The Write Room: Allison, Manarchy Magazine

The Write Room: Allison, Manarchy Magazine: http://manarchymag.com/core/2012/09/allison/author-manarchy   ALLISON   Ally fixed her scarf tight and waited in the cold for ...

Allison, Manarchy Magazine

http://manarchymag.com/core/2012/09/allison/author-manarchy

 

ALLISON

 

Ally fixed her scarf tight and waited in the cold for the 9:15 to the city. She pulled the collar up on her pea coat, tucked a lock of hair that had fallen behind her ear and adjusted her hat, an oversized dockhands cap she bought in Italy and thought of as, stylish. She checked her watch. It was late again, always late, and she felt the heavy shade of guilt. Twice a week she would go and twice a week it was late.

Dr. Throckmorton said she needed a hobby. But he never spoke of the frustrations in that. ‘Waiting for late trains. He knew what that would do to me. What could I expect from somebody with a name like that? A stupid name for a stupid man.’

Ally didn’t believe it was his real name either. But he knew things, secrets, lots of them. He knew everything.

Almost everything.

She bought a Nikon with good intentions, a worn paperback, which she only pretended to read to keep conversation away, tools of her new hobby. All she needed was for that damn train to be there on time, for once, just once, and she’d know it wasn’t her fault at all, and maybe she’d be alright.

Some months past, she couldn’t remember exactly when, but she had added an element to her assignments. She would wear only her bra, panties, garter belt and stockings under her coat. But now even the bra and panties were left behind. She liked the feel of the belt though, the nylons and straps on her thighs. She left that part out when she told the good doctor she’d taken up photography. She wanted to tell him. It was her favorite part and had become the reason for doing it at all. But she didn’t.

Now she worried about the summer. She felt her breast rub against the silk lining inside the heavy coat as she swung her shoulders. She looked up the tracks and checked her watch again, 9:20.

There was another person waiting as well but too far away to see, just a black figure, the shape of a man, small from her perspective. She wanted to apologize for the late train but she couldn’t. She imagined them together like lovers in a scene of an old movie but it was too sad and she waved the thought away.

She turned and watched her breath roll out into the cold night air. She had always loved street photography, but only the black and whites. They spoke to her. The ones she saw at the galleries captivated her: shots of street performers, the young and the old, forgotten and homeless, sleeping safe in their gutters. The hookers outside the Ritz downtown hung like vapors. The souls of the city can only be seen at night.

She’d watch and wait for hours and photograph them from shadowed distant alley ways and her heart would pound for the hunt, the shot. And then she’d hurry back for the west bound home, find an empty car where she could be alone with her images, touching herself to the slow rolling vibrations of the metra. But what would she do when summer came. She didn’t know.

She took a few steps toward the man and felt her thighs rub together. The quiet whisk of her nylons made her flush and warm. She turned back and walked the other way, feeling the same as her heels clicked on the concrete. She moved her hand in her pocket behind the paperback, through a hole she had cut there and touched herself as she walked.

‘Oh, this damn train. What’s wrong, where is it?’

‘They must know about me,’ she worried. ‘They must have saw me and radioed ahead or something. Maybe the police were on their way. They would lock me away again, for good this time. They would be more doctors, question and judgments, shit.’

She stopped walking, let out a sigh and noticed her toe had crossed the yellow safety line, that sickening yellow line. ‘Stay behind,’ it said in letters large enough to see from another world. ‘Stay behind?’ She looked around in the darkness for an enforcer but there was no one there. She stepped to the edge of the platform, standing full in the caution way and touched herself again, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

 A small pat of snow rested and melted on her warm cheek. She put her tongue out to catch the another, but it never came.

She looked back at the far away man and wondered if he knew. When the spring came and the nights grew warmer, he would. He would see. The whole world would see. She couldn’t wear her coat in the summer and she couldn’t go back to those dreary clothes, god awful dress’s and slacks. She couldn’t bear the thought of it. What would be the point? The photos meant nothing. She looked past him and down the tracks into the darkness. Nothing.

Her mother had notice the talent in her images. First she was shocked and angry but showed them to a gallery owner and they offered her a show, her own exhibit. Ally didn’t take it as compliment and wanted nothing to do with it. She would have to explain herself, and she couldn’t do that. She knew then that the photography was not the real hobby at all. But she knew that before, even when she was a little girl. Her earliest memories were of that self awareness and it was at its strongest in public theatre.

She checked her watch again, 9:22.

She turned, stepped back away from the edge and under the light of an iron lamp. She watched the man checking his own watch and looking down the tracks. She watched for a long time as he shuffled his feet. The urge to apologize almost brought her to tears. She slid a hand into her coat and squeezed her breast out of defiance, kneading herself, daring for him to guess her secret.

She reached into her camera bag with the other hand and pressed the shutter. The motor drive fired, capturing only the black silk inside and she closed her eyes and tried to expose her thoughts on the film. The sound and feel of the camera made her breath quicken and her inside hand moved from her breast and down passed her garters as she thought of the dark stranger.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

She stopped just before. ‘Later,’ she thought, placing her hands on her cold cheeks. She slid them back in her pockets, rocking back on her heels; she looked down at her open toed Prada’s. A gift from mother, like the doctor, like the camera, like the coat, like the hat…like the late train.

She checked the time, 9:25.

She didn’t know how much more she could stand, this waiting. ‘It’s so rude,’ she thought. ‘Why would they lie to her? People always lied, everybody.  And what if it was early and she’d already missed it. What if… what if, it never came? Somebody should do something about it. They can’t just leave people standing in the cold like that. So wrong.’

“I bought a ticket goddamn it,” she said out loud but didn’t mean to.

She put her hand to her lips turned her back on the dark man. She caught her own musky scent from her fingers and kept her hand there for a while, breathing in deep. She placed the tip of her tongue on her middle finger, and then closed her lips around it pulling it out slowly. ‘What is wrong with me?’

Pulling her sleeve back she checked her watched again, 9:27.

