”
“I thought maybe I had, but…she has her reasons for being angry, believe me…”
It was almost as though he believed himself for the very first time.
“So that’s it then…”
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.” Next came the uncomfortable silence. “If you like, I can write you a killer referral with Dr. Abbott. Seriously, the man owes me a––” Oops.
“Thanks.” She snipped; the last straw.
“I am sorry, Abigail. Please believe that. If there’s anything I can do––”
“I’d say you’ve done enough.” She folded her hands on the table. “Now I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind…”
Beautiful.
Henry stood from the table and reached into his back pocket. “Say no more.”
All in all, he was grateful to her for not making a scene; (one of the reasons he’d suggested this very public venue to begin with). Thank God he’d asked her to mail that little letter to Leon back at the office, putting to rest yet another ugly chapter in his personal book of shame.
The ordeal had gone much smoother than he’d any right to anticipate. There was anger, sure; hurt, guilt; perhaps even a little betrayal...but to his reasonable astonishment, she’d taken the whole thing like a grownup. Better than some grownups he knew.
By the time he got out to the parking lot, he’d already begun to reconsider. Perhaps he was giving himself too much credit. She was a very attractive girl, after all, who’d likely broken her share of hearts along the way. She’ll be fine, he unlocked his whipped-cream white S-120 from half an aisle down, repeating the silent mantra all the way inside, pulling out and due north onto Bluemont Drive.
He still had a good deal of growing up to do, but he felt a weight lifted and longed to hold onto the feeling. With nearly two hours to his next appointment, he decided to get in some holiday shopping before heading back to the office. Things were gonna be different, he sternly proclaimed, circling the lot for a space, and in his mind, it was already true. After all, he’d been strong so far with Cynthia, despite clear opportunity. Yes sir. Henry was going to grow up if it killed him.
It was just wrong, what he’d had with Abigail, and he’d always known that. She was just so…there. And life with Mary could be so…predictable. ‘Boring’ was the only real word for it. He meant every word at the restaurant. Mary was the most patient soul he’d ever known and over the years, had a million and one reasons to leave––and only two to stay. Granted, those two carried considerable weight, but there were plenty of women out there who would’ve opted for personal happiness over a sham-marriage any day.
Jessica Todd came as close as anyone to breaking up their not-so-happy home for good. What happened to her was a tragedy, and not a day went by when he didn’t wonder what might have been if he hadn’t––a thought that usually kept him up at night…
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” His blinker was clearly blinking when some hipster college-boy in a trendy Mini Cooper, (not the Classic, mind you; one of those new plastic knock-offs), slipped right into his space from nowhere. Henry leaned on the horn a good ten seconds before begrudgingly moving on.
This is hopeless, he thought, adjusting the heat to his liking. He would be damned if he was going to walk up from half a mile out. Driving up one of Lot Purple A’s many crowded aisles, he noticed a white minivan with its reverse lights on. No time to be diplomatic. With the skill of a Formula One driver, he threw the standard transmission into the reverse position and backed his way down the aisle, cutting off the car behind him in the process. A loud honk let him know it.
“Okay, guess I deserved that...” he maintained, doing almost ten now, backwards all the way to the other end of the fifty-car stretch. And just as he came within a few dozen feet, a faded-gray, piece of shit Buick signaled its intention to move in on his territory. “Oh no. No fucking way, pal!” he declared, flooring it as a Dodge Caravan unintentionally ran defense.
Mr. Buick didn’t like it one bit. Henry could see him ranting through the rear-view mirror. For a second, he thought the large driver might get out of his car, but seeing a space on the other side of the aisle must have made him think twice, (though he made sure Henry could see his lewd finger as he drove off to go after it).
On the short walk inside, he again thought of Jessica. She would have been thirty next month.
_____
“Do you love me?” she once asked out of thin air.
“Well, I…I care about you, Jessica, you know that. I care about you a lot.”
“But do you love me? As in the way you used to love your wife.”
“I think that’s a little different. She and I were in the same place when we fell in love. We had our whole lives ahead of us. With you and I it’s…well, more of a spiritual connection, don’t you think?” She didn’t respond. “To answer your question, though, of course I do. You make me so happy, hon. Happier than I ever thought I could be...”
Things just weren’t quite the same between them. Not since ‘the scare.’ He could still see the pain in her eyes; every time he closed his own––and Mary, on the night she confronted them. The bitterness. The resentment. The betrayal.
Looking around her immaculately clean apartment that afternoon, he’d wondered just how often she went around with a duster––before noticing what had somehow escaped him till right about then. The bookshelves. They were…emptier. The walls…bearer… And then there were the two empty boxes in the hall near the bedroom.
“I’m leaving,” she said, and he stood from her sunken half-sofa. He recognized her tone; one he had tendency to use himself when he knew it was time to move on.
_____
Unlike all the others, he believed himself when he told her he loved her. Not necessarily more than his wife––only different. She’d had it all planned out; resignation typed-up and on his desk at the office; a suitcase packed and ready; a full tank of gas for the four hour drive to her sister’s in Rochester; and most important of all, the courage, which had been building for months; to make a clean break––
until he so selfishly stopped her––
Somehow, he’d managed to make his needs, his desires, his priorities more important than her own. Perhaps if he hadn’t been such a self-absorbed son of a bitch; perhaps if he’d put her first just once in all the time they were together, and let her go, she would be here today, or at least somewhere; alive. Sometimes he truly hated himself.
“Hey why don’t you watch it?” someone snapped.
“Sorry…” he mumbled into some idiot with his head down in the housewares department. It was time to get focused …new leaf, new leaf, new leaf…let’s see, new roller blades for Nicky, no brainer, and, um, for Patrick, something Spiderman, easy enough. Mary’s gift would be the toughest. He wanted something sentimental, to remind her of the happy times, but also convey what he felt for her now, after all they’d been through. Better go Tiffany’s…but first something to drink… The aftertaste of morning coffee left his mouth uncomfortably dry.
So he headed out, hanging a right toward the food court.

