Wednesday, June 28, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley As always, the return to civilization begins with severe doubt and the hovering thunderhead awareness of horrible impending doom crouched in the bushes of time like an albino tiger with smiling whiskers prepared to unleash its swift fury upon our fine established human ways, due in part to the nature of such quests that we in the Circle of Madmen have chosen to partake in as a defined (completely undefined) and nomadically headspaced way of life, lived with impeccable and sinister balance on the teetering and sailing edge of the Frisbee that is the human existential experience which, by no means, was ever assigned weighty meaning or scribed in any noble or fantastical Hammurabi code of ways so as to constitute the transition from the shamanic tree dwelling hunter of humble Buddhistic respect for the Element—towards the lashing and gnashing of the parasitic societies wriggling so nastily to become here in the primal slime since it requires not the disassembly of the conditioned ego but alas would rather dull the senses with distractive discourse; because you and you and I are pathetic and dribbling creatures with uncontrollable sadnesses. And fears of intestinal mutilations and the shredding of our tender warm blue souls which are vulnerable like soft pink cunts being charged by battleaxe wielding Vikings with thick knotty braids and the tongue-lust for dispensing brutal deathliness and pain so as to relieve that of which they suffer in their own dreams of being stabbed in the eye with a twelve-inch stainless steel blade and watching it slide intrusively into the very same eye which is being stabbed as the nerves begin to fire off with panic. And all the while the Circle of Madmen sees this whole bloody vision from their rocky mushroom perches amongst the wind-scoured trees of enlightenment high up in the crags—the lion watches a storm forming in the northeasterly ranges and the monkey is puffing on his marijuana pipe like Sherlock Holmes and is meditating on the big lofty clouds patrolling the strange peaks to the west—and they crawl down to the next saddle in anticipation of the next alpine zone where language is unnecessary once again since the mountains are beyond the necessity to communicate so as to establish or reaffirm a connection they think or hope might be there but of course always is but the mountains give no such fuck and only sit in deep trance humming “sssshhhhhhh,” and is similar to an explorer traveling up five thousand steps to a monastery in the Himalayas to so grandly inquire as to the weighty meaning of life where the Dzogchen robed Master, upon hearing such an inquiry, will just look at him and do a cartwheel, and upon finishing the cartwheel will throw his hands in the air, punctuating it with a good old fart—and the creeping return to civilized America and its to-die-for creature comforts like the swinging door in the trash bin at Dunkin Donuts and the neatly paper-wrapped straws for hygiene and the miserable convenient store clerk who would rather be fishing or smoking crack and the incredible ease which with gasoline can be accessed since America guzzles that shit like soda but she (America) don’t give a fuck, and I don’t give no fuck either because its funny and because America is the hot crazy bitch you will never impress and she’s got the biggest guns motherfucker. And there are tremendously fine things about returning as well like drinking gin with a fine dark-eyed female in a social setting two hours before her and I bounce her bed into the wall because we don’t give no fuck about the neighbors, but that is beside my point, the return to civilization, or whatever you call this, is, as we Madmen like to put it, a trip, and reminds us of the secret urge to hunt yuppies with compound bows in the woods—given a fair head start of course. Carrying heavy packs strapped to their backs with dirty tee-shirts wrapped around their brutish heads are such dirty soldiers of the Vision Quest who climb rocks, slurp whiskey and puff cigarettes and scare bears away as they boil water at dinnertime and communicate by eyes, and earlier in the day had stepped through the most magical of forests with perfectly spaced olden trees and lush ferns and moss and sunlight that filtered through the ancient canopy above like light through a stained-glass window in a Cathedral—and the return to civilization is to be dealt with quietly despite the ugly brunt of such a perverse ant colony—out in the woods I am the king of the shit and in the shit the trees bow to me with equal respect as I bow to them and in the woods the spectacular notion of not changing my Scooby Doo underwear is totally awesome and gives me secret powers but back in the world of civilized self-conscious woes I am just another meandering fool who just wants a little piece of the pie, and of course once I get a piece I will want a bigger fatter one, and I will step on your beautiful face to get it, you get what I’m saying? Of course you do if you are one of the five people I know who think like this, and if you don’t, well please slit your rists in streets—so we can drive by and beep.
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Tuesday, June 27, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Heather Kelleher The distant chime of shattering glass shards resonates sporadically in her ears as she imagines how the broken wings of a lunar moth might sound. Morbidly, she pictures fairies and nymphs falling – floating - lightly to the forest floor in the crest of their demise. She nears the now slivered glass and the whole world turns an astonishing white- the glass reflecting all sources of light, making it too bright to see a thing. In her blindness, she begins to crawl on her hands and knees, causing delicate slices on her palms, shins and kneecaps. To the potential observer, it's just a white canvas with smears of blood red chaotically painted with too much feeling. But for her, it is the climax of an unraveling crescendo that has defined her journey and ruptured her psyche. In the prisms, she finds herself catching glimpses of someone she used to be and know, as pastel stars dance twinkling out her eyes and bounce against the padded walls.
