The Outside World Still Scares Me

"The Outside World Still Scares Me"
a pulp novel
by Allison Gergley

AN EXCERPT:
"Their cars are fast and their guns are loaded," Karen said, finally able to catch her breath.

"Yeah, well, I've always admired a bad man with a good weapon," mumbled Saint John.

"Even when it's pointed directly at you?" she asked.

"Especially when it's pointed directly at you," he said, cocking his gun and peaking out of the alley.

"You know, you're pretty cute when you're trying to save someone's life."

"I hope you say that at my funeral," said Saint John, as her shot two rounds down the alley. The two shots echoed down the parkway. Some residents were taking notice. No one had spoken in the adjacent hardware store or barber shop for the last 20 minutes.

"What happens to a saint when he dies?" Karen asked.

"You really think this is a good time to ask questions?"

"I'd figure it is, as we could both die in this alley. And when is there a better time to ask questions than before your death?"

Saint John stared at her. "Lady, I'm hiding behind a trashcan, shooting at your enemies. Maybe reconsider your line of questioning."

"All's fair in love and war."

"Wow. What a throw-away quote. And just so you know, everything's fair when there's a gun in your hand," Saint John said before kissing her on the lips.

Goodbye, Summer Breakfast

"Goodbye, Summer Breakfast'
a novel
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Edward, have you seen the morning paper?" Caroline asked.

"Seen it? I dreamed it," Edward yelled from the kitchen.

"Edward, you know I have no idea what that means."

"It means there's nothing in there that you couldn't make up," he said, entering the dining room while polishing a sink faucet. "I've had dreams of what's happened and how it's covered. It's that easy. A child with too much sugar before bed could most often write the entire local section."

"Oh, come now, Edward, there's surely something worthwhile. You can't just ballpark things."

"You can if the other side never hits one out of the ballpark. The newspaper will have the same coverage of world politics and social issues for the next decade. They'll write the same opinion columns through a slew of gentleman and the comics will rotate, but the same mainstays mainly stay. The art section won't ever actually understand jazz, blues or classical, but will write like Jesus Christ is in every band. Praise, praise, praise, be the new media. Tell me, is there some stupid portrait of an artist thinking on the cover or is it a stupid drawing of a city skyline with oversized palm trees?"

"You're not going to believe this, Edward, but it's both," Caroline said with a staggering tone.

"Of course I believe it. I dreamed it."

Talking In The Park

"Talking In The Park"
a novel
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"You know, today's the first day of spring, Henry, and you haven't said anything about the weather," Shelley said.

Henry laughed mildly. "Yes, I know. I just suppose I'm taking longer this year. The park seems greener than usual, the river more blue and the bridge more of a landmark than part of a transit system. I just see things better now. I'll be smelling the roses more often this season, I imagine."

"Are you dying, Henry? Do you have cancer? Most people don't use their five senses until one of them are taken away or their heart begins to fail."

They kept walking.

"No, no, no. My heart is as steady and sturdy as it is for any man in his late 50s and your legs are as slender as that of a 30-year-old career gal."

Shelley laughed, "Oh yeah? And a career gal, eh? Wow, you miss the '70s, it seems."

"Well, when you drive fast for a decade, you wonder what it feels like in your twilight. Maybe I do miss something. I'm not missing anything though, you know?" Henry said as he leaned on the rail, looking at a man in a kayak. "When is the dinner party on Saturday?"

"When the sun goes down."

"That's not very specific time."

"I'm not a specific person."

"Too true. Ah, Shelley, these conversations in the park, these long walks and longer talks, they never go anywhere, do they?"

"No, but they mean everything."

Of Hearts And Other Wages

"Of Hearts And Other Wages"
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"How heavy do you think this city is?" she asked him, setting down her pink martini on the windowsill.

Jerry stared at her for a moment. "I don't even understand the question, Amy."

"Well, suppose I was ambitious."

"You are ambitious."

"No, I'm quite drunk, really."

Jerry stared at her, and then his beer, and then her again. She was certainly in top-form tonight.

"If I were so ambitious," she said, "wouldn't the city kill me from its own sheer dead weight? How long would I last? What would the countryside think of me?"

"Is this a rhetorical question?"

"Only if there's no answer, and if that's the case, then I suppose I'm wasting my time," Amy said, almost with a meow, scratching his lapel. "This party bores me," she added, looking around the loft, with scattered souls and drinks.

