The Goat on the Mountain
By Peter Wild - peter (at) wild1234.wanadoo.co.uk
My wife doesn't understand me, he says as he sits writing at the bar.
The pretty girl balanced on the stool next to him takes a sip from her Bud and says, I hear you.
I feel like a tiger left out in the snow, he writes in his notepad, pencil gripped awkwardly between stubby fingers. Or a?
Or a?
He lifts his head and catches the girl's eye. She is really not bad. She has a nice smile and hair the color of straw. He likes hair the color of straw.
Or a goat left untethered on a mountain looking for affection from an outcrop of rock.
She thinks: he's cute. She evaluates. She thinks: sure, he's not as tall as her regular boyfriend but it's quarter to ten on a weekday night and there probably won't be any better offers and anyway who chooses to sleep alone? No-one.
So she punches his arm hard enough to hurt and says, are you going to scratch away at that notebook all night or are you going to buy me another one of these?
He looks up. She is holding the neck of the bottle between her index finger and her thumb and jigging it back and forth, the base of the bottle rocking like the ass of an Egyptian belly dancer.
He says:
Same again?
= = = = =
bio: Peter Wild is the editor of a forthcoming series of books for Serpent's Tail, the first two of which - Perverted by Language: Fiction inspired by The Fall & The Empty Page: Fiction inspired by Sonic Youth - will be published in 2007. He is also editor of The Flash, which will be published by Social Disease in February 2007. His fiction has appeared in Word Riot, Pen Pusher, Scarecrow, Thieves Jargon, Rumble, The Beat and a bunch of other places. He also runs the Bookmunch website.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
story: Office Hours
Office Hours
by Jarrett Neal
= = = = =
Cecil apologized to the three students waiting outside his office and closed the door. He unbuttoned his sport coat and crossed his arms. His jaw clinched. His brow furrowed. “I told you about coming up here,” he said.
Curtis placed the framed picture back on Cecil's desk and took a seat. “When mama give you this?”
“What do you want?”
Curtis opened his eyes wide and scratched his beard. “Man,” he said, “can you lend me fifty dollars?”
“Curtis,” Cecil said as he returned to his desk, “why do you come up here bothering me like this without calling? Midterms are this week. I have a hallway full of students I need to see.” He straightened his pictures.
“See man,” Curtis said, “Val 'bout to get her lights turned off and all she need is fifty dollars. She got them kids, man.”
There was a knock on the door, and when Cecil answered, Mary, a diminutive pear-shaped white woman, stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, Mary,” Cecil said.
“I wanted to make sure you got the E-mail regarding the tenure committee.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I've marked down the new time. I'll be there.”
“How you doin'?” Curtis craned his head over Cecil's shoulder and offered his hand to Mary.
Cecil glanced down at the calloused palm and dirty nails. The odors of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana mingled in his nose. He began to perspire.
Mary took Curtis's hand. “I'm Mary Zucker. Are you Cecil's partner Gary?”
“Partner? Nah, I'm his big brother Curtis.” He turned to Cecil. “What kind of partner you got?”
“Cecil's brother?” Mary said. “Oh. Well, it's good to know you.”
As Mary said her goodbyes Cecil saw two more students take seats on the floor beside his office. He closed the door and stood in front of the wall opposite his desk. Four diplomas hung from that wall, and the midmorning sun cast them in brilliant golden light.
“I don't have time for this,” Cecil said, and exhaled a short breath.
“Man look,” Curtis said, “I know how you feel about me but don't let Val and them kids suffer, know what I'm sayin'? They ain't did nothin'.”
“And how do I know this money won't get smoked up?”
“It ain't. Man I swear to God I ain't smoked nothin' in six months. I swear to God, man.”
There was another knock on the door. Cecil hurriedly reached into his wallet and took out three crisp twenty dollar bills.
“Thanks, man. Thanks. I'ma pay you back.”
Moments later Jamal Brinkley, one of only three of Cecil's black students, sat before him holding his last paper which bore a red C+ on the front. He looked at Cecil with patient wide eyes.