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Monday, June 26, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Bob McGovern (with a special thanks to Ben Myers for the idea) “I’m going for your ankles again Boucher,” coach Borgetti said, cradling the lacrosse ball like a pompous ass. He loved calling me Boucher, because of Bobby Boucher, from that damn movie. “Go ahead fatty,” I replied, knees bent, ready for action. “What was that?” “Nothing,” I yelled, “Fatty,” I whispered. He wound up and side-armed a shot, right at my feet. I dropped to my knees and stopped the bastard howitzer with my leg. He missed my fucking ankle. A small victory, practice was almost over. I did my sprints with the team and couldn’t take my mind off of the massive chest protector that caused my body heat to rise. My stupid throat guard kept hitting my Adam’s Apple. I needed some pot, I needed some pussy. There was talk of states, or something. Some yelling, some ass slapping, some quotes from the local paper. Some shit about our game in two days. I kept looking away. I knew where my friends were and, on a sunny Florida Friday, they were not sweating with swollen ankles. I limped to my Jeep and threw all my smelly crap in the back. I smiled in the rearview mirror, gave a quick flex in the small rectangle, “fuck yea baby,” and hit the road back home. Windows down. Punk rock turned way up. A 17-year-old dumbass, sniffing the Florida sunset. I drove down the main street in my neighborhood and stopped at the boardwalk, otherwise known as, “The Hut.” Sure enough, the whole crew was there: John, Frank, Alex, Emily, and Sarah. All very stoned and sunburned. “What’s up McGovern,” Frank said, drawing out the “Uuuuuuh,” from my last name. He was the oldest one up there. Just another 21-year-old surfer that never left Vero Beach, high with a bunch of minors, slowly taking a drag off of his Kamel, and completely content with being shirtless and wasted. “Nothing man, just got out of practice, got anything burning up here?” I said, figuring the comment was a good enough hello for everyone else. He handed me a roach and tossed me a lighter, John looked on eagerly. I took a couple of hits and could feel my body relaxing. Time sloooowed down and Friday night gave me its first kiss. I handed John the rest, I was sick of him staring at me. Emily and Sarah were gossiping about some girls in school, Alex chimed in, only to give them a hard time. Sarah looked at him with a flirtatious glance, the two had been dating forever and loved getting under each other’s skin. Another joint was rolled and we smoked and talked and watched the red ocean slowly turn dark. We slapped mosquitoes, and played it cool when regular beach-goers walked by. We needed booze and I needed a shower since I smelled like ass. We sent Frank to 7-11, I sent myself home, everyone else stayed. They always did. I took my shower, put on some surfing shirt that made my arms look big, and put on my Quicksilver visor. A spritz of cologne and mouth wash, and I stared at myself for a solid five minutes, part stoned, part vain. Back in my room I found the remainder of my stash and stuffed it in the cargo pocket of my shorts. I walked downstairs and told my parents I was leaving. “Be careful Bobby” “Always.” Down at the beach, things were still rolling and people were drinking. Julia, my girlfriend, called me and asked where I was. I told her and she said, “figures.” I hung up. We smoked on the beach and threw beer cans in the bushes. I walked down to the main road to meet Julia. “You’re stoned.” “Yup.” “Figures.” Later that night, Julia and I disappeared while everyone drank. We got in my Jeep, parked in a vacant lot, and hooked up with the windows down and the car off. Mosquitoes bit the hell out of us, but it was nothing youthful passion couldn’t ignore. We came back, disheveled, and everyone knowingly asked where we were. The drinking continued and eventually I stumbled my way back home, alone. I woke up sweaty and confused. The clock said it was noon, I had practice in 30 minutes. I brushed my teeth and took a real fucking cold shower. I got to practice and pulled the stinky crap out of the back of my Jeep. I slid into it, walked out to the field, and talked with teammates. Coach Borgetti told me to get in goal and I trotted over like an asshole. “Big game tomorrow Boucher. Here’s one at your ankles!” Borgetti said as he whipped a shot at me. Right off the ankle, a kick-save no less. I winced and didn’t rub it, because you weren’t allowed to. You’re not a man if you rub it. So I scratched my mosquito bites instead.
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Thursday, June 22, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Shawn Romance “Lynn Lynn City of Sin You Never Come Out the Way You Come in.” The weekly field trip to a random minor league baseball has become a tradition between three good friends. The games are not located in the best areas but that’s what makes them more interesting. You never know what’s going to happen or whom you are going to befriend. My story begins somewhere around the 7th or 8th inning of the North Shore Spirit and the Brockton Rox Can-Am League Game. Kiernan, a local beat writer for a crappy Lynn paper, begins to question us about the new Fraser Field. His story revolves around the changes that should be made to the stadium, and he has come up to us drunk fools thinking we're the force. I immediately remove myself from the conversation because this is the last time I am ever making this trip again. He asks up why we're heckling the players, and we respond that it’s our duty to the game. Bob and Aaron amuse the youngster with some banter about baseball and the good old Sox game occurring about a half an hour away. The soft sound of the bat hitting the ball causes my head to look to the sky, I put my sights on a ball rising high and looking to land within my radius. Since I’m holding a beer it will have to be a one-handed catch. A local scumbag with a baseball glove on is attempting to steal my glory, however, he loses sight of it in the stadium lights. On it’s last decent my drunkenness hits in and I realize that this will be the greatest grab in history. The ball just catches my index and middle fingers and falls to the earth smacking the pavement below. I am still holding my hand in the air, raised to the heavens when I realize that a 2-year-old girl was behind me while this whole thing transpired. The sound I heard was not the sound of the pavement but this quarter pound sphere cracking this girl’s skull. Needless to say, that the paramedics were rushed to the left field party deck and she was quickly rushed to some inner depths of the stadium. As Bob and Kiernan are finishing up their interview, Bob exclaims, “Well there’s your story right there.”
