Littlerature

Joe Reicherts/flickr

’12A…13A…14A. Here we are!’ Ellie said to Bowser, teddy of some twenty two years and two generations, a might older than Ellie by a good fourteen years. The airline chaperone clicked Ellie’s seatbelt together, enquired that it wasn’t too tight, told Ellie to hold onto her bear – ‘Bowser!’ Ellie insisted – tightly during take-off, because it surely could be very scary for a bear with all that noise. Having received assurances that Bowser would be well cared for she got a pat on the head, told to press the magic button if she needed anything at all and left alone.

Ellie had a window seat – all the other seats on her row, all the way over to the other window, were empty. She could see a scattering of grown ups towards the front and, when she looked back the way, craning to peer over her headrest, to the rear of the plane. One of the pretty stewardesses caught her eye, waved and smiled reassuringly.

Ellie wasn’t frightened of flying – she had been on many aeroplanes (‘hairyplanes’ as her Daddy called them as they leapt and shuddered sometimes, but he would hold her hand very, very tightly and they would always be safe) but this time was her first alone. Daddy would be waiting for her when she got off, but, until then, she was on her own. Well, not really…she had Bowser of course, who was company enough for any little girl.

She decided she needed to go to the loo. The nice lady who brought her onto the aircraft had pointed them out and, as the seatbelt signs were not actually lit up, there was no engine noise and the stewardesses hadn’t done their ‘life-jacket dance’ yet (Dad again) she figured it would be fine to make a quick visit. Not wanting to trouble the busy stewardesses clanging and banging meal trolleys into place and, being as she was a big girl, Ellie unclipped her seatbelt, slipped into the aisle and headed to the rear toilets. Bowser she left to guard the seats (not quite knowing why they might need guarding, but sure he would do a good job, none the less).

When she came out she was ushered quickly back to her seat…the Cap’n (Ellie wondered how anybody could fly a plane with a hook) was ‘preparing for take-off’ and she would have to be ‘seated and belted’ lickety spit.

It was nearly night time when she had boarded at JFK. The hug Mummy had given her was tight and long and the tears she had seen in her eyes had nearly made Ellie weep. But she wanted to prove that she was a big girl and could do this. She had only ‘fessed up’ (yep, Dad) to Bowser that she was just a teeny weeny bit frightened about being on her lonesome for the ten hours it would take to get to Daddy, but everybody (including Gramps) had said it would be over before she knew it. So Ellie sat staring out of the window, as the pretty ladies did their dance, at the bright flashing lights and luggage trucks and those funny stairway things that drove around looking for people to climb up and down. The voice that told her over the intercom that the lights would be ‘dimmed for take-off’ sounded very important. Probably the Cap’n (though Ellie was disappointed he didn’t ‘Yarr’ or ‘Harr’ at all).

The take-off was scariest. The scream of engines, the pushing sensation and ears going ‘pop!’ Gramps had given her some sweets to suck if her ears hurt. But they didn’t. Nor did Bowser’s, as he declined a sucky sweetie.

As the ground fell away Ellie lost interest in the view and turned her attentions to the seat TV. As she looked around she now saw a fellow passenger in her row, at the opposite window. In the dark the figure looked more than a little scary dressed, as she was, in head to toe solid black. Ellie figured it was one of those women she had seen at school – in cultural studies -  a muzlin woman, and what was it?…a yash mac. Yeah, that was it, yash mac. But this lady also had a cloth over her head, the colour of the night sky. It totally covered her head, shoulders…all the way down to her waist. Ellie couldn’t even see her hands. And she leaned forward so that her head rested against the seat in front. Motionless. Ellie guessed the poor lady was so tired she had fallen dead asleep as soon as they had taken off. Though how she had gotten to the land of nod so quickly with all the screaming and howling of the engines Lordy only knew.

The Cap’n came back on the intercom (Ellie imagined a black beard) ‘we will be cruising at thirty five thousand feet…’

Ellie watched the figure over on the other side the aircraft. With the blanket covering her so she looked like Grammy’s budgie, Timmy, when he was put to sleep of a night, ‘Now, Timmy, time to go to beddy-byes’ Grammy would say and warble whistle to calm the little yellow and blue bird as his lights were put out.

Ellie felt the aircraft lean over to turn and as it did a hand flopped out from under the budgie woman’s blanket. An imperceptible shriek uttered from Ellie and Bowser was immediately employed to cover face and protect and defend. Peeking from around the stalwart bear’s ear Ellie stared unblinkingly at the exposed extremity. The skin was like…well, what was it like? It was like something she had seen at the Zoo…a lizard maybe, or a snake…and it had drawings on its lizardy skin, symbols and scribbles and signs, like those henny drawings some of the muzlin woman had.

The hand lay still for a good long time. But, from the relative security of from behind Bowser’s right ear, Ellie could not look away.

Then it reached up and lifted the Timmy blanket. Enough to show Ellie a little of the face that went with the hand. And one, deeply glowing, red lizardine eye.

The dim glow illuminated the sign above the row of seats opposite Ellie. She looked up and read.

D.

E.

F.

Ellie was looking DEF in the eye, right there, in row 14.

Stephen Black

Al Green wrote the most glorious song in the world.

Love and Happiness is the beautiful insanity of cherry blossoms. Love and Happiness is poetry, fear, hope, weakness, strength, violins and big fat funk beats. I have a version of it on a CD,  Al Green’s Greatest Hits, an incredible release by Motown Records.

On the booklet that came with the CD is the Motown Records logo.  The logo features a map, and on the bottom part of the map, leading south out of Detroit, is a highway called I-75. My daughter and I are now northbound on I-75. We’re going to a concert: James Brown.

The show starts with Funky Good Time and the crowd is a smiling big fat body, clapping and shaking. James Brown is a wildfire of greatness. My daughter’s on my shoulders waving her arms. Without missing a beat, James Brown pulls her up onto the stage. The two of them boogie around and the crowd goes even wilder. The song finally ends and my daughter skips to the side of the stage. She waves at me, her happy eyes as big as saucers. James jumps into Say It Loud-I’m Black and Proud. Detroit chants it right back.