"You know everyone though. And your sister has a lot of nice friends," Jerry said.

"When have friends ever helped a drunk girl with ambition? Or a sober girl with drunk ambition, for that matter, as I will be a heaping mess of sanity come tomorrow morning?"

"I wouldn't say that," Jerry mumbled with a chuckle and a shrug.

"Jerry, why have you never loved me?"

Jerry nearly shot the beer out of his nose. He wiped the window he had just sprayed. "What?" he stammered.

"Boy, you've got the parts to make this engine run. You can gun it, floor it, kill it and speed through my highway, listening to your favorite blues song, and you've never so much as turned on your signals. All I see are brake lights, and that's if the car's even on. You've got nothing but speed limit you can ignore when you wreck and ruin my roads. The asphalt was paved for you a long time ago. You can smell the beach and hear the birds and see the grass whipping in the wind. There's a fresh breeze to hit your hair. You can have this wild life, complete with air-conditioning and a good stereo, but you would turn on the ignition. I'll tell you right now that I'll let you drive my highway until the sun sets right on my goddamn stomach, Jerry," she purred. "Now what do you say?"

Jerry, eyes wide and mouth almost hanging off of his face, grabbed Amy's hand and took her to the closest empty room.

No Good Men In The City

"No Good Men In The City"
a crime novel
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"There ain't a bridge we can't cross in this town," Bruzzo said, ignoring the noises of the seaport below. "This is a territory scuffle. It's not some random gunshots in the night. These aren't just bullets ricocheting of the stars, Johnny. These are people that want wars between the lines. You want Poland? You have to go through Germany now. You have to take the big ones down first before the small ones. That's where every big shot when wrong, when we went weak. You start strong, you finish strong. And I'm not talking about this stupid city, where carjackers can actually make a decent living, or the faulty countries in Europe, where you can't forget history, even if you tried. This is about mankind. This is about humanity. This is about the lives of human beings, from womb to gun to stroke. No gangster thinks he's going to live forever. But he tries to cheat death as often as he can. From a stomachache in a pizza parlor to cancer creeping around a man's bones, every gangster in this city knows that he's gonna die from a gunshot he didn't think was coming. But he'll be on the lookout with a search party until his body hits the ground so hard that they bury him where he once stood. Now, you're a smart guy, am I right? Then don't ever think that a car accident is going to be what kills you, Johnny. Unless of course it's a semi driven by your worst enemy. Then, well, you could die that way."

The wind was slapping Johnny's coat against his cold legs. His body hurt. From years of apathy to years of violence, everything ached.

He stared at the river. The bridge, the seaport, the ships that come in and out like swimming mice, all of it could burn in an instant, he thought. Bruzzo was right. There was no eternity, no lifetime, no patron saints to look out for gangsters like him. He'd be dead before he knew how to live. Unless, of course, he started doing Bruzzo's dirty work.

At least he could always eat. A working man could starve, but a gangster had the feast of kings every night without the bothersome drool of a lackluster court jester. There may be no saints to look after me, Johnny thought, but there's some sinners out there that would take bullets for their own, and then throw them back.

"I want in," Johnny said, finally looking at Bruzzo. And all Bruzzo did was grin.

Provo

"Provo"
a play in three acts
by Bret Meisenbach

AN EXCERPT:
CAROLINE: These mountains are warmer than usual this year. At the cold crisp tip, I'm sure that the weight of the world doesn't feel so dire.

JACK: Probably. But there are always ways to feel warmer.

CAROLINE: Love?

JACK: Actually, I was speaking more of cigarettes and rum.

[Jack pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of spiced rum, showing them mockingly to Caroline]

CAROLINE: Nobody abuses either of those things in in this town.

JACK: Then let's not abuse them. Let's have them in moderation.

CAROLINE: I'm fine. You're welcome to your own heavy destruction.

JACK: No thanks. I was only curious to see us kill ourselves out of the same boredom.

[Jack throws the cigarettes and lets the bottle of rum roll down the hill]

CAROLINE: You're a strange guy, Jack.

JACK: And you're a strange creature, Caroline.

CAROLINE: A creature?

JACK: You are human, aren't you?

[Caroline stares at Jack for a long time before finally slapping his thigh]

CAROLINE: We can be born of the same boredom, can't we? What say you to creating?

JACK: I'll be as reckless as you are.

CAROLINE: Then let's show this town some fireworks.