She walked back to the edge of the tracks and looked and watched and waited. ‘How would she get her pictures if it never came?’ Her eyes moved from the lonely empty tracks to the man. He was preparing to light a cigarette and she pulled her camera and shot from the hip as he brought the flame to his face. ‘That’ll be good.’

When summer came she would have to adjust or abandon her little hobby altogether. She didn’t know and couldn’t think of any other way. It brought her to a panic whenever she thought of it. It was all she had, all her life. Twenty five years old. She couldn’t stop now. Her entire life was made up around it. It was the best thing ever and she loved it so.

A voice like from an electronic god echoed from the black sky. The 9:15 was now boarding.

‘Boarding where, Milwaukee?’ Another lie.

She watched the great light come around the bend and flood the darkness. Her heart began to pound. The warning whistle made her jump breaking the perfect silence and sending chills across her body and through her soul like it always did. She looked at her watch, it was 9:30. ‘What’s the point? What’s the use?’ The approaching engine made her body shake and her nerve ending pulsed with excitement.

She felt her mind dizzying as the long phallic engine threatened to pass her by. She stepped into the caution yellow and watched. Her breath quickened. ‘Coming too fast,’ she thought. ‘Stop, oh please stop for me.’ The whistle blew again and took her breath away.

Summer was coming like a rushing late train and there was nothing she could do about it. She set her camera on the platform, rushed to unbutton her coat and threw it off in a slump of wool to the side. She put her hands up in the light of the train. The man with the cigarette had finally noticed her.

The stop whistle filled the cold night air and rushes of hopeless melancholy filled her over.

It had started to snow and she wanted it to stop so badly. She put her arms out, closed her eyes and stepped off the platform into its drenching light.

GET IT DONE On Writing and Publishing

 

I got this, thing about advice or opinion columns, because…well, they’re mostly bullshit. So as you might be wondering. ‘What are you doing then, ain’t this one of those?’ No it isn’t, not really. It’s more about getting on, getting it done, they way I see it anyway. Doesn’t mean it’s right or wrong or the only way.

Writing advice columns usually come from some blowhard you’ve never even heard of, like me. I mean, ya rarely read advice from best selling writers, hardly ever, and when you do its like, ten simple rules or something like that and they’re outta there, back to doing what they do, part of which of course involves ignoring most of those rules.

I could have, maybe should have, titled this piece, “What I Don’t Know.” But I was worried that might turn into some sort of all consuming black hole to which there would be no escape and just run on and on forever. Or, “What I think.” But that would imply that somebody gave a shit about what I think or that it mattered and I don’t wanna give that impression. So I’m just writing a little article on what I’ve learned along the way in this little writer’s career project, and what I believe so far.

So you think you can write a book? That’s cool. You wanna live forever, literally speaking, be rich and famous and adored by millions for the brilliant mother fucker you are? Great. Hey, let’s be honest, those are all worthy and honorable goals. Not realistic but still a good jumping off point, and who gives a shit about realistic. No realist has ever done anything really all that cool anyway so don’t worry about that. It’s the dreamers, when put into action, who change the world Maybe this article will help you with some of those delusions of grandeur though. Maybe not.

But maybe you don’t have a degree in Creative Writing, English Lit, or not even that all valuable MFA, right. Nothing? That’s alright, neither do I and probably all for the better because the writer in you hasn’t been built by somebody else. You’re not bogged down with formulas, methods, styles, usages and all the other shit they tell you you must or must not do. Hey, who knows, you might even have talent that you’re not aware of, and everybody knows talent blows that other stuff all to hell anyway, every time, sorry, it just does.

You are free. Free and enjoy it while you can, all that shit can get in your way later.

I’d been writing for most all of my adult life, some of it good, some of it bad. You’re gonna have that too. I stopped for about a decade or a little more and when I took it up again, I did so with sole intention of publishing a collection of selected stories and poems I call, The Lost Creek Journal. Well I did that but discovery took hold. I wanted to write a novel then, a book. I wanted to write a goddamn “Great American Novel.” Pretty lofty, huh? Well you have to shoot for something.

 So I started in and had no idea what it was about, what was going to happen, how it was going to end, nothing. Just started writing and let the power that be, be. That was Clovis Point, and it quickly became apparent that it felt as natural as breathing. It also became apparent that I seriously needed to brush up on my basic English, punctuation, spelling and usages. Either way it went along fine and is a good book in my opinion, not bad for a first effort. I polished the hell out of it for editors and submissions, or at least thought I did. You have to remember, my first book, and relying heavily on, ‘that’s the editor’s job, I’m a writer, an artist, I don’t need to do that.’ Ok, that’s very stupid. Don’t do that. Got it? You need to double space that bitch, triple if need be and go over and over and over it, word by word, line by line until your brain is ready to explode and you’re ready to puke at the sight of semi colon, and you’re still gonna miss a bunch a stuff. You are.

I’m gonna jump ahead here; rejections. You’re gonna get em, it’s gonna happen. And if you doing your job submitting, you’re gonna get a lot of em but no reasons to freak or stop writing. Deal with it, part of the deal. It’s not the end of the world and it doesn’t mean you suck. Well, it might, but probably not.

 So there I was sinking in rejections and beginning my second book, Sebastian Cross, because along with that discovery I was speaking of came the fact that I had more I wanted to say. And that’s what writers do when they finish a book, they write another. Also a kinda lunk headed determination that they weren’t getting rid of me that easy had set in. I was not going away. Cross is a damn good book and one I’m proud of. A big undertaking for me too, almost a 150.000 words and it came fast and furious and my creative cylinders were all firing, engine redlined and I was really in the story, like walking around in there and knowing the characters, settings and everything, like reporting or taking dictation. It was a very cool experience that I really haven’t felt before or since. But that’s ok, I don’t think you really need to be that intimate with the story every time.