Funky, funky minutes pass by. Then, in the midst of Please, Please, Please, James Brown collapses! A man rushes onstage and covers Mr. Brown with a blanket! My daughter’s hand freezes over her mouth. James is unconscious. The troubled band slows down, slows way down… what to do, what to do? Fear and worry fill the summer air. People gasp. You can hear the cars on the highway and the quiet of the neighborhood. James is a lifeless crumpled heap.

Then, like secret doctors, the guys in the horn section nod to each other. They start to radiate whispery, jazzy notes of soul.  The trumpet becomes stronger; a light house. The drummers start to sound like waves. The backup singers harmonize on a deep melody; they sound like a sunrise

His hand twitches!

The angels with guitars play slow riffs that sound like medicine and the horn section is now the grace of God and… yes! Yes!YES! James is given the gift of life! The drums become heartbeats and the band starts pumpin’ and James is up and the blanket’s a robe! The funky medicine gets stronger! The robe’s a cape!  James Brown  kicks the mike stand! The stand lands in his outstretched hand! The band drops into the biggest baddest groove in the universe and Mr. Brown picks up where he left off! He gets his good foot up. OUTTA SIGHT! Men stare and dance and the women whirl like they’re in a trance. Detroit sheds tears of joy and James takes us even higher. He lets the groove get there, get there, get there one more time and then, with a sideways stuntman acrobat ballet body snap, he stops the world on a dime…and then THE scream from THE Godfather, “Ahhhhhhhhhhh…. 1, 2, 3, 4!” and I Feel Good starts, bigger than life, all three drummers pulling out the joints. My daughter’s up there, smiling and spinning.

That was the movie I  played in my head as we drove up I-75.

Al Green’s Greatest Hits was the first CD I ever bought and James Brown Live at the Apollo was the second.

Yes, CDs in Japan were expensive but James Brown is James Brown and Al Green is Al Green. My wife and and I needed some soul music. We were living in Tokyo and Tokyo can be soulless. Those CDs were better than gold. Now, 13 years later, I am bringing our daughter to see James Brown.

Even if I had a James Brown CD in the car, I wouldn’t play it. She’s happy with whatever’s on the radio. She knows James Brown like she knows Richard Nixon.

We start walking across the dusty parking lot outside the Michigan State Fair. The sad Detroit skyline is big on the horizon. I sense, but cannot see, the empty car factories. The little house that was once the home of Motown Records is somewhere nearby.

Five bucks each and we’re in. She gets her face painted. We get tossed around on octopus rides with lots of little flashing lightbulbs and heavy metal music. Hot dogs, blue ribbon pigs and prizewinning carrot cakes: this is the American Midwest, ground zero.

I’m nicely surprised to discover that Little Richard is also on the bill. Little Richard talks and sings and talks some more. We roll our eyes when he starts his second encore. I prepare myself for two scenarios: the first scenario is like the movie in my head. The second is a collision of boredom, hypothermia, claustrophobia, cotton candy-fueled adolescent bad temper, food poisoning, angry whines and crying.

Little Richard finally finishes and we work our way closer to the stage. We wait. She starts yawning and looking cold. We wait some more.

Finally a large group of beautifully dressed people come on stage- the Soul Generals and the Bittersweets. They play snippets of JB classics and the announcer, Danny Ray, starts building  excitement. Lights flash! “Star Time!” James Brown marches out, smiling but serious, with perfect hair and mirror shoes.

Boom! Make It Funky begins. The crowd goes wild. The song ends and James starts talking to Motown like he’s catching up with an old friend. He then gets serious, sounding like a concerned favorite uncle as he describes “all the good times and the eras full of bad nothing…You gotta do it for yourselves you know.” He  kicks into Living in America. She’s tired, but my daughter sings along. We’ll leave soon.

The song ends and, for a moment, the night is quiet. James steps back from the mike! An instrumental? A man smoothly steps in front of James. James barely moves his hand and the band gets ready. James silently mouths a countdown and then…a magical guitar riff floods my soul….

“We’re goin’ up front,” I tell my daughter as I lift her onto my shoulders, “and then we’re goin’ home.”

James Brown is grooving slowly in his gold suit. He’s serenely happy. His band is performing Al Green’s Love and Happiness. He looks out and sees my daughter on my shoulders. James Brown’s smile suddenly seems even brighter and, for an instant, we are all in sync.

thejaymo/flickr

A dried paste of flour and water covered the kitchen walls. The dough had exploded during the night. Maybe she was right when she said the yeast went bad.

Maybe I shouldn’t have let it sit out all night to rise.

Well, you live and you learn and I have learned it is better to just buy the bread from the grocery store.

The second lesson is, I don’t have any baking skills.

This worries me. No baking skills, no sewing skills, no neat little tricks to make life easier around the house. Basically I have no domestic knowledge. The one thing that really bothers me is that I can’t darn my socks. Seems a waste to throw out something just because there’s a hole. And you can’t wear them either. Your skin rubs against the inside of your boot and you get blisters.

I have drawers full of socks with holes in the heels, toes and ankles too. These socks are the things I think about most each day. If I were a more intelligent or philosophical man, I could probably describe this as metaphor for something in my life, but I was never very good at figuring out what something means, or why it happens or anything. Like I said, I have very limited practical information.

Besides the drawers of holey socks, I also have a shelf of unread books.

I might have read the first few pages of most of them, and then just tossed them aside. I’m not a big reader, but every so often I make my mind up to start reading more. I’ll spend time in a few bookstores looking for something interesting, get home, pour myself a coffee, sit down, open the book, flip through the pages and give up. Just drop the book to the table and stare out the window, or up at the ceiling or just at nothing.

When I’m goaded into doing a little tidying up later on, I’ll pick up the book and throw it on the shelf, and maybe I’ll feel a little guilty. Like I’m not living up to my potential or something.

I used to have people over and they would always ask me about a book on my shelf and I would try to make something up, like what I thought of one character or idea, but I would get caught in my lies so I just stopped inviting people over.

But we started talking about the bread right?

The wife came home one day after reading some article while getting her hair done up or down or however she calls at the salon. She comes in screaming about how the bread we buy in store has nothing worthwhile in it, just empty something or something and how it can even lead to getting cancer.

Every few weeks she gets all riled up about the newest way you might get cancer. I guess I understand why, she lost both parents to the disease, so she’s always got some plan to save us from it. Like I said this time it was bread.

