Taylor stepped back outside, muttering things about Longfellow, Eric’s misconstrued fetish for poetry, and the job in general. It had started to rain, the dedicated, shearing type the imitated blankets both in transit and what it landed on. He paused at the alley’s mouth to glance inside the bag. There was the deceptive Walkman radio, a coriander rangoon wrapped in unimaginative wax paper, and a matchbook, the advertisement kind. He removed the matches and the rangoon, slipping the rest into a pocket.
The rangoon was soggy but still good, just inimical to his stomach after the diner food. As for the matches, he knew instinctively they were his directions for the drop off, a place downtown.
First matchbook instructions, then a matchbook to be a map. Was there a god?
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Concerning the Restaurant
Go here. Do this. Like the instructions on a book of matches. Close cover before striking, etcetera, the same taut phrases reminiscent of an ancient Chinese philosopher. The lack of proper grammar only added to the feel, he supposed.
The address Taylor had followed led to a small Thai restaurant, the sort of side-street diner that offered only a bar-like counter for seating and loquacious immigrants serving in dirty white aprons and paper hats. He entered by the side entrance. The building had a megrim scent of burning coriander, filling his nostrils like a miasma and increasing the dull pain in his skull. His only hope lay in being able to exit quickly.
He noticed one wall was adorned with photographs, cheap five-by-nine black and whites of celebrities, mostly small time and inconsequential. Each had officiated their likeness with illegible scars of black marker. There was a macabre unreality to the wall, like something not filling decorative space aesthetically but though destiny, as though there were a universal rule toward small oriental restaurants and where the photographs should go. Spatial resonance. It took a few minutes before he realized he was staring at it.
By that time, someone was shouting at him in what sounded like a high-pitched scream punctuated by tongue rolls. Taylor shook his head slowly, lackluster expression on his face. The cook’s lips moved more deliberately, the thick accent pooling with dense background noise and the acerbic pain filling Taylor’s brain. Somehow it filtered out that he was demanding either identity or exit.
Taylor reached into his coat and withdrew the envelope. He quoted, “ ‘My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the winds are never weary. My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, but hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, and the days are dark and dreary.’ ”
He hated this part in the game. Longfellow. Eric thought it was clever, instituting a view of what he obviously considered an artistic side into a professional necessity. He had briefed Taylor on the importance well, and every letter after included a quote of classic poetry. Taylor himself thought it was garish, but never said so, just recited reluctantly. He never felt it was his place to protest.
The cook looked at him skeptically for a fraction of a moment, then spoke. Taylor shook his head again with incomprehension. The cool leaned closer, the smell of curry and ginger almost visible. It stung Taylor’s nose as he tried to keep his eyes from watering.
Something about dice, with the universal sign for “you know.” Well, if he had them, good for him. Hope his mother was proud. No, of course he didn’t know. But the man was now pointing to a stack of noodle boxes, so Taylor relocated. He hadn’t sat for very long before the cook returned, bequeathing a white paper doggie bag, nodded curtly and disappeared.
The address Taylor had followed led to a small Thai restaurant, the sort of side-street diner that offered only a bar-like counter for seating and loquacious immigrants serving in dirty white aprons and paper hats. He entered by the side entrance. The building had a megrim scent of burning coriander, filling his nostrils like a miasma and increasing the dull pain in his skull. His only hope lay in being able to exit quickly.
He noticed one wall was adorned with photographs, cheap five-by-nine black and whites of celebrities, mostly small time and inconsequential. Each had officiated their likeness with illegible scars of black marker. There was a macabre unreality to the wall, like something not filling decorative space aesthetically but though destiny, as though there were a universal rule toward small oriental restaurants and where the photographs should go. Spatial resonance. It took a few minutes before he realized he was staring at it.
By that time, someone was shouting at him in what sounded like a high-pitched scream punctuated by tongue rolls. Taylor shook his head slowly, lackluster expression on his face. The cook’s lips moved more deliberately, the thick accent pooling with dense background noise and the acerbic pain filling Taylor’s brain. Somehow it filtered out that he was demanding either identity or exit.
Taylor reached into his coat and withdrew the envelope. He quoted, “ ‘My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the winds are never weary. My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, but hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, and the days are dark and dreary.’ ”
He hated this part in the game. Longfellow. Eric thought it was clever, instituting a view of what he obviously considered an artistic side into a professional necessity. He had briefed Taylor on the importance well, and every letter after included a quote of classic poetry. Taylor himself thought it was garish, but never said so, just recited reluctantly. He never felt it was his place to protest.
The cook looked at him skeptically for a fraction of a moment, then spoke. Taylor shook his head again with incomprehension. The cool leaned closer, the smell of curry and ginger almost visible. It stung Taylor’s nose as he tried to keep his eyes from watering.
Something about dice, with the universal sign for “you know.” Well, if he had them, good for him. Hope his mother was proud. No, of course he didn’t know. But the man was now pointing to a stack of noodle boxes, so Taylor relocated. He hadn’t sat for very long before the cook returned, bequeathing a white paper doggie bag, nodded curtly and disappeared.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Concerning Breakfast
Sunlight vacillated through dirty windows, staining the blemished veneer of a thousand meals on the countertop.
“Sorry for the imposition,” the nondescript black pen had abraded the sheet of ruled paper. “Circumstances never what seems, and all.” And, as expected, the snatch of poetry on a separate sliver. Eric apparently had something against completing thoughts. The directions that followed would always be the same: direct, unflattering, what you want is in such-and-such a place, where it goes is here. Eric never elaborated. There had been too many times that Taylor had to make it up as it happened.
He wished, as he often did, folding and pocketing the envelope in exchange for bitter coffee, that Eric would find a better career. Or perhaps “better” was too confining a word, too sanctimonious when Taylor himself wasn’t much of an improvement. More acceptable. Perhaps just something a little less urbanized corsair. Taylor wouldn’t like to consider himself a glorified errand-boy to a pirate fence. There was just a spiritual bond or connection between he and Eric that few others, including himself, understood. And with that came certain concessions.
But then, there were the parts in the existence Taylor regarded life that were missing, so to speak. Frustrating emptiness in his mind where scenes and memories should be, and the Problems. And maybe, even if he sometimes saw it all too recalcitrant and apathetically, Focus led Purpose.
Regardless, he never wondered where he would be without -- that sort of thinking was futile, and too often abused into idolatry. Like someone, he had forgotten who, has said, What you habituate you soon can’t survive without. And in any case Taylor was seldom one for questioning things, especially where something Eric did or said was involved. They were like brothers, Eric had once told him, but had a bond closer than brothers because the lacked the competition experienced in family blood.
Taylor was never sure how to take certain things, Eric’s quotes or methods of expression. Eric often referred to him as his own Holden Caulfield, and her wasn’t sure what that meant. He was rarely sure when Eric was serious or not -- Eric was just that type of personality. You could only go along, trusting.
Though, there was one thing he knew:
If there was a sure thing Eric was serious about, it was Eric.
“Sorry for the imposition,” the nondescript black pen had abraded the sheet of ruled paper. “Circumstances never what seems, and all.” And, as expected, the snatch of poetry on a separate sliver. Eric apparently had something against completing thoughts. The directions that followed would always be the same: direct, unflattering, what you want is in such-and-such a place, where it goes is here. Eric never elaborated. There had been too many times that Taylor had to make it up as it happened.
He wished, as he often did, folding and pocketing the envelope in exchange for bitter coffee, that Eric would find a better career. Or perhaps “better” was too confining a word, too sanctimonious when Taylor himself wasn’t much of an improvement. More acceptable. Perhaps just something a little less urbanized corsair. Taylor wouldn’t like to consider himself a glorified errand-boy to a pirate fence. There was just a spiritual bond or connection between he and Eric that few others, including himself, understood. And with that came certain concessions.
But then, there were the parts in the existence Taylor regarded life that were missing, so to speak. Frustrating emptiness in his mind where scenes and memories should be, and the Problems. And maybe, even if he sometimes saw it all too recalcitrant and apathetically, Focus led Purpose.
Regardless, he never wondered where he would be without -- that sort of thinking was futile, and too often abused into idolatry. Like someone, he had forgotten who, has said, What you habituate you soon can’t survive without. And in any case Taylor was seldom one for questioning things, especially where something Eric did or said was involved. They were like brothers, Eric had once told him, but had a bond closer than brothers because the lacked the competition experienced in family blood.
Taylor was never sure how to take certain things, Eric’s quotes or methods of expression. Eric often referred to him as his own Holden Caulfield, and her wasn’t sure what that meant. He was rarely sure when Eric was serious or not -- Eric was just that type of personality. You could only go along, trusting.
Though, there was one thing he knew:
If there was a sure thing Eric was serious about, it was Eric.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Concerning the Morning
Waking up. Forever one of the most unpleasant sensations. Purgatory of the unjust and innocent alike.
Taylor had worked out a sense of scale for the degrees of disillusioned awakening, but was usually too indecisive per event to determine where one would actually rank. It had become a routine: rise in a panic, reassure that the Worm Dream was still only a dream, and somewhere along staggering across the scarred linoleum toward the lavatory, work out where this new disorientation fit along the scale.
The focus of the moment was that he was in the apartment. He had at least made it to the couch-slash-bed, if not out of his clothes, which was better than sometimes, but had gravitated to the floor some time during the night. This was distinctly unhealthy, but more than that bemusing. He’d always thought he slept lighter than that.
Well the important part was that he was here. Once, he had come to consciousness in a public restroom. Now even recalling the blue and white, florescent bathed tile and rows of sinks, stalls and mirrors still put him in contact with a feeling, or sense, or unnamed emotion, some mental buzzing more reminiscent of a color than something he could catch and identify. Or know if there was anything TO identify. Whatever it was it made him sick and frenetic. But he disliked thinking about those things.
The blind man’s saxophone curls filtered in the derelict flat like a shower of disturbed dust. They were faint, a distinguishable blues riff rising the two stories from his ubiquitous position on the saturnine steps. It was daylight, Taylor surmised. Somehow the blind man still knew the difference and acted on it. Now and then Taylor wondered if someone came and told him when to go home. If he had a home. He went somewhere during dusk.
Taylor had once asked the blind man to remove his opaque black glasses. He had looked into that pearly mirror of his own sallow face and couldn’t stop the image of his own head holding those waxen eyes. He shivered at the memory.
Back into the big room. The sax was louder in here, the blind man sitting just beneath the larger window. Taylor pulled his coat from the seldom-used card table, emptying the pockets in hopes of change loose enough to procure coffee and a stale croissant at the café three blocks down. Material clattered on the pressboard surface. Keys to the door. Half empty packet of gum. The knife.
It was black, matte finished, with a fractal serrated blade and spring release. He could never remember when or where he had acquired it, but always felt it was something important, like a sentimental memento or something. It had a myriad of uses, he gave it that.
The other pocket had revealed a farrago of coins, and the broken glasses earpiece he’d had to replace and never got rid of.
And an envelope. Again. He beheld it with a sense of resignation. It was the generic business type, security lined and adorned only with his own name in a fluid, familiar script. No return address. It was almost a gaudy scrawl, one he had once found amusement in the similarities between it and his own. Maybe it was some twisted, distant sense of cosmic irony, because sometimes it was like Eric really could be his brother. Occasionally Taylor would wonder if maybe they were, separate by time and unaware.
He shoved the envelope back into the overcoat’s pocket. He would read it down the street, while eating what might tentatively, by people unlike he, be called breakfast.
Taylor had worked out a sense of scale for the degrees of disillusioned awakening, but was usually too indecisive per event to determine where one would actually rank. It had become a routine: rise in a panic, reassure that the Worm Dream was still only a dream, and somewhere along staggering across the scarred linoleum toward the lavatory, work out where this new disorientation fit along the scale.
The focus of the moment was that he was in the apartment. He had at least made it to the couch-slash-bed, if not out of his clothes, which was better than sometimes, but had gravitated to the floor some time during the night. This was distinctly unhealthy, but more than that bemusing. He’d always thought he slept lighter than that.
Well the important part was that he was here. Once, he had come to consciousness in a public restroom. Now even recalling the blue and white, florescent bathed tile and rows of sinks, stalls and mirrors still put him in contact with a feeling, or sense, or unnamed emotion, some mental buzzing more reminiscent of a color than something he could catch and identify. Or know if there was anything TO identify. Whatever it was it made him sick and frenetic. But he disliked thinking about those things.
The blind man’s saxophone curls filtered in the derelict flat like a shower of disturbed dust. They were faint, a distinguishable blues riff rising the two stories from his ubiquitous position on the saturnine steps. It was daylight, Taylor surmised. Somehow the blind man still knew the difference and acted on it. Now and then Taylor wondered if someone came and told him when to go home. If he had a home. He went somewhere during dusk.
Taylor had once asked the blind man to remove his opaque black glasses. He had looked into that pearly mirror of his own sallow face and couldn’t stop the image of his own head holding those waxen eyes. He shivered at the memory.
Back into the big room. The sax was louder in here, the blind man sitting just beneath the larger window. Taylor pulled his coat from the seldom-used card table, emptying the pockets in hopes of change loose enough to procure coffee and a stale croissant at the café three blocks down. Material clattered on the pressboard surface. Keys to the door. Half empty packet of gum. The knife.
It was black, matte finished, with a fractal serrated blade and spring release. He could never remember when or where he had acquired it, but always felt it was something important, like a sentimental memento or something. It had a myriad of uses, he gave it that.
The other pocket had revealed a farrago of coins, and the broken glasses earpiece he’d had to replace and never got rid of.
And an envelope. Again. He beheld it with a sense of resignation. It was the generic business type, security lined and adorned only with his own name in a fluid, familiar script. No return address. It was almost a gaudy scrawl, one he had once found amusement in the similarities between it and his own. Maybe it was some twisted, distant sense of cosmic irony, because sometimes it was like Eric really could be his brother. Occasionally Taylor would wonder if maybe they were, separate by time and unaware.
He shoved the envelope back into the overcoat’s pocket. He would read it down the street, while eating what might tentatively, by people unlike he, be called breakfast.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Concerning the Funeral
“Night, the shadow of Light,
“and Life, the shadow of Death.” -- Algernon Charles Swineburne
It began, as so many things do, with a funeral.
There was nothing memorable about it, or noteworthy, or a burgeoning fractal entrance deserving Dickens’ “best of times, worst of times” bit. It wasn’t even raining. Taylor wasn’t exactly sure why he was there, but he stood stoic in the gravesite sun because this feeling was nothing foreign.
He had been told, in the past, that he had a Problem. It was one of those terse psycho-terms he had become accustomed to and eventually learned to block out, not let affect him. People were always trying to tell him he had some issue or another. He seldom paid attention. He disagreed on the whole anyway. There were empty places in his memory, and sometimes he woke in place he didn’t remember falling asleep. He had read about that, so that was all right, and anyway that kind of thing rarely happened anymore.