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Monday, June 19, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Ben Myers I wake up at 5 am, chanting a string of expletives, and reach for my phone. I notice a 1:10 AM missed phone call from a presumably drunk ex-girlfriend. My last memorable conversation with her ended with my asking why she only calls at 1:30 AM. I return her call, wanting to share my 5 AM pain. She answers with a grumpy, raspy voice. Me: 1:10 am? You called 20 minutes early! The ex: It was a mistake. Don’t flatter yourself. Me: You’re a mistake. The ex: You’re an asshole. Me: Girls like you create assholes. The ex: Boys like you create girls like me. Me: In that case, I’m ashamed. Our conversation ends. I leave for work, a construction site on the South Shore at 6:05 and drive down Rt. 3 (see Morning Commute by Ben Myers). At the site, a group of laborers have gathered to share the morning’s gossip. They are worse than a sewing circle after the last episode of American Idol. Reluctantly, I pull up in my Ford Taurus to share in the reverie. Joe the dump truck driver: What’s with all the dents in your car? Me: These here my sister made, these two I made while trying to fix this one, and that one there is from backing over my neighbors fence after witnessing my roommate engaged in a threesome last weekend. Chuck the excavator: Were the girls hot? Me: One looked like a poster child for methamphetamine abuse, and the other a riverbank dwelling troll from a Brothers Grim tale. (Chuckles all around, except for Joe the dump truck driver) Joe the dump truck driver: Doesn’t matter! As long as when you reach down there it’s warm and wet!” (This makes sense at 6:30 am) Me: I guess you’re right. Joe the dump truck driver: Fuck yeah. Imagine reaching down there and finding a baby’s arm holding a couple grapes? Me: You have a story to share? (Chuckles all around – except for Joe the dump truck driver, he’s furious.) I go about my daily tasks putting out social fires as a construction superintendent. It’s “business as usual” at the adult daycare for tradesmen and illegal immigrants. An alcoholic plumber, we’ll call Stevie, because that’s his name and there’s no reason to protect him, calls in a panic at 11:00 AM. This does not surprise me, because he calls panicked at this time everyday as the whiskey from the night before has vacated his bloodstream, leaving him shaking and sucking down Pall Malls like he invented smoking. For these gentlemen, I’m an acting manager, mediator, and therapist. Stevie the (Panicked) Plumber: Where’s this fucking guy that’s installing these fireplaces? I’ve been busting my ass getting these gas lines pulled. Me: Calm (the fuck) down. I’ll make a phone call. (I dial Superior Jean, the fireplace guy and put him on speakerphone) Superior Jean: YO! Me: Jean, where are you? Superior Jean: Who’s this? Me: You know who this is. You’re supposed to be on site putting in these fireplaces. You were here this morning and disappeared. Where are you? Superior Jean: I’m down the street eating a sandwich. Stevie the Plumber: Bullshit he’s eating a sandwich. He’s at the Ninety-Nine drinking beers. Me (To Stevie, with one hand over the receiver): You’re not helping. Me: Jean, I needed you to finish these fireplaces yesterday. Superior Jean: Sorry Dude. (lets out a muffled burp) I’ll be right there. Stevie the Plumber: Dude?!?! This is not good business. Me: We’re building fucking 40B affordable housing, and you want to talk about good business? Stevie the Plumber: I’m sick of this shit. Me: I’m sick of this shit. After recording these interactions, I know now why I struggle to include dialogue in my creative writing pieces. The vocabulary of the jobsite is the shrill screams of skill saws and thunder cracks of a hammers. I prefer these sounds to most casual conversational activity in which I occasionally engage while on the job. Until my field experience draws to a close, and I reflect on my time spent “in the shit,” when I’m asked why I don’t write about construction, I’ll reply, “I’d prefer not to.”
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Sunday, June 18, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Liz Perkins Blocking out the sound was impossible; the shallow rasping breaths tread out the door one by one, indiscriminately hitting my eardrum, keeping the beat of their rotting death march with no sensitivity to who the observers may be. With each breath, a slight gurgle and a weak outcry of pain; Nana’s face contorts and the wrinkles around her eyes are raised with fear, she’s trying to speak…Hurry! She manages to get out. I herald my mother with her message. I yell to her in the shower, I am going to call the ambulance, now! “No, no! Not the ambulance, the doctor first – his number is on the table.” I rush downstairs - there is nothing on the table. Shit! I fumble around in the mass of coupons and phone numbers my mother keeps behind the phone until I finally locate one that says, “Dr. Punchacar” and I hurriedly dial the number on the card – damnit! I fucked up! Hang-up, try again. Relax. “Hello? Yes I’m calling on behalf of your patient, Mary Coakley? She needs to be admitted immediately, she’s having trouble breathing,” “Mwah, mwah wmah…” The Mass General emergency room is full. I call an ambulance from Winchester Hospital. I run upstairs and tell her, they are on their way! Don’t worry! My mother is gathering a bag with extra blankets and water. I go into my room and lie on my bed and breathe. It is my great-grandmother, Ma’s bed. I lie on the very spot where she, Nana’s mother, my mother’s grandmother, died six years ago, where she died calling out for her own dead mother, sounding for the first time to me like a small child and not like an ancient woman. I say it is Ma’s bed and not was Ma’s bed because I do believe that she still inhabits it now and again, she has a penchant for making surprise appearances in my dreams when I sleep here. My last semester of college was a nightmare, I felt like I was going insane and maybe I was. “They don’t understand you Elizabetta, but I do,” she told me as I slept. I woke up with a wet face. In my dreams, she is not the 4’8”, 99 year old whisper of a woman she was when I last saw her in the waking world, but the 10’ tall, vivacious rock of my childhood. With her robust grip on my shoulders and her flaming red hair, I knew she was real and could feel that she really understood and I realized – I was not alone. Straight ahead on my wall is my great-grandfather, Pa’s, hat. It’s a brown straw hat with a brim and a black ribbon around it. “Adam – Genuine Milan Weave” the label on the inside reads, Size 71/4. He was Ma’s husband and died before I was born. I hear he was a jovial fellow. Ma never took his hat off the hook by the door after he died. One day at Ma’s I asked my mother, “Whose hat is that?” and she told me it was my great-grandfather’s hat, and that Pa never left the house without that hat on his head, and when he would come home, he would smile big toothy smile and say “Ciao!”, and place the hat