Well, I told her I used to help my mother make bread when I was a kid all the time, and I could whip up a few loaves no problem. Of course I was lying. But really, it was more like I was lying to myself than to her. I was just trying to not sound so completely useless, like tits on a bull.

But that’s all I am; big, floppy, veiny, bull tits.

I was in denial about this until I started to try to make the bread. I found all the ingredients in the back of the cupboard. I can’t say how long any of it was there. I don’t know if we bought flour or if it just came with the house.

I was pouring the yeast into the water when the wife starts up with her “you know” speech. This is the most annoying of all her speeches. Her little tirades might be useful if she actually knew what she was talking about, but she never does, so her advice is always little bits of different things stitched together in a way that seems to make sense to her.

Also, once she’s in her “you know” stance whatever she says suddenly becomes the word of God and beware asking any questions that might point to a flaw or problem. These are met with an arched eyebrow or a howling scream, depending on how offensive your question was.

She was going on about how yeast was only good for a short time and then it dies.

I’m pretty sure yeast is just some kind of grain or something and a packaged grain can’t die, so I just tuned her out and continued with my mixing.

I was working the dough, what do you call it, kneading? Yeah, I was kneading the dough and started thinking to myself, hell, I’m not doing so bad at this. It feels like bread dough and looks like it. Shit, maybe I’m not such a fuck–up after all.

The recipe said you should leave your dough to rise, so that’s what I did. Then I forgot about it.

They had a documentary on WWII on that history channel and I consider myself a big war buff so I settled in and started watching. I had a few beers I guess, and I fell asleep.

I woke up to a huge bang and then the shrill howls of a terrified woman half-asleep. I grumbled an eye open to see her standing in the kitchen in her night-gown, screaming bloody murder. You might think I would have jumped up and ran to see what happened, but then you wouldn’t know me very well.

I tried to pretend I was still asleep when she came in and dug her talons into my shoulders and started shaking me. She was inches from my face, I could taste her breath.

I finally got up and walked over to the kitchen. It was covered in dough. That thing exploded like someone stuck some dynamite in it. Some even traveled to the bathroom. I just shook my head and waddled down the hallway to the bedroom. I said it was late and I would clean it all in the morning, let’s go to bed.

Fabrizio Rinaldi/flickr

The sweat runs down my face, dripping on the broken wood floor in front of me. The cold metal pressed against my temple is giving me a headache. The adrenaline is coursing through my veins and the panic begins to set in.

He screams at me, but I cannot hear the words. How did I get here? I cannot remember; I cannot focus any thoughts. Another drop of sweat, I feel it running down my forehead; slowly, as if time itself is grinding to a halt. It stops in my eyebrow, the left one; I feel the wet around each hair, the cool as more droplets begin to form.

He hits me across the shoulders and I drop to my knees; the pain as my knees bang into the hard wooden floor is barely noticeable. I am staring at the floor; I can see every crack, the rot in the wood, the fading colour. Another drop falls and lands on that floor; it adds to the patchy discolouration but seems to vanish into the rotting surface as quickly as it formed.

He presses the cold metal against my temple once more, the headache returns almost instantly. I can feel my sweat running along the edges of metal and down the side of my face; it burns a little as it crosses my cheek. He shouts again, but I still cannot hear the words. The sounds reverberates through my skull as I try to pick out something to make sense of, none of this makes sense. How did I get here? I ask myself again, but the panic has reached fever pitch and my mind is no longer my own. The sweat is fast becoming a torrent as drop after drop falls off my face; I can feel my hair is slick and wet from the sweat, my collar is wet, clammy, and cool. The cool breeze is terrifying as it clings to the sweat; I am beginning to get cold. No, this is not cold; soon I will know the true meaning of cold.

A third time, he shouts! I hear him this time, but they are just words, they hold no meaning, they make no sense. Nothing makes sense! How did I get here? How is this happening? What did I do? I can feel the pain in my knees now, it does not matter though; I know it will soon be over. I cannot breathe, I want to shout, but my throat is dry and no sound will come out. I can feel every beat of my heart reverberate through my being. The sound drowns out the thoughts going through my head.

I feel the adrenaline begin to subside; it helps a little with the panic, but not with the sweating. He is laughing now, but I do not know why. He grabs my hair and pulls my head up, forcing me to look at him. He is large man, much larger than a man should be, his dark eyes are piercing as a looks into mine. I can understand the words he shouts at me this time: “Who, the fuck, are you?” The words make sense, but I cannot find words to answer. He says it again. My throat is dry and coarse; the words for my answer will not form.

He lets go of my hair, my head drops; I lack the strength or the will to keep my head up. Calm begins to descend; my heart no longer feels as though it going to rip through my chest; my ears are no longer pounding with every beat; my mind begins to clear. I had a train of thought earlier, but I cannot remember it, I am beginning to accept that soon this will all be over. How can I accept that?

I can see his heavy workman’s boots as he paces up and down in front of me. He begins to circle me, like a shark before it strikes; I can see the shadow he casts across the room as he circles behind me. He stops. Everything around is quiet, even my laboured breath make no sound. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach; this is it!

Time has almost stopped; he leans forward and speaks softly into my ear. I can feel his hot breath against my neck, it is almost comforting in contrast with the cold wind. He whispers “Do you know why i am doing this?”

Now! This is the only moment I have, a last chance before I know I will die.

Quicker than I thought I could move, both hands reach up to my right shoulder, I grab his head. I launch my whole body forward, the adrenaline kicks in a second time, along with the coke. He is completely surprised; he never expected this, not from me. I was always the meek one, the quite one who always did as I was told. How could he have known I had this in me? I hear the clatter of metal against wood behind me. I roll him off my shoulder and spin. How am I moving so fast? How can I be so sure? I see it and reach; he is behind me again. I hear him getting to his feet; I hear him cursing; I hear the click of a flick knife.

I reach out and grab the gun. I roll onto my back as he dives for me, knife in hand. As I turn I see him properly for the first time, I trusted him once. He lands where I had been only a moment before. Lying on my side, looking at his face, I raise the gun just off the ground as he scrambles to get away. I feel the tension of the trigger as I pull, not thinking about what I am doing. He looks me in eyes, no longer those cold dark eyes, but the big brown eyes of a frightened child. He cries out, but all I can hear is slow grind of the hammer as it falls. I hear the shot go off! The smell of gunpowder fills my nostrils, the bullet rips through his head; the force of it is strangely unreal. I watch as his face vanishes and all that is left behind is a mangle of blood and bone and brain.