And in hind sight, as a writer I had not developed enough for book like this, a complex, conceptual epic on art, culture and all the shit that’s wrong with the world. But man it felt right and I wonder sometimes if I’d written it ten or twenty years from now, what it could have been. But I didn’t, so moving on. I got rejections on Sebastian Cross. I got interest too, wow, nice, some compliments and yeah, even a couple offers for full manuscripts. Things are getting exciting. Yeah?

No, no, slow down, keep in check, in the end, just teasers and more rejections. Fuck rejection. It’s obvious when they come so fast that they’re not even reading it and that’s mostly my fault for not polishing it up enough, not targeting the right publishers, and a variety of other reasons of professionalism. They want stuff perfect. Get that through your head. Perfect. Never mind their lack of spelling and grammar in their rejections, your submission had better be ready for print. That’s all my fault. The part that’s not is, I don’t know any publishers, editors, nobody’s ever heard of me and I have no degrees, qualifications, no…resume, for lack of a better word. I have nothing to market, or bring to the table. So who the hell would want to invest their time and money in me? Well you know the answer to that.

I should talk real quick on literary agents. I don’t spend a lot time submitting to agents, because most of the really good agents are not taking submissions. A lot writers starting out will disagree with me on this. They say things like, “they’re the gate keepers, only they can get you a great book deal,” and these things are true, somewhat. But like I said, the good ones are busy with marketable writers, proven writers. A very small percent of debut books get through that gate. It does happen but lightning strikes wherever it pleases.

I hear things like, “I finally have an agent and he or she loves my book, my voice, my writing. They get it.” And hey, that’s great, wonderful, but first and for most, for me anyway is, can they sell the fucker? Do they have the muscle, the connections? Are they “closers” or clowns, just lovers of the written word? We’ve all seen shitty movies, read awful books off the bestseller list. Why? Because some bad ass agent knew their job, somebody that could sell tobacco stock to the American Cancer Society and sleep like a baby at night, that’s why. That’s the agent for me. That’s the one I want. Not the one who “loves my voice.” Although that would be plus too, if nothing else but for my own ego.

I’m one who believes you get what you play for. You have to earn an agent, unless you have an uncle, or a guy who knows a guy or something like that.

 I don’t need an agent, yet. But I do submit to about ten of the biggies.

Okay, that wasn’t real quick, but that’s how I feel about new writers seeking agents. Writing’s like any other business, you have to build it from the ground up and a shitty agent could do you more harm than good. Stephen King never had an agent until he amassed well over a million in sales, mostly for the publisher, but hey we all gotta learn our lessons, even Stevie boy. Elmore Leonard says, just write, build a body of solid work and sooner or later and agent will come knocking. He’s been around the block a time or two. So as you’ve probably guessed, I don’t worry about agents too much.

Enough about that.

Where was I? Oh yeah, well I self published Clovis Point and Sebastian Cross. I did reject a couple of shit offers on Cross, but anyway we’re off and running, people are buying the books, very few, but they’re also sharing and talking and I’m building a readership I guess. People I don’t know, from around the globe are digging the word, the stuff. I’m doing some interviews, guest blogs, shit like that. The readers love it , they don’t care who publishes it… Ah…wait, but the industry does. You know, the NY Times, those so called professional book reviewers, book stores, and they’re getting a lot better about it. But other writers, some anyway, still act as if you have a disease because you self published. Even though some of the best are doing it and have for centuries. Some think It surely must be shit if nobody will publish it, and that can be true but it can also be just plain bullshit. It’s a little like throwing out the baby with bath water. And fuck them anyway, I’m a writer, I write. It’s what I do. I don’t care what they think. I’m gonna get this book to whoever wants to read it, bottom line.

Okay.

 I begin and finish my third novel, Heartland Gothic with the full intention of writing something as mainstream and friendly as I possibly can. I’m gonna play the game. The masses need spoon fed? Fine. But wait, something happens. That realism shit I was talking about, in form of self realism sinks into the story. It’s not main stream. It’s not friendly. In fact it’s harsh and gritty and spiteful and I realize I was trying to be something I’m not and my “muse” or whatever you call it didn’t like that and it showed. I went with it anyway, the story, it took my hand and said, ‘this is the way we’re going.’ And as any writer knows, the story is always right.

Heartland Gothic.

I think my character and dialogue development had advanced a lot in three or four years since the first book. I could see and feel it, and although I still didn’t feel it was my best work, and here comes some of that, what I don’t know shit. I got several offers, more than ever. That’s not a lot, but still, makes a guy feel good, like he’s on to something. I didn’t know that these characters and their struggles in Heartland Gothic were representing attributes that were so relatable, identifiable to so many people. I chose and took one of those offers and regretted it from the get go, didn’t do enough homework on the publisher and things started going left instead of right. Editing was a mess, release dates came and went, promised marketing was nonexistent. I cut and bailed, took my book with me and published it myself, again. Some would even called that a “causality,” but it wasn’t, not at all, and I’m glad I did. So far it’s out sold all my other books and pushed the sales of those previous titles up a bit, which is good. Right? Yeah, it is. I’ve gotten some just amazing heartfelt comments from readers of all walks of life, and if I haven’t thanked those people I’m doing it now. Thanks, really, happy to oblige and thrilled that you found something there that spoke to your heart, soul or inner child or whatever. Man, that’s what my favorite books do for me and that’s great. That’s the whole fucking point right there. Thanks. Thank you.

Fast forward, not that fast, not that far, late winter, early spring, 2012, just a few months after Heartland Gothic’s release. It occurred to me that some of my favorite books were less than a hundred pages; heavy little gems that said a lot in short, simple, easy to read prose where the real story marinated in the mind and soul as a massive life changing epic in a hundred or less pages. I wanted that. I wanted one of those.

Driving Alone, the concept, title, anyway came to me from something said on a TV show describing a certain kind of instrumental rock music. But having driven alone, many miles, many years, I instantly got what they were describing and I took it and ran. I mean what better title for a “think book” than that? Of course the stories never end up with what you first envisioned, and that’s fine. And I got grimaces and winces from other writers too when I was finish and told them, yeah, only 27000 words, three characters in the whole thing.