back on the hook by the door, because back then it wasn’t polite to wear a hat in the house. When Ma could no longer care for herself, and Nana could no longer care for Ma, Ma and Nana moved to my house so my mother could care for both of them, and my mother cared a lot. When we cleaned out Ma’s apartment I saved Pa’s hat from the fate of the dumpster…I knew Ma would want me to keep it, she was still waiting for Pa to come home. So I hung the hat on a hook on my bedroom wall. I wanted him to come home too. I turn on the lamp by Ma’s bed, another rescued item, but this one is from Nana’s apartment. It’s a small lamp, perfect for bedside reading. The base of the lamp is a little Chinese girl in a red silk pantsuit with gold sandals and a big round straw hat, the kind for blocking out the sun when picking rice in the field. She stands with her hips pushed out so her belly looks big and round. She has raised eyebrows, a shiny face, and a happily un-westernized grin. My cousin Henry and I often explored Nana’s apartment as children, two explorers lost in a land of old keys, model ships, fur coats, and home made electronic devices my grandfather had engineered. We used to try and imitate the Chinese girl’s face when we passed the lamp. “Chinese school has just begun no more laughing, no more fun. If you show your teeth or tongue, you will pay the penalty!!” The penalty being, for the loser in this case, that they must forfeit any claim to the title “captain” in the next game of space exploration. This was in fact, a very big deal because it was completely up to the captain to choose which alien planets we would explore and I didn’t get to explore outer space often because my brother had no interest in being on my space crew. I flick the lamp on, and off, on….and off…on. Next to the lamp is a piggy bank or more accurately, a pineappley bank, dated July 4th, 1960 by a stamp on its back. The pineapple bank is shaped like a human bust with a pineapple for a head - a commemorative novelty item meant to celebrate Hawaii joining the United States. The bank was bought by Grandma, my father’s mother, most likely at a Cape flea market, which she often frequented before she died of lung cancer when I was six. When we would visit my grandparent’s house on Buzzards Bay, Grandma would take it down from the refrigerator, unscrew the bottom and empty all the pennies on the living room rug so my brother and I could put them back in the bank, one by one. The pineapple man has a green sprout at the top of his head that’s supposed to be his hair, primary blue eyes, a small round nose, an open mouth with exposed teeth that are supposed to resemble a smile but looks more like a growl and a bumpy yellow rusting face. He wears a red white and blue collared shirt that says “50th” on the front of it. There is a lever behind his right arm. To insert money into the bank you place a coin on the pineapple man’s outstretched hand and you push the lever down. As the lever lifts his arm to his mouth, it also, quite morbidly, rolls his eyes back into the back of his head and lowers his deep red tongue so that the pineapple man can swallow all the Lincolns he can eat. I was quite horrified at this as a child – and maybe I am still horrified, especially by his eyes, his wide open blue eyes and the way they go all white as he eats the money. I hold the bank on my lap, pushing the pineapple man’s arm up and down, watching his eyes roll forward and back listening to the metallic sounds of the mechanism. I place him back on the table, the red table which is also from grandma’s house, a red table with long crooked legs, a table built by Grandpa, and painted by Grandma. A red table that matches the Chinese girl’s red silk and the pineapple man’s red and white striped proud to be Americana shirt and now the red lights of the ambulance outside my window. They’re here Nana! I yell. The medics come upstairs; they tell Nana they can’t believe she’s really 82! She looks great! Nana laughs and smiles, she seems to be feeling a bit better. I crouch on the stairs and watch from between the banisters of the staircase as they carry her out to their ambulance, close the doors behind her and drive her away to the hospital.
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Friday, June 16, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley Oh Dottie, grandmother and matriarch, Shooing away the crows Perched by the windowsill Yelling “get away!” Making a crying face With no tears With her beloved Lou Wasting away In the next room He still insists to Dottie That he will hang on tight For her sake But when he’s not under the morphine He is lucid enough to know It has got him This time And it will not let go Like vines under the sad rains of Calabria Until he finally says “Ok, enough”— Back where Dottie’s mama and papa dug And raked dirt And grew tomatoes in hot dry fields Under ripe suns And washed dirt from their faces and fingernails Before solemnly feeding ten small mouths— She vacuums a clean rug, Washes dishes and looks out the kitchen window As clouds (like shreds of cotton) waft by her apartment Making sure the crows Have gone away for now, She makes coffee for two But drinks it alone And is skinnier now Because she feels Lou’s pain As well as her own (He soon will be unrecognizable), All good mamas feel the pain Of those they care for, Such sad tragic creatures who, By the suffering of others Grow lines in their faces And crows feet on their eyes— Stay up late And watch the clock Sick with worry In pink bathrobes with flower print— She doesn’t think God is watching or cares, Yet everyday she gives Lou a sponge bath Carefully So he doesn’t wince in pain, And she boils water for pasta He won’t eat Or be able to hold down— Under sad skies of Revere 1940 (When it was mostly farms and marshes) She wore a twirling sundress and picked fat blueberries With her sister Eleanor And down in the blueberry patches Is where she and Eleanor first heard a voice From inside a bush With the most luscious berries on it, And saw the devil sitting inside And they dropped their baskets Of berries And ran home Where both fell ill with fevers— And both would ever after Live cursed With tragic foreknowledge (from dreams and crows) And despite such a lofty burden She remained soft hearted and grew To be a young woman And young men Would have to bite their fists looking at her Knowing she’d never be theirs— With her high cheekbones And wise sneaky eyes And little upturned nose She was a Calabrese who knew secret forgotten magic and things— And those features now make for a wise And dignified sufferer— For the mysterious shrouded secrets of our familia, She told us little, So she wouldn’t scare us small grandchildren During coffee and desert, But her and her sister In their lifetimes would see many specters And ghosts Early on in the gardens, And later on in cathedrals And in dreams about the old country With everyone who’s passed Standing and holding hands Under a blue moon as the wheat fields And trees Swished in the breeze— But mostly she would just see the crows.