The sky was bright and brittle, a teasing Monet sun dangling where it should warm but letting the chill seep through insufficient clothing. Taylor absently searched for a reason to convince him he should still be standing here.
Across the small gathering of faceless mourners, his eyes met those of that Asian kid who lived downstairs. The kid’s blank, halcyon eyes flickering briefly in silent remorse, and then visibly froze again. Taylor moved away, strolling among the tombstones.
Eventually he noticed the eulogy had ended, and the black forms were coalescing like some soiled watercolor. He felt a soft tug at his sleeve, looked to see the Asian kid. He tried to think of what he should say, then realized the kid was talking.
“and Life, the shadow of Death.” -- Algernon Charles Swineburne
It began, as so many things do, with a funeral.
There was nothing memorable about it, or noteworthy, or a burgeoning fractal entrance deserving Dickens’ “best of times, worst of times” bit. It wasn’t even raining. Taylor wasn’t exactly sure why he was there, but he stood stoic in the gravesite sun because this feeling was nothing foreign.
He had been told, in the past, that he had a Problem. It was one of those terse psycho-terms he had become accustomed to and eventually learned to block out, not let affect him. People were always trying to tell him he had some issue or another. He seldom paid attention. He disagreed on the whole anyway. There were empty places in his memory, and sometimes he woke in place he didn’t remember falling asleep. He had read about that, so that was all right, and anyway that kind of thing rarely happened anymore.
The sky was bright and brittle, a teasing Monet sun dangling where it should warm but letting the chill seep through insufficient clothing. Taylor absently searched for a reason to convince him he should still be standing here.
Across the small gathering of faceless mourners, his eyes met those of that Asian kid who lived downstairs. The kid’s blank, halcyon eyes flickering briefly in silent remorse, and then visibly froze again. Taylor moved away, strolling among the tombstones.
Eventually he noticed the eulogy had ended, and the black forms were coalescing like some soiled watercolor. He felt a soft tug at his sleeve, looked to see the Asian kid. He tried to think of what he should say, then realized the kid was talking.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Concerning The Ending
They met at the crossroads, between Deepwood Cemetery and the riverbed, far from where the lights were ropes of dangling stars and the tinny washpan blues were a whispered memory. The moon was a sunken ship crushed on the forest horizon, casting ghostly light in wan strips over the gravel. Even the insects had ceased their castanets. He slid from the soul of the shadows, the nail ever-present in his hat-band gleaming like a diamond, like the smile beneath the twist of his moustache. He had been expecting his guest all along.
A barter, one for stakes he could never guess, but one he knew was inevitable. Here another crossroad stretched, set evanescent above the road and river; the future yet un-traveled, save perhaps by the Houngan. Potentially he could have walked away, returned to bed, shut the door on the voice of magic, and mystery and danger. On the music itself.
Hoell stopped before the tall man. "Well," he said, "I'm here."
Rhodius nodded solemnly. "And I suspect you're not interested in the world."
"Too many problems with it already," Hoell said, shaking his head. He removed his fedora, raked a hand through his hair.
Rhodius smiled briefly, teeth glittering in the moonlight. He waved an arm behind him, a showman inviting inside. "There's a door here, Mr. Hoell. It opens only one way. No charm or totem will matter within. No veve has power except what is already there. Are you willing to step through it?"
Hoell stood still for a moment. He looked at the moon, tracked a progression of notes moving through his mind like an amorphous cloud of migrant birds. Listen to the spell of the music.
Come to the crossroads, it bids. Come to the crossroads, and master your own destiny. All he asks is something dear you don't really need. Will you really miss your second sight? Your inner child? Your last kiss? So much more could await in this world. So much that should have been, will be, could be. All that is asked is a token. A fair price for youth, beauty, and knowledge.
He fumbled in his pocket, held forth the bullet, and stepped forward.
FINIS
copyright 2010 tcr/BPLtd.
A barter, one for stakes he could never guess, but one he knew was inevitable. Here another crossroad stretched, set evanescent above the road and river; the future yet un-traveled, save perhaps by the Houngan. Potentially he could have walked away, returned to bed, shut the door on the voice of magic, and mystery and danger. On the music itself.
Hoell stopped before the tall man. "Well," he said, "I'm here."
Rhodius nodded solemnly. "And I suspect you're not interested in the world."
"Too many problems with it already," Hoell said, shaking his head. He removed his fedora, raked a hand through his hair.
Rhodius smiled briefly, teeth glittering in the moonlight. He waved an arm behind him, a showman inviting inside. "There's a door here, Mr. Hoell. It opens only one way. No charm or totem will matter within. No veve has power except what is already there. Are you willing to step through it?"
Hoell stood still for a moment. He looked at the moon, tracked a progression of notes moving through his mind like an amorphous cloud of migrant birds. Listen to the spell of the music.
Come to the crossroads, it bids. Come to the crossroads, and master your own destiny. All he asks is something dear you don't really need. Will you really miss your second sight? Your inner child? Your last kiss? So much more could await in this world. So much that should have been, will be, could be. All that is asked is a token. A fair price for youth, beauty, and knowledge.
He fumbled in his pocket, held forth the bullet, and stepped forward.
FINIS
copyright 2010 tcr/BPLtd.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Concerning the Queen of Knives
Without any visible cue, two dwarves toddled around one of the caravans, each one taking an arm and dragged the body away over the moonlit dust.
Cigars finally lit, Rhodius breathed a long fallow smoke stream, and turned his impressionless eyes to Hoell. "Thank you, my fellow. I am sorry you had to be involved in this most unfortunate night. If I may be of service in the future. . . ."
Hoell didn't trust himself to speak. He mumbled a thank you, to which the ringmaster tipped a hat and strode off into the grounds.
Kelly flipped the knife around a few times, catching the handle in this hand, then the other. Her smile wasn't unfriendly, but neither was it a thing to be trusted. It was of a thing in the darkness, telling you to beware, it's only warm for the time being. Hoell just watched her.
"I see that you've met Nicholas," she said. "What wisdom did he impart?"
"And ending," Hoell replied eventually. "All that mattered was the ending you make."
Kelly laughed short and mellifluous. "That would be his style, old bastard." She made the knife vanish somewhere in her peacoat with a sleight-of-hand flourish, tipped her hat and turned to follow the ringmaster. Then she turned back. "Hoell," she called out. "No one can give you the world. They can only give you their part."
Overhead, the moon shook free from the cloud cover.
Cigars finally lit, Rhodius breathed a long fallow smoke stream, and turned his impressionless eyes to Hoell. "Thank you, my fellow. I am sorry you had to be involved in this most unfortunate night. If I may be of service in the future. . . ."
Hoell didn't trust himself to speak. He mumbled a thank you, to which the ringmaster tipped a hat and strode off into the grounds.
Kelly flipped the knife around a few times, catching the handle in this hand, then the other. Her smile wasn't unfriendly, but neither was it a thing to be trusted. It was of a thing in the darkness, telling you to beware, it's only warm for the time being. Hoell just watched her.
"I see that you've met Nicholas," she said. "What wisdom did he impart?"
"And ending," Hoell replied eventually. "All that mattered was the ending you make."
Kelly laughed short and mellifluous. "That would be his style, old bastard." She made the knife vanish somewhere in her peacoat with a sleight-of-hand flourish, tipped her hat and turned to follow the ringmaster. Then she turned back. "Hoell," she called out. "No one can give you the world. They can only give you their part."
Overhead, the moon shook free from the cloud cover.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Dr. Rhodius, part Two
Hoell pulled the blackened tin from his coat. He looked at it a moment, trying to decide what he should be feeling. Then he passed it to Rhodius. The ringmaster didn't even open it, passed it behind him to the girl.
Whitechapel's mouth opened and shut. "But. . . . But my faithfulness! My service!"
Rhodius raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. . . ."
"I watched over that box! I brought the boy here! I've toiled in this cesspool years for you! Surely I am owed my due?!"
Rhodius remained unmoved by the tirade. He flicked an eyebrow, and then bent back over the cigar that had gone out. "You're quite right. Kelly, my dear, please give Mr. Whitechapel what he is owed."
In a unified moment the Queen of Knives stepped forward and plunged a little penknife into Whitechapel's left breast. The only sound was grunted exhalation of breath as she stuck the knife in again and again, a pantomime of feral sex. She stopped, wiped the blade on his jacket with an expression of satisfaction dissonant to his look of confusion, and let what was left of Whitechapel drop to the dust.
Whitechapel's mouth opened and shut. "But. . . . But my faithfulness! My service!"
Rhodius raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. . . ."
"I watched over that box! I brought the boy here! I've toiled in this cesspool years for you! Surely I am owed my due?!"
Rhodius remained unmoved by the tirade. He flicked an eyebrow, and then bent back over the cigar that had gone out. "You're quite right. Kelly, my dear, please give Mr. Whitechapel what he is owed."
In a unified moment the Queen of Knives stepped forward and plunged a little penknife into Whitechapel's left breast. The only sound was grunted exhalation of breath as she stuck the knife in again and again, a pantomime of feral sex. She stopped, wiped the blade on his jacket with an expression of satisfaction dissonant to his look of confusion, and let what was left of Whitechapel drop to the dust.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
In Which We Finally Meet the Ringmaster
He stumbled out of the reptile tent and almost into the arms of Whitechapel Fred. Whitechapel grabbed him before he could break free. "You came! And here I thought you would double-cross me."
Hoell shrugged out of his grasp. "My loyalties did start to drop when you sent your ghouls after me."
"Yes, well, times are tough everywhere. Can't trust anyone. Especially you, my friend. Give me the box."
"Maybe I lost it."
"Now is not a good time to get tough with me, jazz man. You know what I am capable of."
"I know." Hoell pulled out a grubby drawstring bag, unwrapped what looked to be a small shaving brush, bristles stiff and ancient. The handle was simple twine wound around the top. "I was prepared for that."
Whitechapel blanched for a second, then his face split into an evil smile. He pulled a dirty .38 from his pocket, rested it beneath Hoell's chin. "I admire your lack of imagination. Fortunately we make our own hoodoo here. Give me the box."
Hoell didn't move. "What good will it do you? You've let it rest this long. You're owed nothing."
"Nonetheless. He will look with favor on his servants."
"Be a stretch where you're concerned."
Whitechapel jerked him closer, gouging the barrel into his throat. "You have no idea what he can do. You don't know what he's capable of! They say if you meet him at the crossroads, when the moon is high, he can give you the world!"
"The world will always come with a price, Mr. Whitechapel. You should know that." From out the night strode a tall figure in a swallowtail coat. Beside him was the Asian girl from the diner, sans the glasses but still in the hat and peacoat. The tall man bent his face to light a cigar, match light flashing across his face like a flicker of the devil's lightning. Whitechapel let the gun drop to his side.
"Dr. Rhodius!" he hailed. "I knew that you had come. I have brought what you desire."
"Pray tell," the tall man said, focused on the cigar.
"I have kept it safe in your absence, guarding it for your return! My servant has brought it tonight."
"Your loyalty has been noted. Hand me the item, Mr. Whitechapel, and you may go."
Hoell shrugged out of his grasp. "My loyalties did start to drop when you sent your ghouls after me."
"Yes, well, times are tough everywhere. Can't trust anyone. Especially you, my friend. Give me the box."
"Maybe I lost it."
"Now is not a good time to get tough with me, jazz man. You know what I am capable of."
"I know." Hoell pulled out a grubby drawstring bag, unwrapped what looked to be a small shaving brush, bristles stiff and ancient. The handle was simple twine wound around the top. "I was prepared for that."
Whitechapel blanched for a second, then his face split into an evil smile. He pulled a dirty .38 from his pocket, rested it beneath Hoell's chin. "I admire your lack of imagination. Fortunately we make our own hoodoo here. Give me the box."
Hoell didn't move. "What good will it do you? You've let it rest this long. You're owed nothing."
"Nonetheless. He will look with favor on his servants."
"Be a stretch where you're concerned."
Whitechapel jerked him closer, gouging the barrel into his throat. "You have no idea what he can do. You don't know what he's capable of! They say if you meet him at the crossroads, when the moon is high, he can give you the world!"
"The world will always come with a price, Mr. Whitechapel. You should know that." From out the night strode a tall figure in a swallowtail coat. Beside him was the Asian girl from the diner, sans the glasses but still in the hat and peacoat. The tall man bent his face to light a cigar, match light flashing across his face like a flicker of the devil's lightning. Whitechapel let the gun drop to his side.
"Dr. Rhodius!" he hailed. "I knew that you had come. I have brought what you desire."
"Pray tell," the tall man said, focused on the cigar.
"I have kept it safe in your absence, guarding it for your return! My servant has brought it tonight."
"Your loyalty has been noted. Hand me the item, Mr. Whitechapel, and you may go."
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Concerning What Happened Next
The moon was a magnolia, petals reaching ever so slightly to the broken heart of the earth. The air was still heavy and ponderous, but Hoell could see neon lights hazing a skyline in the distance, swirling inward from the darkness toward 42nd. Points of light moved and blinked like xylophone notes, sounds never reaching the field. Somewhere out there blood rushed through the veins of the night.
Hoell rubbed his face thoughtfully, fished a rugged cigarette from a pocket and lit it from the shadows of the Stetson. Threw the match carelessly, and exhaled to the sky.
He heard the click and threw himself to the left before he even saw the switchblade fly. He came up in time to grab an arm as the knife dipped again, thrust it back toward the trailer. Pale African face, hair like a drowned pirate, the smell of the riverfront. It pushed Hoell away, whipped the knife in a slash waist high. "Give us, jazz man," it said tonelessly. The blade winked in the moonlight as the creature lunged. Hoell sidestepped, swung clasped hands in an uppercut that sent his assailant staggering back.
Hoell backed up to a booth and pulled the ancient revolver from his coat, leveled it in time for the other to jump forward with a slash that grazed his hand, dropping the gun. The switchblade came up, plunged down. Hoell grabbed the knife arm with one hand, swung his right underneath into the ribs, two quick punches. He grabbed the thing by its decaying jacked and tossed it head first into the side of the booth. Wood cracked, a tangle of spindly legs and arms tried to right itself. Hoell didn't see his pistol, ran deeper into the Midway.
Dodging a labyrinth of carousels, galleries, metal fences and attractions. He could hear his pursuer still, emotionless as a predator, but he had bought a few seconds time. He stopped short before the corrugated steps of another attraction, dramatically heralded the Deadly Jungle Python, Guaranteed The Largest Snake Ever Seen. Behind him was the Strong Man Tester. Hoell grabbed the hammer and ran up the steps.
The tent was pitch dark, stank of bedding, sour water and reptile. Lexan walls waist high formed a walkway, separating unseen things making only whispered suggestion of movement, cold and alien presence. Hoell crept along to the main attraction, a pit sunken into the floor. He could barely see shape, just a dark draconian mass encompassing a small pool. It moved slightly, guttural scratch on gravel. It could smell him. He crouched in the darkness opposite, and waited.