Thanks for reading. And for those of you who just skimmed it, what's a matter, you too busy? Go back and read it again, I'm very dissapointed in you.

D.A.

IFOA - Toronto

2009-10-28T11:57:00.001-07:00

Just thought I'd do some 'traditional' blogging for a change, seeing as I've dominated this space with excerpts of my own glorious work. Too bad sacrasm translates to these things so poorly, otherwise I might not have to point it out and, thus, rob it of it's sting.

Anyhoo, I wanted to give a big shout-out to the International Festival Of Authors, or IFOA, held here in Toronto from October 21-31, which makes it almost over for another year, (it's 30th for those of you counting). Aside from various workshops, award ceremonies, and photo-ops, there are readings held every night from four noted authors and/or poets, followed by a book signing. It's a great way to celebrate the fine art of writing and power of the written word and all that fun stuff, plus it can be a good, relatively inexpensive, to say nothing of alternative, night out.

Last night I went down to Harborfront, where the events are held to check out a reading and it was pretty cool. Hosted by author, Ian Rankin, (who is reading tonight, incidentally), it featured four Scottish authors, namely, Denise Mina, promoting her book, "The Dead Hour"; William Deverell, reading from his new book, "Snow Job", (hell of a title); poet, Dani Couture, reading from her latest compilation, "Good Meat", (interesting title); and my personal fave, crime writer extraordinaire, Michael Connelly, reading bits from his latest Harry Bosch caper, "Nine Dragons."

All of them were quite good and seemed eager to be there, although I can't imagine those sorts of readings are entirely unnerving. Still, I suppose if you've done a whole bunch it's all fairly routine, maybe even fun. I wouldn't mind being on that stage myself someday, providing I have something worthy to share. Suffice it to say, a good time was had by all. The line up for signing was atrociously long so I actually went down to the pier and wrote a little for my upcoming masterpiece, (where's that sarcasm button again?), "Impetus," Book Two of the still-pending saga, The Mantra. Book One, "Minutemark" will probably end up here at some point.

All for now. Check out the festival if you can, while you can. If not, there's always next year.

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Two

2009-10-24T15:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, without further adieu, here's chapter two...