A Colorful Scheme

"A Colorful Scheme"
a novel
by Shawn Trondsen

AN EXCERPT:
"We're not going to shoot him, are we?" Michael said quickly.

Languins was taken aback. "No. No, of course we're not going to shoot him. Jesus. That's why we're on this roof. We just need to photograph him. We're bank robbers, not murderers, Mike. Do you see a gun up here?"

"Well, I have one."

Languins again was taken aback. "Mike, why the hell do you have a gun?"

"I didn't know what the plan was."

"We went over the plan at breakfast!"

"I wasn't really paying attention."

"You're telling me that we're about to rob this bank in a week's time, which is a serious, serious crime, and you're not paying attention to the plan?"

"My eggs were runny. I kept trying to flag down the waitress."

"You're a lofty idiot of a man sometimes, Mike. Even in grade school."

"You copied off of me in grade school!"

"Well, then I was the loftier idiot. Watch it. Here he comes."

Folksinger

"Folksinger"
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"There ain't a wind I can't carry, no sun I can't meet, no woman I can't please," the folksinger said, squinting at the sinking sun, a bright orange engulfing the valley.

"Sounds pretty arrogant," Henry remarked.

"I wasn't saying. I was quoting."

"Quoting who?"

"Don't know. Someone else. You know these fields will be turned into houses one day and those birds will have no songs."

"Yea, I know."

"And the world will lose another good artist for modern movement. One more gravesite for a beautiful work. Fine time for a last hurrah."

"Is that why you're drinking?"

"No, it's why I'm thinking, why I'm talking, why I'm wondering where all the women are that I once knew."

"Not here at sunset, that's for sure. You just got me."

"I'll take it."

The two watched the sky fall, sitting atop a creaky wooden fence. The birds sang as the sky went from orange to to red, then to purple, then to black. Then the crystal stars came out to shine in the moonlight. And the two just sat there with new beers and old words.

The Last Girl In Las Vegas

"The Last Girl In Las Vegas"
by Violet Kawecki

AN EXCERPT:
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Kevin asked.

"No, and I don't think I ever will. I don't think any of us ever really find what we're looking for," Kiley said.

"You know that's not what I meant, Kiley."

The fountains were now playing a new song, with greens and pinks, a few yellows. Kevin leaned farther over the rail, his fingers still not touching the water.

"This town just seems so small, without anything to offer a girl that doesn't feel like pushing glam. Jesus, you have to wear heels to bed just to sleep in this town," Kiley mumbled with a anxious shrug.

"Kinda more of a city than a town," Kevin said with a cough.

"No way. This place is absolutely a town. Come on, a city is a functioning landscape of modern civilization," Kiley turned around to point at the glowing sky of bulbs and sprockets. "This place is one character shy of being a goddamn amusement park. It's a town, a dying town, rotting within its own sparkling walls. Men wear suits without underwear and the women wear bow-ties without shirts in Las Vegas. It makes no sense. This town makes no sense. God, I figure the whole place will just be a ghost town with in the next century."

Kevin chuckled, turning himself around to lean against the bar too, "Every city will be a ghost town in the next century. Everyone's got a bomb ready to go off. I think even Egypt does."

"You know what I mean though, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just ironic that this place was built up because of the bomb industry."

"Yeah, I feel like there's still a burying haze from the nuclear testing, even today. That's what people come for, the high. The buzz of bombs. Win or lose, the bomb. Handcuffed in fur. Paid in full. God, I hate this city."

"I thought you said it was a town."

"Well, I say a lot of things," Kiley said, looking at her glimmering watch. "Come on, let's go."

The Really, Really Short Stories of Jake Kilroy

"The Really, Really Short Stories of Jake Kilroy"
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Oh, So You're The Quick One
Written July, 2007.

Mary came home annoyed.

"Gerald, you didn't even try to mow the lawn," she said.

"That's because I was making hummus, Mary."

Ah yes. The hummus.

It would be a long night of fighting.

The End.

A Merrier Man

"A Merrier Man"
short stories
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:

This Is All If Anarchy Had A Heart
Written April, 2007.

Darby had only tumbled home from wherever he was a half hour earlier. Catherine entered like a socialite but had the eyes of an addict, ready to burn what she loved.

.

She took off her coat and rolled up her sleeves. Darby, meanwhile, kept scribbling endless papers on the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of rum keeping him company. His black shirt was his only means of decency and his jeans were broken more than his heart would be if he admitted to having one, locked inside his chest cavity.