Footfalls, soft and steady, slithering along the walkway. Worn boots moved in front of his hiding place. Hoell tried not to betray a breath, could smell the decay of the waterfront even with the overbearing smell of reptile. He waited, let it move a few steps more. Suddenly Hoell leapt up, swung the wooden mallet with all his strength and a bestial war cry.
The mallet struck square in the back, lateral force sending the creature over the lexan wall into the pool with a grotesque splash. In a second the snake had struck, coiling itself around in three quick circles. The zombie began the most unworldly keening, thrashing with the constrictor in the stagnant water of the pool. Hoell threw the mallet after him and fled.
Hoell rubbed his face thoughtfully, fished a rugged cigarette from a pocket and lit it from the shadows of the Stetson. Threw the match carelessly, and exhaled to the sky.
He heard the click and threw himself to the left before he even saw the switchblade fly. He came up in time to grab an arm as the knife dipped again, thrust it back toward the trailer. Pale African face, hair like a drowned pirate, the smell of the riverfront. It pushed Hoell away, whipped the knife in a slash waist high. "Give us, jazz man," it said tonelessly. The blade winked in the moonlight as the creature lunged. Hoell sidestepped, swung clasped hands in an uppercut that sent his assailant staggering back.
Hoell backed up to a booth and pulled the ancient revolver from his coat, leveled it in time for the other to jump forward with a slash that grazed his hand, dropping the gun. The switchblade came up, plunged down. Hoell grabbed the knife arm with one hand, swung his right underneath into the ribs, two quick punches. He grabbed the thing by its decaying jacked and tossed it head first into the side of the booth. Wood cracked, a tangle of spindly legs and arms tried to right itself. Hoell didn't see his pistol, ran deeper into the Midway.
Dodging a labyrinth of carousels, galleries, metal fences and attractions. He could hear his pursuer still, emotionless as a predator, but he had bought a few seconds time. He stopped short before the corrugated steps of another attraction, dramatically heralded the Deadly Jungle Python, Guaranteed The Largest Snake Ever Seen. Behind him was the Strong Man Tester. Hoell grabbed the hammer and ran up the steps.
The tent was pitch dark, stank of bedding, sour water and reptile. Lexan walls waist high formed a walkway, separating unseen things making only whispered suggestion of movement, cold and alien presence. Hoell crept along to the main attraction, a pit sunken into the floor. He could barely see shape, just a dark draconian mass encompassing a small pool. It moved slightly, guttural scratch on gravel. It could smell him. He crouched in the darkness opposite, and waited.
Footfalls, soft and steady, slithering along the walkway. Worn boots moved in front of his hiding place. Hoell tried not to betray a breath, could smell the decay of the waterfront even with the overbearing smell of reptile. He waited, let it move a few steps more. Suddenly Hoell leapt up, swung the wooden mallet with all his strength and a bestial war cry.
The mallet struck square in the back, lateral force sending the creature over the lexan wall into the pool with a grotesque splash. In a second the snake had struck, coiling itself around in three quick circles. The zombie began the most unworldly keening, thrashing with the constrictor in the stagnant water of the pool. Hoell threw the mallet after him and fled.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
We Interrupt This Broadcast
Due to a scheduled outage, Port Evenus will have a week's interruption in the broadcast. Tune in next week to catch up!
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Beyond the Hall of Mirrors
The exit left the Mirror Hall, but not to the outside. Hoell found himself in a chamber of library quiet buoyed by faint opera, too large to be a trailer, but certainly behind-the-scenes. Weak light crowded with furniture, benches, things he couldn’t make out, blossoming dancing shadows over the tent walls, scarcely illuminating, mystifying. He moved cautiously, quietly. He thought he heard deep breathing, someone sleeping, softly on the edge of bel canto. Accoutrements of show-business loomed from the darkness, ornate canes, silk toppers, chains and feathers, trunks draped in mythology. The private quarters of magic.
The soprano scratched, needle stuck, then freed itself with a lurch. Hoell heard a voice, speaking from the darkness. Soft and scratchy as the needle, surreal. “How will it end?”
Hoell froze. Was it imagination? He couldn’t see anyone. But it spoke again, repeating itself. “How will it end?”
Still no one he could see, but had to be aware of him. “Excuse me?”
“Everything has a beginning. And everything has a end. How will it end?”
Hoell slowly moved toward the music, not sure what to expect. Whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t what he saw. On a table, just across from a wobbly phonograph, was a glass dome containing a human head, hair and beard white with an expression of doubt and apprehension. The head swiveled, eyes looked directly at him. “I sought to enjoy the folly of man’s short pleasures of earth. What is it you seek?”
Hoell held the gaze evenly, somehow unsurprised the macabre thing spoke. “I’ve come to return something. But I don’t know who it belongs to.” He wasn’t sure why, but he told the head the truth. “Whitechapel wants me to take it to him, but he just wants to save himself. It belongs to someone else.”
“You seek Him.” Eyes tossed lightly to the ceiling. “He who constructed this Babylon. He who holds the keys.”
“I don’t know what I’m after,” Hoell admitted.
“You want more than your life is now,” the head said sorrowfully. “You want to touch the promise before the world moved in around you. You want what can be found at the Crossroads. What only He can give you.”
Hoell let the words assemble in his mind.“Then it is true. This . . . . carnival is run by The Jew?”
The bushy eyebrows closed sadly. “It is true he has power. It is not of his own making, but he possess it nonetheless. And I am too old to envy him any longer. I had my time, and squandered it.”
“Who are you?”
The head sighed. “I have known many names, worn the mantle of many civilizations since he first cursed me. Cartaphilus. Matathias. Isaac Laquedem. Newton. Van Houten. Ahasver. I have none, now. It has been my curse to pay for my pride, my inhumanity, for eternity. Do not squander yours. The winds are blowing again. Where will you let them take you?”
Hoell took in the room again. His fingers reflexively twisted the bullet in his pocket. “I don’t know. To an ending, I suppose. I’ll find out.”
The head closed its eyes, slipping into a blissful expression, like tasting the most perfect dream one could dream. “Only your life can speak your fate. All man‘s dreams and ambitions are meaningless. All that matters is, how will it end? How’s it going to end? Be a friend, and wind the phonograph.”
The soprano scratched, needle stuck, then freed itself with a lurch. Hoell heard a voice, speaking from the darkness. Soft and scratchy as the needle, surreal. “How will it end?”
Hoell froze. Was it imagination? He couldn’t see anyone. But it spoke again, repeating itself. “How will it end?”
Still no one he could see, but had to be aware of him. “Excuse me?”
“Everything has a beginning. And everything has a end. How will it end?”
Hoell slowly moved toward the music, not sure what to expect. Whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t what he saw. On a table, just across from a wobbly phonograph, was a glass dome containing a human head, hair and beard white with an expression of doubt and apprehension. The head swiveled, eyes looked directly at him. “I sought to enjoy the folly of man’s short pleasures of earth. What is it you seek?”
Hoell held the gaze evenly, somehow unsurprised the macabre thing spoke. “I’ve come to return something. But I don’t know who it belongs to.” He wasn’t sure why, but he told the head the truth. “Whitechapel wants me to take it to him, but he just wants to save himself. It belongs to someone else.”
“You seek Him.” Eyes tossed lightly to the ceiling. “He who constructed this Babylon. He who holds the keys.”
“I don’t know what I’m after,” Hoell admitted.
“You want more than your life is now,” the head said sorrowfully. “You want to touch the promise before the world moved in around you. You want what can be found at the Crossroads. What only He can give you.”
Hoell let the words assemble in his mind.“Then it is true. This . . . . carnival is run by The Jew?”
The bushy eyebrows closed sadly. “It is true he has power. It is not of his own making, but he possess it nonetheless. And I am too old to envy him any longer. I had my time, and squandered it.”
“Who are you?”
The head sighed. “I have known many names, worn the mantle of many civilizations since he first cursed me. Cartaphilus. Matathias. Isaac Laquedem. Newton. Van Houten. Ahasver. I have none, now. It has been my curse to pay for my pride, my inhumanity, for eternity. Do not squander yours. The winds are blowing again. Where will you let them take you?”
Hoell took in the room again. His fingers reflexively twisted the bullet in his pocket. “I don’t know. To an ending, I suppose. I’ll find out.”
The head closed its eyes, slipping into a blissful expression, like tasting the most perfect dream one could dream. “Only your life can speak your fate. All man‘s dreams and ambitions are meaningless. All that matters is, how will it end? How’s it going to end? Be a friend, and wind the phonograph.”
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Hall
Endless mirrors glisten and menace in the spears of moonlight finding their way in. Hoell felt his way like a blind man in a world of cold blue light, following the trail, clinging to shards of self-awareness. Static self-image dissolves, the soul split into a multitude of facets and palindromes. Consciousness leads from one self-image to the next, never settling -- distance perceived at close proximity, nearness a mirage stretching itself to the next self-image. The danger lies in trying to pinpoint identity. You lose your grip in the face of absorption, until you believe you never had one at all, grasping association of the nearest reflection, struggling to retain your idea of yourself, your idea of the awareness of reality. Your own image becomes your worst enemy, fading, melding one with another. A million unshaven Hoells, hollow eyes tugging for a piece of warmth, each one mutely insisting they are the real Hoell, each one promising life, and future, and sanctuary just beyond the curve of light. Dirty fingers reaching, clutching desperately, surrounded by the voices of others trapped here, carried eternally by the skittering mice. Believe me, accept me, I'll show you the way . . . .
Hoell felt himself slipping, fading, sensations dripping like sand into an abyss. All point of reference had vanished completely. And then he paused, and held his right hand out palm down. In a moment it dipped gently, fluidly, a sparrow riding the wind, a wave slowly rolling toward breaking. Fingers began to flicker like spring rain, and his head filled with a progression of notes. The music was there, had always been there, just beyond hearing but guiding. The abyss pulled back, the desperate yearning Hoells faded into the backdrop. He almost laughed, and shortly left by a star-covered door.
Mirrors can be created, broken or ignored. And when your mind is in the thrall of the music, nothing else matters.
Hoell felt himself slipping, fading, sensations dripping like sand into an abyss. All point of reference had vanished completely. And then he paused, and held his right hand out palm down. In a moment it dipped gently, fluidly, a sparrow riding the wind, a wave slowly rolling toward breaking. Fingers began to flicker like spring rain, and his head filled with a progression of notes. The music was there, had always been there, just beyond hearing but guiding. The abyss pulled back, the desperate yearning Hoells faded into the backdrop. He almost laughed, and shortly left by a star-covered door.
Mirrors can be created, broken or ignored. And when your mind is in the thrall of the music, nothing else matters.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
A Lull in the Proceedings
Due to the so-called "holiday weekend" and the demands it places on those of us who row fervently across the river Styx, we regret to inform you that Port Evenus will be taking a break this Sunday from their regular scheduled broadcast. We hope you spend this time in the warm company of your loved ones, grilling tasty portions of bovine. In the meanwhile, let us encourage you to fill your PE needs on the rest of our parent site, and be sure to tune in next week!
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Concerning the Circus
The air grew thick with the threat of rain. Still in the distance, but present nonetheless. Out in the field by Drywood Creek the carnival was a dark and silent creature, abandoned and slumbering beneath a moon moving in and out from clouds. Hoell stayed in the shadows, warily treading the perimeter of packed dust and sporadic gravel. Grey rain would later turn the field into a mess of pale clay mud, and then the carnival would be gone, but for now Hoell silently walked in the long shadows of mechanical giants, evil silhouette of midway booths, silent terrors advertised by weathered cutouts.
The carnival spun out like a wheel, a spiral, turning slowly from the center, the Midway. Hoell kept moving in clockwise, watching a shifting moon alter the landscape. Rounding the front of an old flatbed pick-up he thought he saw one shadow melt away from the rest, but rather than recede with the moon's tide glide toward a tent rippling gently in the quiet breeze. The air picked up the must of the river, sharp fuel and animal spore, and the hint of decay lurking just on the end. They were still following him.
He ducked around the creaking pendulum of a Ferris Wheel car, skeleton shifting faintly the metal gates, getting an empty animal pen between them. He thought he had dodged sight, but slipped around a hulking truck still reeking of diesel to get some distance.
The moon vanished, obscuring the attraction in front of him, housed in a trailer with sides like a Murphy Bed. In the darkness a shadow moved beyond the Ferris Wheel. Hoell took his chances and slipped inside.
The carnival spun out like a wheel, a spiral, turning slowly from the center, the Midway. Hoell kept moving in clockwise, watching a shifting moon alter the landscape. Rounding the front of an old flatbed pick-up he thought he saw one shadow melt away from the rest, but rather than recede with the moon's tide glide toward a tent rippling gently in the quiet breeze. The air picked up the must of the river, sharp fuel and animal spore, and the hint of decay lurking just on the end. They were still following him.
He ducked around the creaking pendulum of a Ferris Wheel car, skeleton shifting faintly the metal gates, getting an empty animal pen between them. He thought he had dodged sight, but slipped around a hulking truck still reeking of diesel to get some distance.
The moon vanished, obscuring the attraction in front of him, housed in a trailer with sides like a Murphy Bed. In the darkness a shadow moved beyond the Ferris Wheel. Hoell took his chances and slipped inside.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Concerning the Street Car
A flurry of cars rocked over the trestle, showering a curtain of coquelicot sparks and sibilant murmurs. Hoell stayed toward the center of the street, watchful eye on the flickering barrel fires. A bearded man coughed into gloved hands but ignored him. The one-eared dog at his feet looked at Hoell briefly, then lost interest. In a moment Hoell was mounting the saturnine stone steps up the embankment toward the parallel of Second Street, elevated train lumbering noisily past. In a brief flash of its light Hoell thought he saw something else beneath the trestle, an impression more than an image, a figure cut from the darkness of the night. The dog uttered a low growl. The man coughed again, almost apologetically. Hoell kept walking.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Concerning the Houngan
The Houngan was tall, razor thin, skin the color of creamy coffee. Dirty braids drifted rhythmically across his face. His face was devoid of eyebrows, but marked with the ambiguous blue of ancient, faded tattoos. He was draped in the chair like dry cleaning, like an aquarium skeleton collapsed against his treasure chest. Timelessness, the musty air of centuries, hung about him, mingling with strange herbal and sweat notes.
Hoell suddenly remembered the cigar, fished it from his jacket and held it out. Languidly the Houngan took it, lit it with an unseen flame and pulled a smoke. He exhaled with eyes to the heavens, a connoisseur waiting for the last moment to dispense an opinion. At last he spoke. "The winds are changing, Jazz Man. They are blowing from the south. From the past."
Hoell nodded solemnly.
