2) Submissions: The deadline for submissions to our big Spring edition of Pulp City, HCC’s literary magazine, is coming up in a few weeks. So… send submissions of stories, poems, plays, or whatever you have as a Word attachment to dchampoux@hcc.edu. We’re looking forward to seeing your stuff.

            I was standing outside my mother’s house when the most peculiar feeling took hold of me.  Through the large glass windows of the master bedroom I could see a strange shadow moving about.  I was watching the figure dance and spin in the dim lighting of mother’s scented candles, struck by awe, when it occurred to me that I hadn’t any recollection of how or why I was here- it had been years since I’d visited the tired old town where I grew up, and even longer than that since I had spoken with or seen the family that I left behind.  Yet here I was, standing on the crisply cut front lawn, my surroundings wrought with the sterile characteristics of suburban landscaping that so affected my distaste.  I marveled at the scene, as if unfamiliar with my family’s need to pursue this warped sense of what they called perfection.  In truth, I knew it all too well.

            I was compelled to enter, despite feeling nervous the moment I became aware that I did not know why I was here.  Curiosity pulled the very strings of my soul, lifting each heavy foot as I made my slow march toward the old house.

            Upon reaching the steps of the front porch, I was overwhelmed by a stabbing sensation in my ears, the result of an overpowering scream.  It was a woman’s voice, coming from somewhere inside.  My breathing quickened, heart started pounding.  As I felt the warmth of adrenaline coursing through my  veins, I did not worry whether my legs, shaking tremulously, would remain strong enough to support the weight of my body as I grabbed the doorknob and threw myself inside.

            I was greeted by pitch black darkness, but it didn’t matter; I still knew the layout of the house by heart.  It was only seconds before I found myself climbing the thickly carpeted steps to the upper floor, moving as quickly as I could to reach the master bedroom, where I was sure I would discover the source of distress, the cause of the scream that had shaken me to the core.

            I ran down the hallway, still blind in the darkness.  I felt my way along the walls, knocking picture frames to the ground as I passed on my way to the room at the end of the hall.  I placed my hand on the doorknob, and felt incredible heat on my skin.  With one quick and fluid motion, I swung the door open.

            “Welcome home,” moaned a low, dead voice.

In that very moment, I knew that I would never leave again.

It’s a form of control

it’s a tax, a toll

a yes or a no

but relax

it moves slow

Thirty days to pay

to find a way

to reach an agreement

that won’t let you fail quite yet

I feel like time poorly spent

fresh wine

more bitter than sweet

all my credit’s been lent

x dollars =

the illiterate and the scholars

debating the new cba

in meetings and court

a reply, a retort

concessions before the temporary stay

It’s one last lunge with my last gasp

body weary and voice a rasp

this flush is fading to bust

it’s up in the air if i’ll last

Drove myself deep down south

chain of cigarettes tethered to my mouth

I got lost on a road overgrown

but I fucked up so i can’t go home

(note: the image is from hickoksports.com)

The Apple Strudel Caper

The street buckled and writhed under my feet as I walked along a canal in the early morning hours.  Each cobblestone was a different color like the scales of a serpent and the canal water was black, yet I could see the faces of fallen angels or maybe mermaids within.  I moved away from the edge of the canal as the pale faces watched me with bemused expressions or regarded me with disdain.  Either way, I didn’t trust them.

     The mushrooms were the only thing I had eaten in 2 or maybe 3 days.  What day was it?  I had no way to be sure.  All I knew is that I was tripping and I felt like I was starving.  Funny thing about Amsterdam and knowing the right people, you could damn well starve to death, but you wouldn’t die sober.  I was broke, but my friends kept me full of beer, weed, and these damn mushrooms.

