one for halloween

A swatch from a story called "Ghost Writer" which is part of a connected series of stories from a collection entitled Leesville. This particular story is largely nonsense (the others are rather serious) and concerns the arousal of a ghost from a grave precipitated by the vandalism of two naughty little boys--Timmy and Tommy. Seems they were going around switching grave-site flowers--a no-no as it turns out. For their misdeed, they are cursed to never sleep well again. The man whose spirit haunts this story is Wallace Persons and he figures prominently into the the rest of the series. The language here and throughout the tale is intentionally absurd--vacillating willy-nilly from archaic to juvenile to, at times elsewhere, dead serious. Pun tolerated

. . . and next the vitriolic specter swooped like a hawk, icy rain and howling gale no matter, translucent except for seething, vermillion eyes aflame from the effrontery of the switched flower; and it found Timmy huddled weeping by the cloven dogwood and Tommy running like a coward toward the church, and it snatched them by their napes and dropped the two boys on top of each other beside his erstwhile tomb. The naughty boys held each other, crying a thousand pardons of the perturbed spirit. To paraphrase, they cried:

“Stay your wrath most mighty and least worm-desiccated ghoul of beauty and pathos. We are but sheep who have gone astray and would pledge perennial servitude wouldst thou but grant such a delicious wish and wouldst not make a delicious dish of two humble, yes naughtiest of the naughty, but reformed childes. Once eternally soporific now boundlessly honorific spirit, hear our pleas, witness our compunction, grant our lives though already so cursed ne’er to sleep well—though curse it may sound, ne’er such a blessing would it be if bestowed in the stead of tortuous devourment or worse, shudder e’en to speak it into this terrible night lest words come true by mere virtue of their utterance, a thoroughgoing ass spanking. This we beg, though justice weigh against us, with extreme faith in thy mercy howeversomuch our wretchedness dost recommend our asses to be thrashed, our ears a’boxed, our nipples tweaked now to port now to starboard—we beg.”

All this petulant palaver Timmy plead on behalf of the both and he fancied that he was winning over the ghost’s beneficent nature until Tommy, poor bubble-headed waif, added, “Can you walk through walls and stuff?”

The ghost looked wanting to speak. And might have if not for the bubble-headed one’s brash inquiry. The ghost of Wallace gave it a go against the east wall of the church and bounced a goodly distance from whence he came. The ghost looked wanting to swear. And might have had not the bubble-headed one suggested a try at the window. The ghost gave that a go and as sure as a moment before he was on the outside looking wanting to swear he was now on the inside feeling wanting to applaud himself for such a neat trick. (Seems windows and not walls are the ticket for ghost transference. Might make a mental note, those of you who take cigarette smoking lightly.)

The spirit’s spirits now jollified, he rejoined the two boys in the graveyard. He handed the not-so-special flower to the young one and told him to go fetch the special one and give it back to him—the fair and rightful owner. The young one made the re-switch as he was bade but the original deed could not be undone. Wallace Persons was awake and raging. Well, not so much raging as a bit miffed but awake—he was awake. Wallace Person’s ghost said, “You two run off to bed and sleep as well as you can. Sorry about that curse but I think it’s gonna stick whether I repent it or not. If I figure something out I’ll come back and reverse the curse. Ta-ta.” And he walked away scratching his head but before he got too far he turned and added, “For starters, quit being so naughty, though.”

The gale lessened to a stiff wind. The pounding rain softened to a reasonable shower. Once again it was simply a dark and stormy night.

something altogether peaceful

I have been in a prosy state of mind over the last week. Re-reading my novel. (Which, by the way, gets worse every time I read it. It's like there are little elves that skitter and twitter and make my manuscript sucky when I'm not looking. I really wish they would just help me with my cobbling.) Then I got a story accepted for publication which gave me a glimmer of hope, fiction-wise; so I've been skittering and twittering and attempting to make other short-stories less sucky. Add my quotidian, prosaic lifestyle to the mix and you've got a prosy state of mind.

That said, here's another fiction excerpt from a story called "Wet Cement." There are two narrative tracks that interweave as the story progresses. Both follow Nathan--as an adult in the past tense and as a child in present tense. The excerpt is an example of the latter. I should also mention that in the present tense, the narrator is given a juvenile voice. It is less evident here than elsewhere. But still, you should know it's intentional; otherwise, you might think me a tad silly. (Or more silly as the case may very well be.)

Simon is Nathan's older brother. Murphy is Simon's oafish friend. Dottie is Simon's girlfriend. The foursome have gathered at a forbidden rope-swing as naughty children will and, in an ill-advised grasp at glory, Nathan finds himself in a spot of bother.