"But they will not stay. They are here only to move out again. He seeks what is his, what holds him to this earth he created for himself."
The cigar, which with Savannah smelled like a wet newspaper, filled the air with a sweet musty smell, a faint hint of anisette there and gone.
"Whitechapel wants it too," Hoell put in. "He wants to give it himself."
"Whitechapel thinks he can change the winds of his own fate. He thinks he can walk the same path as He." The Houngan flipped a tuft of ash to the floor. "He is wrong," he said matter-of-fact. "The time for bargaining has passed. Only the just shall survive."
Hoell's hands found an unheard Jelly Roll Morton in the air, tapped it out like Morse Code. "What would you have me do?"
The Houngan looked at him with scrutinizing black eyes. He reached into his jacket and pulled forth a card, flipped it around with a flourish and revealed the face to Hoell. A crude icon of a chess rook, the card obviously upside down. "You must go to Him. Bring what He desires. Out of the chaos of the storm the moon will shine."
Hoell looked down at the object in his hand, trying to make up his mind. He sighed, and moved his shoulders back resolutely. "I don't know that I've a choice," he said, and slid the tin box into his coat. He tipped his hat to the Houngan and left the room.
Hoell suddenly remembered the cigar, fished it from his jacket and held it out. Languidly the Houngan took it, lit it with an unseen flame and pulled a smoke. He exhaled with eyes to the heavens, a connoisseur waiting for the last moment to dispense an opinion. At last he spoke. "The winds are changing, Jazz Man. They are blowing from the south. From the past."
Hoell nodded solemnly.
"But they will not stay. They are here only to move out again. He seeks what is his, what holds him to this earth he created for himself."
The cigar, which with Savannah smelled like a wet newspaper, filled the air with a sweet musty smell, a faint hint of anisette there and gone.
"Whitechapel wants it too," Hoell put in. "He wants to give it himself."
"Whitechapel thinks he can change the winds of his own fate. He thinks he can walk the same path as He." The Houngan flipped a tuft of ash to the floor. "He is wrong," he said matter-of-fact. "The time for bargaining has passed. Only the just shall survive."
Hoell's hands found an unheard Jelly Roll Morton in the air, tapped it out like Morse Code. "What would you have me do?"
The Houngan looked at him with scrutinizing black eyes. He reached into his jacket and pulled forth a card, flipped it around with a flourish and revealed the face to Hoell. A crude icon of a chess rook, the card obviously upside down. "You must go to Him. Bring what He desires. Out of the chaos of the storm the moon will shine."
Hoell looked down at the object in his hand, trying to make up his mind. He sighed, and moved his shoulders back resolutely. "I don't know that I've a choice," he said, and slid the tin box into his coat. He tipped his hat to the Houngan and left the room.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Concerning the Trunk
The Alligator Crawled over Center Street, skulking from the doors of one club to confront the battle drums and bagpipe trumpets of another. Blues fell like warm rain over South Avenue, steaming on the street, foaming with the alcohol, and drifting with cigarette trails over the Arrowhead Hotel. Less than a block away and marooned by the neon parallel of the district, the hotel occupied a neglected patch of heaving concrete street and alley, in earlier, better days a glamorous lodging now become derelict, graveyard tenement.
Hoell could hear the jazz clubs like music from the next room, lingering as echoing ghosts in the cracks of dirty brick. There was no lock on the outer door; he let himself in, quietly ascending stairwells dark, wet and crowded with refuse to the fourth floor. The life and light of 42nd and South was just a glimmer of a memory here, replaced by a colicky baby's screams, raised voices of domestic arguments, and the nightly news turned up loud to drown the presence of reality.
One room, 409, stood by itself at the end of a hall. It had been rented time interminable, but no one living there could remember the last time it saw traffic. Hoell paused before the door a moment, then unlocked it.
The room was small, and long abandoned. Black mildewed walls peeling paper, bending like lily petals to the detritus and rotted carpet on the floor. A window was broken as by a baseball, letting in the weather and songbirds, the view of a dangerous fire-escape, and the thin refrain of Drunken Barrelhouse Blues. The furniture was the skeleton of a bed frame and a high-back chair, upholstery scavenged for nest lining spilling among the leaves and paper of dime novel pages carpeting the floor.
Hoell shut the door behind him, moved to a small incision of a closet, where the winds of ages had blown drifts into the back wall. He nudged aside a pile of moldered blankets and the nest of a small animal with his foot, cleared a space in the carpet and newspaper remains to the floorboards while bugs scurried from the way. He pried loose a section of floor, revealing a bootleg space concealing a battered, rusted army trunk. Hoell hauled it to the floor, wrestled Savannah's key in the lock, releasing it with a crash that echoed in the room.
Wading through a maelstrom of ancient clothing, yellow and brittle newsprint, photographs of long forgotten soldiers. Trinkets, memorandum, charms, and ark of lives unremembered. He brushed these to the side with reverent hands, digging until his fingers touched a blackened tin box the size of a book. He paused, fingers resting on the sides, as though willing himself to pull it out. Then he lifted it suddenly, like jerking a bandage, and closed the trunk. He set the tin on the chest and opened it.
Midnight blue velvet, blotched and slightly moth-nibbled, folded like ripples of a dark ocean. Hoell pulled them back slowly, as though afraid of what was beneath. It was wasted effort. Nestled within, with a thin patina of dust, was a short handled straight razor, sizable nick missing from the blade. The metal was pitted, wood worn smooth and glossy. It was impossible to guess when it had last been used. Not in Hoell's lifetime. But nestled within the worn velvet guard was a small, sinister dollop, uneven and mottled.
Hoell exhaled a deep breath, closed the tin, and turned to find the Houngan in the high-back chair.
Hoell could hear the jazz clubs like music from the next room, lingering as echoing ghosts in the cracks of dirty brick. There was no lock on the outer door; he let himself in, quietly ascending stairwells dark, wet and crowded with refuse to the fourth floor. The life and light of 42nd and South was just a glimmer of a memory here, replaced by a colicky baby's screams, raised voices of domestic arguments, and the nightly news turned up loud to drown the presence of reality.
One room, 409, stood by itself at the end of a hall. It had been rented time interminable, but no one living there could remember the last time it saw traffic. Hoell paused before the door a moment, then unlocked it.
The room was small, and long abandoned. Black mildewed walls peeling paper, bending like lily petals to the detritus and rotted carpet on the floor. A window was broken as by a baseball, letting in the weather and songbirds, the view of a dangerous fire-escape, and the thin refrain of Drunken Barrelhouse Blues. The furniture was the skeleton of a bed frame and a high-back chair, upholstery scavenged for nest lining spilling among the leaves and paper of dime novel pages carpeting the floor.
Hoell shut the door behind him, moved to a small incision of a closet, where the winds of ages had blown drifts into the back wall. He nudged aside a pile of moldered blankets and the nest of a small animal with his foot, cleared a space in the carpet and newspaper remains to the floorboards while bugs scurried from the way. He pried loose a section of floor, revealing a bootleg space concealing a battered, rusted army trunk. Hoell hauled it to the floor, wrestled Savannah's key in the lock, releasing it with a crash that echoed in the room.
Wading through a maelstrom of ancient clothing, yellow and brittle newsprint, photographs of long forgotten soldiers. Trinkets, memorandum, charms, and ark of lives unremembered. He brushed these to the side with reverent hands, digging until his fingers touched a blackened tin box the size of a book. He paused, fingers resting on the sides, as though willing himself to pull it out. Then he lifted it suddenly, like jerking a bandage, and closed the trunk. He set the tin on the chest and opened it.
Midnight blue velvet, blotched and slightly moth-nibbled, folded like ripples of a dark ocean. Hoell pulled them back slowly, as though afraid of what was beneath. It was wasted effort. Nestled within, with a thin patina of dust, was a short handled straight razor, sizable nick missing from the blade. The metal was pitted, wood worn smooth and glossy. It was impossible to guess when it had last been used. Not in Hoell's lifetime. But nestled within the worn velvet guard was a small, sinister dollop, uneven and mottled.
Hoell exhaled a deep breath, closed the tin, and turned to find the Houngan in the high-back chair.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Concerning the Ghost Boy
He didn't get very far before the Ghost Boy found him. The old town was deserted by all but the occasional roaming cat, still, cold and stretched taut as though waiting for something to break. The dismal strains of someone turning Bye Bye Blackbird into a lament slunk along the stairwells with the sickly, rhythmic streetlamps, born out of the night. And then, suddenly he was there, materializing from the shadows. Hoell almost screamed. Keyes reached the palm out again. Hoell flinched, then swung.
The right cross flew just shy of Keyes' face, the ghost bot languidly rolling his face from it. An arm shot out, grey fingers curling around Hoell's throat. Hoell struck to the stomach, felt his fist connect with all the response of punching a pillow. He tried to pull the arm off, Keyes' hand trying to rifle in his coat, Hoell trying to reach the revolver in his pocket even as purple swam in his vision. Then the pressure released and Hoell tumbled to the street. He heard the guttural roar of a bear, scrambled to his feet to see Savannah, face sclerotic with rage, gripping Keyes in a massive bear-hug. The ghost boy squealed like a wounded rabbit, thrashed impotently.
"Go!" Savannah shouted. Hoell turned and fled, leaving falsetto shrieks bouncing off the empty canyon walls in pursuit.
. . . . to be continued. . . . .
The right cross flew just shy of Keyes' face, the ghost bot languidly rolling his face from it. An arm shot out, grey fingers curling around Hoell's throat. Hoell struck to the stomach, felt his fist connect with all the response of punching a pillow. He tried to pull the arm off, Keyes' hand trying to rifle in his coat, Hoell trying to reach the revolver in his pocket even as purple swam in his vision. Then the pressure released and Hoell tumbled to the street. He heard the guttural roar of a bear, scrambled to his feet to see Savannah, face sclerotic with rage, gripping Keyes in a massive bear-hug. The ghost boy squealed like a wounded rabbit, thrashed impotently.
"Go!" Savannah shouted. Hoell turned and fled, leaving falsetto shrieks bouncing off the empty canyon walls in pursuit.
. . . . to be continued. . . . .
Monday, July 26, 2010
Finding Savannah
Hoell waited until nightfall, then ventured to the old town in search of Savannah. The streets narrowed into brick capillaries with the history of mud, and tall orange brick buildings sloughing off multiple lots. He had entertained the thought of returning to the apartment in hopes of finding the Houngan, but the rusted bullet weighed heavy in his pocket. Besides, the big man would be the best hope of finding the shadow walker.
The moon was out, cutting through the hazed city ozone, drawing long and jagged shadows from the bricks to loom like fairytale creatures in a manmade forest. Night sounds stretched thin.
He found Savannah down a street of sinking French Revivalist, a half-hearted if well-meant attempt at replicating Montmartre, slowly falling to the onslaught of entropy and neglect, seasons of fashion replacing another idol. Savannah was in the furry overcoat, inspecting a scavenged half cigar. Hoell approached with a proffered match.
Savannah muttered a thanks around puffing nauseating plumes of acrid smoke. "To what do we owe this visit?" he asked.
"I need it back."
Savannah raised an eyebrow. "It's time?"
Hoell fished the bullet from his pocket. The moonlight glinted off the brass. Savannah nodded slowly, and scratched the hairy underside of his chin. "Then the rumors are true."
Hoell hid the bullet again, and scanned the alley nervously as though speaking brought out nightmares.
"They say a carnival set up in the fog last night," Savannah continued. "Out of season and from far away."
"Whitechapel is scared. One of his creatures was waiting for me. They've been following me."
"If He has returned, he should be. A good steward our Fred was not." Savannah made a face, and handed over the cigar remnant. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
Hoell didn't answer immediately. He looked for the source of the moonlight, then at the cobbles, then into the darkness. "It's the only way," he finally said, thinking of the absence of the Houngan.
Savannah seemed to sigh deep within himself, but reached into the coat and pulled a grizzled skeleton key on a piece of shoestring over his head. He looked at it balefully for a moment, then passed it to Hoell. Hoell took it from him soberly, held it to the light for a moment before stowing in his jacket.
"Thank you, old friend," he said. Savannah grabbed his arm as he started to leave.
"Be careful. He has traveled so long, and Whitechapel is above nothing."
"I know. But I have no choice." The big man let him go, and Hoell retreated into the deep.
The moon was out, cutting through the hazed city ozone, drawing long and jagged shadows from the bricks to loom like fairytale creatures in a manmade forest. Night sounds stretched thin.
He found Savannah down a street of sinking French Revivalist, a half-hearted if well-meant attempt at replicating Montmartre, slowly falling to the onslaught of entropy and neglect, seasons of fashion replacing another idol. Savannah was in the furry overcoat, inspecting a scavenged half cigar. Hoell approached with a proffered match.
Savannah muttered a thanks around puffing nauseating plumes of acrid smoke. "To what do we owe this visit?" he asked.
"I need it back."
Savannah raised an eyebrow. "It's time?"
Hoell fished the bullet from his pocket. The moonlight glinted off the brass. Savannah nodded slowly, and scratched the hairy underside of his chin. "Then the rumors are true."
Hoell hid the bullet again, and scanned the alley nervously as though speaking brought out nightmares.
"They say a carnival set up in the fog last night," Savannah continued. "Out of season and from far away."
"Whitechapel is scared. One of his creatures was waiting for me. They've been following me."
"If He has returned, he should be. A good steward our Fred was not." Savannah made a face, and handed over the cigar remnant. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
Hoell didn't answer immediately. He looked for the source of the moonlight, then at the cobbles, then into the darkness. "It's the only way," he finally said, thinking of the absence of the Houngan.
Savannah seemed to sigh deep within himself, but reached into the coat and pulled a grizzled skeleton key on a piece of shoestring over his head. He looked at it balefully for a moment, then passed it to Hoell. Hoell took it from him soberly, held it to the light for a moment before stowing in his jacket.
"Thank you, old friend," he said. Savannah grabbed his arm as he started to leave.
"Be careful. He has traveled so long, and Whitechapel is above nothing."
"I know. But I have no choice." The big man let him go, and Hoell retreated into the deep.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Concerning the Diner and What Happened THERE
The sunlight fought through the grimy diner windows, desperate to wash years of stains from the flecked counter. Insomniac truckers mingled with leftover nighthawks, a brief moment of armistice between two worlds only seen in the space of twenty minutes cities the world over. Hoell straddled the line, walked in the No Man's Land between two camps, part of neither, propelled and drawn by the pursuit of the song, like desert fathers seeking truth.
A bit of the morning fog lingered ankle deep, a child protesting bedtime even while falling asleep. The diner in daylight offered more than invective coffee and anemic eggs; it was a space of sanctuary, a breath safe from the nightmares of the darkness. Even if they didn't sleep, Whitechapel and his ghouls vanished into some shelter from the daylight.