.

“So this is how you spent your evening,” Catherine said in a stab observation.

.

“Yeah, this is what I did. What’d you do? Attend some god-awful social dinner where you had to talk about the Caribbean as a resort and not as a slave trade? Oh, do tell. What minority are we blaming this month? What car is in? What stocks did you buy? Do we have a retirement plan? Are we buying an island? Wait, let’s buy one in the Caribbean and steal a man there, too.”

.

“Oh, I see you’re drunk again.”

.

“Oh, I see you’re observant again.”

.

“You’re too pathetic to even call an asshole.”

.

“You’re too pathetic to even call me an asshole.”

.

“This is a fun game. Let’s play more like it where you're too much of a whiskey dick to get your own catch phrases. Hijack something worthwhile, like a nuclear sub. But my creativity, Darby? Come on, surely you’ve driven a limozine once. Remember how comfy it was when you were a decent man? Let’s watch you fall apart over this, lying, but all is reality when you’re a writer, right, Ambassador?”

.

“Catherine, I’d tell you to bite your tongue, but your tongue is the only thing I always like about you.”

.

“I’d club you with my heels, but they’re worth more than your life.”

.

“Oh, but how would you be a saint painter then? You’d be considered for assault and I’d recommend the Purple Heart, but I don’t think they listen to other heroes. By the way, I’m that other hero. You, you’re a scam in a nice dress. Lay me once and I’ll be your hero by daylight. A travesty, I know, but the life I chose when I decided to go rogue.”

.

“I’d beat you until your guys poured out and I’d paint them on the walls, so you can remember when you stopped having the guts to love, lover boy.”

.

Darby took champion swigs in the seconds after. He wiped his mouth and smiled.

.

“Love me then! Kill me then! The same? Fine! Beat the best out of me then,” he demanded.

.

“You think yourself a Polaroid Saint screaming blue into a red curtain? Fine. Then take my bruises and put them to canvas.”

.

“I’m not torturing you, Darby.”

.

“Ah, so you’re torturing yourself then? These paintbrushes serve as knives, eh? Well, cut me down to size and let’s see you be the bigger person. You can have whatever you take from me. You can have it all. Sweet and swell, well, watch me collapse like the Brooklyn Bridge when the saints finally when marching, when they finally played that fucking anthem and the streets were nothing but a swampy marsh of riot gear and sparkplugs to play the godforsaken songs we bent and broke on guitar the night before. I’ll be damned if I’m allowing you to be something less than a big fuckin’ explosion, Catherine.”

.

“Oh, look at you! Look at you! We sleep together a few nights this month and you think you’re the Devil’s underwear!”

.

“Catherine, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

.

“It means you let bad shit happen, you ignorant poet of a fuck.”

.

“You mean ignorant fuck of a poet, right?”

.

“No, I meant what I said. You’re a poet, with delusions of grandeur as lofty and lusty, but you’re ignorant like a third grader who just got bum-fucked on the playground, lost his marbles and now he’s trying to thumb his way through the hallways, looking over his shoulder. But you fuck like the man you should be.”

“How’s that?”

.

“Lofty and lusty, but with honesty and truth in the sheets. But hardly a good word to say about you by morning.”

.

“So I’m none of the adjectives I want to exist as. Fine, give me another bottle and I’ll love you right. I’ll love you in time and on time. And even when you’re being a bitch in the morning, talking upright citizens and how relationships are what ties this snappy world to its own belt, I’ll make you breakfast. Just so you can have something in your stomach other than pride.”.“Well, aren’t you the hard-worker then?”

.

“Listen, I just finally dragged my broken body home and I'm already drinking and writing fiction,” Darby said hardly above an awful whisper. He held his bottle of rum towards Heaven, nodded, and pleaded, “Be good to be, saints. Be bad to me, sinners. My sheets are itchy with lust and my heart is pulp. Dance the good fight, poets.”

.

“Jesus,” Catherine said with a sigh and matching shrug. “Could you be anymore of a senselessly damaged poet?”

.

“Yes,” Darby said with confidence, tilting his bottle in brutal admiration of Catherine, dancing a wink in his left eye and a sparkle in his right. “I could actually be senseless and damaged. Maybe even deranged. Then I’d have bookshelves of poetry and stories for the hapless wanderers that should be following me to the end of this flat world.”

.

“The world is round. It’s been that way forever. Stop being poetic.”

.