Destiney Perkins/flickr

It’s always a pleasure doing somebody outdoors. The fresh, cool night air…the silvery glow of moonlit trees. The scent, the chase. If it’s another male it’s a question of dominance. Contrary to popular belief it’s not the dick, it’s the teeth. Teeth always trump dick. Nobody ever lost their throat to a dick. Otherwise, if the prey is of a fairer, more sensitive gender, being so tall, hirsute and handsome as I am I can usually persuade a lady to succumb to my wily ways. My attentions are coarse and rough, unsentimental, unromantic. Sometimes I’ll impose myself even if she’s uninterested and unwilling. Sure, there’ll be a lot of wailing and howling and, sometimes, from her as well. But it always comes off. Though, usually, not without pain. Great, wonderful, climatic pain. Oftentimes I’m interrupted or discovered and somebody hollers an offended complaint and alarmed people inevitably come running.

Sometimes the partner of my amour will search her out in the woods and, upon discovering our tryst and the application of my affections, will hunt me down and attempt to kick several shades of shit out of me. That foolishness is never successful…I’m too big and strong and quick for that. One look at my drawn lips and bared teeth, especially those big sharp bastards at the the front, usually dispels any desire to do me harm. My deep, rumbling snarl, originating from my very pit, seems to put the tin lid on it…as beads of worry begin to seep through my would be aggressor’s forehead. Then all I see is their lard ass, heading south as quick as. They know that if they stood their ground they would end up in it.

I do the fucking. Nobody fucks with me.

Nutritionally speaking, fresh meat is my favoured chew. The fresher the better. The bloodier the better. Red is my colour, the mist before my eyes. Ripping, tearing, fresh, flesh. A bloodied muzzle is my ecstasy. Tiny furries provide a tasty morsel…a mere snackeral…but catching the little bastards can be a bit of an effort. I’m not going to be catching brer fucking fox any time soon. But squirrels make good hats.

Sheep are a tasty crunch. Big and fat and slow. Pure white on the moonlit hillside, they might as well have signs hanging off them saying ‘eat me’. And they know it. And when I come they panic and shout. ‘Baaad…baaad!’

Bigger prey is more challenging but exponentially more rewarding. You can get your head inside something big, your whole head! Rip out the guts and it’s a pathway to meat nirvana. Oh! What delights hide behind a soft fleshy belly.

But chasing tail (of any variety and to whatever end) is exhausting. And following any kind of pursuit in the grass a good, long lie down is requisite. To get back to normal.

To sleep (perchance to dream) is my third favourite pastime. Upon Morpheus’ sting I am catatonic and remember nothing. A calm existence plays its fiction upon me then. Gentler love (and lots of it), rolling hills as far as the bright eye can see, companionship and laughter and joy. But, inevitably, there follows the flying and the falling and I jerk and spasm.

And when I wake I am refreshed, renewed. But the hunger is always gnawing and envelopes all and I need to go looking. Hopeful that something easy will present itself.

Every short generation before me was like me. By bad luck or fortune we tend not to last or survive, a lifetime spent burning short and burning bright. Running, chasing and biting. Immeasurable wasted energy expelled in the pursuit of the uneatable. Except, at the time, everything seems eatable and everything fair game. Focus on the prey at the cost of all else. Whoever, whatever gets in the way, go around it, over it…through it. The scent drags me along, a tight, unremitting and undeniable leash.

I can smell things. Every thing. Things far distant. Menstruation even further. And at that tinny aroma, as clear as if it were dripping off the end of my snout, my own blood boils, haunch muscles tense and I leap glen, river and mountains. I’ll run for days at that delicious perfume, seeking the fountain. A fountain of, hopefully, youth. To drink, and to eat. And if you fill both my nose and my eyes you are doomed, only a miracle will provide escape.

When I’m in pursuit of some terrified prey the heat thrums off my body. As I am I don’t…can’t…sweat, although the putrid aroma of effort and panic on others ensures salivation. My own hot breath, especially after feeding, is intense. With a rainbow of undigested stomach contents I flatulate orally. And when I need to, wherever I need to, I will squat and shit. I care not.

I get hot, very hot, a lot. My thick pelt doesn’t help any. Hirsute may be handsome (and handsome is as handsome does) but it is mighty warm. In the cold damp of the morning my body steams and smokes, as if on fire. And there is a fire, deep down somewhere. A good brushing helps, but opportunities for those are few and far between. Straightening out my wiry locks makes me look even more debonaire, if that’s at all physically possible. What do you say laydees…?

As I say, I like chasing things. The bigger, the better. And the ultimate prey is the two legged sort. Preferably with balls. I like to take their balls off them…I’ll snap and pull and tear…and then run, like the wind. Nobody is going to be catching me any time soon. Paws pounding, lungs pumping, maw frothing. As happy as happy can be.

My man always has balls. The man I am with. He doesn’t own me, he likes to think he does, but nobody owns me, not somebody like me. I am content to be his friend. But he is good to me, the man I live with.

“Jake!…Jake!” he’ll shout. And I will always attend. Tail a’wagging, tongue a’lolling. He’ll throw something and off I’ll go and seek it out. Smiling…as much as any hound can smile.

But listen up. And listen very carefully. You do not…most definitely do not…want to be around him when the white disc is in the black sky. Oh no, not then. Trust me.

Stephen Black

What I’m doing is…well, I’m making an essay like a carpenter builds a room. BAM BAM BAM That’s me hammering nails. Like that: I’m using words and nails and hammers and letters to build something to read.

If you think this place is too loud or dangerous, you can step outside and turn the page. It’s OK.

SSSSHHHHHHEEEENNNNNGGGGGGGgggggg…

Sorry. Should’ve warned you about how loud it gets. Better step back unless you want sawdust all over you.  SSSSHHHHHHEEEENNNNNGGGgggggg.

So, I’m gonna build four different walls, called:

BLUE

JOE

STEPHEN BLACK

SPACE

No, this sheetrock’s gypsum, there’s no asbestos in it. That stuff’s illegal!