The carnies slipped into the diner, stained fedora and dirty eyes staring into weak nickel coffee like reading the future in the swirling oils. With them was a woman who could only have been part of their troupe, lacking the road-worn dust and time but clearly a stranger from another land. She was Asian, probably Japanese, but hair dyed castaneous. She wore a long wool coat and a black porkpie devoid of adornment. She took a stool and drew out a cup of joe with her eyes.
Hoell felt a chill wind settle in with them, the sort of feeling you get when you're asked to play an unlucky song and only the band knows you shouldn't play it. He tried to ignore them from his end of the bar, traced designs in the spilled sugar. The susurration of conversation had dissipated, leaving the jangle of forks on plates and the kitchen's din. The carnies were as quiet and focused a shell-shocked soldiers having seen more on this earth than they bargained for. The woman in the hat ate a slice silently but with considerably more cheer. The materteral waitress refilled Hoell's coffee.
Gradually one of the patrons mustered the courage to speak. "You from the circus? Just set up last night?"
The carny in the fedora nodded solemnly.
"Y'all have that living head," the cook chimed in.
Someone guffawed. "What's that like, pal?"
"Sounds like a hustle."
The woman smiled. "And led by the Jew cursed by Christ," she said, and Hoell caught the twinkle in her eye as she spooned more pie into her petite lips. He traced imaginary keys on the bar to accompany the radio. "That's what they say, anyway."
"People say a log about your folk," the skeptic said. "Not much of it is nice."
The woman turned inquisitive eyes as the fedora gloomed even deeper into his cup. "Takes all kinds," the woman said without interest, and reaching for the tall cruet of sugar revealed the hint of a tattoo coiling about her wrist and into her sleeve.
The skeptic missed the temperature change. "Heard about a town in Oklahoma where the carnies were cheating folks. Then they tried to take a little girl. Town strung 'em one night in the rain. Sheriff said they were thieves, murderers and outlaws, and should twist in the wind as a warning to others."
"Jesus, buddy," someone said.
The woman in the porkpie nodded, spoon clanking against the inside of the cup as she stirred it. "Heard that one before. Hear a lot of things on the road. Hear a lot about Jericho, too."
The diner fell silent again, this time slightly more strained. The woman drained her coffee, threw some bills on the counter and with the rattle of the cowbell was gone. The room remained quiet for a few gravid moments, and then someone voiced, "Jericho? Where the hell is that?"
"It isn't," one of the carnies spoke. "It's a rumor, a legend."
"Ten years ago, circus went through a town in north Texas," the man in the fedora said. "Rough crowd. They said someone raped one of the coochie girls. Townsfolk refused to do anything about it. Rumor holds that when the circus left, the town was empty but horses."
No one said anything. One at a time, the two carnies stood up, paid the bill and left. Hoell waited a few minutes and followed.
He stepped outside into the sunlight blossoming on the concrete, and the sounds of a city moving into momentum and starling frantically chirping. A brightly painted flyer on the scratched storefront glass caught his eye, announcing the circus was indeed in town, hinting at magics from the far east, human oddities and shows never before imagined by man. Mystical huckster rhetoric at its finest. He heard the scrape of a match, looked up to see the woman in the porkpie bent over a cigarette. She flicked the match into the street, drew in a deep breath, and smiled with dark glasses unmistakably at him.
A bit of the morning fog lingered ankle deep, a child protesting bedtime even while falling asleep. The diner in daylight offered more than invective coffee and anemic eggs; it was a space of sanctuary, a breath safe from the nightmares of the darkness. Even if they didn't sleep, Whitechapel and his ghouls vanished into some shelter from the daylight.
The carnies slipped into the diner, stained fedora and dirty eyes staring into weak nickel coffee like reading the future in the swirling oils. With them was a woman who could only have been part of their troupe, lacking the road-worn dust and time but clearly a stranger from another land. She was Asian, probably Japanese, but hair dyed castaneous. She wore a long wool coat and a black porkpie devoid of adornment. She took a stool and drew out a cup of joe with her eyes.
Hoell felt a chill wind settle in with them, the sort of feeling you get when you're asked to play an unlucky song and only the band knows you shouldn't play it. He tried to ignore them from his end of the bar, traced designs in the spilled sugar. The susurration of conversation had dissipated, leaving the jangle of forks on plates and the kitchen's din. The carnies were as quiet and focused a shell-shocked soldiers having seen more on this earth than they bargained for. The woman in the hat ate a slice silently but with considerably more cheer. The materteral waitress refilled Hoell's coffee.
Gradually one of the patrons mustered the courage to speak. "You from the circus? Just set up last night?"
The carny in the fedora nodded solemnly.
"Y'all have that living head," the cook chimed in.
Someone guffawed. "What's that like, pal?"
"Sounds like a hustle."
The woman smiled. "And led by the Jew cursed by Christ," she said, and Hoell caught the twinkle in her eye as she spooned more pie into her petite lips. He traced imaginary keys on the bar to accompany the radio. "That's what they say, anyway."
"People say a log about your folk," the skeptic said. "Not much of it is nice."
The woman turned inquisitive eyes as the fedora gloomed even deeper into his cup. "Takes all kinds," the woman said without interest, and reaching for the tall cruet of sugar revealed the hint of a tattoo coiling about her wrist and into her sleeve.
The skeptic missed the temperature change. "Heard about a town in Oklahoma where the carnies were cheating folks. Then they tried to take a little girl. Town strung 'em one night in the rain. Sheriff said they were thieves, murderers and outlaws, and should twist in the wind as a warning to others."
"Jesus, buddy," someone said.
The woman in the porkpie nodded, spoon clanking against the inside of the cup as she stirred it. "Heard that one before. Hear a lot of things on the road. Hear a lot about Jericho, too."
The diner fell silent again, this time slightly more strained. The woman drained her coffee, threw some bills on the counter and with the rattle of the cowbell was gone. The room remained quiet for a few gravid moments, and then someone voiced, "Jericho? Where the hell is that?"
"It isn't," one of the carnies spoke. "It's a rumor, a legend."
"Ten years ago, circus went through a town in north Texas," the man in the fedora said. "Rough crowd. They said someone raped one of the coochie girls. Townsfolk refused to do anything about it. Rumor holds that when the circus left, the town was empty but horses."
No one said anything. One at a time, the two carnies stood up, paid the bill and left. Hoell waited a few minutes and followed.
He stepped outside into the sunlight blossoming on the concrete, and the sounds of a city moving into momentum and starling frantically chirping. A brightly painted flyer on the scratched storefront glass caught his eye, announcing the circus was indeed in town, hinting at magics from the far east, human oddities and shows never before imagined by man. Mystical huckster rhetoric at its finest. He heard the scrape of a match, looked up to see the woman in the porkpie bent over a cigarette. She flicked the match into the street, drew in a deep breath, and smiled with dark glasses unmistakably at him.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Concerning the Hotel, And What Transpires There
Hoell slept in a bare-wall flat outside he hotel fire-escape, flashing promise of Vacancy and sounds of the street below unhindered by thin plaster walls. It was at the end of an easement guarded by a shower of sparks from an elevated train bouncing in the oily water. Homeless fires sparkled faintly along the embankment, sure to be evicted by passing police or railroad bulls, but for now a moment of sanctuary.
A passing train slowly shrieked and groaned its way overhead, hissing fumes into the musty trail of the night. Hoell dodged a resonating pool at the foot of the trestle, giving the shadows a wide berth. Some of the unfortunates calling this place home could be desperate. Be careless, and you might find the Houngan calling you up from a premature burial.
The hotel steps might once have been nacre marble, now worn down ambergris and furrowed, supported by a rusted iron railing like an octogenarian couple aiding each other down the street. Wan florescent lights drew the decay of the floor tile to the eye like dross. Rip Van Winkle at the desk wouldn't have offered any messages had Hoell been expecting them. He passed the lobby by and started to the second floor. He didn't see the ghost boy until he stood from one of the fraying lobby chairs.
Jean Lafitte from the blue club, hair stringy and limp. Hoell thought he was called Keyes, a sort of courier for Whitechapel and other unsavory task masters in the city. Wandered down here years ago, castaway from another life hoping to taste a little sample of darkness and was soon swallowed.
His face showed no betrayal of thought or emotion. He just reached an arm out, palm open to the ceiling. Hoell felt pulse pounding in his ears. He shook his head, and then for good measure raised a middle finger. The ghost boy was unmoved. Hoell continued up the stairs.
He locked the door, deadbolt and slide chain, and jerked the stained curtain over the window. Discotheque colors bled through and blended on the wall. Hoell turned on a cathedral RCA that looked dredged from the waste bin and sat in a spliced wooden chair as the tubes warmed. Eventually tinny notes began to fill the room.
Years ago, before the Fall, when the whiskey and music were still flowing through his fingers, Hoell had ended up by the riverfront, and while revelry swirled about him found himself drawn to a dark storefront. On a whim he entered, and had the cards line up to pluck his fate from the uncertain. He asked what he was not doing. She told him power and dreams would fall to him. They would angle through his hands.
He looked at them now, dirty and scarred as a corollary of forgotten dreams and magic, twitching palsy-like to phantom notes and arpeggios that would never exist. Streams and tributaries of that great river lost without a moment of notice.
To be notice by Music is to swim against current, struggle to be met with the flow of grace channeled through your fingers, fight against the bitter world. When you tire, you're swept away with scarcely a memory remaining. A bucket drawn from the well.
The radio scratched out Louie scatting Stardust. Eventually, Hoell fell asleep in the chair.
A passing train slowly shrieked and groaned its way overhead, hissing fumes into the musty trail of the night. Hoell dodged a resonating pool at the foot of the trestle, giving the shadows a wide berth. Some of the unfortunates calling this place home could be desperate. Be careless, and you might find the Houngan calling you up from a premature burial.
The hotel steps might once have been nacre marble, now worn down ambergris and furrowed, supported by a rusted iron railing like an octogenarian couple aiding each other down the street. Wan florescent lights drew the decay of the floor tile to the eye like dross. Rip Van Winkle at the desk wouldn't have offered any messages had Hoell been expecting them. He passed the lobby by and started to the second floor. He didn't see the ghost boy until he stood from one of the fraying lobby chairs.
Jean Lafitte from the blue club, hair stringy and limp. Hoell thought he was called Keyes, a sort of courier for Whitechapel and other unsavory task masters in the city. Wandered down here years ago, castaway from another life hoping to taste a little sample of darkness and was soon swallowed.
His face showed no betrayal of thought or emotion. He just reached an arm out, palm open to the ceiling. Hoell felt pulse pounding in his ears. He shook his head, and then for good measure raised a middle finger. The ghost boy was unmoved. Hoell continued up the stairs.
He locked the door, deadbolt and slide chain, and jerked the stained curtain over the window. Discotheque colors bled through and blended on the wall. Hoell turned on a cathedral RCA that looked dredged from the waste bin and sat in a spliced wooden chair as the tubes warmed. Eventually tinny notes began to fill the room.
Years ago, before the Fall, when the whiskey and music were still flowing through his fingers, Hoell had ended up by the riverfront, and while revelry swirled about him found himself drawn to a dark storefront. On a whim he entered, and had the cards line up to pluck his fate from the uncertain. He asked what he was not doing. She told him power and dreams would fall to him. They would angle through his hands.
He looked at them now, dirty and scarred as a corollary of forgotten dreams and magic, twitching palsy-like to phantom notes and arpeggios that would never exist. Streams and tributaries of that great river lost without a moment of notice.
To be notice by Music is to swim against current, struggle to be met with the flow of grace channeled through your fingers, fight against the bitter world. When you tire, you're swept away with scarcely a memory remaining. A bucket drawn from the well.
The radio scratched out Louie scatting Stardust. Eventually, Hoell fell asleep in the chair.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Concerning the Hard Time of Motherless Children
Someone was growling "Motherless Children Have a Hard Time" from the shadows of the park. They had no idea how right they were, Hoell mused. The Fog was crawling, roiling in a deliberate direction, and he was trying to make a different course even while knowing it hopeless. The fog would be here until it was time for it to move on, leaving the world changed. He tried to tuck his ears into the collar of his coat.
A small group lingered about the gnarled guitarist, including a drunk sleeping it off by a tree and a tourist couple bored but reluctant to miss a moment. Hoell paused to see if it was anyone he knew, moved on.
Across the green, by the old pavilion, the skies had opened to a moon bulging and lachrymose, lighting the ground cover fog into a chalky miasma. Hoell followed the winding path, waste bins and water fountains resembling an old cemetery with the tentacles of mist curling around them.
The pavilion had once been white, salmon latticework adorned with summer lights and the sounds of brass bands. Time had befallen it now, aided by moisture and neglect. The paint had peeled away in strips, boards and railings bowed and sagging. The moonlight flicked back and forth over the landscape, calculating off seconds of the night. Hoell was past it before he felt a subtle shift in the fog. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the mere suggestion of a figure in the ghostly shadows by the railing. Feminine form, with a bowled hat. He hadn't thought that Whitechapel, while paranoid, was suspicious enough to send a tail so soon. Then he looked again and the shadow was gone. He hurried his way across the green, over a small footbridge skirting the edge of a pond. No further shadows detached themselves from the landscape by the time he reached the carcass of a wooden maintenance shed steadily being swallowed by foliage, a building forgotten in a forgotten scape of park. Hoell had the only key that fit the weathered padlock. He glanced about and shut the door behind him, rebuking the darkness with a sputtering lighter.
The walls were shelves strewn with a miscellany of obtuse rusty things in boxes, pitted tool chest and things best left to imagination. Clearly no park maintenance man ventured into this temple. It was as though an archeological packrat with a view toward future value made a nest or tomb here.
Hoell rustled about in the lighter's amber flickers, muttering arcane directions to himself. Eventually he found what he was seeking, uttering a muted crow, and stuffed it quickly into a pocket. He snapped the lighter closed, pushed open the door and paused for a moment. After a second's hesitation he turned about, reignited the light and opened a browbeaten steamer trunk that might have been pulled from the wreck of the Titanic. From the piles of dark woolen cloth he withdrew a moth-scarred canvas satchel, the resting place for an ungainly revolver as ancient as the trunk. Hoell stuck this in his pocket as well, and locked the shed behind him.
A small group lingered about the gnarled guitarist, including a drunk sleeping it off by a tree and a tourist couple bored but reluctant to miss a moment. Hoell paused to see if it was anyone he knew, moved on.
Across the green, by the old pavilion, the skies had opened to a moon bulging and lachrymose, lighting the ground cover fog into a chalky miasma. Hoell followed the winding path, waste bins and water fountains resembling an old cemetery with the tentacles of mist curling around them.