“What you must always bear in mind,” Cecil instructed his pupil, “is the Joad's background. They came from meager circumstances which were only exacerbated by the destruction the Dust Bowl left in its wake.”
Cecil glanced out of his window and spotted Curtis sprinting across the university quad. He reached the parking lot and got into a red sedan. The car was dented in several places and expelled a trail of thick smoke as it drove off with Curtis in the passenger seat and several children crowded in back. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment then resumed his talk with Jamal.
“At its heart, this is a novel about a family who love each other so much that they'd rather die in grinding poverty than live without each other. That's what makes this novel universal. It isn't a story about a poor Southern white family in the Depression. It's about all of us.”
Cecil gave Jamal a list of themes he could explore in his next paper before he sent him on his way and received his next student.
= = = = =
bio: Jarrett Neal holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the author of the forthcoming novel "A Dangerous Man".
by Jarrett Neal
= = = = =
Cecil apologized to the three students waiting outside his office and closed the door. He unbuttoned his sport coat and crossed his arms. His jaw clinched. His brow furrowed. “I told you about coming up here,” he said.
Curtis placed the framed picture back on Cecil's desk and took a seat. “When mama give you this?”
“What do you want?”
Curtis opened his eyes wide and scratched his beard. “Man,” he said, “can you lend me fifty dollars?”
“Curtis,” Cecil said as he returned to his desk, “why do you come up here bothering me like this without calling? Midterms are this week. I have a hallway full of students I need to see.” He straightened his pictures.
“See man,” Curtis said, “Val 'bout to get her lights turned off and all she need is fifty dollars. She got them kids, man.”
There was a knock on the door, and when Cecil answered, Mary, a diminutive pear-shaped white woman, stood in the doorway. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“No, Mary,” Cecil said.
“I wanted to make sure you got the E-mail regarding the tenure committee.”
“Oh, yes. Yes. I've marked down the new time. I'll be there.”
“How you doin'?” Curtis craned his head over Cecil's shoulder and offered his hand to Mary.
Cecil glanced down at the calloused palm and dirty nails. The odors of motor oil, tobacco and marijuana mingled in his nose. He began to perspire.
Mary took Curtis's hand. “I'm Mary Zucker. Are you Cecil's partner Gary?”
“Partner? Nah, I'm his big brother Curtis.” He turned to Cecil. “What kind of partner you got?”
“Cecil's brother?” Mary said. “Oh. Well, it's good to know you.”
As Mary said her goodbyes Cecil saw two more students take seats on the floor beside his office. He closed the door and stood in front of the wall opposite his desk. Four diplomas hung from that wall, and the midmorning sun cast them in brilliant golden light.
“I don't have time for this,” Cecil said, and exhaled a short breath.
“Man look,” Curtis said, “I know how you feel about me but don't let Val and them kids suffer, know what I'm sayin'? They ain't did nothin'.”
“And how do I know this money won't get smoked up?”
“It ain't. Man I swear to God I ain't smoked nothin' in six months. I swear to God, man.”
There was another knock on the door. Cecil hurriedly reached into his wallet and took out three crisp twenty dollar bills.
“Thanks, man. Thanks. I'ma pay you back.”
Moments later Jamal Brinkley, one of only three of Cecil's black students, sat before him holding his last paper which bore a red C+ on the front. He looked at Cecil with patient wide eyes.
“What you must always bear in mind,” Cecil instructed his pupil, “is the Joad's background. They came from meager circumstances which were only exacerbated by the destruction the Dust Bowl left in its wake.”
Cecil glanced out of his window and spotted Curtis sprinting across the university quad. He reached the parking lot and got into a red sedan. The car was dented in several places and expelled a trail of thick smoke as it drove off with Curtis in the passenger seat and several children crowded in back. Cecil closed his eyes for a moment then resumed his talk with Jamal.
“At its heart, this is a novel about a family who love each other so much that they'd rather die in grinding poverty than live without each other. That's what makes this novel universal. It isn't a story about a poor Southern white family in the Depression. It's about all of us.”
