5. 4
Table of Contents
Forward by Dr. Nicole Santalucia.............................................................6
Trails..........................................................................................................9
Shadows..................................................................................................11
Late Night Television..............................................................................12
Heart of Darkness....................................................................................13
World’s Most Powerful People................................................................15
America Is...............................................................................................16
Idle Thought While Staring out my
Window at Night During a Snow Storm.................................................17
Idle Thought While Procrastinating.........................................................18
Idle Thought While Standing Outside in the Rain..................................19
Idle Thought While Looking at the
Ocean at Tom’s Cove on Assateague Island............................................20
Idle Thought While Standing
Atop the Hill at my Grandparent’s Farm................................................21
East and West..........................................................................................23
Breakfast at the Diner..............................................................................31
This Town Ain’t Big Enough For The Both Of Us, Baby.......................39
Billy the Creator.......................................................................................48
Community Ordnance #2007-36.............................................................49
6. On the train home....................................................................................50
Acknowledgments...................................................................................52
7. 6
John Watts’ Trails travels through “the endless wilderness of
thorny language” as it makes its way to “a smaller trail, / Not a road less
taken, but a road unknown.”
The closing lines of the title poem read, “I can build something
new, using only / Words for wood, and stanzas for stone.” The acts of
building and traveling are what constitute the skillful use of language in
this collection of poetry and prose. Watts contemplates what poetry is,
what love is, what art is, what America is. The title poem is a beautiful
performance that deserves an encore and that’s what the rest of this
collection does, it performs act after act after act.
Watts’ work is in direct conversation with poets such as Robert
Frost, Walt Whitman, and William Wordsworth, all who have echoed
The discovery within this collection is responsorial to the currency of
American culture.
We get glimpses of the beaten path, we literally get to taste what
“America Is,” and later in the collection we meet characters such as
Loraine and Hugo in a story entitled “This Town Ain’t Big Enough for
the Both of Us, Baby” who follow the winding roads of love and life.
The poems and prose in this collection access the nooks and
crannies of relationships, art, America, and they discover. As a whole,
Trails translates “what gets lost in translation” (Robert Frost). For Watts
what is lost is also what is discovered.
William Wordsworth’s claim that “poetry is the spontaneous
recollected in tranquility.” This is lodged in the lives of Watts’ stories
and poems and we are gently invited to participate as both witness and
traveler. This body of work reminds us that we are human, that we are
not separate from nature or one another and that art is an experience and
a conversation that is not restricted by time and space.
FORWARD By Dr. Nicole
Santalucia
8. 7
The process of art, according to the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe
Shelley, "strips the veil of familiarity from the world, and lays bare the
naked and sleeping beauty." The beauty is fully awake in this collection
exist and this is a problem that remains unsolved, a problem that great
writers attempt to navigate. Watts shows us what it means to gracefully
navigate the paths of meaning, line by line and verse by verse.
I have had the great honor of witnessing John Watts’ growth and
inspiration and you will to as you journey through Trails.
Dr. Nicole Santalucia (2016)
10. 9
Trails
I’m creating bleak and repetitive
Falsehoods under the pretense of art.
The mountains, the sky, the sun, the forests
All call to me in chirps and whistles,
But then I have to stop when I realize
That the trail I’m following is well-worn.
It’s all familiar territory to the reader:
Millions have gone into the woods,
Hoping to live their lives deliberately,
Hearing the same wild call as I.
What can man create that will last?
Better yet: what can I create that will last?
That will reach into their hearts and make
Them beat in a way they never did before?
We’ve all seen the long raging rivers,
And felt their icy waters on our skin.
The sunlight has touched our faces
In thousands of stanzas before mine,
And I’m left to trudge through crowds of poets,
Walking fraudulently on the trail.
But then there are days when the crowds thin,
Fallen branches and shafts of warm light.
For a moment, I can pick up a leaf, and see it,
I can see its beginning, middle, and inevitable end,
Or did it hang over Wordsworth as he composed
A few lines over Tintern Abbey by the Wye?
Did it once rest with the other leaves of grass?
One day, I’ll come upon a smaller trail,
Not a road less taken, but a road unknown,
Hidden by black brambles and shifting shadows.
11. 10
And carve out my own passage with words and vigor.
And in a clearing of my own creation,
In the endless wilderness of thorny language,
I can build something new, using only
Words for wood, and stanzas for stone.
12. 11
Shadows
Since we cracked rocks together to make a faint spark,
Chasing the shadows up the slick cave walls,
We’ve lived in fear of what hides in the dark and the crevices.
When we had nothing but wax candlesticks and a fear of dying
From diseases and war and famine to accompany us in the night,
We retroactively called it the Dark Ages and shut our eyes,
Hoping all the while that the redcaps and draugr and vodyanoi
That we knew lived in the dark with us wouldn’t bite.
Then came the great illuminators of Edison and Tesla,
And they chased away the darkness and killed the creatures
That we thought stalked after us in the night.
And when I look at the shadows at the top of my stairs,
I know that hiding in the darkness upstairs is either nothing,
Or human.
13. 12
Late Night Television
A vast red arboretum of movies and shows,
But with nothing really weeded out
Of its extensive and exhaustive herbarium.
WeedsWeeds has
Made orange twinspurs the new black petunias.
The garden paths are as wide as a living room,
Or as narrow as a worn couch or springy twin bed.
Each of us plants our own garden with different things,
And with each season—
Are you still watching “Breaking Bad”?
Continue Watching
Back
14. 13
Heart of Darkness
It’s news to me
That Hitler survived
The invasion of Berlin.
And yet it seems feasible
That evil is disinclined to die.
To the jungles of Argentina to rebuild.
The forest is the tumult in the Führer’s heart;
But malaria, while crying “The Horror! The Horror!”
The universe is unjust if it let a destroyer of life like him
Die in a place as abundant with it as the jungles of Argentina
15. 14
The World’s Most Powerful People
The secrets everyone who
Works
In marketing will never reveal are
Marred
By one graphic three-minute scene.
Thirsty concrete is more than she
Expected.
The horrifying reason one woman
Heard
A scratching sound shows who is
Fighting
Whom in Syria. Undercover Israeli
Soldiers have time for an
Intervention.
And the world’s most powerful people
16. 15
America Is
America is a melting pot.
Actually, it’s more like a pizza,
Topped with pepperoni and mushrooms
And olives and anchovies
And curry and borsht
And spätzle and chana masala
And chakalaka and shepherd’s pie
And vegemite and bulgogi bibimbap
And masala dosa and matzo balls
And grits and enchiladas
And shawerma and callaloo.
All this piled atop a pizza.
It’s delicious and terrible,
But it’s our pizza.