“27, oh man, that’ll be tough sell,” they said.“Only three charcters?”

“Yep, two more than intended, but yeah, 3, two really because ones just clerk in a short scene.”

“Right. Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Driving Alone is a modernist southern gothic tale of 29 year old fuck up who has pushed his luck a little to far and is forced to get outta dodge. He soon realizes that the world out there is very lonely place for hometown anti heroes and men that are the use to crutches of attention and familiar surroundings. He also unknowingly has a debt pay, one that he can’t run away from and beautiful mysterious hitchhiker appears to remind, judge and collect. The devil must always have his due.

I finished it in about three months and figured it would not be of the word count attractive to a publisher, but I submitted it around anyway, I liked it, and so did some publishers, press’s, and I got me some offers, yes, I did. Some I wasn’t thrilled about, some I was, so I corresponded and took note of whose books were doing what and who was getting back to me and who was blowing me off for days and weeks. I had been keeping an eye on Blank Slate Press for a few months after I submitted to them. I had heard good things about them and their books were getting attention which means, for a small press, they we’re good at what they do, and professional. They weren’t just fucking around collecting change from ebooks and signing every author that came their way. They were building a reputation on quality, and I liked that.

The night they brought home the Bill Fisher Award for best first novel, Fred Venturini’s The Samaritan, was the same night they emailed me from NYC saying that they wanted Driving Alone.

I didn’t have to think about it very long, but I pretended too for a couple days anyway.

I signed the contract a couple a months ago; it’s in the final stages of editing and formatting, reviewed a couple of cover designs last night. And although I’m kinda used to disappointment, I’m feeling pretty good about it all, but keeping expectations low. It has been a little tough getting used to turning some control over. I’ll admit that. I’ve gotten so use to calling the shots on my own work that it’s hard for me to trust or keep from voicing what I think is important about the book, the characters, the readers and so on. Nobody knows the book better than I do at this stage is how I feel. That may or may not be true. Time will tell on that. Later down the road, like my previous books and projects, I probably won’t even recognize it as mine. And some point you just can’t own it all to yourself. It’ll be a living breathing thing of its own. It’ll belong to all of you in one way or another, as it should.

I’ve gotta a couple short stories coming out soon and I’m working on new book, The Rain King. Another fitting title I think.

So we’ll chat again soon, have a good one, and if you’re a writer expecting advice, sorry, don’t go that. I have none, other than keep writing the way you want to, and write often and for god sakes just get it out there in the best shape you can, because all that matters in the end is the story, and the reader. None of that other who’s who bullshit matters at all. Follow your heart. Listen to that little voice, the nagging one, that’s what you should do, so go do it. Get it done. Unless that little voice is telling you to kill your family, neighbor, or boss. Probably shouldn’t do that.

My long term goal is creating a bestseller (I can hear you, don't laugh) and film adaptaion of one or more of my stories.

But until then

Look for Driving Alone, coming out around November 2012 from Blank Slate Press.

http://www.amazon.com/Kevin-Lynn-Helmick/e/B003IR7PU0/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

http://blankslatepress.com/bsp-blog/

The Write Room: THE EXPATRIOTS

The Write Room: THE EXPATRIOTS: Good morning kids. Here I offer with your morning coffee a short story that I've had around for, oh, at least a couple a years now I guess...

THE EXPATRIOTS

Good morning kids.

Here I offer with your morning coffee a short story that I've had around for, oh, at least a couple a years now I guess.
I kind of collect them in preperation for a book of shorts one day. I only submitted this once, for a contest once that it did not win or even get an honorable mention. I think the whole Arizona imigration thing was a little too hot  of a topic at the time and maybe this a was something the publication felt they could do without. Or maybe it just sucked that bad, eithier way it wasn't as cuddly and cozy as the winning entry of that contest in that particulair publication.
And it was the first and last contest I submitted to.

THE EXPATRIOTS

            Water has memory. It can change the present, but always remembers where it’s been. And like people; it tends to go where it knows. Tyler Hawk pulled off his glove and cupped a hand full of icy water from the stream running wild around his boots. Billy lit a cigarette and said something. Billy and Hawk had met working for Tom Kelly back in Brownsville. That was home to Billy Cooper. Hawk was there for another reason, a mission of his own, and now that it was done they would make their way through the Great Divide and up to Canada. Billy kept talking but Hawk listened to the water. Someone had been there…recently.

            Hawk stood and pulled his side arm just as a crack echoed though the mountains. He kneeled back down, turned and looked at Billy, his eyes wide, one hand on the strap of his pack and the other on his rifle. Hawk said, “Coop… get the fuck down.” The kid didn’t move except for a shifting of his eyes and the cigarette trembling between his lips. “Billy?”  

            Hawk knew and rolled away behind a rock the instant another shot struck in the stream just ahead of where his feet had been. The kid fell lifeless and face first into the creek. Hawk climbed up into a crevice and cocked the automatic and made his way to the top of the creek bank and waited there in the snow.                                                                                             

            He had rolled out of sight in a way that looked more like a fall and would bring the shooter in to examine his kill. He held his breath and waited. And when he heard the soft crunch of snow under a very careful step he turned and fired, pop, pop, pop. All three shots were kill shots but he ran up on the fallen man and put a final through his head.

            He pulled the assassins rifle away and knelt down and examined the man: his boots, his clothes, and his weapon. He looked at Billy’s body and let out a broken sigh. He thought of the days leading up to this and the ones that lay ahead: hard days and long nights and like the water, he knew those days must run their course. He shouldn’t have let the kid come. “Fuck.” He cursed the unforgiving sky.

            Tom Kelly’s a Marine veteran well into his fifties but could have passed for older. His sun burned and wind weathered face looked like the wood he often worked with and except for an occasional smile had the same physical properties. He sat at his desk gently tugging a rubber band on his wrist that came from that morning’s blueprint he’d gone over with the crew before they headed out. In his office loft east of Brownsville he sat at his desk and studied the men sitting before him.