Cecil gave Jamal a list of themes he could explore in his next paper before he sent him on his way and received his next student.
= = = = =
bio: Jarrett Neal holds an MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is the author of the forthcoming novel "A Dangerous Man".
Firefly Fiction
A forum based, free flash fiction workshop/ writer's community. Members supply each other with prompt, using them to write flash fiction stories that can then be submitted for critiquing/ reviewing. Also included are forums for asking grammatical type questions, for keeping up on who's recieved rejection/acceptance letters for flash pieces, and for general chit-chatting about whatever.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
story: Innè
Innè
by Ricard di Costa
= = = = =
The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.
"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"
"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."
I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.
No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.
My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.
"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.
Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.
"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.
Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.
"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.
Darkness.
"There can be no soul but ours."
= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com
by Ricard di Costa
= = = = =
The unrelenting chase had all but beaten us. In a room overcome with shadows we paused. I gripped with one trembling hand a curious book, "The Flame of Rnyga". With the other, my cherished companion, Innè, a young girl. We had survived on the book's cryptic power those few perilous hours. In dodging the Beast of the house we had come to treasure the wicked and beautiful rituals held within it, and within ourselves.
"In his pursuit of us," breathed my weary cosset in my ear, "the Beast has left me weak. We have ascended and recanted a dozen flights and flung ourselves about this prodigious House for such a time! I cannot--"
"Rest now, child," said I, "For a moment at least, we have discomfited him."
I had no wish to weigh further toil on my frail abettor, but our pursuer lay closer than I dared divulge. I hid the book away in my cloak, and with my remaining strength bore up my sweet one full in my arms.
No sooner had I brought her face to mine, than there came Bedlam echoing through the great House, just some few yards behind. In a second I was on my feet, and bid them out pace my fear. The bright slap of my naked feet on dead gray marble added to the cacophony of the Beast.
My beloved cried, "It is here! It is here!" and wrung her ams tighter round my neck.
"I have you! I have you!", was all I could manage, though my desire was to cover her completely, to posses, for the moment, both our souls in a single body.
Our breathing and crying coalesced, and the roar behind us grew staggering. My heart and my darling in my arms were baptized in hideous black light as the Beast thrust his full weight forward to catch us up.
"Inithanab iotachen! Bolegoth camithata eratu!" My mouth was not my own- my angel twisted herself so tight to me in that venery as to drive the air from my lungs, and with it the bewitchment that rang out from us.
Now- there is nothing. No light. No sound. No Beast. Though that black house lay far behind, I still carry my beloved, and she still breathes the air in my lungs.
"Can there be no soul but ours?" we asked.
Darkness.
"There can be no soul but ours."
= = = = =
Composer, Artistic & General Director @ Turing*Shop
http://www.TuringShop.com
Thursday, August 03, 2006
story: Marty Seeks Sympathy
Marty Seeks Sympathy
by Christopher Miller - psychic_mantis12 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
Silhouette and pasty watered skin. Gloomy. Brown, nonexistent. Dirt and ancient particles housed in atomic wasteland of photographs and dead memories. She's alone. She lays dying under comforter and stressful coughs. Shes dying under misconstrued conceptions of a timely death.
But she's dressed in fancy attire like attending golden ballroom. Outdated. Yellow prison ties in place of white blossomed flowers. Grandma Marty waits for ballroom dance guests to appear stricken with sympathy. To knock at the distant oak door and waltz through atomic battlefield. Asbestos. Little white darling dresses and smart gusto tuxedos with cigars optional. All to mock farewells. Mock farewells to get prizes.
Tommy gets antique furniture. Circa 1880. It'll be sold in a back alley pawn shop. Betty gets genuine silver coated silverware. Circa 1930. They'll be feeding plump disgusting red mouths with TV dinners. Richard gets grandpa's authentic rifle collection. Circa whenever the fuck those guns were manufactured. They'll be sitting underneath piles of forgotten items in attic. Sally gets Grandma Marty's pricey, one of a kind, diamond necklace. Circa 1920. It'll be worn during cheap sex and tonic self-indulgence. More generic names get more generic keepsakes.