17. 16
I’ll Be Seeing You Again (In The Summer Fields)
Leather gloves worn through to skin
Old leather gloves worn straight on through
Nothing to show for my labors
But I’ll keep working for you.
After the long day’s work,
Whatever it all may yield,
I’ll be seeing you again
I only had eyes for you,
And you only for me.
After the long day’s work,
Whatever it all may yield,
I’ll be seeing you again
Now I’m old and bent from work
I’m gray and old from endless toil.
But in all those years, I don’t regret
All that time we worked the soil.
After the long day’s work,
Whatever it all may yield,
I’ll be seeing you again
18. 17
Idle Thought While Staring out my Window at Night During a Snow-
storm
Engulf everything outside,
Lighting up the night.
I could walk into the storm
And fade into the darkness.
19. 18
Idle Thought While Procrastinating
I don’t want to work
On Sisyphean labors
That do me no good.
Why waste time on meaningless
And linear progression?
20. 19
Idle Thought While Standing Outside in the Rain
Those who are soaked through
To their bones by the endless
Rain always forget
About the sheer happiness
21. 20
Idle Thought While Looking at the Ocean at Tom’s Cove on Assateague
Island
Under the blue waves,
Down thousands of leagues below
Dwell nightmare monsters.
Their glowing eyes and bodies
Are not unlike our bodies
22. 21
Idle Thought While Standing Atop the Hill at my Grandparents’ Farm
The wide green pastures
Are a new Elysium.
Like heroes of old,
I am quite sure he dwells here,
Watching the sheep out grazing.
23. 22
Dear Janet tried to save Tam Lin,
The father of her child.
By holding tightly onto him
As he changed to all beasts wild.
At last he turned into a burning coal,
Hotter than all of Hell,
And as instructed she threw the coal,
Into the nearby well.
At what young Janet had done.
But when Tam emerged a man,
Janet knew that she had won.
Janet tried to save Tomlin,
Progenitor of her spawn,
Product of unholy sex
Upon the Catermaugh lawn.
He changed to beasts on Hallowe’en,
As she held him in her hands,
Into the well he went when he became
When he emerged, a full-grown man,
The crowd burned him and Janet at the stake,
For all know that a witch’s life
Is forfeit for the law to take.
But then there’s wily Tam-A-Line,
Who accosts them in Catermaugh Woods.
The most insolent of churls.
From a garden Tam-A-Line had claimed,
And in response he lost repose,
And left her ravaged, bruised, and maimed.
Margaret ran to her village home,
And told what Tam-A-Line had done.
That night the townsfolk combed the woods,
Armed with pitchfork, torch, and gun.
24. 23
East and West
“… like valour’s minion carved out his passage till he faced the
slave; which ne’er shook hands, nor bade fare…”
“What the hell are you readin’ in there, boy?”
“It’s Shakespeare, Pa. Macbeth. One of the Bouldersons gave it
to me. Tryin’ to learn one of the longer bits.”
“Well, put it down and get ready for supper. Your mother and I
have somethin’ to discuss with you.”
Henry looked up from his book, gray eyes staring intently
dry, crunchy grass outside, and he felt a knot growing in his stomach.
Ever since his family had set up camp here with the rest of the migrant
workers, Henry had felt uneasy. Everyone said times were tough. The
newspapers they found thrown out said that times were tough. The
farmers were packing up their families and trying to get out while they
still could, muttering “Times are tough” under their breath. Times had
been tough for several years now, what seemed like forever to Henry,
and they showed no sign of getting better.
He pushed himself up from his well-worn blanket, and checked
Grandma Josephine’s mirror, broken when the brawl had started in the
last camp they had stayed in. His dark brown hair was getting too long
for his taste, and a few errant whiskers were forming on his face. He
frowned at his appearance, quietly lamenting the loss of the razor back
in Iowa. He had hoped to look nice, in case Florence Boulderson would
walk by, but he dismissed the thought. He stuffed his bookmark, a small
and hid it in the folds of his blanket. There would be time to practice the
lines later.
were already sitting, eating the thin cabbage soup out of tin bowls they
had scavenged. His mother had a look of worry in her dirt and sweat-
streaked face, and his fathers eyes were narrowed angrily, his mustache
quivering slightly as he ate. The three ate in silence for several minutes,
as children from other families in the camp were running around,
women were hanging laundry to air out. The drought had made water
workers in the camp was to only use it sparingly for drinking and
25. 24
cooking. Even then, people received glares from their neighbors.
need to talk.”
“About what?” Henry said through a mouthful of soup.
“I found you a job.”
Henry swallowed hard and stared at his father. “Doing what?”
His father reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a
notice. “Says here that a new coal mine opened up in Pennsylvania.
Northumberland County. They’re looking for young folks to work it.
I can barely do this farming shit anymore, let alone work a coal mine.
You could do it, though. You might be able to earn a little money. It’s not
much, but it’s something.”
Henry just stared at the notice. “I don’t know if I want to do
this.”
His father glared. “Don’t be a damned fool. Your mother and I
have talked this over. It’s the best option you have. You don’t know the
some kind of work. If I’d had my way…”
that this is a golden opportunity. I know this might not be what you want
to do, but things are tough right now. They won’t always be that way,
though. Just try it for a year or two. Maybe by then there’ll be a little
more money to be made, and you’ll have better prospects. Please do this
for us? We wouldn’t ask you to do this if it wasn’t in your best interests.”
side of the iron pot. “When will I leave?”
“There’s two trucks of workers leaving tomorrow morning. The
one you want will be going to Virginia, and you can make your way
from there to Pennsylvania.”
“Where’s the other one going?”
“California.”
Henry felt the word settle into his mind. California. He thought
of the talkies, and the big studios that were there, in Los Angeles. His
mind ran wild with possibilities. Perhaps there were theaters, he thought.
Shakespeare could be performed in them. Perhaps he could try to be in a
movie, working with someone like Mae West. He closed his eyes as he
imagined the signs outside a theater, with his name and picture on all of
dust, when his father had owned a small hardware store that had become
26. 25
a casualty of the crash. His father paid the ten cents to take him to the
theater, and he had sat enthralled as second by black-and-white second
unfolded on the massive screen before him. The action and the romance
“Henry?”
His mother’s words shook him from his reverie. “Hmm?”
“Did you just hear what I said?”
“No,” he mumbled, “I didn’t.”
“You’ll be sure to get on the truck to Virginia, tomorrow, right?
It’s the best possible opportunity right now.”
“Yeah, I’ll be on the truck.” Even as he spoke the words, he was
unsure if he meant them.
His father nodded approvingly, “Good. Get your things ready
tonight so you’re not rushing in the morning. I don’t know if…” His
words trailed off. They all knew without saying it that it was unlikely
that they would see each other again. His father’s head slumped forward,
and he stared at his worn leather boots for some time.