            Woody Wilson, a Texas Ranger and a friend of Tom’s. He’d been invited to this meeting by Tom and unbeknownst to the federal man, Ray Steele, who had showed up on a job site asking questions, and that made Tom uncomfortable and now he was back.

            Tom wasn’t the kind of man who liked explaining himself and he especially didn’t care much for the government asking him to, but he’d play along, for a while anyway.

            Tom took a deep breath and reached for his coffee. “Not sure what I can do for you Mr. Steele. I told you all I know the other day.”

            “Well…I just needed to get as much information as I could. You know how it is, paper work and all.” He smiled in a friendly way and Tom looked at Woody over the rim of his cup as Steele continued. “When was the last time you saw Tyler Hawk?”

            “Like I said before, last Friday… gave him his check and that was that.”

            “Did you know he was wanted for a war crime?”

            “Nope. He never talked about his military service and I never asked.”

            “He’s all over the news Mr. Kelly. Hawk’s Special Forces, AWOL and unhinged. You just hire anyone without a background check?”

            Tom took a drink of his coffee and said, “I don’t watch the news, and I’ll hire anyone I damn well please.”

            Ranger Wilson adjusted his hat and prepared to speak but Steele quickly jumped in. “Of course, it’s your right. What about Angel Medina?

            Wilson interrupted, “what about him? State of Texas is working on that along side with Mexico. Are ya here for Medina?”

            “No… I’m not,” said Steele. “I’m just trying to build a mental profile of Tyler Hawk.”

            “Well put this in yer profile,” Wilson said. “Angel Medina was dangerous individual and yer not gonna get much sympathy from anybody around these parts for him turnin dead. He would’a ended that way sooner or later anyway.”

            Steele adjusted his chair sideways and looked at Wilson. “Are you justifying the murder of a man Mr. Wilson?”

            “Medina was not man. He was drug lord and a cold blooded piece a shit, and if’d a had the reasons Hawk had, I’d a killed him too.”

            Tom shook his head in agreement and said, “Angel was a dead man long before Tyler got here. It was only a matter of time. You should know that Mr. Steele; in fact I think you know a lot more than yer lettin on. So what the hell do you want? You didn’t come all the way down here from Washington without knowing about all of this, all of us.

            Steele said, “true… Medina was wanted by the F.B.I. for trafficking, wanted by the state of Texas for the kidnapping of Hawk’s daughter…Mia is it? And he was wanted in Mexico for murder as well here. But everybody deserves a fair trial, don’t they Mr. Wilson?”

            Wilson smiled. “Now if I didn’t know better I’d say you were insulting my professional intelligence. Medina was an illegal, shouldnt’a been in here in the first place. He was also a goddamn predator. I think, unless ya have anymore questions for Tom, that we should just finish this up at state level Mr. Steele, and let him get on with his business.”

            “I don’t mean any professional disrespect Mr. Wilson, but Illegal immigration is a federal matter, federal law.”

            “Is it now?” Wilson said. “Do ya even have any idea of the illegal traffic coming across the border everyday? Have you ever seen twenty, thirty Mexicans crammed in five foot uhaul and left in the desert to fry after their life savings have been stolen by a coyote? It ain’t a pretty site. Thousands of people are coming across that border everyday and every night, some are good people who want a better life but some… are not, some, are predators, murderous, vicious animals with no respect for human life and they don’t give a good god damn about federal law or anything else. Don’t come down here and tell me about my home son. That girl a Hawks is back now, safe, and the world is free of one less asshole, federal law had nothing to do with that.”

            Steele looked at Tom Kelly and changed the subject. “Another employee of yours, a parole violator,” he thumbed through a folder and pulled the name up with his eyes, “William Bradley Cooper, also missing. Seen him lately?”

            “Billy Cooper comes and goes,” Tom said. “He’s a local. He’s a good kid, a little wild but he’ll be alright. He’ll be back sooner or later. Probably on a bender south of the border somewhere.”

            Woody Wilson’s eyes never left the side of Steele’s head, and if it bothered Steele in the least, he wasn’t letting it show.

            “Do all of your employees just disappear like that?” Steele said.

            “No, but it happens in this business. I’ve got a check here in my drawer I’ve been holding for six months for a guy I heard moved on to California. Coop’ll turn up…Hawk won’t.”

            Ranger Wilson stood and adjusts himself in a way that indicated the conversation was over. Steel stayed seated and flipped through his folder pretending to search for something. Steele knew Hawk was gone and could be anywhere in the world by now. He had suspected he slipped into Mexico but the closeness of that made it seem unlikely. And the possibilities of where he was heading was even more troubling.

            Woody Wilson handed him his card and said, “I’ll be in town here a few days Steele, if ya need anything from me. After that I’ll be at that number in Austin.” Steele took the card and looked at Tom.

            “Is there anything else?” Tom asked.

            “Hawks’ wife and daughter, we haven’t been able to find them.”

            “Probably at her mothers…Amarillo. Don’t know her too well, only met her couple a times.”

            “They’re not in Amarillo, we checked.”

            “That all Mr. Steele?” Woody said.

            “Just one more question. Mr. Kelly, did you know Angel Medina had kidnapped Tyler Hawks’ daughter when you hired him?”

            Tom Kelly looked at Steele for a long time and Ranger Wilson shuffled his boots and Tom understood. “I don’t follow the activities of people like Medina,” Tom said. “No I didn’t. Hawk told me he’d gotten discharged and needed work, that’s all.”

            “If ya’d like to know more about Medina Mr. Steele, I got a whole file cabinet on him up in Austin,” Wilson said. “Maybe we could talk about the kidnapping rate along the border. Maybe we could talk about immigration law too…the federal one that is.”

            Steel finally looked at Wilson with contempt. He stood and suddenly he was no longer a bookish irritant but instead, his physic suggested a man who had spent very little time at a desk or with books. “I don’t think that will be necessary”

            “I didn’t think so, but I thought I’d offer,” Wilson smiled. “What branch, exactly, did you say you were with Mr. Steele?”