     I walked along a familiar street with buildings that seemed to tower upward and lean forward as if threatening to topple.  It was when I was passing one of my favorite bakeries that I stopped to take in the smell of fresh baked goods.  It was around 4:00 in the morning and I could see pastries in the window, but the smell, the smell had to be my mind playing tricks on me.  Through the glass of the front window I could detect the scent of fresh baked goods and it felt warm somehow.  A quick glance up and down the street confirmed I was alone in the world.  I don’t know what compelled me, but I decided that if the door to the bakery was open then it was a sign from whatever Gods were watching over me.  I secretly hoped it was Loki, Thor, and Odin.

     The door clicked and opened and I grinned slightly as I accepted this blessing of food from the Gods.  The place was dark, but had some moonlight coming through the front window that created an aura around the display of pastries and bread that rested on the glass shelves.  There it was, placed in the center and glorious in its essence; an untouched apple strudel in a pan.  Yes, the Gods were good to me, but wait, I’m certain the smell of these baked goods are stronger than it should be.  The smell that filled this place was the smell that only occurred when things were actually in the oven. 

     The voice behind me confirmed my suspicions that this was no chance of luck, but the door had been unlocked by the chefs who had arrived early in the morning to prepare for the day.  Curse you Loki.  The voice was loud and angry and jolted me into motion.  I choose the only possible course of action available to me as dictated by the circumstances and grabbed the strudel.  As I snatched my prize I was already heading back out the door in one fluid motion.  Well, under the influence of the mushrooms it felt like one fluid motion.  I don’t think I knocked anything over, anyway.  The faces in the water were laughing now, but the street submitted to lie still and let me run as fast as I could with the sound of shouts and foot steps behind me.  I took a left at the next intersection, the opposite way I needed to go, but that was ok.  Better to lead them away from my ultimate destination.

     I no longer heard the sounds of pursuit and had only walked a couple blocks when the police showed up.  I saw the glow of their headlights approaching the corner ahead and at this hour of the morning I had to assume it was the law, so I ducked into a stairwell and crouched low as they turned the corner and drove past.  Garbage cans, stairs, and alcoves became my friends and cover as I ducked and scurried along side streets and back alleys towards my home, a small attic loft affectionately called the Sky Hovel.

     This was bad.  I was a freak with a head full of dreadlocks colored with streaks of purple and black by an equally odd girlfriend.  I stood out in a crowd and here I was one guy on empty streets carrying an apple strudel under one arm.  Pretty easy to identify and no chance to blend in or claim innocence should I ditch the strudel, so I pressed on.  Somewhere in the distance I swear I could hear the theme song to Mission Impossible.  The series, not the crappy yet-to-be-made movies.

     Rather than make a direct line to my home, I looped around as the police  (now two patrols) drove in grid type patterns around me, scanning with spot lights as they slowly moved past.  Evidently, they were as determined to recover the strudel as I was to keep it.  They never saw me and I was soon at my street and a half a block away from my home.  My door was tucked in an alcove and being half way down the street it may as well been a mile, because there was nowhere along the way to hide should the police come into view.  I crouched and saw a cruiser move past on a street behind me, so I made my move.  I sprinted the whole way, the strudel tucked securely under my arm like I was a half-back running for the end zone.  I slipped into the darkness of the nook that contained my door with keys in hand.  Click, open, slam and I was inside with my back against the door gulping big breaths of air in between chuckling and sighs of relief.  I headed quietly up the four flights of stairs to my attic room and in a moment was sitting on my mattress with the strudel on my lap.  I cut a large square section of the apple strudel and began to devour my trophy.  Perhaps I had been wrong to curse Loki, for he got me home. 

The Other Woman

By Kara Fimian

The neighborhood I work in is one of these neighborhoods that I can picture myself living in, but not necessarily being ever able to buy. The houses are close enough to look into the windows of the next house. This must be why there are so many fences, so many curtains, and so many distractions in the house. Giant TV’s, stereos, jewelry boxes, new monthly furniture, fancy kitchen. The house is clean, but only because I clean it. The clothes hang on a clothesline I hung between the back porch and a baby swing set I hung myself. The parents want everything to be machine washed. But look how much money I save you on your electricity bill I say. They let me. Not that they care. They’re going on their third honeymoon at the moment. Which isn’t completely true. It’s more like they’re traveling on the same plane to Africa, but once they get there, they’re going to find new shiny distractions from another. Their kid isn’t allowed to come on honeymoons. Why? Because it’s an adult thing to do.