Henry got up and dusted his pants off. “I’m gonna go take a
walk. I won’t go far.” His father looked up, but their eyes did not meet.
other families. Some of them were migrant workers, displaced when
they lost everything after the stock market crash, and forced to travel to
farms all over the country. Others were new: farmers who lost hundreds
upon hundreds of acres of crops when the drought tightened its grip on
their roots. They all looked the same. They were all gaunt, their clothes
were frayed, patched, and dirty, and the faces of the men were poorly
shaven or not at all. Their poverty was written into their eyes, downcast
and dark, as if desperation had anchored the bloodshot and dust-caked
orbs towards the ground in defeat. Even the children, when not playing
with whatever sticks and rocks were available, had grim countenances.
Henry sauntered through the camp, coming to the trailer of the
Clifton family. The eldest son, Bud, was sitting on the dirt, leaning
against the trailer, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and staring through
the smoke into space, like he always did. “Hey Bud. Whatcha doing?”
“Sitting in a shithole waiting to die. You?”
Henry couldn’t help but smile. Bud’s response was always the
same. His mother had long since stopped berating him from swearing,
even in front of women and children. Bud, on his part, had long since
stopped caring about what his mother thought. Bud’s round face and
27. 26
scrawny upper body were obscured by the smoke, but Henry knew that
he was smiling in anticipation for a comeback.
“Just walking around. I don’t know.” Bud’s face fell in
disappointment.
“Well, if you don’t know, who does?”
“Not a clue.” Henry sat down next Bud, and leaned against the
trailer.
Bud took a long drag on the cigarette and passed it to Henry.
“So… you get to have a little fun with Florence Boulderson yet?”
Henry rolled his eyes and passed the cigarette back. “Nope.
Don’t think it’s gonna happen.”
“And why is that?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Oh?” Bud turned to look at Henry. “You and your folks packing
up and leaving this delightful place?”
“No, just me. Pa found out about a mine opening up out east.
He and mother seem to think that the drought will ease up, so they’re
staying and I’m going to the mine to make a little money in the
meantime.”
“Well, your parents are damn fools if they think this will get
better. Might as well wish to shit gold bricks or something. But hey,
at least there’s some money to be made out east. That’s something, I
suppose.”
“True, it’s just that…”
“You want to go out west and be a fancy-pants actor. Lord knows
I’ve heard you talk and talk and talk about it. Let me tell you something
though: No way in hell is it gonna happen. The world doesn’t need
more actors. Just you wait and see. Sooner or later, the stock market
crash is gonna catch up to them, then there won’t be any more talkies.
But farmers, or miners? Times may be pretty tough here, but elsewhere,
there’ll always be farms to run and mines to dig up. And they’ll need
people to do it. Your problem is you don’t want to get your pretty hands
dirty. Besides, who’d want to put your ugly mug in front of camera
anyway?”
Henry stared blankly into space. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
“Take my advice. Go east. You might actually make some money
that way. Besides, if you go that way, you might even be able to take
Miss Boulderson with you, or perhaps send for her at some point. With
her parents in the condition that they’re in, I doubt they’ll be going
anywhere for a while.”
28. 27
Henry considered the thought. Florence’s parents had been hurt
when a tornado had ripped through the area a month previously, and
had been relying on Florence and her two brothers to keep earning what
meager food and money they could. “I don’t think I could keep her and
her parents on a miner’s wage.”
Bud looked straight into Henry’s eyes. “Then leave ‘em. Just
take her.”
“I don’t know if I want to do that.”
Bud shrugged and took another long drag on the slowly burning
cigarette. “Suit yerself. The option’s there for ya. What is they say?
Carpe dime?”
“Diem,” Henry muttered. “It’s diem.”
“Right.” Henry pushed himself up and walked away from the
trailer, waving dismissively as he left through a thick cloud of silver
smoke. “Seeya around, Bud.”
“I reckon so.”
for grazing herds of sheep and goats, but the grass had since turned
to brown dust, crumbling underfoot. The soil, the very foundation for
growth, had grown sterile and empty of all sustenance. With nothing to
keep it alive, everything else disintegrated. Henry had once thought that
the people looked just as dead as the ground they walked on. Perhaps,
he thought as he walked, that’s what made the talkies better than the real
world. No dashing hero swings in to make it rain in the real world. No
voluptuous woman gives the ground bedroom eyes to make the crops
grow in the real world either. But on that giant screen before the teeming
masses, men became gods and reality was their plaything. Limitless
possibilities.
While his mind had been elsewhere, his feet had carried him
to the Boulderson’s tent, and he stood for some time before he said
anything. “Hey Florence!”
was in need of repair and cleaning, but didn’t take away from the wave
of her blonde hair, the soft curve of her cheeks, and the shy smile on her
full lips. Henry would remember the way she looked that day, dirt and
all, for years to come.
“What can I do for you, Henry Adams?”
29. 28
he nervously pushed back his hair, he said, “I don’t suppose you’d
accompany me for a walk?”
Florence looked down at the ground for a moment. Henry
was pleased to see a hint of a blush forming on her face. “I would be
delighted to. Just let me make sure my parents have everything they
coming from the inside. He was fairly certain he heard the hushed tones
of her father murmuring “What does the Adams boy want?” but he paid
returned, drawing a shawl over her shoulders as the early evening air
grew cooler. The two walked together in silence, neither speaking nor
looking at each other until they were outside the borders of the camp,
walking in the direction of a dilapidated barn a quarter mile out.
“Do you like it here, Miss Boulderson?” Henry asked nervously.
He immediately felt stupid for saying it.
“A silly question, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” An awkward silence began to hang about
the two, like a thick cloud obscuring them from each other. Henry
decided that, after a start like that, he might as well say something else
stupid. “Florence?”
“Yes, Henry?”
“I think you’re beautiful.”
She paused a moment, and her face became unreadable to Henry.
“Thank you.”
Everything tumbled from Henry’s mouth at once. “I’m leaving
tomorrow morning. On a truck to Virginia. There’s a coal mine that’s
hiring in Pennsylvania.”
Another pause. “I see. Why does this matter to me? I assume you
didn’t ask me to walk with you for you to tell me that I’m beautiful and
and they stopped.
Henry locked eyes with Florence for a moment. “No, I don’t
suppose I did ask you to walk with me for just that… Come with me.
Leave with me. I could take care of you. Better than what’s out here for
you.”
Florence gave Henry a wry smile. “I don’t think I want to do
that. I can’t just leave my family here. What if the drought breaks?
There’s too many what ifs.”
Henry nodded silently and stared down at his feet. He could feel
her blue eyes boring into his forehead. His heart was racing in fear and
30. 29
dejection, and he could feel his face become red and warm with shame,
as if a teapot were boiling over. He closed his eyes and imagined a
crowd seated before a stage. The monologue he was reciting in his mind
was overshadowed by the booing and jeering for his poor performance.