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Monday, June 12, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Ben Meyers In a peaceful state where eyelids struggle to defy gravity, and occasionally submit to closure, and the gullible neck collapses with the eyelids, believing the eyelids have correctly shut the blinds on consciousness, a sixth grader sits in math class. Momentarily soaring through the clouds using wings he's built from chicken feathers, until a hail of buckshot launches him tail-spinning, descending rapidly towards the abrupt collision between chin and chest that alerts the eyelids and neck of their unfortunate condition. BAM! No need to alert Mrs. Biotch, she's been watching all along. Mrs. Biotch is a two-pack-a-day Marlboro Red smoker with khaki grandma pants hiked up to an elevation where they fasten immediately beneath her saggy nipples which stare at the floor with the rest of the class. She has that evil eye that comes from years of disciplining youngsters and never getting laid. Although she may be the PG-13 version of Satan, many a troubled teen insist the censorship board was acting mercifully when issuing this rating. She's made an attempt lately to soften her appearance by draping pinkish-purple hippy scarves from local craft fairs over her shoulders. Don’t be fooled. Back to the ever-so harsh reality of a sixth grader in the throws of pre-algebra; his spirit temporarily broken by long division and improper fractions. These are his formative years. He knows that resistance is futile, but cannot refrain from daydreaming about disassembling the massive remote control fire engine given to him by his cool aunt that smokes government grade marijuana. While his mind walks the hallowed cork-screwed corridor of imagination, his hands are occupied, vigilantly surveying the underside of his desk on a reconnaissance mission for chewing gum deposits -- mechanically smelling his fingers afterwards to determine whether the flavor of the newbie wad is bubblegum, mint, watermelon, or cinnamon. To distinguish between mint, spearmint, and wintergreen is a considerable challenge, not solving for Xs and Ys in pre-algebra. The classroom cage is a chemical collage of lingering odors: unwashed garments decaying in the closet, the failed slime science experiment from a week prior, stale playdough sculptures of breasts and penises, red rubber kickballs, chalk dust, bleach, ammonia, and the janitor's preferred lemon-scented cleansers – all mixed with a hint of urine. He's pretty sure that the new lump underside his desk and to the left is watermelon. Some of these smells can only be described as pubescently hormonal. There's not a wall, door, floor, or ceiling that looks better than recess. Vinyl coated tile is a wasteland of snack crumbs and glistens in the spring heat with a sheen from condensation; given prime weather conditions, the slick surface is a decent moon-walking stage. Above the blackboard (the quintessential misnomer as everyone knows it's a forest green slate) is the alphabet -- a condescending relic from Mrs. Biotch's days with the first grade. She must have spent several hours during teacher work day adjusting thumbtacks to ensure even spacing between the cardboard cut-outs: from Aa is for apple, through Zz is for zebra. She knows that equivalent dimensions between classroom pin-ups earn serious points at parent-teacher conferences. The ambiance would be incomplete without mention of the lighting. At first glance, the fixtures are filthy plastic inserts in a sagging drop-down tile sealing, encasing a series of neon humming tubes. The lights are a contrived secret weapon designed to white-wash the colorful will to live with an onslaught of halogenic radiation. The dead space between the bulbs effectively inters a thick layer of deceased winged pests that help block the light with their frozen wings and discarded moth dust. Eyelids have the tendency to close in this environment acting as defense mechanisms against pre-algebra and insufferable boredom, but mostly the draining glow from these secret weapons. The only respite from their haze are presentations on the overhead projector, Mrs. Biotch's students prefer watching a shadow of her fat hand solve algebraic equations on the overhead versus squinting-out radiation reflecting off the greenboard; if only to pass notes, take naps, count the minutes, and stare at the window, drooling. Recalling this setting, while seemingly morbid and confusing, I see that it was home to many a tasty adventure: chasing the hot blonde for a kiss at recess, the hollow “poing” sound of a kickball grand slam, taking apart the fire engine, building forts in the woods, wearing football pads to sleep, dreaming of flying and waking up thinking I could, getting wasted off Mountain Dew, bringing my rooster in for show-and-tell, walking around like a gangster listening to Snoop Dogg, making bike jumps, throwing mud at passing cars, eating well-rounded meals of banana bread and whole milk, trading cabbage patch kids cards, playing doctor, playing house – trying to turn house into doctor, dressing up like superman – and believing I was him… Recalling the setting of my youth, I find that not much has changed.