–– Two ––

Cynthia was all out of Bisquick.
She tore that whole kitchen apart before accepting it, but standing there, defeated inside the buzzing McAllister’s refrigerator, the hard truth loomed plain as day. Strike one. Perhaps she could have attempted something more elaborate, like eggs benedict, or those stroodle-pastries pushed way back in the freezer, but her heart had been set on them finding their breakfast prepared, a-la Mary Poppins, as they fumbled downstairs on robust little legs. So she settled for two overflowing bowls of ‘Choco-Nutems’ instead.
It was seven forty-three on Friday morning and she expected them down any minute. First would be Nicholas, the rambunctious elder at ten, followed closely by Patrick, younger brother, who would be seven come September. Ever since she began this pathetic little job looking after the two McAllister boys every other afternoon, she couldn’t help but ignore her redundancy. She was not, as a general rule, particularly fond of children; perhaps the result of being the eldest of three herself––and surrogate mother, as her own mother never grew tired of drilling in.
She was twenty-six now, and until accepting Henry’s somewhat out of the blue offer almost three months ago to the day, had never felt less like a responsible adult in her life. Four years after flunking out of journalism at NYU, she found herself on her own for the first time; her mother, the doormat, Rebecca Caldwell and step-father Gary proclaiming hands washed. Whatever remained of their token mother-daughter relationship dissolved slowly thereafter. But the real erosion started some years before, the day they lost the one true peace-keeper between them; her father, the only man she completely trusted.
When she met Henry McAllister, he seemed just like all the rest; though her jaw hurt like Hell. It was on an emergency trip to the orthodontist’s; the closest she could find in the yellow pages that day.
_____
“So how exactly did this happen, Miss…?”
“Rogers.” A fake name. She had no reason to lie but the word somehow slipped out. “I ah…tripped on the vacuum chord. Fell head first into the bedroom door.”
“Uh huh. I don’t recall seeing you around here. Are you new in town?”
“Sort of. I go to school up here. Journalism.”
“Is that right?” he said, reaching for something cold and pointy. “You know, I’ve got a niece who went to Columbia for journalism; works as a fact researcher for the New York Times.” Yes sir, Henry had an anecdote for every occasion. “And, open…”
_____
Right from the moment she sat in his chair, he saw through her façade.
_____
“Here’s an idea. How bout you come work for me?” The impromptu proposal came somewhere between the needle and that mirror do-hickey.
At first, she couldn’t tell whether he was serious or just teasing...what with the surgical mask. “You mean here?”
“Well, no, not––I meant at my home…” She kept her open mouth shut. “Seriously, my wife and I both work and our nanny just quit, which is a burden, yes, but the boys never really took to her anyway.” The man sounded dead serious. “I could start you off this afternoon, if you want; meet them as soon as they get home from school. You did say you were looking for something flexible, right?”
“Well…”
“Sorry,” he rapidly retracted, (the instrument and the suggestion). “Tell you what, why don’t you think it over…get back to me by say, the end of the week, sound good?”
_____
The next day she said yes.
What better place, she considered, to fall off the face of the earth.