His inner heckling kept him from noticing that Florence had taken his
hand, and had leaned in close to whisper into his ear.
“I won’t spend my life with you in Pennsylvania. But… perhaps
we could spend the night together. Just one night?”
That night, Henry and Florence made love in the barn. The
world around them had stood still, and even the old musty hay and the
skittering mice did not divert their attentions. Their eyes were locked
together the entire time, and their hearts were beating like war drums,
a harbinger of chaos and passion. When it was over, they had held each
other and whispered about what they wanted from life. She laughed
when he told her that he wanted to become an actor, and he had frowned
slightly when she said that she just wanted to at least live long enough
see it rain again.
Henry never spoke of what they had done to anyone, and he would
always remember in his later years that his night with Florence was
unlike any other experience he had had with women. He had no way of
knowing that night after he left the camp, he would see Florence only
once more.
The next morning, after hurrying to dress and pack his few
belongings, including the worn copy of Macbeth, into his canvas
rucksack, he stood out at the end of the long dirt road leading to the
worker’s camp. The giant Ford trucks were parked, and some folks were
already loading some items onto the backs. Henry tapped the shoulder of
a middle aged woman whose name he had forgotten, to ask which truck
was going where, and she pointed to the truck going to Virginia, where
she was going.
Henry reached into his bag and pulled out the job notice and the
any truck, but his feet kept him anchored to the dirt, as if God himself
had commanded him to stay put. He saw Bud and Florence off in the
distance, at the camp, going about their daily routines. Nothing was
changing for them. But for Henry, the world was opening itself up, all
he had to do was to pick which way to go. The job notice exuded the
promise of certain money, something he had not had in a long time. The
how much of a shithole they were waiting to die in.
31. 30
The last passenger had loaded onto the trucks, and Henry was the
only one not on a truck. The driver from the east-bound truck got out of
the cab. “Hey, jackass, are ya getting in or what?”
muttering “I don’t think I want to do this.” He waved the eastward
bound driver on. Disdaining fortune, he ran to the westward bound truck,
threw his bag in, and jumped into the truck bed after it.
32. 31
Breakfast At The Diner
“Would you like more coffee?”
The waitress’s words hadn’t registered. Jude Freeland’s body was
sitting alone at the counter of the Mariner Diner in Jonesport, Maine,
but his mind was elsewhere, as if suspended in a vast emptiness. All
countertop, seeing the natural pale thinness of his face hidden by his
short beard. He couldn’t remember the last time he had trimmed his
beard.
“Hun, do you want more coffee?”
Jude was shaken out of his thoughts. “Oh, yeah. I’ll have more
coffee. Thanks.” He glanced at the waitress’s nametag, squinting to
read the beat-up print letter stickers on the plastic. Elizabeth. E-liz-a-
beth. The name worked its way through his mind, attempting to discern
meaning, to form connections. There was a time that names made
sense to him, when he could list every client he had defended with that
name. Nothing clicked. It was as if the name had lost all meaning for
him. Everything was constantly losing meaning, as if a dictionary were
words and empty spaces.
The waitress had walked away, and Jude stared at the fried eggs
on his plate. As he stared at them, so did they seem to stare back, two
hideous white and yellow eyes glaring at him, as if waiting for him
small town atmosphere crept in, with each elderly person greeting the
other regulars. The local grapevine was a well-oiled machine, and the
townsfolk easily took notice of Jude. He felt eyes watching him when it
was believed he wasn’t looking, and he could see out the window to see
the stares his dark green ’76 Mercury Comet was collecting. All the little
towns were the same to him. It didn’t matter if they were on the east
coast, west coast, or in the middle of the Corn Belt. The towns all had
the same quirks, the same habits, and the same idle curiosity at the new
and unusual.
He looked over to the waitress, idly watching her as she made
her rounds. She couldn’t have been older than thirty. She had gone to
each table, greeting the elderly regulars jovially, as if their presence
was her whole purpose for being. Her routine happiness continued until
she reached the table of a young man eagerly typing away at a laptop.
33. 32
Jude watched her closely, and he could see how timid she appeared as
she spoke to the young man, how she blushed slightly when the young
off-putting to watch, and Jude turned away from the pair. They were too
much like he and his wife had been when they were younger.
He had been happily married, in what felt like another life. His
his last case, New Mexico V. Beal. Jude had disappeared, his mind and
thoughts lost and disjointed, despite his physical presence. For two
months before he left, he and his wife had slept in separate rooms every
night. She had insisted on the separate rooms, because his nightmares
woke both of them up every night.
The nightmares hadn’t gone away in the two years since, like
he thought they would. It was always the same: disjointed scenes in a
courtroom, where he was standing behind the defendant’s table, next
to Howard Beal. Each time, the jury would return the verdict of guilty,
but never on Beal. The sentence would always be against Jude. Then
Jude would feel himself falling into a crushing void. A chill raced up
the length of his spine as he thought of the nightmare, but it was the
merciful sound of arguing customers that yanked him back into the
present.
“I won’t pay one damn cent for this.”
“Sir, please keep your voice down, there are children in this
establishment.”
Jude looked over his shoulder to see the young waitress being
harassed by an older man. His graying, unkempt hair framed his haggard
face. To Jude’s surprise, no one seemed to be reacting, save for the looks
of disgust from the locals, as if silently declaring the situation a lost
cause. The waitress’s face was forecasting tears as the man continued to
unrelentingly berate her.
“Oh, what the hell…” Jude muttered. He found his body drawn
unwilling to the scene, and he collected looks as he passed the booths of
assorted locals. “Friend, I think you need to calm down.” The old man
was incredulous, as if he had been struck over the head with a shovel
without warning.
“What did you just say to me, boy?”
edge of menace in his voice. Two years of wandering could give even
the most mild-mannered an edge. Whether it was the menace, or the
34. 33
fact that Jude was several inches taller and much younger, the old man
seemed to back off. He backed up slowly towards the door, and barely
missed running into an elderly couple as he exited.
“Asshole.” the waitress muttered.
“You okay, miss?”
complains a lot, but he doesn’t usually get this bad.” She looked away
for a moment, as if she were distracted. “I should probably let my
manager know about that. He didn’t pay for his meal, either. Thank you,
again.”
Jude simply nodded, and she walked away. She kept her eyes
to her chest. Jude had seen her walk and her demeanor, the look of a
woman who was victimized. Some cruel bastard had hurt her. He hadn’t
seen that look since, the case, when he had interviewed Sophie Beal.
The moment was clear in his mind, as if he were there,
suspended in the moment once again. Sophie’s tears, her admission of
Howard being violent, ruthless. She told him everything, including the
night that he came home covered in blood. It was the last thing Jude had
wanted to hear.