OK, over here, this wall is

BLUE

Blue, blue, electric blue, that’s the color of the room where I will live. That’s from a song by David Bowie. Low album. Unrelated to the rest of the essay I’m building, but music’s a nice start, isn’t it? BAM. Wow! BAM bam bam BAM bam bam You hear that? BAM bam bam bam

So, yeah, the kitchen wall is blue, like the other walls in the flat. It’s not electric blue, but it’s not calm either. A bit dirty, feels like static. See the paint bubbles? Over there the blue paint’s peeled off. I saw clouds. She saw a ghost.

You’re right. I said I was building imaginary walls and I just described a real wall. But it’s blue, isn’t it?

More coffee?

JOE

Before I write about Joe, let me just put this up, BAM BAM BAM. Yep, you’re right. I can pound a nail in with one swat of my hammer. Used to be a carpenter. Anyway, Joe’s a commercial diver, specializing in cleaning ships. He’s really, really good. Joe’s saved ship owners tons of money. Clean ships use less oil. Joe’s wall’s gonna be great.

STEPHEN BLACK

My real name is Alps Bethneck, Hamburger Ho, Wynken de Worde or Liberace. Doesn’t matter. BAM BAM BAM. One more nail! BAM. I need to get this sheetrock up. Tomorrow the guys are coming to finish the windows.

Um…nothing much else to say about me.

SPACE

Wow.

Heavy concept. No, I’m not going to go all postmodern on you. He who feels it knows it, that’s what I say. Look over there, you see the shipyards? Over there, that’s an island…or maybe Malaysia. That’s the sea, for sure.

Once, two planes flew through this huge cloud. Their vapor trails made the cloud look like a giant bug or a sheep with antennas. Something like that. I wondered how close they got to outer space. Maybe they could see the curve of the Earth.

BLUE

Now we’re at my kitchen table, in front of the blue wall. This is where I write.

Sometimes she just says “gmorninI’mlate.”

Sometimes I get a kiss on the neck.

Sometimes we’re amazed by the morning light on the white tiles in the shower.

The bed’s on the other side of the blue wall.

Downstairs is a highway so close I could almost jump across it. Usually the traffic hums, but once we had a candlelit dinner broken with sirens. While the rice was cooking, we held each other in the doorway and watched the kites dance over the shipyard. Then the sirens. Her Harold Budd CD was playing then and I am playing it now.

JOE

The cycles of the moon, industrialized oxygen and tools and  are the only constants in Joe’s world. Underwater visibility and current strength are always unpredictable. Starting times depend on the arrivals of ships that are attacked by storms, hurricanes, icebergs and pirates. Every hull has different thicknesses of various kinds of slimes, plants and crustaceans. The freelancers who control Joe’s oxygen are rarely the same.

STEPHEN BLACK

I’m writing a book about Joe. Joe’s environment is complex; mine is simple. Joe’s goals are clear; mine are initially incomprehensible – I don’t know what I’m doing until I’m almost finished.  All I know is that I need tens of thousands of words. I  research, I listen to other people. I write down facts, nonsense, ideas, lyrics, questions – anything. I build structures of words, then destroy them. Sometimes I try to rebuild them. BAM BAM BAM

SPACE

Sentosa is near here. A sign on one of its beaches marks the southernmost point of continental Asia.

Not far from Sentosa, on weekend nights, helicopters circle around the huge flames of oil refineries. The refineries are on Jurong Island which, the map says, is even further south than Sentosa.

“South” appears twice on this wall, so one might  think we’re in the southernmost part of Singapore. We are. But, every morning, I walk to West Coast Park, followed by a breakfast of  teh tarik and pratah on West Coast Road. My flat overlooks the West Coast Highway. However, the real west coast of Singapore is a 30 minute car ride away from here. The West Coast Highway doesn’t go there. Government maps…

BLUE

Weightless, glass-faced man,

kicking hard underwater.

Cold black space kicks back.

That haiku will go on the wall. BAM BAM BAM  Yeah, that’s rice paper. Under the light you can see the ink’s really dark blue. Someone really knew how to use a brush, that’s for sure. This blue wall’s about patience, if nothing else.

JOE

Joe’s wall’ll be covered with family photos. And goofy photos, like the one of him wearing peanut shell earrings. Or the one of him singing and being attacked by a paper maché shark. The waitress at Peninsula Plaza. A photo of Raj. Joe holding the big fruit bat he saved from drowning.

But then, a mural of Joe underwater would be nice…..

STEPHEN BLACK

I am in front of the blue wall or maybe I am not. Maybe these words are a simple architecture of words, maybe they are not. Maybe I am experimenting: a page = a wall. Words are neither hard as bricks nor light as little black clouds. Maybe I’m edgy and intellectual. Maybe I’m drunk and lucky. Maybe I’m not.

SPACE

So now we’re finished. We’ve got a spacious view of the West Coast, we’ve got the painting of Joe’s undersea adventures and we’ve got that white wall that still needs curtains. The blue wall is still in front of me.

Walls. Pages. Letters and images. BAM BAM BAM  Coasts.

Tonight it would be nice to watch the kites.

Tibchris/flickr

Just relax, they tell me as I lay back on the gurney. Relax? Really? How, exactly? I’ve been here for years now, more time than some, but a lot less than the great, vast majority of men here. This’ll all be over soon, they say. Well, yes – that’s rather the point, isn’t it? I hope it will be. Mind is starting to drift away.

I still remember the first time I met Amelyne. It was the day her family moved in two doors down from mine. I was sitting in the front yard having a quiet smoke, after yet another blazing row with my wife. The kids were, actually I don’t know where they were. Out, somewhere. With friends, or not. Whatever. Anyway, sitting having a quiet smoke, out in the front garden because smoking in the house would’ve just started another row, and this little girl – skinny and dark-skinned, but with dyed blond hair – comes and leans on the garden gate. She wasn’t afraid of talking to strangers at all. I’d barely said hello before I knew her name (“It’s pronounced Ah-mel-lean.”), and age (nine and four-fifths), that she was an only child, and her parents were divorced but she was living with her dad and his new girlfriend, and they were moving in today, and she liked animals especially kittens and puppies and foals, and she wanted a puppy but her dad had said not until they were settled in and she had to make do with a stuffed-toy puppy instead, and she was going to have to go to a new school which she wasn’t sure about, and, and, and…  Eventually I led her back home, where I met her father.