Her first week of gameful employment, she mistook his good nature for something more––and one night in his driveway, tested the waters…
_____
“Believe me, honey, I couldn’t be more flattered…” he’d said, taking her hand in his firm, manly grip. “I just so happen to love my wife…” She couldn’t imagine why. The woman brought out the warmth in a block of ice. “Plus you’re probably much too good for me…” That got her to smile. She didn’t have the best luck with men. Not since a malignant tumor took away her hero––and Henry gave hope to the rest.
_____
It was ‘Dr. McAllister’ on most formal occasions, around his wife especially. Cynthia had come to suspect resentment on her behalf, and perhaps even a little jealousy, (which she sort of enjoyed). She knew the emotion well, after all. It’s what got her that chipped crown in the first place.
“I thought you said pancakes.” A tiny voice spoke.
Cynthia turned to the disappointed face of young Nicky McAllister.
“Good morning,” she said, cheerful. “We were. Guess your mom forgot to pick up more pancake mix. Maybe tomorrow, okay?” He continued to look on with disenchantment, as though he could tell it was just something to say.
“You’re not going to be here tomorrow. You think I don’t know that?”
“Listen,” she leveled. “I can’t make pancakes without the pancake mix, Nicky. I promise, we’ll do it the very next time I get the chance, okay? Can you forgive me?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever…” he grumbled, slinking in behind his bowl of unwanted cereal. She noticed he was getting very snippy lately and hoped it wasn’t due to her influence. Sarcasm got her into more than enough trouble already. “So where’s your brother? Doesn’t he usually come down with you?”
“Don’t think he’s feeling too well.” He shrugged. “You might wanna go check on him,” crunching down a spoonful of pure concentrated sugar. Strike two.
Halfway up the stairs, she considered he could well be lying. She wouldn’t put it past him. With Nick, it was never so easy to tell.
Standing before Patrick’s closed door, she pushed it, and her anxiety aside.
The boy rested undisturbed beneath the blanket. “Patrick…? Patrick, honey. It’s me, Cynthia...” Nothing. She quietly approached. “Your brother says you’re not feeling well...” The boy’s eyes crept open, as though drained of their strength. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, sweetie?” she began, stroking his sweaty forehead. A quiet cough escaped before he managed to mouth the words,
“my tummy hurts…”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure we can fix that. Why don’t you try sitting up, okay?” She lifted the heavy covers off his forty-eight pound frame and noted the gaping stains in his bedsheets and pj’s. It wasn’t until she reached down and touched his soaking wet t-shirt that she realized it was sweat.
“Mommy...”
“No sweetie, it’s me, Cynthia. Do you want a glass of water?”
“I want…Mommy…” He strained not to cry. She was worried.
“Do you feel like you want to throw up?”
“No...”
“How bout we go into the bathroom just in case?” she said, and carried him.
In the bathroom, she sat him down gently on the toilet seat and began searching. “I’m cold...” he whimpered. At last she came across a box with a doting mom sticking a thermometer into the mouth of a healthy-looking little girl, and ripped it open.
“I know you are, honey. I’m just gonna check your temperature, then we’ll get you another blanket, okay?”
“Okay…” The little guy was remarkably agreeable; (a stark contrast to his brother). Sliding the thermometer gently under his tongue, she retreated back into the hallway to find him a clean blanket.
He did not move an inch till she returned, and then, only to look vaguely up at her. He looked so pale; the heavy thermometer pulling his lower lip down past his chin. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, she removed it from his mouth. One hundred fourteen. Not good. The phone rang, startling her into nearly dropping it altogether. Please be Henry, she thought, as it stopped in mid-ring––
Nick must have got it.
“You know what I think I’m going to do for you today, Patrick? I’m gonna make you a big cup of my world famous hot chocolate…” Her voice rose an octave and she realized she was channeling her mother. Strike three.
“kay…” he barely replied. It seemed like the last thing he wanted.
“Cynthia!” Nick shouted. “Phone!” Henry, she hoped, looking back to Patrick.
“I’ll be right back.” The boy remained silent, only shivering. The sight made her question the decision to leave him, but she thought she saw a cordless phone in the master bedroom.
“Cynthia!” Nick again, having the nerve to sound impatient.
“I’m coming!” she belted, reaching the McAllister bedroom and switching on the black cordless phone on the nightstand.
“Hello...”
“What took you so long?” Immediately she recognized the cold condition of––
“Mrs. McAllister. Good morning. I was, um…” Cynthia swallowed, bracing. “…just checking on Patrick, who’s apparently…a bit…under the weather…”
“What? What’s wrong?” she erupted, losing her mind. “Oh I can’t believe he would just…so typical... Where’s Henry?”
“Mrs. McAllister, calm down, please, everything’s fine. Hen––Mr. McAllister––Doctor––had to see an early patient. He said he’d be back by around noon…”
“Early patient…” she scoffed… “What’s his temperature?”
Cynthia braced again. “About…one fourteen...”
“Oh my poor baby…” A short pause–– “Alright, listen carefully; I assume you’ve been instructed to take the boys to school, correct?”
“Um, yes but––”
“Good. You’re to drop off Nick, as planned, but I want you to take Patrick to The Community Medical Centre…it’s a corner building at Rodan and Drury, you can’t miss it. With me so far…?”
“Yes, but––”
“I’ll call ahead so they don’t blow a gasket when he doesn’t show up for roll call and meet you in the waiting room at quarter to nine, okay?” This time it was Cynthia’s turn to pause, not much caring for her tone…and to make sure she was finished…
“Cynthia, are you there?”
“And what about…Mr. McAllister…? Would you like me to, um, try to––”
“No, dear, don’t bother. Just make sure Nick has his homework finished before he tries to weasel out of it later. And keep Patrick as comfortable as possible. Aspirin’s alright but nothing stronger, do you hear me…?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” She was holding her tongue.
“Tell him Mommy will see him very soon.” She hung up without even goodbye.
Cynthia hung up very soon after.
There was a name for people like Mary-Ann McAllister. In fact, there were several. Standing up off the rock-hard mattress, she started back toward the hallway. The weather called for freezing rain and she hoped there was enough gas in the car because she hated to pump gas in the rain. She would have to go check.