“If I was an adult, would mommy want me?”

A four year old should not ask that question. He should not ask whether or not it is ok to ask if his parents can stay with him, instead of having his nanny take care of him. All he knows about his nanny is that she loves him, cooks him strawberry shortcake, and is old enough to be his big sister. That’s why they picked me, someone in college still, to be a nanny. It’s better not to have someone older, more experienced. Wouldn’t want to get this older matron and his real mommy mixed up. Can’t have this nanny, this stranger, steal away her child. A child is supposed to love his mommy, even if she doesn’t love him enough to stay. 

“She’ll come back,” is all I can say to this child. All this powerful anger to someone who I never see. It’s this absence and abandonment that drives this baby to cry. I don’t like it. She’s horrible. Why can’t she just come back and be a real mom. I don’t care if it means I’ll be out of the job and can’t pay my way through the rest of my college life, just SOMEONE MAKE HIM STOP CRYING! Do it so I don’t feel like I have to cry too.

So I make him some shortcake, it’s his favorite comfort food. The strawberries are real, and there’s not a lot of sugar. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, but forgets that it’s a short sleeve. I take a wad of tissue out my back pocket and dangle them in front of his face. He leans over and blows.

“Done?”

“Uh-huh.”

So cute. So cuddly. I want to hug him so I do. He hugs me back. I must remind him of that other woman when I hold him. He loses his tension but regains it and starts crying again. I pick him up. He’s almost too big to do this, but I’m strong so I can. I remember the last time my dad picked me up.

Suddenly, the door opens.

Guess who’s back early.

“Mommy!” he yells. His feet peddle in the air even as I lower him to the floor. He runs and wraps his arms around her legs. She drops her suitcase on the couch beside her. The curtain is open on the window behind it.

“You know I don’t like these curtains open,” she says. “I don’t want my neighbor to look at the inside of our house!”

She detaches her son and pushes him to the side. She starts to ask me for a drink, remembers I’m still a minor, and then fixes it herself.

I put my baby boy to bed. I close his curtain, but only so he can sleep.

I go back downstairs.

“Where’s your husband?”

“Next flight.”

“Ah.”

Silence.

“Was he crying just now?” she asks.

I want to say that it’s because she’s never here. That he loves her so much but she hired someone else to do the caring for her. “He missed you.”

“Tell him I missed him too.”

Bitch.

She looks at me quietly over the rim of her wineglass.

“You must think I’m a bad mom.”

“No,” I say automatically.

Don’t get fired don’t get fired don’t get fired. Your little brother needs you…don’t get fired….

“I got you something in Africa.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Here.”

It’s a hair scrunchie. Probably handmade. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Silence

“Ma’am?” I ask.

Another sip. “Hmm?”

 “One time my mom yelled at me. She got really upset that I wouldn’t rake the leaves out front. I argued back. She slapped me.” no, I dont have any idea where this is coming from. “She…yelled at me to stop crying. But I didn’t. my heart hurt so much. m’am, that was two years ago. Your little boy is only four.”

 “Are you saying that I’m, hitting my child?!”

 “No, it’s just…”

 “Just what.”

 “You might as well be hitting him for all the pain you’re causing him.”

 I got fired that day. This was ten years ago. I only thought of it cause of the newspaper headline. My little brother, the one I’m not technically related to, just shot himself. He missed though, so only his cheek is messed up. The cheek that used to love holding in that shortcake. At first I just think I might make him some, and then I remember how I too abandoned him, by pushing the lines and getting fired. Should I visit him? Am I allowed? Will he remember me? Will he hate me? Will I be hurt by what I might find? Yes, I’ll visit him. I’m not like that other woman.