They lived in that house for years. They must have eventually moved out, but by that time I was no longer paying attention to them as a family. I was living alone, my wife having left and taken the kids with her, but had struck up quite a friendship with Amelyne. She was, oh, probably 20 or 21 when she fell drunkenly on my doorstep at 3a.m. on a Wednesday morning. I mean, Wednesday? Didn’t she have work, or college, or something? I certainly did. Anyway, I let her in and she passed out on the couch. Fine, whatever. In the morning she showered and left with only a cursory thank you.

Then it happened again on Friday. And Saturday. Then every few days. Eventually she told me why she drank so much (she never took drugs, a fact which both pleases and amazes me). Life had gone wrong for her, she said. After her mother had died (I didn’t know her mother was dead, when did that happen?), her father had thrown some sort of combination wake and freedom party. His girlfriend wasn’t impressed with his callousness and left him, and he turned to his only child for solace and support, only to discover that she wasn’t impressed either – so he threw her out. She’d been living in flop houses, backpackers, friends’ living rooms and on the streets for almost a year, doing the only thing she could to keep money coming in to pay for college. Amelyne was a prostitute.

What? Am I comfortable?  Hardly! Legs straight out at one end, arms yanked out to the sides and strapped to the T-pieces. Oh sure, never been better. Idiots. And where’s the other guy gone now?

Amelyne moved into my spare room, and set up the other one as a study for herself. I couldn’t afford to give her any extra money, but I bought the food and never asked her for rent or petrol money. She paid for college, cigarettes and booze. We really didn’t see much of each other over the next year, though I remember the mess after she had friends round for a birthday party (hers or the friends’, I never knew). Then all of a sudden, there she was – graduated, qualified, hair cut short, sensible clothes, all set up with a job, and moving out.

Moving out? She wouldn’t. She couldn’t! Could she?

Ah, there’s the other guy. Okay, let’s get this show on the road. Check blood pressure, heart rate monitor, that odd beeping thing by my head. Insert needle into arm, insert another needle into arm. Insert third needle into arm? What the hell are they doing?

Amelyne’s father came to see me in the holding cell, wanted to know what had really happened. I told him exactly what I’d told the police, only I wasn’t so nice about it. After all, he’d thrown her out, turned her into a hooker, that beautiful dark-skinned little girl (I can still see her leaning on the gate, nine and four-fifths). I, on the other hand, had helped her, given her somewhere to live and study, safety and security while she finished her qualification, whatever it was. And she was going to leave me?! No, she wasn’t. Amelyne wasn’t ever going to leave me.

I’ve never been a strong man, not physically or emotionally, and there are many who’ll tell you I’m not strong intellectually either. In light of all that, I still don’t know how I actually killed her. She was so happy, telling me her plans for the future, and then she was dead.

Aha, here we go. Push the buttons, man in white coat. I get to watch as the lethal concoction is fed from the machine into the tubes, through the tubes into the needle, from the needle into my arm. It’s almost like a dream, like it’s not actually happening to me. I was never religious, I don’t expect to see Amelyne on the other side. I don’t expect there is another side. Even so, and even after how it seems to have ended, I’m glad I met Amelyne. Life wasn’t particularly good for me either, but not nearly as bad as for her. Yet she proved that it was possible to turn it all around, get on with life – with living, not merely surviving – and get ahead, even if only of your supposed peers.

On reflection, I am truly sorry that I put out that light, that single spark in the darkness of this world. Speaking of darkness, I’m getting drowsy now. Suppose that was it, the last big Hurrah!

I still remember the first time I met Amelyne…

Mandyxclear/flickr

In the barroom brawl, the odds on favorite should have been the blowzy blond with the hefty build, but the scrappy, hundred pound underdog’s fury was fueled by an anger which transformed her into a formidable foe, ending the spontaneous match in an upset.

In Julie’s version of the incident, Melanie had had her eyes on Barry from Accounting the moment the freshly minted couple entered the bar. And, even though Julie had witnessed Melanie, nicknamed “barracuda“ by the female clientele, in action on previous occasions, swooping in to wrest a man from the woman he accompanied, Julie doubted Barry would succumb to Melanie’s dubious charms, but there was always the outside chance he would.

“Is this spot all right?” he’d asked solicitously, brushing nutshells from a stool near the middle of the room and smiled. Julie nodded her assent and climbed on the stool, feet dangling above the floor, the hem of her skirt creeping above her knees, pressed modestly together.

Now, that scene flashed briefly across Julie’s mind, certain her skirt would be ruined at the end of the fracas and her underwear exposed for all the world to see, grateful she’d picked a newer pair this morning, free of rips or holes.

Days later, in a reflective mood, Julie would ponder the possibility she’d over reacted to the waitress’s behavior, but in the moment, lost her temper at the possibility Melanie would charm away her date, the man she’d been sweet on for months. Ever since he’d asked if he could borrow a pencil while in her department going over the books for the second quarter and Julie, blushing, had obliged.

“Maybe we could go out for a drink sometime,” he proposed the following month when he’d returned, along with requesting another pencil and, mulling over the details of the encounter with her best friend Stacey, the women determined he might be interested in Julie.

The actual invitation had been off hand and something of a surprise, since half way through the third quarter, Julie had been on the brink of giving up all hope Barry would remember the suggestion.

“He probably is involved with somebody already,” Julie lamented to Stacey the Wednesday night before he finally made the date, but Stacey said she doubted it, and when pressed for details or any information leading to that conclusion, shrugged her shoulders.

“Just an instinct.”

“We’re going out tonight,” Julie whispered excitedly to Stacey on Friday afternoon. Lunch had come and gone without the slightest hint today would be the day and when it looked as though Julie would be spending another lonely weekend keeping her grandmother company, she had something to pin her hopes on with the last minute call to stop for a drink.

“Do you want another beer?” Melanie asked Julie, her gaze fixed on Barry. “Happy hour will be ending soon.”

Politely smiling her refusal with a “no”  and placing her hand over the mug, half full from the last round Barry ordered, did nothing to discourage the persistent Melanie.

“Are you sure?” repeating the question to Barry, moving a little too close as she cleared the nearly empty glasses from the small round table, one glass tipped over, its contents spilling onto Barry’s lap.  “Let me help you,” Melanie beamed, dabbing at the amber beads forming on his pant leg. And when the towel inched too close to Barry’s private parts for Julie‘s satisfaction, Melanie snickered, “oops.”