I'll try to do some, you know, traditional blogging next time, before I post Chapter Three. I'm not promising anything, of course. I actually kind of enjoy posting this stuff. At least someone can read it.

Cheers,

D.A.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter One

2009-10-18T10:01:00.000-07:00

Happy Sunday!

Okay, continuing where I left off, I suppose, I thought I'd post the first chapter of my epic horror novel, An Axis Oblique. For those of you just joining us, the Prologue is posted below. Check out the archive. This should give you a good taste of the characters and tone. Hope you enjoy.

–– One ––

Keith Merrimac was finally asleep.
After weeks of getting up with that feeling he’d just gone to bed, dragging his ass in day after day on nothing but coffee, cigarette smoke and determination, there was nothing left to do now but relax––and get back to normal.
It had been the longest case of his twelve and a half year career, which on nights like this one, felt at least like twice as long. People didn’t generally come to Maplewood to make trouble. That was one of the reasons he’d transferred here to begin with, after four hellish years on New York’s meanest streets.
_____
“Okay, so not all of us are cut from the same big city cloth.” His ex-captain at the 81st Precinct, Andy Eckersol, tried hard to talk in some sense. “But that’s no reason to throw away a promising career. Now I may know of something a bit more your speed. It’s up North. How’s about I put in a call?”
_____
For awhile, the fit was just fine.
Till the rug got pulled out from under him.
_____
“Who the hell are you to question my moral integrity, you sick son of a bitch? You deserve to fry for the things you’ve done. Hell, I ought’a just kill you right here…”
_____
In New York, things were much simpler. One needed to be angry; and perhaps a little crazy to survive the daily beat; and though probably he was both, he’d started to resent the man he’d become; a crusty old bitter pill who narrowly managed his own inner-demons.
Till tonight.
It’s not what he’d said that most frightened him. He’d been a cop a long time and said much worse things than that. The Maplewood Rapist, otherwise known as Richard K. Pollack; whom he’d pursued for twenty-seven months and possessed but the faintest scraps of basic humanity, had the audacity to find fault with his conscience.
Only seconds before drifting into a subconscious stupor, Keith’s tongue tasted the sticky blood still on the roof of his mouth. It was dry; and bittersweet, like so much in his life. If his desperate need for deep rest hadn’t finally won outright, he’d have stayed awake all night, thinking…

_____
“I’m not afraid to die, Detective.” The lowly degenerate grinned, gun square in his smooth, sweaty temple. “Quite the contrary.” And Keith tightened his grip on the twitchy Berretta. More than anything, he yearned for the terror in those dark, soulless eyes. “Question is, do you have what it takes? To snatch life from the cusp of compassion? Doubtful. No, I suspect you’re nothing special. One more sheep, like the rest of them, hiding behind that sleek silver shield. Just another damned coward, killing time between cravings...”
So he pulled back the hammer; knowing how easily he could get away with it. “Do it!” his own inner voice demanded.
And he was going to. If not for what happened next...
“Detective Merrimac!” It took him a second to acknowledge the voice of Squad Sergeant Manning. “Sir, take a step back please. My men can take it from here.”
A few seconds more before he responded, lowering his weapon slowly…
“Thank you, sir,” Manning said, not entirely sincere. “And allow me to be the first to congratulate you on a job admirably well done.”
_____
He would never forget the look on Pollack’s sunken face that night, realizing he was not going to die as planned, but instead rot his miserable life away inside a grimy prison cell. Keith saw fear for the very first time, and the seeds of resentment in that cold, empty stare.
Hours later, he lay still in his bed, barely awake, considering the question for maybe the thousandth time:
What would have happened; could have happened if Manning hadn’t…
but a blink before falling asleep, the oblique answer came––