            “If you hear from Hawk Mr. Kelly, you can call me at this number.” He handed the card toward Tom to no response, and after a few seconds he laid it on the desk. Woody picked it up and looked at it, a government logo, name and number, nothing else.

            “I won’t hear from him,” Tom said. “But if I did…I wouldn’t tell ya.”

            “Mr. Kelly...you might think Tyler Hawk is somebody you know, but I can assure you he isn’t. He is an international fugitive. He is a threat to national security. He’s highly trained, very dangerous and we have reasons to believe he’s planning an act of domestic terrorism. I would hate to see you in any trouble Mr. Kelly, because I really don’t think you deserve it.”

                         “Domestic terrorism,” Tom said, stood and shook his head. “Aint that just something. Why do I get the feeling Hawk won’t be getting one of them, fair trials? Mr. you are so looking in the wrong place. I put a guy to work. I needed another hand and he needed a job, and that’s about the extent of it. I live with threat every day. This community lives with threat and fear. Every day the drug cartel’s comin’ closer and closer to that border. A house full of folks was machine gunned to death just the other day in broad day light, not more than hundred yards from where my grandson gets on his school bus. People are missing, people are dead and it keeps getting worse. The border’s a war zone from here to California. Where is your federal law when it comes to the people of Brownsville, or Tucson, or San Diego, where’s the Mexican law when it comes to those folks. And ya come down here…stand in my office and threaten me? Ya come down here looking for a man whose served his country and was discarded and thrown away? A man, for all I know may have done something right, may have done something you should’a done. Ya damn right I don’t know Tyler Hawk, not after people like you got done with him.” Tom took a deep breath and steadied his nerves and finished up with, “Mr. Steele…get the hell off my property.”

            “Take it easy Tom,” Wilson said. Wilson hadn’t heard Tom Kelly say that many

words in the forty plus years, they’d know one another that long and longer.

            Mr. Steele looked at Tom, cold and emotionless. “So you did know about Tyler Hawk? Mr. Kelly…are you a racist, Mr. Kelly?”

            Tom Kelly grew up on the border he lived on both sides during times of love and generosity among the two cultures that blended into a kinda harmony of language, food, religion and family. Times when he played as a child south of the border and even his own kids played with all the other kids, before it all began.                                                    

            At some point in time, it seemed like a door had closed and another had opened, and his world had went out and suspicion and hatred and something dark and unrecognizable stepped in. He was tired and old, and helpless in watching everything he loved get ruined, run over, run down and nobody seemed to care enough to do anything about it, and it made him wonder if he, himself even did, and that made him bitter.        

            He glared at Steel and said, “conseguir la cogida de mi tierra. Is that clear enough for ya?”

            “It is Mr. Kelly, just call me if you hear from Tyler Hawk, You’re not aware of what this man is capable of. I’m not here to cause you problems, I’m not, but maybe I can prevent some.”

            “Thank you Mr. Steele,” Wilson said and extended his hand toward the door.

Steele picked up his folder and brief case and walked out. The two men watched from a window as Steele walked toward his car and stopped for an instant like he forgot something. He looked around the yard and continued into the black suburban and drove away.

            “What do ya think Tom?”

            “I think…we ain’t heard the last of him, but I doubt we’ll ever see Hawk again.”

            “Tom did you know about Hawk when ya put him on?”

            “Yeah I knew… I knew he was coming and I knew what for. And I knew he wouldn’t stick around long.”

            “You know Tom…you can get rid a one Angel Medina and another one’ll pop right up in his place.”

            “Yeah, I know that too. But who am I to git in the way of progress?”

            Woody looked out the window and laughed a little, but not because it was funny. It had been a long time since anybody laughed in Brownsville without that uncertain hesitation. “Is there anything else I can do for ya Tom?”

            Tom shook his head and thought of the days leading up to this and the ones that lay ahead. And like the water, he knew those days would run their course. He looked out the window and regretted and silently cursed the unforgiving sky. “No Woody,” he said. “I sure wish there was though.”

            “So do I Tom…so do I. Say hello to Maria and the kids for me.”

The Write Room: Garden Party

The Write Room: Garden Party: Well the time has come again, and it comes more often than every five years, but those little timely reminders of how old I'm getting are co...

The Write Room: The Collector-a flash of fiction

The Write Room: The Collector-a flash of fiction: Flash fiction is something I don't have a hell of lot of interest in, but a lot of people do, so I pump it out once in a while has a kind of...

The Collector-a flash of fiction

Flash fiction is something I don't have a hell of lot of interest in, but a lot of people do, so I pump it out once in a while has a kind of mental calisthenic. I very rarely share it or do anything with it. But I have even less interest in blogging so it just might be the perfect vehical for my flash attempts.

THE COLLECTOR

The land was his by the way of a will. It was all that he had; the land, the trees, and the artifacts that had been collected by himself and descendants and thought of as a kind of pension. A menagerie of obsessions that decorated the acreage and cluttered the halls of the home where he was raised and now just fodder of ever lessening value.

He locked the doors of the car, coughed till his lungs restricted, choked and rolled the windows tight. He’d been offered great sums of money from the advancing population. Time and again they came with their check books, blue prints and plans for development. He turned them away.

He felt the heat and heard the cracking of fallen timber in the smoke and flames outside. He’d been ordered to evacuate. He’d been given orders over the years on other things too and ignored them as well. It was his land and he’d do as he pleased.

He heard the sound of the tires on the car exploding, one by one and smelled the stench of burning rubber and wires. He had no wife or children to speak of, or would speak of him and he kept to himself, his junk and integrity.

He removed his fingers from the steering wheel and with it came strings of plastic and flesh. They said the fire was coming his way and he thought if it did, it would be his to own as well.

Garden Party

Well the time has come again, and it comes more often than every five years, but those little timely reminders of how old I'm getting are coming at me from friends and barely friends from the shadowed misty past that yet another class reunion as at hand. Thirty years...shit.