The pavilion had once been white, salmon latticework adorned with summer lights and the sounds of brass bands. Time had befallen it now, aided by moisture and neglect. The paint had peeled away in strips, boards and railings bowed and sagging. The moonlight flicked back and forth over the landscape, calculating off seconds of the night. Hoell was past it before he felt a subtle shift in the fog. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the mere suggestion of a figure in the ghostly shadows by the railing. Feminine form, with a bowled hat. He hadn't thought that Whitechapel, while paranoid, was suspicious enough to send a tail so soon. Then he looked again and the shadow was gone. He hurried his way across the green, over a small footbridge skirting the edge of a pond. No further shadows detached themselves from the landscape by the time he reached the carcass of a wooden maintenance shed steadily being swallowed by foliage, a building forgotten in a forgotten scape of park. Hoell had the only key that fit the weathered padlock. He glanced about and shut the door behind him, rebuking the darkness with a sputtering lighter.
The walls were shelves strewn with a miscellany of obtuse rusty things in boxes, pitted tool chest and things best left to imagination. Clearly no park maintenance man ventured into this temple. It was as though an archeological packrat with a view toward future value made a nest or tomb here.
Hoell rustled about in the lighter's amber flickers, muttering arcane directions to himself. Eventually he found what he was seeking, uttering a muted crow, and stuffed it quickly into a pocket. He snapped the lighter closed, pushed open the door and paused for a moment. After a second's hesitation he turned about, reignited the light and opened a browbeaten steamer trunk that might have been pulled from the wreck of the Titanic. From the piles of dark woolen cloth he withdrew a moth-scarred canvas satchel, the resting place for an ungainly revolver as ancient as the trunk. Hoell stuck this in his pocket as well, and locked the shed behind him.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Concerning the Meeting and the Arrival
In the last days, Nicholas spent his time in wait, as though he knew the sands were almost gone. He would read leather books softly in the candlelight, and occasionally stroll through the shafts of moonlight from the conservatory and breezeway. He rarely went outside. He remained fastidious about his appearance, maybe more so, and spent most of his time in the study wrapped in a crimson smoking coat. When the knock tolled at his door, he greeted it with complete un-surprise. "It's you," he said, and his guest nodded slowly and solemnly. And then pulled out the blade.
The circus rolled out of the fog like river driftwood, a rattletrap of Ford trucks and Nash sedans having seen better days before the Dust Bowl blew in, engines and suspensions gasping labor pains and vesper prayers to St. Christopher. They set up on the edge of Drywood Creek as night melted over the dry grass, the dust covered side of the caravan proudly announcing the arrival of Dr. E.G. Rhodius And His Sixteen Penny Circus. Fergus the Strong Man, and Tiny Kelly, Queen of Knives, trailing a slender stream of cigarette smoke and Cab Calloway from the door, a road worn and eldritch assortment of tumblers, fire eaters, freaks, carnies and hucksters. The scents and sounds of exotic animals drifted into the town, a pull toward the field as palpable as the arrival of the motor gypsies themselves.
Beneath the sick glow of a hurricane lamp strung on a pole stood the man himself, in a tuxedo from the last century and a top hat that looked to be dusted with magic and mysteries from the darkest Congo to the haunted hovels of New Orleans. He pulled on a black cigar lit on the oil lamp, and set a pocket watch. Then he glanced up, twirled a moustache around a cruel smile, and strode into the black tent.
The circus rolled out of the fog like river driftwood, a rattletrap of Ford trucks and Nash sedans having seen better days before the Dust Bowl blew in, engines and suspensions gasping labor pains and vesper prayers to St. Christopher. They set up on the edge of Drywood Creek as night melted over the dry grass, the dust covered side of the caravan proudly announcing the arrival of Dr. E.G. Rhodius And His Sixteen Penny Circus. Fergus the Strong Man, and Tiny Kelly, Queen of Knives, trailing a slender stream of cigarette smoke and Cab Calloway from the door, a road worn and eldritch assortment of tumblers, fire eaters, freaks, carnies and hucksters. The scents and sounds of exotic animals drifted into the town, a pull toward the field as palpable as the arrival of the motor gypsies themselves.
Beneath the sick glow of a hurricane lamp strung on a pole stood the man himself, in a tuxedo from the last century and a top hat that looked to be dusted with magic and mysteries from the darkest Congo to the haunted hovels of New Orleans. He pulled on a black cigar lit on the oil lamp, and set a pocket watch. Then he glanced up, twirled a moustache around a cruel smile, and strode into the black tent.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Concerning Whitechapel
He called himself Whitechapel Fred, and dressed like a sadistic, demented carnival barker pedophile, a used car salesman hawking scurrilous and suspect attractions. His top hat might have been silk, or felt, but was crushed and stained to the point of molting velvety ochre fabric. He wore a grey checked three piece without a tie and a sardonic smirk. Hoell didn't have time to run before Whitechapel had grasped the lapels of his raincoat.
"We meet at last! I've been looking for you, you see."
Hoell's fingers arpeggioed an unconscious Memphis Minnie. "I was, uh, thinking I might find you here."
"Of course you were, of course you were. Tell me, why do you think I might want to find you?" If he'd had a moustache, he would have twisted it in eagerness.
Hoell pulled a crumpled cigarette and struggled to light it with an even more crumpled matchbook. "Haven't a clue," he answered.
Whitechapel jerked him closer, shaking the cigarette from his lips. "I want it, jazz man. I NEED it. He's back, and he will want it."
"I don't have it!"
"Then GET it. Or did you miss it when I said HE was back?"
Hoell fingered the bullet still in his coat pocket. He felt the presence of someone softly moving up behind him, another one of Whitechapel's soulless acolytes. Fred released him, brushed out a wholly imaginary crease from Hoell's coat. "Come back when you have it, old boy," he said, adjusting the feral top hat at an angle. "I think you know where to find me."
He nodded to the creature behind, and disappeared into the lights and sounds.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Concerning The Pier
The pier was a yellow brick road flanked by the gaudy, the garish, the gauche. Huts, trailers, flashing colors, shameless hucksters and empty promises racing amid tin ear ragtime, diesel exhaust muddying the smells of fry oil. Hoell shuffled through the pieces and people of the night, brain assembling the notes from each standard bleating anemically over the jeers and cajoles. Like sectors on a map, navigating by Hoagy Carmicheal here, Scott Joplin there, Stephan Foster by the Coney Dog stand.
Occasionally the Houngan haunted this decrepit piece of the city as well, turning hand at shadowy tarot reading to hustle up a handful of dollar bills. Sometimes he did it just because. Hoell knew at times a man has to grift just to keep a hand in.
The closer to the waterfront, to the tip of the pier, the hubris faded back, as though nervous of the darkness murmuring moonless below. Soft noises and shadows swallowed the gurgle of generators and safety. Even Hoell was reluctant to be there after dark. The pier was run by someone Hoell had no desire to bump into tonight. But he needed answers; things were changing, shifting with the wind and fog.
He dodged the blind advance of a pink giraffe carted by teenage lovers, past the gunfire of a dart throwing booth, and then spied a figure lurking just off the coruscating lights and a vagabond trumpet. Pale, dusty white skin showing hard against dark ambiguous clothing from an earlier century. Eyes were black and empty, glittering in the light. It could have been the ghost boy from the club, or another fallen creature equally afflicted and employed. It hadn’t appeared to have seen him, but you couldn’t tell. Hoell ducked around a photo op cut out and a manic clown juggling drunkenly. It wasn’t paranoia. They knew he would be here tonight.
He tried to slip behind the trailers, camouflaging himself behind towers of balloon animals, keeping an eye on the specter lurking in the shadow. Confident he remained unseen, he rounded the warm strobe of a love tester and walked into the corrugated face of Mephistopheles.
Occasionally the Houngan haunted this decrepit piece of the city as well, turning hand at shadowy tarot reading to hustle up a handful of dollar bills. Sometimes he did it just because. Hoell knew at times a man has to grift just to keep a hand in.
The closer to the waterfront, to the tip of the pier, the hubris faded back, as though nervous of the darkness murmuring moonless below. Soft noises and shadows swallowed the gurgle of generators and safety. Even Hoell was reluctant to be there after dark. The pier was run by someone Hoell had no desire to bump into tonight. But he needed answers; things were changing, shifting with the wind and fog.
He dodged the blind advance of a pink giraffe carted by teenage lovers, past the gunfire of a dart throwing booth, and then spied a figure lurking just off the coruscating lights and a vagabond trumpet. Pale, dusty white skin showing hard against dark ambiguous clothing from an earlier century. Eyes were black and empty, glittering in the light. It could have been the ghost boy from the club, or another fallen creature equally afflicted and employed. It hadn’t appeared to have seen him, but you couldn’t tell. Hoell ducked around a photo op cut out and a manic clown juggling drunkenly. It wasn’t paranoia. They knew he would be here tonight.
He tried to slip behind the trailers, camouflaging himself behind towers of balloon animals, keeping an eye on the specter lurking in the shadow. Confident he remained unseen, he rounded the warm strobe of a love tester and walked into the corrugated face of Mephistopheles.
Concerning a Rusty Bullet
Dirty fog blew over like a black blizzard. Hoell stumbled into it from the thicket of streets and alleys profuse with river smells. He navigated by habit, by the little light offered by struggling lamps and grizzled neons skulking in the darkness. He kept to the walls and shadows, coming to a nonagenarian building jutting like the bow of a ship from the swirls of mist. He climbed the steps at the side beneath the ghostly gaze of a black cat placidly lounging on a brick windowsill.
Inside was dark, quiet, wooden steps creaking and the gentle sigh of pipes. The cat had hopped from the window in a flash and already started up the stairwell. Hoell followed. The loft apartment he sought wasn’t his. Hoell wasn’t sure whose it was, even if the plate said “Cavanaugh.” Any number of a motley assortment moved in and out of the apartment at any given time. Tonight he was hoping to find the Houngan, who frequented the flat to drink stale bourbon mixed with a tincture known only to himself. The Houngan was elusive, impenetrable, unless he was in a bourbon fit.
The door was unlatched when Hoell reached it, dark within save pale light refracting off the peeling paint chips. He approached slowly, quietly, nudging the door open with his boot. He could tell no one was inside; the atmosphere was cold and empty. Still he fingered the cracked handle of the knife in his pocket, taking cautious steps.
Pulsing radiator hum. Creak of the building settling. The black cat scampering across the hardwood. Someone hammering nails below. The apartment was only occupied by curtains rippling in the ghosts of wind hissing through the gaps in the window, and a small bauble glinting in the little light on the island countertop. Hoell picked it up gingerly.
&nsbp;A thick bullet of ungainly and striated lead, the casing splotched with rust and black. Hoell turned it under the light, then moved to flick a hole in the curtains. No one was there in the fog, but he knew this card. He dropped the bullet into a pocket, and retreated.
The wind whipped up when he stepped outside like it had been laying in wait, blustery personal ambush. It moved with purpose, funneled down the street towing portent in its wake. Hoell listened to it for a moment, trying to hear the voice. Then he scuttled off toward the pier.
Concerning The Tin Ear Town
Up the street, along the river, into the neon shadows and fuzzy cacophony of blues clubs stacked upon one another. Hoell made his way up the gutter, past the curious not gone to bed, the intoxicated not gone to ground, and the true inhabitants on this coruscating midnight fantasy land.
True musicians never really sleep. It’s as if the pull of the night, the melody in the blood, and the potential of the next progression gels together to take and sustain them, even when they finally lay to close their eyes.
A sweat-worn combo was still playing through a fog of smoke, seeking the heartbeat of the night, keeping it moving as though the clock of the city would stop if they did. The baton of time passed from one ancient hero to the next, a duty older than life.
The ghost of Chick Webb had possessed the drummer as Hoell sipped in on the alcohol-slick wooden floor, trying to avoid the eyes of the bouncer. His fingers were moving to the tune the pianist, half drunk and bloodshot, was finding in ivory starlight.
At a table in the corner sat a ghost boy, Jean Lafitte bred from Anne Rice stories, languid in an absinthe haze and the slow moving smoke of a black cigar. He was pale, and dirty, eyes unfocused like the undead, never quite managing to look at you. Hoell seated himself with a grin. The blank eyes slid over him without any sign of life, then drifted into the lingering wreaths. “I got it,” Hoell said. He set a small, worn leather book on the table. The ghost boy registered no response. Then white fingers pulled it close, and set a grimy envelope in its place.
“Someone was looking for you.” The words slid sibilantly, a breath of wind in the graveyard. “Someone who wishes to speak with you.”
Hoell’s hand froze upon the packet. “Is he near?”
The eyes flicked over, settling in time for a peal of trumpet to split the air. Hoell staggered from the table and left by the rear entrance.
True musicians never really sleep. It’s as if the pull of the night, the melody in the blood, and the potential of the next progression gels together to take and sustain them, even when they finally lay to close their eyes.
A sweat-worn combo was still playing through a fog of smoke, seeking the heartbeat of the night, keeping it moving as though the clock of the city would stop if they did. The baton of time passed from one ancient hero to the next, a duty older than life.
The ghost of Chick Webb had possessed the drummer as Hoell sipped in on the alcohol-slick wooden floor, trying to avoid the eyes of the bouncer. His fingers were moving to the tune the pianist, half drunk and bloodshot, was finding in ivory starlight.
At a table in the corner sat a ghost boy, Jean Lafitte bred from Anne Rice stories, languid in an absinthe haze and the slow moving smoke of a black cigar. He was pale, and dirty, eyes unfocused like the undead, never quite managing to look at you. Hoell seated himself with a grin. The blank eyes slid over him without any sign of life, then drifted into the lingering wreaths. “I got it,” Hoell said. He set a small, worn leather book on the table. The ghost boy registered no response. Then white fingers pulled it close, and set a grimy envelope in its place.
“Someone was looking for you.” The words slid sibilantly, a breath of wind in the graveyard. “Someone who wishes to speak with you.”
Hoell’s hand froze upon the packet. “Is he near?”
The eyes flicked over, settling in time for a peal of trumpet to split the air. Hoell staggered from the table and left by the rear entrance.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
To Begin With...
But Nicholas was chivalrous, above all else. It was well known, like a birthmark you can’t hide with clothing, or a withered arm. His eyes would betray it, in the dark hours, and he would sit in the darkness and watch the first snow falling outside the latticed study windows. A virtue streaked like a character flaw in his destiny, spoken over dim fires and homemade caves in the secret places, marred like Galahad. In the end, it would be his undoing.
It was as if the whole world was the back of a clock face on some nights. The moon would set in over the residual night fog, Big Ben in wane, foghorns from the harbor like bass notes and baritone sax from the jazz holes lining the basements of 42nd and South Avenue. Shark-tooth smile nights like these, who could your trust? Hoell made it a simple practice — no one.
Once, he played the ivory with the best at most of these clubs. Now all he had was the Stetson hat and nicotine stains. Removing your fingers from the keys was like snapping from a deep hypnosis, unsure of what you had revealed, and you take the diluted scotch to cover the disorientation; to keep at bay the bottom of the world falling away.
His fingers still remembered those spells. They danced on air even now, channeling them to the melody of the waterfront.