A Sudden Change of Plans…

Things were definitely different.
Quieter. Definitely. All of it darker…more final...
A hollow shell, void of sound, sense and all basic comprehension left dissonantly in place... Perhaps this is Hell, was mildly entertained…
(conclusion, the first)…
then cast off just as quick.
He considered the possibility he had indeed experienced this familiar nothingness once before, perhaps even a number of times, and could vaguely sense what it took to sustain his stupendous existence. He attempted a smile––but curiously lacked sufficient resolve. He then tried to stand, (if in fact he were not standing already; there was no way to tell), and again felt no inclination of success or failure.
To blink…to cough…to breathe… But it was no use.
The vessel was quiet––
and Perry was alone.
It was all much too soon, he considered. Sonny had always kept in above-average health, (Perry saw to that), projecting expectancy of and/or up-to at least eighty good years, (perhaps longer); and aside from a rather shady mind for morals, which Perry couldn’t help but admire, (even encourage from time to time), had next to nothing in the way of unhealthy habits. Their mid-morning jog was, in fact, a shared ritual for which they could claim mutual affinity; that glorious symmetry apparent in all known creation; one with which Perry himself frequently rationalized his own miraculous existence.
The emptiness was intolerable.
His patience as well, had begun to wear thin and a sudden craving for fresh blood threatened to ravage the cold, dark chasm that passed for his boundless imagination...
So…hungry…
(conclusion, the second)…
It would have to be soon though; an annoying little priority, of which he was all too aware. And above all, a new vessel must be swiftly secured, before…
…cold…so…cold…
He realized it was coming from the lifeless shell, which confined him.
…is this…dying…?
A puzzling sensation, but he thought it best not to fight. Instead, he would rest a while longer; conserve his energy, and reflect… Soon another; more worthy of him would emerge, ripe for the plucking, as it had been for millennia––or more…to rescue him from this dank, desolate prison...
The only thing left to do now…
was wait.