“Mrs. Beal” he had asked, “why didn’t you say anything to the
police about this?”
“He’d kill me if I said something about it. Are you going to tell
the court?” Jude had thought about that question for a long time. To say
something to the court would be to undermine his entire defense for
Howard, but not saying something would be a grievous lie of omission.
He had thought about it for a long time. Law school had never prepared
him for having to choose between being a good defense attorney and
being a good human being. In the end, he had decided that the warm
fuzzy feeling was not of equal value to a career and reputation. The
nightmares started not long afterward.
As he thought about the case, he had returned to his seat, staring
absently at the nearly full plate in front of him. In moments, he drained
his coffee and started eating his toast, but the food sank into his stomach,
like an anchor falling into an empty pit. The toast hadn’t been buttered,
stopped in. He had found the Comet there, for sale, as if a Greek god
suited him, more so than the modern, bland car he had been driving.
35. 34
was just a reminder of how little he had accomplished in leaving home.
Then the phone rang.
The cell phone that he carried had not rang in all the time he had
wandered, but he had kept it charged anyway, a habit of a previous life.
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling the phone out and stared at the
name of the caller, as if it was alien to him. The name of the caller was
for. He opened the phone.
“Hello?”
“I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you’d answer.” Hammond’s gravely
voice crackled over the phone.
“Neither did I.”
“Well, I just wanted to let you know that Howard Beal is dead.”
Jude sat straight up in his chair. “What happened?”
“I don’t know too many details, but from what I’ve heard, he
tried to attack a little boy. The kid’s dad beat the hell out of him, and he
didn’t make it.”
The pit in Jude’s stomach sank deeper. He placed a hand on the
counter to steady himself, barely succeeding. “Thanks for letting me
know.”
missed around here. Lot of folks would be happy to have you back.”
“Not sure if I’m ready to be back yet.”
“Well, when you get tired of sunbathing in Tijuana or whatever
the hell you’re doing, you give me a call, I can’t make any promises, but
Jude pursed his lips. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Please do. Take care of yourself, Freeland.”
blankly. The son of a bitch is dead, Jude thought. Some average guy had
the guts to do what Jude hadn’t been able to do, and he had regretted
it every single day. All Jude could do was slump towards the counter,
feeling every muscle in his chest become viselike around his heart. All
he could feel was a dull numbness snaking from his core, enveloping his
entire body. After two years, he had never considered a world without
the looming specter of Howard Beal in it.
He found himself remembering the last time he had seen Beal.
their strategy for court. Each time Beal spoke, Jude felt his heart beat
36. 35
interrupt Jude’s explanations of the evidence in their favor, each time
asking if the pieces of evidence presented to him would prove his
innocence. With every mention of the word innocent, Jude found himself
picturing Beal covered in blotches of human blood more and more.
It was this image that Jude would see in his nightmares, and now, the
nightmare, or at least the man behind the nightmare, was gone for good.
The laughter from a group of patrons shook Jude from his
memory. He reached for his coffee, only to see the mug shaking in his
hands. He drained the last dregs of the brew, and simply stared into
space, struggling to form his thoughts.
A different waitress seemingly glided past each patron at the
counter.
“Can I getcha anything else, handsome?” This waitress carried
herself with the sophistication of an older woman, but the makeup
on her face hid her age behind a thick wall of powders and oils. Her
nametag was relatively clean, and the name Cheryl was obscured behind
sparkling pink star-shaped stickers.
“I could use a bit more coffee, actually.”
“Sure thing, sweetie.” She began pouring the coffee. “I don’t
think I’ve ever seen you here before. You on a vacation?”
“No ma’am. Just passing through, unless you have any
suggestions of anything I should see while I’m here.”
The waitress thought for a moment. “Well, we have pretty much
the same thing that any town worth its salt would. Y’know, library,
school, town hall, that sort of thing. You could always take a look at the
docks if you’re interested, or if you’re looking for work, the captains
might be hiring. The lobster boats are doing pretty well right now.”
“Lobster boats, huh? I’ll have to check it out.” The waitress
smiled and returned to her rounds. Jude turned to watch the customers.
The breakfast crowd was thinning, with the groups of chatty senior
corner booth, a middle-aged couple was talking quietly, but agitatedly.
She looked as if the fork in her hands would be better served sticking
into her husband’s skull, and he seemed to want everything to go away,
save for himself and his French toast.
The woman seemed to have the same expression his wife had
given him when he said he was leaving. That conversation was burned
into his memory:
“So that’s it? You’re just leaving?”
37. 36
“Yes.”
“You’re not even going to explain yourself.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh really? I wouldn’t understand, huh? That’s all you’ve got to
say for yourself?”
“Look, I just need time to put my thoughts together. Can you
please jus-”
“I have been very patient with you, Jude. First you started
working ridiculously long nights. Then you start screaming in bed
every night, and when you’re not doing that, you’re off somewhere else
working again and obsessing over this case. Now you’re just going to
leave? Without any explanation at all? And I’m just supposed to be okay
with it? Screw you.”
“I lied in court. I helped a guilty man walk free.”
His wife stared with wide eyes, “Excuse me?”
“Beal was guilty. His wife told me everything, and gave me
evidence to prove it. I wanted to recuse myself from the case, then
your new partnership. I’m sure you’re proud.”
said nothing, so he continued. “I’ve done something horrible. I… I just
here. I feel like, I dunno, like part of my soul is broken. And I know I
have no one to blame but myself, but I don’t want to live like this.”
“Well, if you think I’m just going to sit here and wait for you
conscience, then you are sorely mistaken.”
“I know.”
it had ended for Jude months before. The next day he had left without
a word. It wasn’t until he had checked his email at a public library in
Corvallis, Oregon a month later that he found that he had been served
with divorce papers. He did not hesitate to sign them. He had no reason
to hold her back and keep her from living her life.
“Would you like your check now, sweetie?”
The older waitress’s inquiry had pulled Jude out of his thoughts.
As he waited for the check, he looked out the window. Beyond
38. 37
the glass, a harbor was in view, with many of the boats steadily leaving
to begin reaping the ocean’s harvest. The harbor looked inviting. In all
the time he had been travelling, and in all the port cities and seaside
towns he had stopped in, he had never taken the time to go on a boat.
He found himself thinking, “I could stay here. Start over.” The thought
appealed to him. After two years, the nightmares hadn’t stopped.
Nothing had made a dent in the iron walls of his guilt. Maybe what he
needed was to make a change, to learn how to live again.
Yet, the gaping wound in his being had not been healed. Two
years had passed, and in all that time, none of the towns he had passed
through had anything to offer him. What if this new town, this Jonesport,
was just a temporary patch, like the car? Change, it seemed to Jude, only
served to solidify the moment in the sameness that had come before it.