I've never gone to one, not one and it isn't because I don't think I'd enjoy it, I'm sure I would. I just don't quit have the desire to drive 4 hours and talk about schools days, most of which I skipped or was too fuckin stoned to know that I was there anyway.

There's even been suggestions that I read from one my books. Right, like that'll entice me. No way could I compete with REO Speedwagon, Journey ballads and the class dorks' new Russian wife he just bought. No way, nor would I wanna try.

Don't get me wrong, there are people that I'd love to see again and share a laugh with, most of which I'm still friends with and chat with often now thanks to social media. I'm talking to friends I thought I'd never see again. Pretty cool.

My wife says I lack sentiment. I deny this observation because I do reflect often on those tender years of growing, learning, good times and bad. But I'll admit I spend a lot more time thinking of the future that I do the past.

Nostalgia's great and healthy in small doses. The Human spirit, for some reason and to a great extent is powered by nostalgia. I don't know why, but people always have the notion that the past is the place of better times. "Good ole days" they say. And some of them were and some of them were not.

She says, my wife, "There's not a nostalgic bone in your body." Again, not true. I don't know if nostalgic is the right word, but I remember as I write this, hay rides being pulled far to fast by a 4x4 in the cool autumn nights down gravel roads and across the county. Keggers around a bon fire, drinking till dawn, skipping school and bumper skiing. One time when three of us almost drowned in Lake Wilderness by tipping a canoe in April. That was but one very close call, very close. And certain faces that did not survive those years and risky activities.

I'd love to do it all over again, I would, but its already been done, so, to quote Jack Sparrow, 'bring me that horizon.'

Now days when I see or hear the word, reunion, strangely enough what pops into my brain is the Rick Nelson song, Garden Party, and the line in particular, 'if yer gonna play a garden party, I wish you a lot a luck, but if memories were all sang. I'd rather drive a truck.'
So to all of you from 82, who are still truckin, I can't think of anybody else I would have rather shared it with. You guys are all aces in my book. And from this days perspective I wish ya a lotta luck, love, happiness and good fortune and if our paths meet again I hope that it be like accidental ships in the night and in some far away point on the globe, because those encounters make for the best reunions.

Have a great time and raise a glass for me, I'm fine and still suckin air. I'll be thinking of you as I do more than you know.

A Good Cafe, Delmar

Several have asked about my recent reading at the Mashuggah Cafe in St, Louis last week, so I thought I'd drop a line and share my perspective of the crime scene at Noir at The Bar. Now mind you the reading part was less important than one might think in comparison to actual space and time occupied at the little cafe on Delmar in the University City part of town that night.
I should point out first, that I had my reservation about going at all. I don't like readings. They're usually so fucking pointless and boring. But this one seemed more along the lines of, I don't know, "my kinda folk," and that's what convinced me to do it. Still, the reading part nagged me, worried me a little, not fear of public speaking but a worry along the lines of lost in translation. Something changes when fiction is read aloud, a certain dynamic, or delivery that might best be suited best for actors rather than writers, Never the less, I went anyway, for reasons, at first, selfish, I suppose, like any other unknown writer would justify the acts of performing and wagging their little tail for the treat of applause and acceptance. "I need this, it'll be good for me, get out there and meet some people." Is what I told myself. And that's what I did.
Now I won't go on about geography, travel, and hotels, because anyone whose driven the length of Illinois, or width of Kansas or Nebraska, or Texas, as I have will know, there's not much to say about it, externally anyway. But the time and space I will entertain.
The space, The cafe, Mashuggah they call it, and I don't know what it means and don't really care, but it's good cafe, with wear and character that probably comes from generation of students that passed across the wood floors with their shoes full of hope and possibilities, that only the youth can understand with all their limitless passions and certain hopeful beliefs of a world that only exists for that short 4 year, ok, maybe 5 or six year period, maybe longer because some never leave that comfortable nest. I'm wandering away here. The cafe, was a tiny little coffee bar, with patina and an assortment of beers I gathered from observation. And really good coffee.
There was art on the walls, some local, some good, some not so good. I noticed some good photography and a sketch by Picasso that caught my eye early on arrival. It looked original, although I'm sure it wasn't, in the company of the Boulevard of Broken Dreams poster upstairs and flowered water color that might have come from a child.. Maybe though, one never knows anything for sure. A hand made Bob Dylan discussion group sign, of wood, I think, hung proudly above the quiet patrons focused on their laptops. I spied a few screens and most were writing something, word doc pages, and reminded me of my own twenty something days in university town cafes like The Deadwood in Iowa City, only then, it was a pen, notebook, pitcher, and an overflowing ashtray at the table.
The tables were unstable, and the chairs an assortment. Posters of local bands and other events were cloaked in the mystery from their designs and clung to a cork board outside the surprisingly clean restroom. This I took in, in the afternoon, the reading was at seven, but I wanted to case the place and neighborhood first, so I did and felt very old and out of my element among the afternoon crowd of students. But that's alright, I was there once upon a time, in a different space and time, but I was there all the same. I get it.
Seven PM, maybe a little after, because I'm never too eager to make a mistake these days, so I plan my arrivals and departures carefully and for effect. The effect being one of never being around one place too long, so as your presence lingers longer than it should. Another is, I know myself, and I can can come across as a bit gruff and intimidating sometimes, but I'm actually pretty passive and accessible when you get to know me. Anyway, my wife and I left the hotel at seven and we walked the the three blocks or so. It was a warm, balmy evening with rain in its future, and the atmosphere was a little different. Gone were the students, and learners and their plans, replaced with doer's and worker bees of the community and the writers that I'd be reading with, and wanted to meet. No. I really did. For the writing business is a lonely one, and I was aware of some of these writers and their activities over the years. I was hungry for stories, not from their pages, but from the trenches. The real stories. In all honesty, I don't think very many writers really give a shit about another writers work, when their in the same but opposite trench together. Under that somewhat equal and level playing field. they want to know about each other, the writer.
So here we are, all smiles and hand shakes, a group of wordsmiths' on their way somewhere. To where? who knows, but on their way in their, our, minds anyway, and that's always a good place to be. All were younger than me except one veteran of the biz, and all were full of giddy and life for the moments they were allowed to wave their achievements. Our host for the evening, Scott Phillips and Jed Ayres, were already there. Scott, a man of notable writing achievement, seemed quiet and reserved and that most likely comes from years of stupid questions asked by writers of lesser notoriety. Writers who want something form him, most likely help, help from his coat tails to his shoulders. Help he probably has no desire and very little power to give and I don't blame him, for he knows, as I know, and every writer eventually learns, that at the end of the the day, it's all about the writing and the writer, and nothing else. There's not anything anyone can do for a writer outside an honorable mention here and there and among the right people. That's all, but you can't ask for that, no, no. You have to earn it. Again, it's all about the writing.
Jed, in my opinion and that's gathered in short, but seemed like a man of infinite kindness and generosity and good man to have for a friend. I knew this when he insisted on paying for the books I brought him as a gift and his manners toward my wife, and the way his eyes saw you, listened to you, in conversation. I knew he either had proper upbringing, and by proper I don't mean money, but proper as in good parenting. Or, a really shitty up bringing that mixed with his intelligence, made him humble, honorable and reliable, for through some freak of nature it happens sometimes that people become the very thing they we're denied as a child. Either way, a gentleman and a scholar, probably of the street, and og his own doing, but that would be even better.
The reading, I won't say much about it, because it's one of those, ya had to be there things. The guys from KC, fine writers and fine young men, full of enthusiasm and good intentions, and read some fine and impressive copy. The kid from South Africa, another, good man, and I'm always pleased to meet a foreigner traveling abroad. The local guy, was about my age but had written for more than I and seemed very at home and use to it all. I on the other hand had stopped writing in the early nineties to focus on a more "tangible, profitable and realistic career," so I thought, but that didn't pan out either. So I returned to writing, around 08, feeling like, fuck it, if I die broke, at least I die rich with leaving something behind other than a tombstone. Writing is what I've always wanted to do. To be a writer, at some point meant a lot to me, and I wanted that feeling for love of what I do back in my life and it is.
It has nothing to do with fame and money, and I don't know why people insist on putting those two together, because they're not same thing and very rarely, accompany on another and even more rare is that the accompany a writer. I mean shit, it is a very very small club, of rich and famous and writers, face it. What I brought home from this trip is this; I write, and I came to read, because I'm on a road with fellow travelers, passing by, a road home, so to speak. A road to a place I want to be, a place warm, and satisfying. A home where I've never been, where I belong, where their's a warm fire and comfortable cat purring on the hearth. A cozy home after a long jounrney through the winter of life, and the slipperss fit and the coffee is good, and there's art on the walls and in my heart and in my mind.                                                                                                                                                 Home, like a good cafe