“The world’s flat because I fucking say it is. That’s what a writer does. Drink yourself silly, Catherine, and you’d never be serious again. Drink yourself serious and you’ll kill yourself. I promise you. You’ll off yourself like you were the martyr in the Macy Day Parade. You don’t have the guts to stay alive.”

.

“I’ve seen your guts. You crumble like pirate ships at war with just the sound of a blow job. I’d cripple you with just these two lips.”

.

“Yeah? Well, at least I'd get what I want.”

.

“You'd want more.”

.

“But I can live with less.”

.

“I can’t.”

.

“Yeah, I don’t know who I’m kidding.”

.

“Nobody. Meet me in the bedroom in five minutes.”

At The End Of The Day

"At The End Of The Day"

a novella

by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:

He grabbed his suede jacket and stepped out the back door of the restaurant, hurrying to the car, concentrating on each planted move of his feet. The parking lot had been empty for an hour, long since the neon sign died.

She yelled again, this time from the doorway. "I get it. I broke your heart three years ago and this is your way of getting back at me. I come back here because I need money, but you see right through me. I'm here to ruin your life again. You got me. I'm back to hurt you. I fooled everybody else, but not you. You know that even though I'm about to get married, I'm here to cut you open again."

She waited for him to catch fire, while he waited to gather himself. He stood at his driver's side door with keys in hand. His eyes were closed and his hands were gripping the keys so hard that the metal should have melted.

He spun around. "What do you want from me?" he yelled back at her, moving towards her quickly. "What could you possibly want? You want a goodbye? You leave town for three years and come back one night and demand a goodbye? Who are you? Who do you think you are? Why do you think you deserve for everyone to be nice to you? When have you ever benefited someone where you weren't the one benefited first? I'd love to hear this."

"Oh, you're so right. I always try to put myself first. Now, why am I here again? Oh right, because my fiancé and I need money for our wedding. Could I have asked my sexually abusive father? Sure. Why not? That would have been easy. Give him some and he'll give me some. Then I could walk away clean, walk away without this between us, whatever you want to call it. I'd call it a big fucking gap, but you'll probably just call it my fault again."

"Still the same girl. The only way you've evolved is that your tits got bigger, and I'm just going to assume that the boob job is the reason you need money again. I wouldn't put cocaine pass you, but really, with your sharp mouth and low self-esteem, who knows what you'll say no to?"

"Fuck you. I came here to be fine with you. I thought maybe you'd be an adult. I can't imagine why I'd assume that. The only way you'd open up to me is if I broke your rib cage. And I'll put the fall of us three years ago on that, while you put it on me being with someone else."

"Someone else in front of me. You forget that it was in front of me."

"Whatever. I was drunk and it was my birthday anyway. It didn't matter. We were dead long before then. You just love technicalities."

"Not as much as you love humping on a pool table in front of your friends. I can't imagine what Christmas is like with you. I'm sure both you and the turkey have a ball getting stuffed together in front of everyone who used to respect you."

"Oh, that was beautiful. Have you been waiting to say that to me for three years? Kind of lacking there. I won't complain though. I never have with you, not even about the sex."

"Why would you complain to me? I wasn't even a part of it. Remember? It was you and the jock model on the pool table. You must remember. I mean, you were just talking about it and it was also the night everyone started calling you a slut."

"First of all, we were just groping. Secondly, I think the best part about dating you was your wit, because it certainly wasn't your punctuality or generosity."

"Wow, I'm impressed with your new vocabulary. College does wonders. When we last saw each other, you hadn't learned the word 'sorry' yet. But, that's ok, you've never been a quick learner."

"You'd be done with a girl in the sack faster than I could even say the word 'sorry'."

"Oh, I know. You're a ridiculously slow learner. Remember how long it took you to try and stay loyal? Actually, are you even there yet? Because if you are, I could call all the guys you've fucked and we could throw a big celebration right here in the parking lot."

"Or we could call all the girls you've fucked and I could just stand right here clapping for myself for an hour."

He actually laughed. "I've missed that mouth of yours. No joke. No insult. I miss that sharp wit of yours."

She sighed heavily, "I'll admit it. I've missed you, too."

Bringing Down Rodriguez

"Bringing Down Rodriguez"
a crime caper
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
Kisbee kicked the front door down. Shots greeted them immediately. The brick tapped and cracked as the bullets pelted off the wall with a roar down the hallway. There were more of them than he had initially expected.