Against his will, he found himself, standing, walking towards the
fate of all those underfoot. The old waitress, waiting at the cash register,
check.
“I hope you enjoyed everything this morning.” The smile grew
wider.
“Yeah.”
“Enjoy the rest of your stay in Jonesport, the only town in
America with that name!” Jude saw several locals roll their eyes at this.
This was the rehearsed line that everyone used, it seemed.
He walked out to the parking lot and sat down into the driver’s
seat of the Comet for a few moments. The old brown leather on the
wheel felt smooth and worn under his hands from his constant use. The
miles and months had been kind to the car, and it had the same shine to
The miles and months had been far crueler to Jude, as he looked out the
window of the Comet, he couldn’t bring himself to drive.
Getting out of the car, he felt his feet taking control, turning
towards the docks down the street. Jude could feel them pulling him, as
if they were insatiable hounds dragging their master behind them. Every
step took him further from the Comet and the diner, and closer to the
the more he could feel the salty air whipping lightly at his face, and for
closer, until he found himself standing on the docks, looking down onto
Lady
39. 38
Grey painted on the side.
“Can I help you, friend?”
Jude looked around the boat, and saw the brown, weathered face
of an old man, his head sticking out the window from the cabin. He took
in a breath of deep air, and smiled.
“I don’t suppose you’re looking for any deck hands?”
The old man smiled back.
40. 39
This Town Ain’t Big Enough For The Both Of Us, Baby
“Like hell you’re gonna leave this bar, Flannery. Tell me where
the idol is.”
Flannery smiled, and his thin dark mustache made his smile
seem even bigger. He adjusted the cuffs of his trench coat and said, “You
can take the idol from my cold, dead hands, chum.” The dimly lit room
punches and smashed green glass bottles on the wooden bar. Absolute
ring and grey smoke of a gunshot. The entire bar fell silent.
“Aaaaand cut! Looks good people. We’ll pick up tomorrow at
9:30 in the A.M. and we’ll get the rest of the scene. Gettin’ too damn late
want it going out on us again in the middle of the scene. Mr. von Brecht,
can I speak with you a moment?”
on booms were turned off and lifted away, and the entire room came
alive with rushing stagehands. Cameramen began to dismantle the
a tabula rasa for the modern age. On the set, the man that had been the
the actor Hugo von Brecht, and he set his prop pistol and badge into
the waiting hands of a crewman as he made his way through the crowd
of extras towards the back of the studio, where Howard Goldman, the
director, was sitting, smoking and fanning himself with a worn copy
of The Atlantic. Goldman motioned to the actor to take a seat between
himself and the busily scribbling screenwriter.
“Hugo,” he said as the actor sat down, “You’re doing great
work up there. Really fucking incredible stuff. The delivery of that ‘I’m
leavin’ this dive’ bit was beautiful. But, well look. I’ve got a concern…
Now before you say anything, I’ve already talked to the producers.
We can’t just have her booted. We’ve already spent too much time and
break her contract, her people will be up my ass about it.”
Hugo stared intently at the set, avoiding Goldman’s gaze. “I
won’t shoot any scenes with that woman.”
“Well I don’t want to shoot any scenes with her either, but we’ve
41. 40
already used the time and money, and she’s got our balls in a vice. Can
you at least not antagonize her, please? She’s bad enough without you
prodding her and egging her on.”
Both men fell silent, with actor and director staring at each other,
an unspoken understanding passing between the two, as the screenwriter
wrote on, oblivious. Eventually, Hugo let his head hang for a moment,
escape the bitch. “Fine. I’ll play nice. But if she so much as speaks one
word to me off the set, I’ll let her have it.”
Goldman dropped The Atlantic and pushed his glasses up to rub
his eyes, sighing as he did so. “Whatever makes you happy, Brecht.
Whatever makes you happy.”
dressing room, following a dimly lit hall until he reached a door marked
with a hastily painted red star and a tacked on piece of yellow paper with
the words “von Brecht” written on it. He stepped into the fan-cooled
room removing the grey costume trench coat, placing it gently onto
a wire clothes hanger. He had gotten tired of the costume department
bitching and moaning every time an item came back with the slightest
wrinkle. Even with scrupulous care, he still noticed glares from Dick
Cohen, the costume designer.
Hugo checked his appearance in his vanity table mirror, staring
blankly at his own face, with its thin pencil-lined mustache, neatly
to see time wearing away at his face. The earliest indications of lines
were starting to show when he smiled or frowned, and his eyes betrayed
a tiredness that hadn’t been the three years before. When he had had
enough of looking in the mirror, he started to slowly pace the length
with “H.A.” engraved into it with swirling script sat on the nearby coffee
table. Brecht reached over and grabbed the two, lighting a cigarette
and taking a long drag. He felt the indentations of the engraved initials,
worn smooth by his hands over the past eleven years. “H.A.” felt like
a completely different person… a scared boy climbing on a truck,
or a young man hiding in the crowd as the Germans marched up and
down the Champs Elysees. Thinking about it, Hugo wondered what on
earth had possessed “H.A.” to go to Paris in 1940. The romanticism
42. 41
that the Nazis had hung from almost every building and monument.
He remembered passing a bakery when a sign was nailed to the door
banning all Jews from entering. The German soldier’s hammer hit the
practiced and the maneuver had been drilled into him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Mr. von Brecht, Ms. Girard is here to see you.”
“Tell Ms. Girard that I’m not here.”
of the door, and the door opened. A woman in a black fur coat and hat
stepped through the door, leaving a nervous stagehand in her wake.
She stood silently near the entrance, surveying the dressing room
imperiously.
Hugo motioned for her to join him on the loveseat. He tried to keep his
tone even and calm as he said, “Hello Loraine. To what do I owe this,
ah… unexpected visit?”
Loraine walked towards Hugo, but kept the coffee table between
them. “Care to explain these?” She dropped a manila folder onto the
coffee table, with some papers sticking out from it, all the while staring
at Hugo through the smoke of his cigarette. When he didn’t immediately
answer, she raised her voice slightly. “Well?”
“I should think they’re pretty obvious. They’re divorce papers.”
Loraine pursed her lips. “I can see that. Why the hell are you
doing this?”
Hugo’s eyes narrowed. “Why? That’s quite a list. Perhaps it
might be the fact that you stumble onto the set smelling like booze, not
coming home late from the bars or clubs or wherever, and then stopped
coming home at all. It may very well also be bills I’m getting in the
mail from jewelers and dress shops. Ever since you had that movie
enough. We’re done.”
Loraine stood completely still, staring at Hugo with wide eyes.