It was the phone that finally woke him. The first few rings crossed into Keith’s subconscious, initially convincing him he was still in a dream. Its relentless pursuit did him in though––eventually––pulling him from the comforts of his dream-world and back into the cold, dark reality of his one-bedroom apartment.
He consulted the clock, still not entirely sold. The phone went on ringing and he really wished he’d remembered to switch over to voicemail last night before bed. It rang again. “Shit.” The sun shone into his face despite the closed shade and the clock read 10:47.
“Yeah?”
“Detective Merrimac? I’m, ah…sorry, sir, did I wake you?” The voice sounded atypically sincere.
“Not at all, Lieutenant…” he groaned, not so convincing. “…just had a few loose ends to, um…”
“Hey, no. No, not to worry. Thornhill was gonna let you off easy today anyway.” Keith heard him pop one of those disgusting Nicotine gums he flaunted like the poster-boyscout he was. The man chewed like a fucking cow. “Except, well…see, the reason I’m calling, sir, is, um, well, seems we kinda need you down here...”
Keith’s face went white-er.
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, sir, looks like a double homicide in a public mensroom up at the Bluemont Palisades. Ordinarily I’d get Davies on it, but he’s already up north and...”
“The shopping mall? You gotta be kidding me. No way Pollack could’ve...” The chewing sound ceased––
“Well no, sir, that’s just it. Thing’s not even an hour old but…one of the victims has been identified as a Dr. Henry McAllister; employer of the late Jessica Todd…”
It was difficult to fathom. Despite these last years, homicide was far from the norm here in Maplewood. Perhaps, (though he dreaded the possibility), some sort of deranged copycat had already taken up Pollack’s bloody mantle in twisted tribute. “I’ll just get a few things together,” he said, eager to see for himself. “Make sure no one touches anything.”
“Yes, sir. So, um…when should we expect you?”
“Gimmie twenty-five minutes,” he lied; and abruptly hung up––
Keith stood out of bed and went for the shower. He vaguely remembered this McAllister fellow from Jessica Todd’s funeral. Quite a while ago now, he thought back; she being one of Pollack’s first victims.
Showering, his mind went into overdrive. He brushed his teeth, then shaved and laid out his cleanest shirt and slacks. “So much for taking it easy,” he murmured, stealing a few sips of cold coffee…
Hardly halfway out, he heard the phone ring again––but hesitated just long enough for it to go dead in the doorway––
Barrett, he thought, and closed the door behind him. Annoying prick.
* * *
From the outside, he’d have guessed the Bluemont Palisades Shopping Complex had been hit by a small meteorite, or nuclear device. There were at least four cruisers out front of the southwest entrance, lights flashing up a red and blue spectacle. A pair of uniformed cops were on crowd control as more and more people gathered behind an inadequate barrier of yellow police tape. Keith Merrimac pulled in his rusty Cutless Supreme and nearly plowed into a reporter or two, snapping bulbs and shouting questions
The officer approaching lit up with a big, inappropriate grin. Sergeant Lisa Fiorentine, a bubbly young sophomore with thick, black hair pulled back into a ponytail underneath her cap took instant note of his decidedly more professional posture.
“Detective Merrimac,” she gushed. “I wasn’t expecting…” Then turned, taken aback by his blatant ignorance. “I mean…well, sir, after last night I assumed Detective Davies would be…” Despite his irritation, he wasn’t trying to be rude; merely preoccupied.
“Davies is on assignment,” he explained. “I’m afraid you guys are stuck with me on this one. Now, where exactly am I headed?”
“Oh, it’s, um, just through those doors, make a sharp right at the foodcourt to a sign marked ‘restrooms.’ Our guys are everywhere; you can’t miss it...”
“Alright, do me a favor please, Sergeant, and keep this crowd to a minimum.” He kept his tone tender, but firm, stepping over her far-too-wordy response.
_____
“It’s all in the way’a things…! The way’a things, y’understand? They’re everywhere, hear me? Everywhere! Too late to turn back the tides...”
_____
For some reason he was reminded of the ramblings of an aging homeless man outside Radio City Music Hall. “Whole world’s goin’ straight to Hell and there ain’t a damn thing we can do bout it!” He and his partner, NYPD veteran, Colin McKee, attempted to drag his drunk ass into the waiting squad car for charges most likely drummed-up, like loitering, or vagrancy maybe…
The giant JC Penny sign shone like a beacon above scores of oblivious shoppers. On either side, there were rows of tiny, compartmentalized stores, all open for business––and eerily identical. Perhaps the homeless man wasn’t so far off after all.
Keith could see the ‘RESTROOMS’ sign just ahead; the narrow corridor sealed off by police tape, and a familiar, though not entirely friendly face. Lieutenant Peter Estes, a tall, muscular man of Latino decent with impeccably clean-shaven, olive skin and a capless head of thinning black hair, stiffened instinctively. Maybe two dozen words had passed between them in their nearly four-year association––
“Lieutenant…” he said in a voice both discreet and commanding.
“Morning, sir,” the statuesque figure replied, his lips barely moving, and the detective stopped dead, not quite certain how to react to the smug resonance in his tone and overzealous sense of duty. It was admirable; nevertheless annoying as hell.
“Yeah, suppose it is...” He responded; a twinge of enthusiasm in his wily delivery. Not too much, however. That would be overdoing it.
The blood-soaked body of Henry McAllister greeted him head on as he entered the drafty men’s room, laying sprawled across the off-white linoleum outlined in thick chalk. Keith assumed it had been thoroughly analyzed, as per standard procedure, and Barrett, if for nothing else, could be counted on to follow it to the letter.