Nathan is hanging from the rope like a horse thief. An idiot horse thief who had been trying to impress Simon’s girlfriend with a circus feat. Only he had underestimated, truth is, everything. He didn’t stop for one second to think what a knuckleheaded thing to even think about. Never mind shoving off the bank and actually doing it.

Murphy is laughing like all get out. Dottie, at least, is telling him to shut up. Someone help him. He’s dying.

Dying? Nathan is dying. What a thought for him. What a pitiful life flashes in front of his eyes. Not even all of it. Just that first time they actually caught Big Bertha and didn’t know how to unhook a catfish, only that there was a special way. That’s what he sees as he hangs, swinging, gasping—him and Simon toting the croaking fish that flopped like mad all the way home for Father to unhook. Nathan is vaguely aware of efforts to rescue him, shouts, wild and fearful. He’s on the verge of something pale, something altogether peaceful. He smiles, drooling, at the image of Father’s disembodied head looking over the back of the sofa at he and Simon and the dripping, croaking, flopping fish. Father looks happy to see them and not like they are going to get whipped for bringing a fish in the house. Mother’s head pops up beside Father’s, to see what there is too see. They’re grinning like kids. Like naughty kids.

Nathan is brought back to panic with a huge, long gasp. Simon yells, “You gotta reach, Natty. You’ll die if you don’t.” On tip-toes and not so steady, Simon stretches a branch towards Nathan’s hands.

Nathan reaches and barely grips the branch. Simon pulls him back to the bank of the gully. He has saved Nathan’s life. For happening so quick, it sure took forever.

“Your face is purple, moron,” Simon says.

This hurts about worse than choking. Being right about to hug his brother out of trembling gratitude and then stiff-armed with a “moron” to the face. He shrugs like no biggie but it is a biggie. It’s a hugie. He had almost died. He is full of love and boiling with hatred. So confusing, still dizzy. He will not cry. He will not cry. Dottie asks him if he is all right and he busts like a dam.

Murphy opens his fat mouth, no doubt to be a giant jerk-wad, some wise crack about the swing or the tears or both. But Simon stops him.

“Just shut up about it, Murph. How’d you like me to send you to the gallows.”

“Like to see you try.”

“Like to see you stop me.” And Simon chases Murphy down the tracks toward Sycamore Street. Nathan is left with Snotty Dottie who’s not so snotty now that she has so recently begged for his rescue.

The two older boys continue on, punching each other in the arm. When they reach the road, they turn left down the Sled Hill.

“They’re going to Finnegan’s Hollow, I bet.” Dottie’s voice surprises Nathan. He had been hoping they could just walk, no talking.

“Sure,” he says, meaning who knows what.

“Were you scared? I mean when you were up there, back there?”

Nathan feels his lip doing that lip thing when you are about to cry after you had already been crying enough. He manages, “Nah.” Like he’s some big tough guy. Like she was not a first-hand witness to the whole blubbery freak-show.

“I was scared,” Dottie says. Her voice is like his mom’s, like Mary’s, he imagines. It coats his insides like Pepto in those commercials. He knows his face is on fire and just looks ahead. His lip has stopped that thing and now he can’t grit the goofy grin out of his cheeks. She says, “Hey Nathan,” not Natty but Nathan, and he stops and turns smack into her puckered lips. They are silky wet like milk and her gloss tastes strawberry. Strawberry milk. Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh man.

be afraid, be moderately afraid

You are searching. The sun is painting another coat of burn on your tilted neck. Sweat drips--one drop, two drops, three drops--from your underarms and creeps down your side like the spider you're just absolutely sure it is; and you squeal--not much, no one has heard, but still, for a moment there you thought you were a goner.

The tall grasses reach your thighs, tickle your bare, bramble-pricked legs, and manage to sway despite the absence of breeze. For that, you are jealous. What you would give for the slightest, ghost-finger of wind, right now. Among other things, you'd forfeit the ball you are searching for and drop one of your myriad others. Drop it somewhere cushy, some tuft of turf amenable to a solid, if amateur, shot. Maybe reach the green in regulation for the first time all day. But no, it's hot and you're in it now and you're lazy and it's easier to just keep trudging the bramble and marsh reeds, plucking other hapless hackers' Top-Flites from the caked-mud earth.

And then you hear it . . . clonklareee, clonklaree . . . the demoniac screech of the red-winged blackbird. He rises from the foliage like some demented ninja and hovers, flapping, chittering, beak agape--it's your warning to scram or suffer the perils, the seething, hateful perils of . . .

oh wait, he flew away. Seems he was all clonklaree and no bite. It was a good effort, you suppose. For a moment there, you thought you were a goner again. You hackled like a frightened kitten and you bowels clinched, but no one heard, no one saw. Go drop a ball.