Tears seemed to be forming at their corners. Her hands were at her sides,
“I hate you.”
blame bu-”
“Who’s Florence?”
43. 42
“What?” Hugo sat up straighter in the loveseat.
“Who’s Florence? You’re sitting there high and mighty. Well,
I read the mail too, and I keep seeing letters from someone named
ago? I just happened to be in New York shooting scenes, and I decided
to pay little Miss Florence a visit. Imagine her surprise when Hugo von
Brecht’s wife shows up. She tells me she knew you when you were still
going by Henr-”
“Get to the point, Loraine.”
“The point, Hugo, is that you have a kid. All this time, and
Five years, and you’ve never said a word about having a kid. What, were
you gonna go run off with this trollop? Send her money to pay for your
little mistake?”
Hugo was silent for a moment. He set his lighter down on the
coffee table next to the manila folder, and, struggling to keep his voice
even, said, “Are you going to sign the papers or not?”
Loraine stared at him, her eyes boring into his skull, and she
turned and left the dressing room, slamming the door behind her. Hugo
remained still for several moments, gripping the edges of the loveseat,
half expecting her to barge back in just to have the last word. When he
its contents loose. The divorce papers, emblazoned with a seal from the
Los Angeles courts, fell onto the coffee table, all signed. Hugo smiled
slightly, letting out an unconsciously held breath as he did so. Feeling
that the folder was still somewhat heavy, he shook it a little more, letting
a ring and a photograph fall out. He picked up the ring, the diamond
wedding ring he had bought for Loraine. As pretty and expensive as it
a rock on a piece of metal. It indicated nothing to Hugo except a legal
proceeding and a willingness to spend too much money. The photo, on
the other hand, seemed like it was the only thing about their marriage
that had character.
Hugo stared at the photo, taken in 1944 at the Warner Brothers
studios. They sat on chairs with “Girard” and “von Brecht” on the backs,
Thunder of the Jungle. They were holding hands. Hugo remembered
the day the picture was taken. A stagehand who was an aspiring
photographer had seen the couple from the back and snapped the picture,
44. 43
only existing piece of evidence that there had been a time when Hugo
and Loraine had been happy together, and had genuinely enjoyed each
other’s company.
Hugo took one last drag on his Lucky Strike, and pressed the
cigarette into the glass ashtray on the coffee table, and simply sat,
watching the smoke trail lazily from the tray to the ceiling. He sat
dressing room, grabbing his cigarette case and lighter as he left. Hugo
walked out of the studio, passing stagehands and cameramen as he
and his driver, Walt, was waiting with the car, a black 1946 Rolls–Royce
Silver Wraith. Walt, a portly, balding man in a neatly kept grey suit,
waved to Hugo and said “Where to, sir?”
“Home, Walt.”
“Of course, sir. I also took the liberty of collecting your mail,
since you left very early this morning.”
“Thanks, Walt. What would I do without you?”
“Drive yourself, I presume.”
“Hmmm… Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
Hugo climbed into the car, and the two men travelled in silence
through his mail. Most of it was offers from other studios, asking if he
by such and such person. Out of the small stack of letters, only one
caught his attention, from Florence. He immediately recognized her
handwriting from their numerous correspondences, but paused before he
opened it, thinking about Loraine for a moment, and her discovery of the
letters. He wasn’t sure if opening it was a good idea, especially so soon
after the argument, but at the same time, he had a nagging need to know
what Florence had written. After some hesitation, and a deep intake of
read.
Henry,
Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see Loraine Girard. I don’t know
what you were thinking, sending her here, but she told me about all of
the things you do there in Hollywood. The parties, the drinking, all of it.
You barely sound like the man I remember you to be.
Victor wants to meet you, or at least, he wants to meet Hugo. He
still doesn’t know who you really are. You asked in your last letter if you
could meet him. From what your wife said, I honestly think it’s for the
45. 44
in his life right now. I know you want to meet him, but with your lifestyle
and job, I just don’t think that’s a very stable life for him. He’s young,
he’s impressionable, and I don’t want him growing up with that. You
don’t need to give me money or anything. Stan takes good care of Victor
and I, and he’s planning on formally adopting Victor.
I know this meant a lot to you, but if you really care about Victor,
you’ll stay away. Let him be a normal kid.
Goodbye, Henry.
-Florence
P.S. – Stan passed through Fredonia while on a business trip. He
been tended in some time. I thought you might want to know.
P.S.S . I think this will be the last correspondence we have.
Please don’t send anymore letters.
Hugo put the letter back into its envelope, wiping his eyes with
one hand. It was a lot to handle. He hadn’t expected her to say no to
letting him see Victor. He had never seen his son, and it was sinking
thin line, and his chest tighten. The thoughts that he had entertained of
taking this faceless boy to see a movie, or to make dinner for him, or to
tuck him into bed at night seemed to slip away from him, as if he were
mentally grasping at smoke.
“We’re here, sir.”
“Thank you Walt. You can go home for the day, I don’t plan on
going anywhere, and I won’t need you to run for anything.”
“Of course. Have a pleasant day, Mr. von Brecht.”
“You too, Walt.”
Hugo watched Walt drive the Rolls–Royce into the garage, and
then pull out again in his own car, a dark green 1938 Buick Century.
mansion, a white colonial revival built in 1910, was completely quiet.
been, revealing the beautiful and richly stained woodwork. Loraine
must have moved out already, Hugo thought. It certainly hadn’t taken
her long. There was a strange feeling in the house, like there was an
open wound of absence hanging in the air, and yet, the stillness was
comforting.
He went into his dining room, and took a bottle of 1900 George Roulette
brandy, pouring a glass for himself. The glass sat on the table for a
46. 45
Hugo’s face and distorted it, giving him caricature-like proportions. Just
one, he thought. With shaking hands, he brought the glass to his lips and
downed the drink, and it left a stinging aftertaste in his mouth. Before
his brain told his hands to stop, he was pouring another drink.
away as easily as they arrived, as if swept by a current. He thought of
Florence, and their night together in that barn long ago, and the night
they had spent together in New York City. He thought of Bud, and
how he should have listened to his friend. He thought of how Bud was
now just as lonely as he was, with an untended grave and no visitors.
It made his stomach churn. Despite the silence of the house, the blood
stared at the room around him. The stillness left Hugo with an idea, an
uncomfortable, anxiety-inducing thought that demanded submission.
The idea was absolutely ridiculous and risky. Bud would have told him
not to do it and then followed it up with a joke, but Bud wasn’t there
anymore.
Hugo stumbled to his desk in the parlor, feet feeling like iron
weights dragging him down, and he reached into one of the dark cherry
paper, and a pen, and began to write a letter on the front of the envelope,
he wrote To Victor Harris, 39 East 97th St., New York City, NY, 10029.
