An Axis Oblique - Chapter Thirteen (Part I)

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!

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

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?

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!!!

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!

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

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

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.