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by Ben Myers
Posted by Peter Brennan June of 2003 was a magical time for me. With no job to speak of I was free to lie on my deck during day absorbing both the sun and whatever literature I could get my hands on. Sometimes I took bong hits. One particular day, being fresh out of reading material and low on funds, I decided to make a trip to suburbia’s favorite hangout for both elderly folks and grimy perverts: the local library. Upon arrival in the “R-S Fiction” section I was disappointed to find that I had already read all of the Tom Robbins books that this particular branch had to offer, and would have to expand my search. It was then that I stumbled upon a 1994 work of Hunter S. Thompson’s, titled Better Than Sex, in which Thompson claims that the thrill one receives from politics can be equal to, nay, greater than, the thrill of sexual conquest. Despite the fact that I was a political science major at the University I had not yet learned of the topic’s orgiastic properties, and was immediately intrigued. The main premise, simplified, is that the rush of adrenaline that political power can bring is more thrilling to some people than sexual pleasure, and as addictive as the strongest, most delicious opiates. A true renaissance man of addiction, Thompson was a political junkie to the fullest extreme, and his works are an explicit view into the real workings of the American political process, which is far more disturbing than the sausage-manufacturing process to which it is sometimes compared. Many people, when presented with this knowledge, recoil in disgust and curse the whole crooked system. Not me. I wanted in. I write this while overlooking the Boston Common from my perch on the fourth floor of the State House, barely two weeks into my stint as legislative aide to a state senator. It is not a high profile position, but I have already been exposed to a taste of the power and control which all humans inherently crave. I have attended back room meetings, rushed to photo-ops, and seen my boss receive awards for reasons that were unclear to him or me. I have sat through full formal sessions of the Senate that were highlighted by prose so masturbatory it would make Steve Bagley blush. Would I agree with Mr. Thompson’s theory based on my limited research? Not yet, but political power is slowly climbing up my list of personal pleasures. The Pleasure List: Sex Music Drugs Politics Taking a rich, full dump Sports Comedy Central Food That is all.
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Saturday, June 10, 2006 by Ben Myers
An excerpt from a screen play in progress Posted by Lizzy Perkins Lizzy and Kathryn are standing proudly on the front porch. Arlene, Yvonne, and Russ (leaning on a rake) stand on the sidewalk facing the “stage”. Kathryn is dressed in a gray turtleneck and gray stretch pants attached to her bottom are sprays of pussy willow branches. Lizzy wears green pants and a green t-shirt. Pine tree twigs are attached to the front of her shirt. Lizzy: Welcome to our show, thank you for coming. Today we are putting on a show about why my dad should not cut down this tree, (points to the tree) starring Kathryn as Fred the squirrel and me as the tree. But first, I am going to read a poem about trees. Trees are nice Trees are dandy Trees give us food Trees give us maple candy I love trees so much, I can’t stop writing!! The End (Arlene and Yvonne laugh and all clap) Kathryn: And now the play!....Hi Terry Tree! Lizzy: Hi Fred!! Kathryn: Hi Terry!! Thanks for blocking the wind for me last night with your branches I would have been so cold without you! Lizzy: I don’t mind Terry, I like holding you in my branches, and you’re my best friend! Kathryn: I don’t know what I’d do without you! (Russell walks away into the backyard; he has raking to do and looks slightly irritated) Lizzy: I hope I can - wait, where’d dad go? Arlene: He’s busy doing yard work Lizzy, we’ll watch. Lizzy: But I wrote the play to show dad why it’s not ok to cut down the tree. Kathryn: (trying to be positive, looks at Liz and with a big smile and a shrug) The show must go on? Scene 10 – The Giving Tree Gone Later on that week…Lizzy and Kathryn are looking down at the stump in the ground with sad looks on their faces. They are surrounded by hundreds of peanuts. The day is overcast and it appears to be a little cooler outside. Kathryn: I guess that he didn’t make it. Lizzy: We should have a wake for him. Kathryn: What’s that? Lizzy: It’s when you wake the dead person up and you tell them goodbye. Kathryn: Oh…but we don’t know where he is. Lizzy: We can use doggy, he looks dead. Cut to Kathryn and Liz and the backyard. Shot from directly above. The two girls are kneeling on the ground in front of a shallow hole with a shoebox between them containing a stuffed dog that can barely be recognized as such. It is made of a tan fabric, has no fur or features left, and has a hole where the nose once was, he has long floppy ears and you can see that one has been sewed back on. It is Liz’s mother’s favorite toy from her childhood. Lizzy: Wake up Fred…is there anything you want to say, Kathryn? Kathryn: I’m going miss you Fred, I never met a squirrel who would eat from my hand before. (sudden realization) And I might never meet one again! Lizzy: Fred, I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry that my play didn’t work. I thought maybe you found another tree to live in, but I know that if you were alive you would still come back to visit your stump like the boy in The Giving Tree and you would still come visit us in the morning. I’m really going to miss you Fred….I’m really going to miss the way…(starts to break up) your fat cheeks crunched peanuts…(Kathryn looks a little bewildered) Kathryn: But now you’re ok, just go back to sleep….(Kathryn lies doggy back down and covers the box, she puts in the hole, and covers it up with dirt, Lizzy helps her…The camera slowly moves upward into the sky.)