He hesitated to put the pen to paper, and the alcohol was making it
thoughts beginning to pour out of him like a waterfall.
Victor,
A man has many responsibilities in life. I suppose that I should
know, as I’ve certainly run away from many of them. One of those
responsibilities is to family. That being said, you’re my son. I don’t know
any other way to say it. I’ve delivered plenty of lines, some of them pretty
clever, but they were all pretty lies written by a screenwriter to make
truth.
I met your mother when we were both younger. We were very
good friends, and after I left to work in Hollywood, we didn’t see each
other for a while. We saw each other again nine years ago, in 1942, and
from what your mother has told me in her letters, you were born not long
47. 46
after, in June of 1943.
Your mother and I considered the possibility of me trying to play
a part in your life, but when she met Stan Harris, and they got married,
we decided to hold off on that. We both agreed it wasn’t the right time.
You were only four, and we thought you weren’t ready. Then I got
married, and we waited a little longer. Now, well, I honestly don’t know
if your mother ever plans on telling you. If you ever read this, there are
just some things I want you to know.
First, don’t be angry with your mother for not telling you. She
has always been a hardworking woman. Even when I knew her from the
worker camps in Oklahoma, she always worked hard. She’s always done
the best she possibly could for her family, you included. From what she’s
that you’ll always be safe and under good care.
Second, the man I am on screen is not the man I am in reality.
I’m not a dashing hero, a spaceman, or anything like that. I’m just a
important a distinction this is now, but you will, one day. How a man
appears and what he’s really like are two different things.
The last thing you need to know: dreams have a cost. When I left
my folks behind in Oklahoma, they thought I was going to Pennsylvania,
but I went to California instead, to become an actor. I left them, and
your mother, behind. It wasn’t worth it. I wish I could do it all again. I
wish I could just
It was there that Hugo stopped writing, and his head slumped
onto the desk, completely unconscious to the world.
The next morning, Hugo awoke at his desk, his head aching,
and the ringing of the telephone did not help. God damned phone, he
thought. Groaning, he pushed himself up from the desk with aching
joints, and walked to the other end of the parlor, grabbing ahold of the
telephone.
“Yeah?”
Blvd., Culver City. Do you accept the call?”
“Yeah, operator, I’ll take the call.”
There was a momentary pause before a booming man’s voice
up this morning for your scenes with Loraine. I’ve tried calling several
times. What’s going on? Please tell me you’re not strung out on drugs or
something. That’s the last thing I need today.”
48. 47
Hugo looked at the clock on his desk. 11:26. “Sorry, Mr.
Goldman. I, ah… felt very sick this morning. I’ve spent most of the
morning vomiting my guts out. Must have been something I ate.”
know. Being a big shot actor doesn’t make you exempt from a little
professional courtesy. Loraine is bitching up a storm. I had to redo the
entire god damned shooting schedule to work around this. I’m already
getting calls from the producers why we’re gonna need extra ti-”
“I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Goldman. I’ll get my things
today to make up for the lost time. I’ll be there around 12:15. Does that
work for you?”
and said, “Yeah… alright, Hugo. I guess we can work around that.”
“Thanks, Mr. Goldman.” Hugo hanged up the phone rubbed
his eyes, trying to wake himself up. Eventually, he went upstairs to get
He took it and read through it, hands shaking slightly as he did so. He
glanced down at the desk and saw the envelope sitting there, addressed
and ready to go. Carefully, he took the letter and put it into the envelope.
“I don’t think he’s ready for this,” Hugo said to himself. “Hell, I
don’t think I’m ready for this.”
He pulled out his lighter, and lit one corner of the letter, setting it
carefully into the nearby metal wire wastebasket. He didn’t stay to watch
it eventually crumbled to pieces.
49. 48
Billy The Creator
Thunder rolled throughout the realm. It sounded vaguely like
“Billy, get ready for dinner!”
The knights were lined up at the castle gates, and the light glinted off
of their silver-painted plastic armor. Billy the Creator reached down
with freckled hands to guide the knights’ unmoving legs forward, while
the evil dragon sat a few feet away, waiting for them. Only the bravest
knight could pierce the resin scales of the beast, and on this day, Billy
the Creator had divinely ordained Sir Bob to be the one to save the
kingdom and its denizens. Sir Franklin had already fought the creature,
Billy the Creator’s hands reached down to move the brave
knights around the dragon. Sir Brian the Bold, in his red and black
archers on the cardboard battlements made a resounding p-kew p-kew
as they soared. The battle raged on for twenty minutes. After a great
struggle and the loss of many knights, Sir Bob stood ready, and Billy the
“Billy! Billy! Dinner is ready!” The kingdom thundered and
shook as Billy ran downstairs. Even the Creator needs to eat.
50. 49
Community Ordnance #2007-36
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
TO THE RESIDENTS OF ARDENVILLE:
Due to the recent reports of residents feeding the local bear
population, the Ardenville Town Council has passed Community
Ordnance #2007-36 that states therein:
“Article (1) No individual(s) shall purposefully provide any
material that can be used as food to the wild bears in the area.
Such materials include, but are not limited to: corn, bread, human-
food, unprocessed dog food, unprocessed cat food, potatoes and related
potato products.
Subsection (A) Any individual(s) caught providing the
aforementioned items, and any other such items is
imprisonment, and summary execution.
Subsection (B) Any individual(s) charged with this offense
and not exceeding 48 hours from the time of sentencing.
There is a $29.95 USD processing fee for all appeals.”
This has been a friendly public service announcement to the citizens of
Ardenville. Thank you for your time and have a wonderful day.
Regards,
The Ardenville Town Council
“Ardenville: Where the simple meets the supreme.”
51. 50
On the train home
There were only four other people in the train car, and Valentine
didn’t pay attention to any of them. He drowned out the rumbling of the
tracks and the laughter of a young couple with Dream Theater playing
loudly in his headphones. The brash strains of the electric guitar helped
him focus as he hastily drew the outlines of a cartoon character he came
up with earlier in the day. The idea came to him while getting coffee at
yellow and black, and the thought had stuck.
picture, the train came to a stop, and Valentine vaguely heard the ticket
collector yell “Malvern Station! All off for Malvern station!” Valentine
hastily stuffed the sketchbook into a pocket of his pea coat, and pulled
his scarf closer to his face as he stepped out of the train and into the
cold.
He never noticed that the sketchbook fell out of his pocket and
of the train car.
53. 52
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the following publications and contests where my pieces
have received prior recognition:
- “Breakfast at the Diner” appears in the 2014 edition of- “Breakfast at the Diner” appears in the 2014 edition of- “Breakfast at the Diner” appears in the 2014 edition of .
- “East and West” appears in the 2015 edition of .
-”This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us, Baby” and “Late
Night Television” appear in the 2016 edition of