Here are the prompts we used… 

1)      First, look at this picture (by HCC alum Aliea Wallace: www.aliea.com) – interpret it in whatever way you want…

 2) Consider the following trigger words, and choose at least 2 to work with:

dark green, the smell of comfort food, a pocket, a shadowy figure, a

song from way back when, a new possibility

 This is not a quiz, so take the prompts and then go wherever you want to go with them. Get as creative as you want to.

Even though the contest part is now closed, if you try the prompts anyway, post your results in a comment…

Or… send to: dchampoux@hcc.edu

Subject Line: Flash Fiction Contest

We will judge the winners in the next week. Everyone will be notified by e-mail.  Good luck, and thanks again for being part of the contest.

I had a choice of three Bobs to haggle for (Arabs love to haggle)

        One of which I do not remember and the other one ended with Dylan.

I made the right choice with Marley and we headed out to a nearby village

                               Bob and I.

I had things to do and Bob would see that I got there,

        but it was a wasted trip that had us trekking back through the desert.

                  Annoyed and  rushing to Dahab I may have missed it on my own. 

I may have missed the purpose (the true purpose) of my trip

    And yet Bob would see that I didn’t.

          Sound echoed around us in a flowing rhythmic chant.

          It was Man’s voice at its most sincere that halted Bob.

                             And me. 

I rolled my eyes upward and with no lights the sky was too vivid to be real

        I saw things I had always seen up there

                 and yet they were nothing I ever saw before

I never prompted Bob to go prone, but he did

        And let me off.

We laid there together, my head against his side

               looking up at sights discovered and listening to that enchanted prayer.

     Bob seemed disinterested, but that was just his style.

Every decision at every crossroads had led me there to that perfect place and moment

                    in the middle of the desert

          Where life’s mysteries grew and overwhelmed me

then subsided as I no longer tried to know the answers,

          but rather grew to learn the questions.

     In the loneliness of that desert gazing up at the stars

An eternity of time in but half a night was gained.

                       God, I miss Bob.

(note: image is from mnzoo.org)

Is this just a game we play

to make it all seem fun?

I hate that hollow feeling I

get in my chest when I

realize how easily I can give up.

A painter paints my canvas grey

as I stand idly by.

I stand idly by too stoned

in a stupor too sweet

to surrender to the shadow of the sphinx.

It’s all just too much, you see

I don’t want to walk alone.

where’s your severed ear, can’t you hear?

I don’t want to walk alone

(note: image is from my.spill.com)

One small relevant break in time is all she has to force the fear out of her voice and make verbal the

words she has longed to pour into the open air.

Her skin crawls with doubt and indecision to make reality of what has been living its own life inside the

safe walls of her mind.

She can’t see clearly now.

All that once made its own sense and perfect pattern and can be fit together has become distant.

Unattainable.

She walks to the door; the door is white and hopeful.

The small brass handle feels cold on her shaking fingers sending an unwanted chill down her spine.

She prays it will open before she has to knock.

She hears footsteps and counts each step.

The steps suddenly take on a voice, speaking to her, telling her there is no turning back now.

She is touching the opportunity to open her heart one last time.

 

Easing back upon bed and pillow and

Fading in and away from attention

To the realm without the body

And awakening the inner soul to sleep …

The folly of a dream

Careens off memories of things

Lost without time to grasp

Any sensibility nor reason therein …

Patience is lost but steeped heavily

In deep sleep and unconsciousness,

But the folly of a dream

Is the aftermath remembered

Epimetheus-like, forgetful but

Charged ahead with the lull of

Waking, yet hope your dreams are

Clean from misery and horror …

No one ought to want the haunting

Of nightmares for no folly is

From those, just torment unknown

In the night or daylight hours in bed at home.

Note: picture is by the poet