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Friday, June 09, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Shawn Romance A quick dash through the woods, and the figure was gone. There was only the silence remaining. Paul’s heart was racing, and his cigarette had snapped in two. “Is it safe to look?” he wondered. As if someone just flicked on the lights in the dead of night; Paul could only see those bright, piercing eyes as he closed his lids. There was a new moon and the malignant gaze was the only thing with life. It was not until he heard the twig crack that he realized there was danger. The snap had startled both sets of eyes, but only one fled. “What was that thing?” Paul knew his roommates would think he was hallucinating; they had already pegged him for a schizo. There was no way they would believe what he just saw. As he walked through the back door, he attempted to wipe the astonishment off of his face. The eyes were still blinking in the back of his mind. A shower was in order; he began to undress and stared at himself in the mirror. He dove into the shower and the water relaxed him immediately. He must have been daydreaming, just a freak-out that’s all. Due to the high powered showerhead, he failed to hear the steps falling on the back stairway. Paul began to lather his arms when the eyes appeared through the window; the steam was disguising their presence. A few minutes had passed and Paul began to recover from the incident, and laugh at his foolishness. The darkness occurred suddenly. Paul opened up the shower door, and turned off the water. He yelled to his roommates to see what had happened. They yelled back saying that the circuit breaker must be acting up again. The timeliness of this event startled Paul. There is no way that this was just a freak coincidence; he leaped out of the shower but missed the shower mat in his haste. He nearly fell but was able to brace himself on the sink. Without the moon or the power, the back hall was entirely void of light. His roommates had quieted after finding a few candles in the living room. Paul didn’t feel like walking around in his towel, but he had to do it. He marched into the living room and saw that the whole block was dark. “Stupid power company”, he muttered. Paul had already forgotten the eyes. He was thinking to himself that if the whole block lost power then there was nothing to fear. As he walked down the back hallway he felt something brush up against his leg. “Shit”, he screamed. Then he heard the familiar purr of the cat. “Damn bastard”, he mumbled, eased that it was only the old, lovable Mittens. He turned the corner and stumbled into his bedroom. The darkness was unbearable but he could manage, he was used to waking up and pissing in the middle of the night. He snapped open his dresser and it creaked with a thousand moving stories to tell. Paul fumbled for a shirt and a pair of boxers. He blinks in the darkness and the blood rushes to his feet. His brain is telling him to run, but he knows there’s nothing to fear. He finds it funny that those eyes are still plastered to the back of his eyelids. He then realizes that his eyes are open, and the mirror in front of him isn’t in the mood for lies. Those same evil, bright yellow eyes are resting in the chair behind him. However, this time there are no twigs to give them away.
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Tuesday, June 06, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Julia Wald Will I attain unto your brilliance? I’m in your mangled foreign hands Teach me everything you can You hate me, want to escape me You should embrace me, and I’ll embrace you This, if only for a day would be so dandy: If when I asked you to, you’d be my candy My little sweet, I’d suck you in to meet The insides of my mouth Dark places where I scream and shout You won’t want to be let out Is that too crass? It’s as though your body’s made of mirrored glass And I am trying hard to see myself
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Monday, June 05, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Julia Wald Men holding hands, women kissing But something else is missing Then, in the moist, the heat, the dark, I hear it bark: The proud protective pooch Terrier, Collie, Pug, Maltese, strut coolly on the leash Daintily leaping over tiny cracks Protecting masters’ backs From any jeers They have no fears These fierce and fuzzy advocates, They’re strutting for equality
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Sunday, June 04, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Shawn Romance In a split second, the unnerving trickle of blood to the tiny tips of my fingers gives rise to my innate urge to kill. Today there will be bloodshed and my revenge will be swift. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck begin to curl, can I control myself or is it too late? I wake up staring at my blood soaked hands, but it’s over and my pulse is calming. After your first kill the black outs are no longer scary, you come to accept them. The black outs occur more frequently now, but the passion which accompanies them is mind-blowing. The craving does not subside and you must learn to control yourself, if you become to brazen the world will know that you are the evil creature lurking under the pale city lights. The stories they are telling aren’t true, but there is no way that you can quell their filthy, whorish mouths. There was a time when the thirst was quenched through small animals and the neighborhood pets, but killing “larger” things was too tempting. The jump occurred suddenly; a woman decided that she was the blessed one now she is lying in a ditch outside of town where scavenging animals have taken care of her. A therapist can’t cure me. Hope is lost. The dirty looks and immoral pursuits, they should be so lucky as to meet their end at my hands. Little do they know that I use no weapons. The last one was a squealer; and was still breathing as I ripped apart his ribcage and removed his aorta. I know I may seem crazy but you have to understand that I have no choice. I was drawn into this through years of torment and an easily manipulated mind. My advice to you is to watch your path; or you will be staring up at a grinning, beastly butcher. People of the civilized world beware: we are all animals, and all animals have urges.
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Saturday, June 03, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Bob McGovern “Another Bud Light pal,” Tom said, hunched over the beer-soaked bar. “Bottle or pint?” said the bartender, reaching into the cooler filled with bottles. His other hand quivered slightly, held taught within a cast. From a bar fight? From Connect Four? From… “Bottle,” Tom whispered as he left five bucks on the table and went to take a piss. His excess made the familiar splash in the toilet and he placed his full palm on the wall in front of him, to keep steady of course. Sweat matted the hairs which had escaped from within his hat – he was used to it. Some cliché song from the 80s knocked at the bathroom door and Tom mouthed the words. He broke up the flow of his urine so … it … hit … the … water … in … spurts. He flushed, ran the faucet on his hands for two seconds, and went to work. His beer sat there with change, no one touched it, this was a good bar. A tip was left and Tom leaned his back to the bar and took a look around. A slew of college grads mingled with 30-somethings. The hair gel, the perfume, the olde State U. shirts; they were all holding on to something they never really had. His foot tapped to the beat of a more recent tune and everyone was singing along. “Anyway you want it, that’s the wa…” “Oh shit,” thought Tom, “Bathroom.” He ran back in and burst into the open stall. Beer in hand, he let a five-second puke splash into the toilet water. Round two started to come, but it was only 11 pm. – way too early, the impurities rested on their laurels. Tom whipped his brow with the bottle. “Like a champ,” he thought, while shining a puke-stained grin. He rinsed out his mouth, finished off the beer while occasionally checking himself out in the mirror, and went back to the sweating mass of convoluted dreamers. Andy was just approaching the bar when Tom came out and the two saw each other coming. Andy reached out his hand, while hailing the bartender with the other. “Just puked man,” Tom said. “Cheers.” They sat and talked and drank. Social circles danced behind them; spinning, laughing, and drinking. No one really wanted to be there; they were all looking for someone or something to hold on to. The post college days had gripped this generation of wanderers and led them to dead-end jobs and lost nights at musky bars. There was no pause, no reverse, no pressing restart on the off-gray Nintendo they remembered. There was nothing but a long dry sigh. It was a piercing form of envy that no one had felt before. Sure, they had been jealous of others, but now they envied their own past. All they wanted wa… “Fucked if I know, you shithead,” Tom yelled on his cell phone. “I’m done with this, peace.” “What was that?” Andy asked before polishing off another beer. “Two shots of SoCo,” Tom yelled to the bartender, ignoring Andy’s question. The shots came and the shots went. “You ever think about just getting out of here? You know just packing up and leaving for Denver, or San Diego, or something?” Tom asked, staring at sports highlights on the bar’s flatscreen. “Yeah man, I need a vacation,” Andy said, signaling to the bartender. Two more shots, a pair of beers, and a break for a cigarette – the mental lights were as bright as they were going to get. From here on out, the party was only two feet in front of their faces. The next morning, Tom woke up alone and hungover again. He grabbed his pipe, filled it up with some pot, and told the morning to go fuck itself. He rolled over and stared at the wall with his pipe in hand. “I guess we’re all students,” he thought as he lit the bowl and inhaled. The smoke burned, his thoughts became one, and somewhere in Colorado a dog walked without a leash.