Savannah shuffled from the fog like a lost, sodden teddy-bear; if you could imagine the little girl heartbroken over him. “There’s news about,” Savannah growled preemptively, looking over his shoulder. “They say He has come back. . . .”
“He isn’t due,” Hoell replied.
Savannah just shrugged, and Hoell found himself wondering how there could be a topcoat oversized for that frame. His own was cobbled together like a Frankenstein monster, bits and pieces of other coats showing through. His fingers moved in the air. “What else do they say?”
“The usual. Mentioned your name.”
Hoell peered. “With Him?”
“Nah. Whitechapel.”
Hoell nodded, pushing the fedora back and forth across his scalp. “I see,” he said. Then, as if he had suddenly remembered, he drew a small lozenge tin from his pocket. Savannah snatched it up greedily, but cracked open the lip like an angry cat might be inside and ready to announce the state of its existence.
He glanced up sharply. “You guarantee it’s real?”
Hoell nodded. “Miles Davis’s own tooth. I promise.”
Savannah made the tin disappear into his coat, and passed over something bundled in old newsprint. Hoell took it reverently, and then sidled off into the fog.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Concerning Champagne on the Hull
don't stay away any longer!!
http://port-evenus.com us officially online!!
http://port-evenus.com us officially online!!
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Concerning the Future!!!
A quick editorial note: there has been a slight delay in the launch of the Port Evenus central website, but it should be remedied by the start of the next month. In the meanwhile we will continue to reward your patronage, and our dedication to bring quality programing on this site. Stay tuned for further developments, and please continue your support for this and future broadcast stations. Thank you.
On a partially related topic, as the last post might have hinted, another tale is already being spun into preparation for your delight and amazement. More details and updates to follow.
On a partially related topic, as the last post might have hinted, another tale is already being spun into preparation for your delight and amazement. More details and updates to follow.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Concerning Overbearing Humidity
The rain began with gentle percussion on magnolias and elephant ears, only to swell the gutters and sidewalks, floating drugstore vodka bottles and castaway racing forms in a silent migration. Their only witness was the police cruisers slowly passing through the night. Even the hacks were waiting it out, hunched along the boulevard in rows of smoke-filled cabins. Distant thunder rumbled like a shade-tree hot-rodder, never quite reaching a pitch it was satisfied with. And through it all, the telephone kept ringing; insistent, demanding, belligerent. It was the only voice in the apartment.
Down below, three blocks away, its owner was watching his blood fill the floorboard of the Ford coupe from the cut in his throat.
Down below, three blocks away, its owner was watching his blood fill the floorboard of the Ford coupe from the cut in his throat.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Concerning Future Memorandum
In the interest of better serving our faithful audience, the producers and staff of this establishment would like to announce that the Port, in lieu of upcoming changes at this time we are not able to allude to, will be striving toward monthly to bi-weekly broadcasts. More than this may be appearing upon your horizon-line at one point or another, but this is the minimum intent. As always, we appreciate your patronage, and look forward to sharing further adventures from distant shores.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Concerning the Opera, and End of Our Tale
The theater was essentially all the physical land held by Kitty Rollins. In the public recollection it almost didn't exist, suspended in a pocket of stowaway time on an old brocade of a street, stones clad in moss and mold. Trying to keep out of the open, Tupelo slunk by the trenches of detritus lining the dark buildings and up the columns to the gaping black doorway. There was no light really, just a short warmth from the glowing city skyline obstinately finding its way through the broken ceiling.
Deep smell of mildew and rainwater, of unbidden flora and the sharp smell of bodily waste. A bird roof ceiling, black abyss fluttering movement of feathers, floor home to unruly cats prowling like starving street kids, zombies. His eyes adjusted, and Tupelo could make out a garish staircase spiraling off into the eaves, only slivers and shadows visible in the night. A cat leapt past from darkness into darkness, to a rustle of wings. Tupelo started.
"She's gone to the bird roof," the Ragamuffin King said behind him. "She'll be silver no more."
He was seated on black crates with a styrofoam cup of smelly hot tea and a mangy velvet top hat. Tupelo started breathing again. The King sipped tea. And somewhere above music started, a scratchy echo 78. The King smiled. "Figaro," he said, pointing a dirty finger to heaven.
"What happens now?" Tupelo asked to music and dust from above.
The King gestured with his cup. "When Kitty Rollins came down here, years ago, that was the song she always played. 'Ecco, Ridente in Cielo.' The Count despairs over the heart of his beauty. Kitty would come here and sing on nights when the fog was rising. She had a voice that could call down angels."
His own was almost wistful. Tupelo listened for a few moments, to Italian tenor and restless pigeons. It was beautiful, in a Gaston LeRoux kind of way.
"What, um, what happens now?" Tupelo repeated.
"She has her spirit," the King said softly. Then he angrily hurled the cup of tea into the darkness. Cats exploded out, crashing over the void, and a great rushing in the wings raining feathers down. Then it was silent again but for the barber of Seville self-aggrandizing to a scratchy orchestra.
"Kitty Rollins is dead," said the Ragamuffin King. "Now she is queen."
Tupelo reached to scratch a cat weaving itself around his ankles. He stood back up, took the shoestring from his neck. "Here," he said, handing over the vial. "I won't need this anymore."
And it began to rain.
And deep in the wet night, on an empty avenue of brick buildings stacked on top of one another, the Shadow Man stepped from the darkness itself, old blankets and ponchos blending with the crumbling brick and rusting black iron. He stopped at one doorway mimicked by so many others, peered briefly down the silent black alley. He knelt on the wet pavement and pulled a little leather pouch from his coats, produced three small coins and a smoky votive candle. He placed these on the step, lit the candle with a Harrah's matchbook, and set a headless rat before it.
And the Ragamuffin King would bilk a few midnight tourists of a handful of dollars with a sleight-of-hand that may not have been entirely misdirection of his fingerless gloves, and whistling "Hail, Britannia" stroll off into the fog rolling over the river bank and becoming his long oil-cloth coat.
--finis--
Deep smell of mildew and rainwater, of unbidden flora and the sharp smell of bodily waste. A bird roof ceiling, black abyss fluttering movement of feathers, floor home to unruly cats prowling like starving street kids, zombies. His eyes adjusted, and Tupelo could make out a garish staircase spiraling off into the eaves, only slivers and shadows visible in the night. A cat leapt past from darkness into darkness, to a rustle of wings. Tupelo started.
"She's gone to the bird roof," the Ragamuffin King said behind him. "She'll be silver no more."
He was seated on black crates with a styrofoam cup of smelly hot tea and a mangy velvet top hat. Tupelo started breathing again. The King sipped tea. And somewhere above music started, a scratchy echo 78. The King smiled. "Figaro," he said, pointing a dirty finger to heaven.
"What happens now?" Tupelo asked to music and dust from above.
The King gestured with his cup. "When Kitty Rollins came down here, years ago, that was the song she always played. 'Ecco, Ridente in Cielo.' The Count despairs over the heart of his beauty. Kitty would come here and sing on nights when the fog was rising. She had a voice that could call down angels."
His own was almost wistful. Tupelo listened for a few moments, to Italian tenor and restless pigeons. It was beautiful, in a Gaston LeRoux kind of way.
"What, um, what happens now?" Tupelo repeated.
"She has her spirit," the King said softly. Then he angrily hurled the cup of tea into the darkness. Cats exploded out, crashing over the void, and a great rushing in the wings raining feathers down. Then it was silent again but for the barber of Seville self-aggrandizing to a scratchy orchestra.
"Kitty Rollins is dead," said the Ragamuffin King. "Now she is queen."
Tupelo reached to scratch a cat weaving itself around his ankles. He stood back up, took the shoestring from his neck. "Here," he said, handing over the vial. "I won't need this anymore."
And it began to rain.
And deep in the wet night, on an empty avenue of brick buildings stacked on top of one another, the Shadow Man stepped from the darkness itself, old blankets and ponchos blending with the crumbling brick and rusting black iron. He stopped at one doorway mimicked by so many others, peered briefly down the silent black alley. He knelt on the wet pavement and pulled a little leather pouch from his coats, produced three small coins and a smoky votive candle. He placed these on the step, lit the candle with a Harrah's matchbook, and set a headless rat before it.
And the Ragamuffin King would bilk a few midnight tourists of a handful of dollars with a sleight-of-hand that may not have been entirely misdirection of his fingerless gloves, and whistling "Hail, Britannia" stroll off into the fog rolling over the river bank and becoming his long oil-cloth coat.
--finis--
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Concerning an Editorial Lull In the Proceedings
We interrupt this broadcast in lieu of pressing developments. The writers and staff of this station are currently engaged in following lost tributaries in search of gold. It is our hope that you will overlook this inconvenience in light of our past service, and stay tuned for future transmissions from lost civilizations. Goodnight Mr and Mrs. America, and all the ships that sail the seas. . . .
Monday, March 22, 2010
Concerning the Alley
The street was a gypsy highway long ago abandoned, and with it the traces, memorials and discard of those who had gone before. A wheel-less broken pram lay like a half-buried galleon amid the wreckage of discarded clothes, appliances, and what seemed a shipwreck of a century of travelers' waste. One of the major arcana floated by on a stream. A bright colored scarf drifted from a rusted, mottled water-pipe leaning out from moldered bricks, and as Tupelo approached a covey of young gutter punks scattered out into the open light, boots splashing through puddles of tipsy street. No doubt they had been spooked by the passage of the Ragamuffin King.
Edge lit by red train light he saw the ghost of an oil-cloth sail silhouette briefly across the lot, followed it through the amber lights of the yard. Lush vegetation, ivy, flower boxes and gardens become wild things dangled over the ledges, crawled along the bricks, sought life in puddles and spaces of city. Time was abandoned, recalcitrant, sneaked off into pockets here. Smells of spices, actinic urine, body smell.
The alley was bitterly dark, and Tupelo saw, glowing faintly in white chalk as he entered, Kitty Rollins' mark. Then it opened into a courtyard forgotten by the world around. Tupelo couldn't even hear cars, people, or signs of life other than a pigeon gliding overhead to the towering, derelict theater house.
Edge lit by red train light he saw the ghost of an oil-cloth sail silhouette briefly across the lot, followed it through the amber lights of the yard. Lush vegetation, ivy, flower boxes and gardens become wild things dangled over the ledges, crawled along the bricks, sought life in puddles and spaces of city. Time was abandoned, recalcitrant, sneaked off into pockets here. Smells of spices, actinic urine, body smell.
The alley was bitterly dark, and Tupelo saw, glowing faintly in white chalk as he entered, Kitty Rollins' mark. Then it opened into a courtyard forgotten by the world around. Tupelo couldn't even hear cars, people, or signs of life other than a pigeon gliding overhead to the towering, derelict theater house.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Concerning a Brick Thrown By a King
When the Fop was felled with a brick there was only a sound like dropped pottery and woman's scream. Tupelo saw the Fop sprawled on the ground like a soulless puppet, a chunk of old red brick next to his head, a brick thrown by a King. Where the King was he didn't know, but the King it had to be. Ambling Henry had abandoned his newsprint bench to support the Silver Lady, using his crushed tweed hat to fan the Fop. Tupelo ran back to help roll him off the path into the safety of the bushes.
Henry escorted the Silver Lady from the park, Tupelo fled to the Church of the Immaculate Conception. They always let you stay in the sanctuary of a church, if you sat in the back and didn't smell too bad. Sometimes you could even get fed, on Saturdays when the elderly parish ladies served gallons of canned clam chowder to the poor and down-trodden who sought shelter within its halls.
The church was on the Street of Friars, part of the old town, if you could designate such a thing in this city; a long, undulating cobblestone stretch lined by dark brick buildings crowded with noisy families, hanging laundry and xenophobic businesses. Runoff water trickled down the street ceaselessly, carrying the occasional take-out box and lifeless plush animal. Tupelo shambled his way past stalls and steam clouds smelling of shrimp and andouille, trying to stay on the edges but away from the shadows. He had the skeleton in the vial on a shoestring around his neck, but nursed doubts. And he had secretly left his best seahorse with the Silver Lady, just in case.
He wasn't afraid of the Ragamuffin King; he had no need to be. One couldn't be too careful these days. It could be an odd world, full of beautifully dangerous people.
He ascended the church's stone steps, glistening and reflecting back the street below -- an image, a world forever trapped between the darkness and humanity below, and the light, warmth and sanctuary above. At the great red doors to the vestibule he turned to take in the street behind him: wet, contumelious, a blinking muddy trolley rattling its way down the rail and brick path like a giant subterranean creature ambling its way to earth. Tupelo saw what looked like the Silver Lady cross the street, ducking behind the trolley and slipping into the steamy throat of an alley.
And like a curtain moved aside the trolley rolled on, its clanging bell revealing the Ragamuffin King standing in front of a well lit red awning kiosk, fingerless gloves clutching something in wax paper. Tupelo watched him bring a wad of it to his mouth, then follow into the steam alley behind the Silver Lady.
For reasons he would not be able to articulate, Tupelo found himself dancing down the steps, across black cobblestones, and, because he was not stupid, entering the veil of smoke slowly and cautiously.
Henry escorted the Silver Lady from the park, Tupelo fled to the Church of the Immaculate Conception. They always let you stay in the sanctuary of a church, if you sat in the back and didn't smell too bad. Sometimes you could even get fed, on Saturdays when the elderly parish ladies served gallons of canned clam chowder to the poor and down-trodden who sought shelter within its halls.
The church was on the Street of Friars, part of the old town, if you could designate such a thing in this city; a long, undulating cobblestone stretch lined by dark brick buildings crowded with noisy families, hanging laundry and xenophobic businesses. Runoff water trickled down the street ceaselessly, carrying the occasional take-out box and lifeless plush animal. Tupelo shambled his way past stalls and steam clouds smelling of shrimp and andouille, trying to stay on the edges but away from the shadows. He had the skeleton in the vial on a shoestring around his neck, but nursed doubts. And he had secretly left his best seahorse with the Silver Lady, just in case.
He wasn't afraid of the Ragamuffin King; he had no need to be. One couldn't be too careful these days. It could be an odd world, full of beautifully dangerous people.
He ascended the church's stone steps, glistening and reflecting back the street below -- an image, a world forever trapped between the darkness and humanity below, and the light, warmth and sanctuary above. At the great red doors to the vestibule he turned to take in the street behind him: wet, contumelious, a blinking muddy trolley rattling its way down the rail and brick path like a giant subterranean creature ambling its way to earth. Tupelo saw what looked like the Silver Lady cross the street, ducking behind the trolley and slipping into the steamy throat of an alley.
And like a curtain moved aside the trolley rolled on, its clanging bell revealing the Ragamuffin King standing in front of a well lit red awning kiosk, fingerless gloves clutching something in wax paper. Tupelo watched him bring a wad of it to his mouth, then follow into the steam alley behind the Silver Lady.