Grandma Marty clicks teeth. Clicks teeth and counts down grandfather clock playing shuffle cards with drinking buddies. Counts down indigo blinds catching fire to a host of air born chemicals.
But grandfather quickly stops ticking and an overwhelming silence fills the room. She feels the need to clean it before the guests arrive.
She's up, scrubbing brown coated walls in elegant ballroom gown with tiara and all. She's pretty. She's dressed up from head to toe. She sparkles. She's deluded.
A whiff of gasoline and concrete spillage, of bolts and screws coated in dirt oil originate from outside the window. A thundering mechanized, industrial symphony playing over distorted memories of the kids climbing up the cherry oak wardrobe or little Tommy almost drowning at the nearby creek because his leg cramped up while swimming. Memories of grandpa's unprecedented dislike for home cooked apple pie, of staying up late at night watching re-runs of old comedy shows, the ironing board collapsing every time it's put to use, the dish washer never completely cleaning the plates, the huge crack in the foundation of the house, grandpa trying to fix the living room speakers by himself, Marty's childhood doll being destroyed under the twin blade of scissors.
All crashing and shattering before worn-out eyes. Particles of wallpaper and glass coated window seals. Picture frames and pillow cases. Furniture doorknobs and backboards. Ceiling crust and sofa cushions. Demolished.
= = = = =
bio: Christopher is 16 years old and lives in Texas.
by Christopher Miller - psychic_mantis12 (at) yahoo.com
= = = = =
Silhouette and pasty watered skin. Gloomy. Brown, nonexistent. Dirt and ancient particles housed in atomic wasteland of photographs and dead memories. She's alone. She lays dying under comforter and stressful coughs. Shes dying under misconstrued conceptions of a timely death.
But she's dressed in fancy attire like attending golden ballroom. Outdated. Yellow prison ties in place of white blossomed flowers. Grandma Marty waits for ballroom dance guests to appear stricken with sympathy. To knock at the distant oak door and waltz through atomic battlefield. Asbestos. Little white darling dresses and smart gusto tuxedos with cigars optional. All to mock farewells. Mock farewells to get prizes.
Tommy gets antique furniture. Circa 1880. It'll be sold in a back alley pawn shop. Betty gets genuine silver coated silverware. Circa 1930. They'll be feeding plump disgusting red mouths with TV dinners. Richard gets grandpa's authentic rifle collection. Circa whenever the fuck those guns were manufactured. They'll be sitting underneath piles of forgotten items in attic. Sally gets Grandma Marty's pricey, one of a kind, diamond necklace. Circa 1920. It'll be worn during cheap sex and tonic self-indulgence. More generic names get more generic keepsakes.
Grandma Marty clicks teeth. Clicks teeth and counts down grandfather clock playing shuffle cards with drinking buddies. Counts down indigo blinds catching fire to a host of air born chemicals.
But grandfather quickly stops ticking and an overwhelming silence fills the room. She feels the need to clean it before the guests arrive.
She's up, scrubbing brown coated walls in elegant ballroom gown with tiara and all. She's pretty. She's dressed up from head to toe. She sparkles. She's deluded.
A whiff of gasoline and concrete spillage, of bolts and screws coated in dirt oil originate from outside the window. A thundering mechanized, industrial symphony playing over distorted memories of the kids climbing up the cherry oak wardrobe or little Tommy almost drowning at the nearby creek because his leg cramped up while swimming. Memories of grandpa's unprecedented dislike for home cooked apple pie, of staying up late at night watching re-runs of old comedy shows, the ironing board collapsing every time it's put to use, the dish washer never completely cleaning the plates, the huge crack in the foundation of the house, grandpa trying to fix the living room speakers by himself, Marty's childhood doll being destroyed under the twin blade of scissors.
All crashing and shattering before worn-out eyes. Particles of wallpaper and glass coated window seals. Picture frames and pillow cases. Furniture doorknobs and backboards. Ceiling crust and sofa cushions. Demolished.
= = = = =
bio: Christopher is 16 years old and lives in Texas.
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