The next body belonged to Barrett himself, hunched over and facing the interior of the stall next to farthest from where he stood, and a trail of blood that began at the washroom’s outer door came to an abrupt halt. The lieutenant didn’t see him right away, and Keith took the moment to gather his thoughts, taking a long hard look around.
It was similar, though much sloppier and more awkward than the horrible scenes he’d come onto in the past; most of them women, left by the deviant, Richard Pollack.
In the panoramic reflection, he studied the stains in reverse…
“Detective. I didn’t notice you come in.” The younger, scrawnier man spoke with restraint. He looked positively exhausted, tie resting aloof over his right shoulder, loosened substantially but for some reason not removed. His usually combed, curly brown hair looked a mess, frizzed from the moisture and his own sweat. Right now, it was dripping down his face and sticking through his powder-blue shirt. Keith feebly fought the urge to poke fun.
“What’ve you got for me, Mitch?” He turned to follow him back toward the first body, kneeling over it for a better perspective. One bullet had left a bloody wound over the right eye and exited the back of his head, scattering pieces of skull and brains all over the hand dryers before lodging firmly into the solid stone wall.
“The other guy’s got a similar wound, though more in the middle of his forehead; tells me our killer took his time…” Barrett continued with this line, standing up and motioning for his superior to follow. “I’ve spoken to ‘mall security;’ told them to set up a goddamn camera somewhere in this place. Deadbolt too, was an incident waiting to happen…”
The second and much younger victim’s fatal wound was perfectly centered between and above his closed eyes. Funny. He’d have thought they’d be popping out due to shock. The kid had the sort of expression one could never get used to, and Keith couldn’t seem to resist bending down to examine it more closely.
Something was immediately off. It was horrified, naturally, but also, there was this vast exhaustion, as though death had come as sweet release. If one looked deeply enough, in fact, another, more subtle expression could be detected in the cold, black residue, which seemed to almost get darker, and…larger…the longer he looked…
The young man himself, (who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five), appeared well over six feet tall and of Portuguese or Cuban decent. His complexion was at least a shade or two darker than Keith’s, as were his hair and eyes, which, upon looking once more, were by far the darkest of his exotic features.
For a moment, he could swear they were hiding something, disconnected from the broken shell before him. It looked like…life…but…not… He almost got lost in them, lured by their eloquent beauty, like finely polished glass or a small body of water turned calm after a crippling downpour. He could feel a sudden rush of adrenaline; of purpose coursing through him, and when he––someone was talking––
“––pears to have been inflicted a good half hour before the one to the head...” Barrett hadn’t stopped, and Keith was uncertain how long they’d actually been standing there. The lieutenant seemed determined to demonstrate his thoroughness, going over every last detail like a child on his first day of kindergarten.
“Uh-huh…” Keith nodded, as though he’d been listening. “So how can you tell which came first?” He caught on quick enough.
Barrett gave him an unflattering look, and with a touch of his customary pride, responded: “Well, sir, for starters the leg wound’s been bleeding a lot longer and, as I’m sure you’re aware, there’s a nasty trail of blood out there, leading from the sinks and urinals to this stall here, where our victim appears to have bled uninterrupted for several more minutes before being put out of his misery. Coroner says that occurred approximately one hour and seventeen minutes ago.” He stopped, waiting for a response. Keith, looking down at the man’s oddly-positioned left leg, finally noticed the deep gash across his ankle and nodded once again as though the answer was obvious to him, and the question rhetorical. “Meaning all this likely took place somewhere nearby, at or around 10:30 and as a result of our suspect’s initial attempt…”
Keith’s mind was clearer now, standing up straight, his control fully regained. “So, does Jon Doe here have a name yet?”
The lieutenant nodded haphazardly, consulting his notepad… “License identifies him as Sonny Luis Duval. Born in San Pedro; December fourteen, nineteen––”
…poor Sonny…such an undignified way to go…
“––and another thing…” Barrett was still talking. “…his wallet’s full’a cash. We found Visa, Debit and MasterCards, all untouched. Same goes for McAllister...”
Keith looked up, intrigued. Leaving the cramped stall, he gestured for one of the photographers to get a few extra shots. “Makes sense when you see the bodies.” He felt more than ready for another cup of coffee. “We could well be looking for a professional.” Out of the corner of his eye, Barrett’s ears perked up. Keith thought he could use a good cup himself––and pulled rank.
“The first step is to get a good look at the two bullets, see if they came from the same gun…” he said as the two men headed down the narrow corridor toward the noisy shopping environment, passing Lieutenant Estes on the way, whose posture stiffened. “What about the man who found them?”
“He’s still pretty shaken…” Barrett replied, struggling to keep up… “Guy was taking his five year-old grandson to use the potty. How the hell do you explain that?”
“I’d like to talk to him nonetheless. The kid can go home.”
“Already sent him packing,” Barrett said. “Fletcher and Banks took gramps to the food court for a bite and, ah, the boy’s mother came and got him half an hour ago…”
Perfect, thought Keith, suddenly famished. “Lead the way, Lieutenant…”

There you have it. More to come.
Bye for now.

D.A.