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Friday, June 02, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Steve Bagley She hopped down the steps, ducked the lowest branches of the pine tree and slid up next to her truck bed, where she—in one fluid motion—swung the weight of her backpack up with one arm, and threw it into the back. She paused—pivoted on her toes—and satisfactorily swung her head around towards him, her dark hair was so long that even as she was glaring at him, it was still following and landing all around her. She was barefoot in low-cut, brown and patched corduroys and she wore no top—perky little breasts pointing up, set well on a slender body—which, as it seemed to the boy—was built for mountain climbing and aggressive lovemaking. “Get in,” she said to him, before whistling a sharp perfect whistle to call her German Shepard, who sprinted from under the porch and headed out onto the dirt road and out of sight. “She knows the location.” He shrugged and pulled himself into the girl’s boyfriend’s truck and opened a bottle of beer. He too, wore only a pair of jeans, and he, was not her boyfriend. She started the engine, clicked on the headlights and tore out onto the dirt road shifting gears deliberately. The night was muggy and warm, and the sky was bruised purple overhead—but clear on the horizons. The dirt road turned into a dirt path and she sped the truck up, lumping and careening over rocks and dirt, skidding around narrow turns—tree branches snapping by on the windshield. The path was so treacherous that the boy was spilling beer all over himself and whacking his head on the ceiling while she watched in secret delight—seemingly paying no attention to her task at hand. She kept looking over at him, never quite smirking and never taking her eyes off of him as she drove through this impossible path in the dark—she was—undoubtedly—trying to scare him. And it became clear to him, that she had been successful in doing so with many other men. But he wasn’t other men—he knew this—and he often thought himself the wolf. Several times the path would abruptly end and she would throw all her weight with two hands on the wheel and whip the vehicle around, sliding the tail out in the mud just in time, giggling to herself as she watched him gripping onto the door handle. Each sliding turn would send the backpack, ropes, karabiners, hammers, and engine parts sliding into the walls of the truck bed—tires gripping and tearing mud in the smudged night. All the boy saw was this slender, puppy-eyed, half-naked girl in terrifying control here, in these unfamiliar rattlesnake mountains in the middle of an unknown night that did not belong to him. He would have been terrified, just as she would have liked, but her lips hypnotized him the same way a campfire makes a man forget where he is if he stares at it long enough. She had those lips, and you know the kind, lips so round, pursed and rosaceous that, without trying, were always in the shape of a kiss, and, if in some other place and time you drove by a gas station and saw her waiting coolly in the passenger seat of her poor boyfriend’s truck while he was inside paying for gas—and saw her brown smooth neck coming off her wiry smooth shoulders, hair up in a dark bouncy ponytail, perspiring in a white tank top, with huge round sunglasses sitting on a little nose like she just don’t care, round tomato slice lips like a porcelain doll, so patient and badass—wondering quietly to herself what it would be like to kill a bank teller with a hunting knife as she sits in this passenger seat and pushes wisps of hair behind her ear—and damn those lips—you would drive happily into a culvert as you futilely imagined your own lips pressed up against hers. The girl drove to a clearing just above some docks. The two hopped out and made their way carefully down a steep path leading to the lake. They stepped out onto the dock—and across the lake she could see her favorite mountains silhouetted with inky purple darkness and a mist creeping over the glassy surface. Her dog was waiting for her. She squatted down and cupped water onto her face and bare chest—just soaking in the dream-effect that late night misty mountain lakes have on unadjusted eyes. She pulled her pants off and dove in. The boy followed suit. They swam and splashed around for a while, then pulled themselves out of the water. “I meant to ask earlier, what happened to your knee?” said the boy, pointing at a long gash as she stood there in her own starkness. “I slipped on the cliff today and whacked it good, before regaining composure and finishing the climb.” “Does it hurt?” “Yes.” “That’s almost as good as tears,” said the boy, knowing full well who he was talking to. She walked up to him in the dark and pressed her goose pimpled body up against his, and kissed him once. And whispered into his ear. “You will never see tears come from me.” She kissed him again, this time with her tongue, and dove back into the water. The boy stood on the dock—just dripping wet in his own starkness. “How come I’ll never see tears come from you?” He yelled to her, musingly. “Because little boy.” She was floating alone in the water. “I’m a wolf.”
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Thursday, June 01, 2006 by Ben Myers
Photos by Jillian Simms (NOTE: After 30 minutes and a bowl pac... er I mean soda, I figured out how to put these in the right order. Sorry bout that Jillian. - BM)     
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Please email prospective posts to ben.t.myers@gmail.com.
Or, if you are so inclined, bobmcgovern@gmail.com
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