He waited for his team to come in through the windows. Kisbee rubbed his eyes. There was smoke everywhere now. Shots were no longer flying by his ear. Instead, they were being fired in all directions inside the loft. There was much more yelling now. He could hear the voices of Ryan, Atterman, Cruz and Nick. They were shouting orders.

The smoked thinned and the count of gunshots slowed down to nothing.

"It's all right, Captain!" Ryan yelled.

Kisbee pushed off his knees and entered the loft. His boots echoed down the hall.

"This all of them?" Kisbee said, looking around at the ten men rolling around in handcuffs.

"Well, of this outfit, yes. There's still Watterton Street and Coosly Drive, sir," Cruz said.

"How many men do we have here after departure?" Kisbee asked, still looking at the men on the floor.

"Well, once we load these guys up into the vans, we'll have 23 men ready to go from here," Cruz said.

"Then get these men-" Kisbee paused as he caught sight of a figure taking a ladder up to the roof in the distance. "Rodriguez!"

Kisbee was out the window and onto the lower roof before his men knew his sentence had ended. He was surprisingly agile in his old age, though he wouldn't admit the latter. Rodriguez was near the top of his ladder, squiting back at Kisbee gaining.

Rodriguez was a fast runner, but his anxiety gets the best of his decisions, Kisbee remembered. Rodriguez was out of sight, two or three stories above Kisbee, who was now at the ladder, already up a few steps when starting.

Kisbee reached the top and popped his head, making sure he wouldn't lose it in a gunfight.

"Rodriguez is unarmed!" Atterman yelled from the bottom, following Kisbee in pursuit, though much farther back.

Kisbee's sour face opened with a grin as he started the uneasy process of jumping rooftop to rooftop, his coat flapping loudly over the alleys several stories below. He watched Rodriguez do the same in the distance.

Every chimney was an obstacle, every jump was a free fall, every rooftop was a slide. But Kisbee moved like a cat, light and quick. Dashing instead of running, lunging instead of jumping, all while using his hands as feet and vice versa. He had never been so balanced.

Rodriguez was slipping. He was showing signs of panic. At least from a rooftop behind, he did.

Kisbee was almost laughing. He felt delusional. He would catch up to Rodriguez and all of this would be over. Finally. He would be able to sleep in for once. The last four months had been blistering to his ego. But no more. Not after today, Kisbee kept thinking. In every jump, he felt he was closer to closing the case. His body ached from a lack of sleep, but his soul was in flames every morning. Today was like therapy.

Rodriguez dodged to the left, prancing between chimneys and rooftop blocks. He was heading up another ladder. The building was mostly isolated, a bad move by Rodriguez because of his notorious panic.

Kisbee laughed an arrogant "ha" before making a final leap to the last rooftop before the ladder. A staircase lead down to the street. Why had Rodriguez not taken it?

Finally at the top of the ladder, Kisbee peaked his head over the final rung to see Rodriguez standing across the rooftop with a sly smile, hands and arms separated.

"You're faster than I thought you were, Harold," Rodriguez yelled, still with a grin.

Kisbee stepped onto the roof and stopped.

"I'm faster than most criminals. You're no different," Kisbee yelled back.

"How so?"

"They don't get away. You don't get away."

"Oh, but I am, you lofty gentleman! Unless you shoot me of course. But alas, you need me alive and I know this."

"How do you know that? Who says I can't just shoot you right now and watch you fall to your death? Watch you sleep there for the night as the rats feed upon you before we pick your body up tomorrow."

"My goodness, that is sick. Especially for what I haven't really done. But to answer your question, I know because my spy told me."

Kisbee felt cold. Could one of his own men really be a spy? The thought iced his body and scratched at his nerves.

"I call bullshit."

"You can call it whatever you want, but at the end of the day, I'll have the information I shouldn't. And you'll be the good cop that couldn't."

"You're going to jail."

"For what?" Rodriguez asked playfully.

"For what? For a long time! For the stealing, the murders! For everything!"

"Oh, I thought it would've slipped out by now. But, well, how do I put this? Ah yes. There were no murders. They were all faked."

"No murders? What are you talking about?"

"They were fake. You had everything to prove them real. But you're going to look pretty stupid for a detective bringing me in on the wrong charges. I don't care how much of a rock star everyone thinks you are, but I'm going to look good. Sure, I've done some stealing. My, how I've done some stealing, but I doubt you could swing an ax on me for it."