13 shots of noir, Paul D. Brazill, a short sharp interview.

Short, Sharp interview - Paul D Brazill

At a good cafe, known by the local underbelly of artist, writers a musicians as The Write Room, he steps in from the brisk evening weather and strolls the stench of absinthe and opiates to my corner booth in back. I watch him walk and wave away the waiter.

It’s Thursday night and the only patrons are the truly dedicated, and whispering his name from the shadows and stealing glances at man, the myth, the legend; Paul D Brazill.

KLH: Brazill, what’s up, have a seat. Can you pitch your latest publication/ project in 25 words or less? 

PDB -13 Shots Of Noir is a collection of flash fiction and short stories in the vein of Roald Dahl, The Twilight Zone and Alfred Hitchcock Presents ... Crime, horror and dark fiction are contained within the pages of 13 Shots Of Noir. 

KLH: Hey man...which books, films or television shows have floated your boat recently? 

PDB -Books:  I'm currently enjoying William Ryan's historical crime novel, The Holy Thief and I loved J J DeCeglie's Drawing Dead.Very different flavours. Both very tasty.

Films:  Kill List was a more than worthy follow up to Down Terrace.

TV:  The new season of Justified seems well on form so far. Sherlock was top stuff.

KLH: None a mine huh, nice. No, no, don’t worry about it, really. Listen, I was wondering; is it possible for a writer to be an objective reader? 

PDB -I'm not a particularly objective person, so ... Some people seem to be able to have critical detachment. I don't. I either like something or I don't and I don't really care why.

KLH: What about the screen. do you have any interest in writing for films, theatre or television? 

PDB -Television is more of a writers medium and there's a lot of meaty stuff being done at the moment, so that's very attractive. 

Films are mostly a visual thing, so the interest isn't so strong but I'd be more than happy if a very visual director wanted to turn Drunk On The Moon into a film. Guns Of Brixton would make a great, sweary, modern Ealing Comedy, actually.

Theatre is of no interest to me in any form. I've been to the theatre less than five times in my life and it wasn't a particularly enjoyable experience. A bit embarrassing, really. Although, I do enjoy going the opera so maybe I could write a musical like Guys and Dolls!

KLH: How about, Guns and Dames, that has ring. How much research goes into each book? 

PDB -Very little. It's the world as seen through my bleary eyes.It's not journalism.

KLH: Me neithier, I fake it. What about the web- how useful or important are social media for you as a writer? 

PDB -I have no real idea if they are useful or important but they certainly eat time. I suspect their importance could be an Emperor's new clothes situation. It could just be a bunch of  C and D list writers promoting their stuff to other C and D list writers. But it costs nothing and, for me, if I didn't waste time on them, I'd waste it doing something even more useless, I'm sure.

KLH: What’s on the cards in 2012?  

PDB -My novella Guns Of Brixton will be published by Pulp Press early this year.

Snapshots, a flash fiction/short story collection, will come out through Pulp Metal Fiction.

An anthology of Drunk On The Moon stories will be published by Dark Valentine Press.

And a couple of other things are hovering and waiting to strike, too!

KLH: Ok that’s a lot. I feel positively blocked. Now drink up mate, thanks for stopping by 

Paul D Brazill can be found at his blog You Would Say That, Wouldn't You?