With that seductive action, Julie chose to ignore her mother’s admonition, “ladies don’t fight”, and threw down the gauntlet, dousing Melanie with beer and a hard slap on the left cheek. Jumping from her perch prepared to hurl the follow through blow, Julie’s shoes were the first casualty in the fracas, kicked off to the side.

“What were you thinking?” Stacey who had witnessed the incident from a nearby table with a half dozen co-workers would ask. Julie, unable to articulate her rationale for dumping what remained in her mug on Melanie’s freshly styled hair, the waitress’s expression morphing from pleasure to rage under the waterfall cascading down her curls, only knew it was right at the moment.

Melanie’s sweaty paw yanking at her hair, fanned the flames of Julie’s ire and, rolling around on the filthy tiles, Julie thought she spotted Barry, clutching his mug, cheering her on along with other patrons who, temporarily ignored the ball game replaying on the big screen televisions placed strategically throughout the place, in favor of the live action unfolding in their presence.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks as the brawl continued and pummeling her opponent, Julie sensed she was getting the better of the other woman who was now beneath her. Bouncing up and down on the soft expanse of Melanie’s belly, Julie was triumphant until a hand reached up her back and, tugging on her new white blouse, the sound of ripping fabric filled her ears.

“You, bitch,” Julie shouted amid applause and hoots of laughter.

Somewhere, off to the side, Julie was certain Stacey and her group remained, but as the fight wore on, they seemed to disappear from Julie’s line of vision, leaving her uncertain if they’d actually fled the debacle or were blotted out by something sticky flowing down her forehead.

Then, a whistle blew in the distance and two strong hands grabbed Julie under her armpits, holding her upright, kicking and punching wildly at the air. Across the narrow chasm, Melanie slumped against the bar, her head lolling from side to side in a stupor.  “You’re in big trouble, sister,” all she could manage before giving over to a faint. Julie marveled someone so large could yield to someone almost half her size.As the fight ended, the bar cleared out and, Julie, relieved the police had not been summoned, carting her off to jail, something she’d never be able to explain to her mother, let alone her grandmother, felt the adrenalin rush begin to drain. After the dust settled and the damage was assessed – a chipped tooth, swollen nose, and blackened eyes – Julie determined the whole thing had been worth it.

On wobbly legs, she collected her purse and shoes with what dignity she could muster. Glancing around, Barry was nowhere to be seen, and as she left the bar began to wonder if it were an empty victory, the cherished prize eluding her.

Joe the Diver with 3how (2010 Lit Up Singapore Festival, organised by Word Forward and the Writers Center with the support of the National Arts Council)

I’m huffing and puffing and carrying a large ironing board.

I still have tons of things to do. One is to print out 60 copies of the show sequence. After that I have to attach cardboard fins to the ironing board and wrap it all with aluminum foil. I need to make jaws out of paper plates or something. Where’s Susan’s classroom? I zip around the third floor. Finally I find the right room.

Inside is a curvy, beautiful Chinese woman. She’s naked. She’s surrounded by people.  She smiles at me.

“Wow,” I think, “I really should get some sleep.”

The shocked students in Susan’s nude drawing class watch me retreat. Stepping backwards into the hall, I  knock down  an impeccably dressed student. I apologize by asking where the printer is.

He stares at the ironing board as he gets up. My wild eyes meet his. The hair clipper falls from my overloaded bag. The big ball of aluminum foil drops and rolls right in front of his fancy red Italian shoes.

“You’re an artist or something?”

“Yep. An artist or something.”

He steps towards a door and waves a plastic card near a space-agey thing. The doors slide open, revealing an open space that’s half Star Trek, half cubicle farm. The student has to dash off, but he introduces me to Ginette. Ginette is what they call “a fixture on the underground music scene.” She’s just come from the airport after “my little show in Paris.” She’s helpful and cheerful. She is attractive. Very attractive. She takes my thumbdrive and inserts it into her laptop.

Yes, I know what you are thinking and I was thinking it too, but Ginette is a Singaporean superstar and I’m just a guy carrying an ironing board. Twenty minutes from now I’ll be onstage, reading a sad story about hairless Chihuahuas. But yes, if I had time and we’d had a few drinks, I would certainly ask Ginette if I could insert my thumbdrive into her laptop again.

Anyhoo, the printer’s near a magnificent window and I calm myself by taking in the sprawling, dynamic, culturally diverse yada yada yada Singaporean nightscape before me. I finish, pick up my ironing board and profusely thank Ginette. I put my thumbdrive back in my pants and fly  downstairs.

Amith and Mel met each other for the first time about ten minutes ago. I introduced them just before I bumped into the naked woman. Amith plays acoustic guitar and Mel plays the nose flute and some kind of electronic thingy he made from an ice cream container. They will play music while I read. I pass them the freshly printed show sequence. I say we’ll do a quick runthrough when I “come back in a minute.” I run off to finally make the shark from the ironing board.

I reach backstage and suddenly ten people ask me twenty, thirty questions. All at once. I ignore them. “Will you be a shark?” I say to Luke. Luke is a tall, thin Indian guy, dressed in black.  Against the dark stage, he will be nearly invisible  and it will seem as though the aluminum foil shark is magically and ferociously  pursuing Joe the diver. As Joe is singing and being attacked, I will loudly proclaim that, “Joe the diver does not exist!”

Luke adjusts his glasses worriedly. “Me, a shark? How, sir, shall this effect be realized?”

“You see this ironing board? It’ll be wrapped in foil and it’ll have fins. I need to make some teeth.  Anyway…you just hold the ironing board and jump around like you’re a bloodthirsty wolf of the sea!”

Luke looks like he wants to write this down. “Bloodthirsty wolf of the sea…Understood. When, sir, shall this jumping occur?”

“Just wait for the diver to start singing. Then, count to ten and start stalking. Stalk him like, like, like he’s a chicken, a chicken dinner! Yeah, he’s a chicken dinner and and you’re a wildly hungry jumping starving sea wolf! Ignore my screaming and DO NOT attack me!”