For reasons he would not be able to articulate, Tupelo found himself dancing down the steps, across black cobblestones, and, because he was not stupid, entering the veil of smoke slowly and cautiously.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Concerning a Stroll in the Park
The best place to find the Fop at this hour would be the park. The Silver Lady would have risen from her afternoon slumber and be ready to observe her subjects on a constitutional. The sky was darkening bruise as Tupelo came to the square, munching on half a hero he had found in a receptacle at the entrance. Lamplights were beginning to flutter shadows on wet green leaves and ripple colours on the fountain statue.
Rumor held the Fop was edging to expand his territory by a liaison with the Silver Lady, but Tupelo was always shy to put stock in rumors. He couldn't imagine the Fop having the energy for ambition really. Still, everyone knew the Lady had secrets anyone would covet, and the question remained of the bag of zombie powder. Unconsciously Tupelo touched the protection charm he'd drawn earlier with a half-dry Sharpie marker. He would not even wager on what the Ragamuffin King was after -- he was a crafty angel fallen with a bag of magic tricks.
He caught sight of the Fop and the Silver Lady ahead by the pond, watching a living statue dressed as Charlie Chaplin. A group of schoolboys ran past, pausing long enough to throw peanuts and jeers and then off. Tupelo watched intently for a moment, trying to spot the Ragamuffin King. He saw Ambling Henry in the distance trying to score a bench for the night, but no King. The park was technically the King's domain. He could be anywhere.
Tupelo had already traded the tape recorder for a crushed half-pack of cigarettes and a broken watch. The watch and a rusted crescent wrench later would bring him a handful of TV transistors and a battered blues harp with the bottom three notes irredeemably clogged. He also acquired a small skeleton carving in a vial.
Fist wrapped around this, he shuffled over to the pond. The Fop and the Lady were strolling slowly, followed from the water by a cadre of ducks cawing softly and without emotion.
"Ta," the Fop said as he approached. The Silver Lady nodded a him slightly. "M'Lady," Tupelo mumbled, averting his eyes.
"Any further news of the King?" the Fop asked airily. "He has not bothered to contact this personage with grievances."
"Kitty Rollins is, um, dead," Tupelo answered. The Silver Lady made a sound and put a pale gloved hand to her mouth.
"Who told you this?" the Fop demanded sharply. "Answer me truthfully, or it shall go ill with you."
"The Ragamuffin King, in the Horseman's land."
"He has no sense of dominion," the Fop dismissed with a toss of a slender hand. They continued walking. "What else did he tell you?"
"Um, he said to tell you not to dig what someone else wants. And that, um, her holdings pass to the Silver Lady."
"Why were YOU in the Horseman's domain, Tupelo? Does no service your atypical timidity."
"shadowman," Tupelo muttered almost inaudibly.
"I see. And what may I trust his response to be?"
They were passing in sight of the fountain again, the ducks tiring of their leisurely pace and seeking entertainment from the schoolboys and their peanuts. Tupelo thought he saw a shadow move, but he couldn't be sure. It could have been the lights dancing Cupid's silhouette on the hedge.
Tupelo fingered the vial when he spoke, and his voice sounded as strong as the Shadow Man, if just for a sentence. "It's not about her holding but her power. It will pass on to the next, or whoever has her spirit."
The Fop blanched, but only for a moment. "Fear not madam, and fear not young Tupelo." His voice quickly regained its regal scorn. "I shall let no brigand of the night do harm to your virtuous person." He narrowed his eyes at Tupelo, who felt the need to squirm. "If you see the King of Ragamuffins, pass him my regards. His nightmares and threats fail to scare me. Now begone."
Tupelo bowed to the Lady and dutifully tottered off, pausing briefly at a storm drain to inspect what would turn out to be a losing lottery ticket fluttering forlornly. He sat at the fountain, streams and falls raining symphony spattering wet concrete, Cupid and Psyche, forever locked in embrace, held company by the occasional transient pigeon. Tupelo took out the blues harp and tried to blow a few experimental notes.
Rumor held the Fop was edging to expand his territory by a liaison with the Silver Lady, but Tupelo was always shy to put stock in rumors. He couldn't imagine the Fop having the energy for ambition really. Still, everyone knew the Lady had secrets anyone would covet, and the question remained of the bag of zombie powder. Unconsciously Tupelo touched the protection charm he'd drawn earlier with a half-dry Sharpie marker. He would not even wager on what the Ragamuffin King was after -- he was a crafty angel fallen with a bag of magic tricks.
He caught sight of the Fop and the Silver Lady ahead by the pond, watching a living statue dressed as Charlie Chaplin. A group of schoolboys ran past, pausing long enough to throw peanuts and jeers and then off. Tupelo watched intently for a moment, trying to spot the Ragamuffin King. He saw Ambling Henry in the distance trying to score a bench for the night, but no King. The park was technically the King's domain. He could be anywhere.
Tupelo had already traded the tape recorder for a crushed half-pack of cigarettes and a broken watch. The watch and a rusted crescent wrench later would bring him a handful of TV transistors and a battered blues harp with the bottom three notes irredeemably clogged. He also acquired a small skeleton carving in a vial.
Fist wrapped around this, he shuffled over to the pond. The Fop and the Lady were strolling slowly, followed from the water by a cadre of ducks cawing softly and without emotion.
"Ta," the Fop said as he approached. The Silver Lady nodded a him slightly. "M'Lady," Tupelo mumbled, averting his eyes.
"Any further news of the King?" the Fop asked airily. "He has not bothered to contact this personage with grievances."
"Kitty Rollins is, um, dead," Tupelo answered. The Silver Lady made a sound and put a pale gloved hand to her mouth.
"Who told you this?" the Fop demanded sharply. "Answer me truthfully, or it shall go ill with you."
"The Ragamuffin King, in the Horseman's land."
"He has no sense of dominion," the Fop dismissed with a toss of a slender hand. They continued walking. "What else did he tell you?"
"Um, he said to tell you not to dig what someone else wants. And that, um, her holdings pass to the Silver Lady."
"Why were YOU in the Horseman's domain, Tupelo? Does no service your atypical timidity."
"shadowman," Tupelo muttered almost inaudibly.
"I see. And what may I trust his response to be?"
They were passing in sight of the fountain again, the ducks tiring of their leisurely pace and seeking entertainment from the schoolboys and their peanuts. Tupelo thought he saw a shadow move, but he couldn't be sure. It could have been the lights dancing Cupid's silhouette on the hedge.
Tupelo fingered the vial when he spoke, and his voice sounded as strong as the Shadow Man, if just for a sentence. "It's not about her holding but her power. It will pass on to the next, or whoever has her spirit."
The Fop blanched, but only for a moment. "Fear not madam, and fear not young Tupelo." His voice quickly regained its regal scorn. "I shall let no brigand of the night do harm to your virtuous person." He narrowed his eyes at Tupelo, who felt the need to squirm. "If you see the King of Ragamuffins, pass him my regards. His nightmares and threats fail to scare me. Now begone."
Tupelo bowed to the Lady and dutifully tottered off, pausing briefly at a storm drain to inspect what would turn out to be a losing lottery ticket fluttering forlornly. He sat at the fountain, streams and falls raining symphony spattering wet concrete, Cupid and Psyche, forever locked in embrace, held company by the occasional transient pigeon. Tupelo took out the blues harp and tried to blow a few experimental notes.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Concerning a Questionable Trade
The Shadow Man was tall, thin and very black. He wore a broken beaver fedora that might once have been grey and a collage of jackets, torn shirts and blankets. He had a small fire and a scattering of sputtering candles when Tupelo arrived, sliding down the muddy embankment.
"Mr. Tupelo," the Shadow Man said in a deep whiskey rasp, and in his voice Tupelo could hear the cry of distant trains and forgotten kingdoms. "We did have a bargain tonight."
Tupelo sat down across the fire and passed over a very dead pigeon and a half bottle of Admiral Nelson. "Kitty Rollins is dead," he said. "The King just told me, said to tell you."
The Shadow Man raised one hairless eyebrow. "Interesting. She has lived long time. Now, her power passes on." He handed Tupelo a cassette Walkman with great ceremony from the mound of junk behind him.
"The Silver Lady?"
"Yes," the Shadow Man said thoughtfully, as he cut off the pigeon's head with a rusted steak knife. "Or another, if they find her spirit first."
"Mr. Tupelo," the Shadow Man said in a deep whiskey rasp, and in his voice Tupelo could hear the cry of distant trains and forgotten kingdoms. "We did have a bargain tonight."
Tupelo sat down across the fire and passed over a very dead pigeon and a half bottle of Admiral Nelson. "Kitty Rollins is dead," he said. "The King just told me, said to tell you."
The Shadow Man raised one hairless eyebrow. "Interesting. She has lived long time. Now, her power passes on." He handed Tupelo a cassette Walkman with great ceremony from the mound of junk behind him.
"The Silver Lady?"
"Yes," the Shadow Man said thoughtfully, as he cut off the pigeon's head with a rusted steak knife. "Or another, if they find her spirit first."
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Concerning a Random Encounter
Tupelo was supposed to meet the Shadow Man about a trade. If he was lucky, a cup of coffee also could be found in one of the shelters down by the vista.
The Shadow Man set shop beneath the stone bridge by the river, in the Horseman's territory. Tupelo didn't like to be there after dark. He picked his way through a narrow sliver between buildings strewn with rain soaked trash and feral cats. Cars moved by in the distance, a fleeting rush of movement and wet tires. He suspiciously eyed a heap by a dumpster, and determined it wasn't worth it.
Suddenly Tupelo turned, and there was the Ragamuffin King standing at the alley's mouth like a shadow of a rowan tree, imprinted over glistening black puddles by the flickering pole lamp. Tupelo jumped.
"Kitty Rollins is dead," the King intoned. His hands were shoved into the oiled-canvas coat. "Tell that rake her territory passes to the Lady. He should mind himself before he digs up something wanted by someone else."
Tupelo didn't answer, but fairly fled across the wet flagstones, coat tails flapping.
"Pass the news to the Shadow Man!" the King yelled after him, and then he slipped off into the oncoming night.
The Shadow Man set shop beneath the stone bridge by the river, in the Horseman's territory. Tupelo didn't like to be there after dark. He picked his way through a narrow sliver between buildings strewn with rain soaked trash and feral cats. Cars moved by in the distance, a fleeting rush of movement and wet tires. He suspiciously eyed a heap by a dumpster, and determined it wasn't worth it.
Suddenly Tupelo turned, and there was the Ragamuffin King standing at the alley's mouth like a shadow of a rowan tree, imprinted over glistening black puddles by the flickering pole lamp. Tupelo jumped.
"Kitty Rollins is dead," the King intoned. His hands were shoved into the oiled-canvas coat. "Tell that rake her territory passes to the Lady. He should mind himself before he digs up something wanted by someone else."
Tupelo didn't answer, but fairly fled across the wet flagstones, coat tails flapping.
"Pass the news to the Shadow Man!" the King yelled after him, and then he slipped off into the oncoming night.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Concerning An Eclair
He found the Fop daintily eating an eclair on a terrace, fingertips coated in powdered sugar. "My dear Tupelo." The Fop smiled at him graciously with long rouged cheekbones. "What new and glorious tidings do you bring our way?"
"I saw the King," Tupelo responded, fumbling nervously in his mackinaw. "I think he was looking for you."
The Fop yawned. "I see no reason he should. I've unearthed nothing of interest to him . . . . lately. . . "
Tupelo wiped his lips with blackened fingers, eying the eclair hungrily.
"Besides. Should the King desire our company he only need find us."
"Okay," Tupelo said. "Just thought you should know, that's all."
The Fop nodded inconclusively. Tupelo produced the Winston butt from his pocket. "Um. Do you have a light?"
"I saw the King," Tupelo responded, fumbling nervously in his mackinaw. "I think he was looking for you."
The Fop yawned. "I see no reason he should. I've unearthed nothing of interest to him . . . . lately. . . "
Tupelo wiped his lips with blackened fingers, eying the eclair hungrily.
"Besides. Should the King desire our company he only need find us."
"Okay," Tupelo said. "Just thought you should know, that's all."
The Fop nodded inconclusively. Tupelo produced the Winston butt from his pocket. "Um. Do you have a light?"
Friday, February 26, 2010
Concerning Events Even More Unreltated
Introduction
The Fop and The Silver Lady had passed the hedgerow when the Ragamuffin King appeared at the fountain. He perched birdlike on the edge of Psyche's knee, dirty coat-tail barely dipping like a paintbrush in the water. He was watching for something behind those matted dredlocks, Tupelo could tell. He also knew the thin partnership the Fop and the King shared had ended, purportedly over a bag of zombie powder. It wasn't he, though; Tupelo tried to steer clear of the King the last few weeks. The King could be irascible in the spring months.
Tupelo turned back to the tall ashtray, fished a butt from the sand with a fingertip's worth of tobacco left. He stashed it quickly in the recesses of his coat, drew a small celtic knot in the sand. When he looked back, the Ragamuffin King was gone, vanished into the park square. Tupelo scanned about quickly, then scuttled out of the square.
copyright 2009
bacon press ltd
tcr
The Fop and The Silver Lady had passed the hedgerow when the Ragamuffin King appeared at the fountain. He perched birdlike on the edge of Psyche's knee, dirty coat-tail barely dipping like a paintbrush in the water. He was watching for something behind those matted dredlocks, Tupelo could tell. He also knew the thin partnership the Fop and the King shared had ended, purportedly over a bag of zombie powder. It wasn't he, though; Tupelo tried to steer clear of the King the last few weeks. The King could be irascible in the spring months.
Tupelo turned back to the tall ashtray, fished a butt from the sand with a fingertip's worth of tobacco left. He stashed it quickly in the recesses of his coat, drew a small celtic knot in the sand. When he looked back, the Ragamuffin King was gone, vanished into the park square. Tupelo scanned about quickly, then scuttled out of the square.
copyright 2009
bacon press ltd
tcr
Monday, February 22, 2010
And Now, a New Season and New Narrative
To Begin With. . . .
But Nicholas was chivalrous, above all else. It was well-known, like a birthmark you can’t hide with clothing, or a withered arm. His eyes would betray it, in the dark hours, and he would sit in the darkness and watch the first snow falling outside the latticed study windows. A virtue streaked like a character flaw in his destiny, spoken over dim fires and homemade caves on the secret places, marred like Galahad. In the end, it would be his undoing.
But Nicholas was chivalrous, above all else. It was well-known, like a birthmark you can’t hide with clothing, or a withered arm. His eyes would betray it, in the dark hours, and he would sit in the darkness and watch the first snow falling outside the latticed study windows. A virtue streaked like a character flaw in his destiny, spoken over dim fires and homemade caves on the secret places, marred like Galahad. In the end, it would be his undoing.
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