I walk backstage and answer hundreds of questions while using the last bit of happy face Scotch tape and some Band-Aids to attach the fins to the ironing board. Amith’s gonna kill me because the tape and Band-Aids are going to leave gooey marks on the ironing board for sure. In the corner of the backstreets of my mind I am in a yoga postion, crosslegged, chanting a long soothing mantra: Luke will be invisible and the ironing board shark WILL  float menacingly and magically  towards Joe as he sings his Air Supply song. The invisible little yoga guy in my head can already see panties and bras being thrown onstage. The yoga guy can hear five hundred people in the audience screaming “Wow!” and “Magnifico!”

Thato, one of the poet/performers from the Serengeti, patiently taps me on the shoulder and asks for  his cue. Thato will perform his poem called “I’m Coming.” Mel will accompany him with the nose flute. Andrew is another talented guest performer. He will slowly gyrate his hips and, in his  sexiest, deepest Barry White voice, will read about the Armenian Church and pie dough. I cannot find Andrew. My Lady Gaga ringtone starts blaring from the bag with the foil. I finally find it: Ben. He’ll be here in ten minutes. I’m on in five.

The clippers are missing. I tell the musicians to forget about the hair performance art. Savinder  pushes me and I nervously join Amith and Mel onstage.

It was great. The music was incredible. As I ranted about not being able to see Joe the diver, the audience saw Joe walk onstage with his flippers and air tank, sounding like Darth Vader on his honeymoon. Then Luke the shark appeared. Joe tried to run but his mask was fogged and he plowed into Mel. Luke chased Joe semi-invisibly. His glasses fell off and he got lost in the stage curtain. Amith later said he was laughing so hard that he was in tears. Joe couldn’t sing at first because using the oxygen tank on land made his throat dry. I couldn’t hear anything. I was calmly reading to the four remaining members of the audience, expressing my frustration that it is impossible for the reader to accurately visualize the events which take place in a writer’s head.

Samantha Pollari/flickr

Paul meandered along the path. His favourite pool had been his alone for the whole of the day. He had caught nothing but had enjoyed the challenge of casting under the overhanging branches and using the eddies and swirls of the current. Still that was fishing. Half the fun was not knowing  what the next cast would bring. Up ahead a girl leant against a tree, watching him approach. She wore a wrap over dress in a satiny material which shimmered in the light. He nodded to her as he approached.

‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘Had a good day?’

He was pleased for the excuse to stop. She was worth stopping for. The dress was pulled tight at her waist by a belt of similar colour but of finer material. He could feel no breeze but it seemed to flutter of its own volition. From beneath the dress stretched bare legs, white as alabaster, strong, yet feminine and graceful. She rocked her hips as she lent and his glance travelled to the opening fold at her breasts and a brief flash of cleavage. He hoped she had not noticed. When his eyes returned to hers she smiled and their steel grey in her pale face, framed in long black hair, took his breath away. She tilted her head and asked.

‘Catch anything?’

‘Fraid not. There’s always another day.’

‘Did you try the secret pool?’

Paul hesitated. He had been fishing here for years and had never heard any pool called that. Probably the one after the falls, it lay round a bend and was screened by the willows.

‘The one just after the falls? No, I’ve been at my favourite, Farmer Giles.’

She shook her head.‘The secret pool isn’t the one by the falls. I’ll take you to it. It is only known to a few.’

Paul was in no hurry to get home, more time in her company was much more attractive than his empty flat. ‘I’m Paul. I think I have fished all the pools around but if there’s one I don’t know it would be great to try it.’

‘The pool is secret. You would not find it without me. Call me Nymph. Everybody does. It’s because I am forever to be found hovering about here.’

He smiled, at the comment and at the sway of her hips as she walked ahead. They followed well worn paths through the wood, her step never faltering no matter the roughness of the ground. Suddenly she turned left, the opposite direction from the river. She pulled back the branches of a low tree and entered a path Paul did not know. In seconds he was in an area also unknown and before him lay a pool, edged by reeds, surface rippled by a family of ducks and by fish rising.

She took his arm. ‘This is the Secret Pool. Only my family and a few select people have ever seen it.’

‘It’s beautiful. No wonder you keep it secret. Can I fish it?’

‘That’s why I brought you.’

She sat knees pulled up to her chin, arms spread back. He felt her gaze hold him as he cast and cast again. It was just as well that the fishing was easy for his eyes wandered to the reflection of her legs in the water. Despite the distractions Paul soon had a number of fish in his catch net.

‘If you bring me some sticks I’ll cook one. Nothing like cooking your catch immediately and eating it on site,’ he said.

Nymph jumped up ‘I so agree. It’s the fun of fishing for me too.’

From his rucksack he produced charcoal, a firelighter and a metal grill. It took no time to have a fire. He lifted the catch net from the water. Some fish he returned to the pool. The others lay writhing on the grass mouths silently opening and closing. The smell of hot coals and smoke drifted over them as he lifted, killed with a quick blow, gutted and flattened. It was a practiced routine. She smiled as he worked. He found it refreshing that she did not shrink from the deaths. They sat quietly in the early evening sun staring into each others eyes until the fire turned to glowing embers. He carefully arranged the fish on the grill and held them over the hot coals. Soon they were cooked. He placed one on a plate taken from his pack and laid it before her like an offering to the Gods. He used the grill to hold his fish and started to eat. He noticed that she did not eat.

‘Anything wrong,’ he asked.

‘No. It’s just I would like to fish now. Come on show me how to use your rod.’

He saw the wicked grin as she lingered on the innuendo. Thought of the fish steaming before him evaporated and he saw only invitation in her eyes. He leapt to her side.

She picked up the fishing rod and stood by the waters edge. He pressed in behind her reaching round so that their hands linked on the handle. He was surprised at her willingness to push close to him. They made a few half-hearted casts before looking up into his face, he looking down into her eyes and on into the recesses of her dress. She pressed back with more enthusiasm than he expected and they slipped and fell. She landed on top of him. He waited for her to roll away. She did not. She rolled over and straddled him, groin pressed into his groin. Her face glowed and the grey eyes pulled him to her. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll not live to regret it.’ As she spoke she pulled her belt and the dress fell away to reveal her naked.

Her legs and arms encircled him. He felt as though she was squeezing the life from him with her thighs, then he felt the ground move. It was an instant before he realised that it was falling away beneath as they rose into the air. He was helpless in the iron clasp of legs and arms. His mouth opened and closed but could find no voice to call out. From above the smell of smoke and hot coals drifted to meet him. Through the cloud he saw shadowy figures round a fire. He heard a knife being sharpened.