"I'll make sure it happens, so help me," Kisbee said with a grit of his teeth.

"How, dear sir, are you to do that?"

"With any luck, I won't have to to tell you. I'll just show you instead."

"Why, my good man, are you ever so lucky?" Rodriguez yelled.

"Just am. You, not so much."

"Me? Really? If I'm so unlucky and no different than any of your other petty criminals, why then, Harold, are you standing all the way across from me on this roof?"

"Because you're unarmed, not shooting and not trying to escape. I figure there's a booty trap between us."

"No, no, no, no, no. I'm not The Joker. I'm actually just waiting for my ride."

Kisbee felt worse. Rodriguez knew something he didn't. Rodriguez wasn't trapped. And there probably was no trap.

"What ride?"

A stealth helicopter appeared at great speed.

"Wow! I didn't know perfect timing could happen like that except for the movies! Did you?"

"No!" Kisbee screamed. His faced ached from anxiety, fear, anger and frustration. "Not this time! Goddammit, no!"

Kisbee sprinted towards Rodriguez. A rope appeared and Rodriguez grabbed on. Kisbee made a final lunge.

"See you around, lucky man!" Rodriguez said with a wave, as he floated over rooftops.

Kisbee cried furiously out of frustration, while Rodriguez and his laughter disappeared into the late afternoon sky.

Jubilee

"Jubilee"
a novel
by Julia Hiser

AN EXCERPT:
"There will never be distance in the ocean," Bradley yelled.

Monica stopped, but didn't turn around. The park was busy. The festival was being built around them. By tomorrow, she wouldn't be able to walk without bumping into strangers. Bradley faced Monica's back as she began to cry.

"There will never be distance in our sweeping arms and certainly not our love," Bradley continued. "I am as pure as this nostalgic longing between us. I feel like we're stuck in the 1950s and loving every second. Pull that black and white body against me and let's make sure this new year has fireworks until the numbers change."

The dirt below Monica's worn shoes was sinking, she felt. Her sweater was itchy and her nose felt like it was bleeding. She rolled her eyes, embarrassed of herself and of Bradley, though she didn't want him to stop talking. Not for any second available.

Please keep going, she whispered to herself.

"When I become old, I will have a model train set and you'll have that garden in the backyard," Bradley yelled. "Please build me into a better man. That's all I ask. That's all I could ever ask. I want to feel like a kid again, all the wonder sensation of everything new. Please tell me I'll feel that warm tender sting again. I want that everlasting numbness, I want that glory and I want it is to start now. Can we start now? I want to be home with you tonight, somewhere in the golden windows of a log cabin. I want the blue silver light of the moon and night and stars beating the lake water like it were smashing mirrors and diamonds all at once."

"And?" Monica yelled, hardly turning her head more than a faint nod.

"And I'll have my typewriter and you'll have your books," Bradley said with a smile, feeling as though he were finally digging his way back into Monica's heart. "We'll make our overalls work and our love will endure whatever cowboy western tribulation we'll deal with. I'll love you forever and I'll love you well. I'll love you when my heart is dead cold and my soul is rioting to revive me, so I can love you into another eternity. Give me some light, give me some stars, just give me supernatural illumination."

"More!" Monica wailed.

"You'll never tell me it's done," Bradley yelled, beginning to shead a tear every couple of sentences he screamed, slowing approaching her. "This is our sailboat waiting. I couldn't love you any finer than our own private tropic island. I'll love you to the worst black death in Australia. There would be heart there. You wouldn't be able to tell the difference from the city's lights and stars. I'll laugh and love you. I'll cry and love you. I swear to the Almighty that I'll love you. I promise him I'd love you. I have to love you. You're never going to have to love again. Please never leave me in the stars watching you. I've passed through Heavens and clouds and nearly knocked stars to love you from afar. I want to watch you, but I'd float farther into the next afterlife, so it'd be blurry enough to never recognize the new man. I could pretend it's still me. I could wage war in my mind to tell you everything you want to hear from such a starlit distance. For the first time, my feet will swim through carpet. I'll treat life as a painting and death as a delightful joke. The worlds will swirl and I'll still love you. I'll love you. I love you then. I love you now. I love you still. I'll love you forever. I love you."

Monica collapsed. Bradley reached her. They were safe with each other again. They both had forgotten about the lake, the mysteries, the heartache, the letters, the lifelessness in both of them. They had survived, though their limbs ached. The wind picked up.

The Murder of Winston Bounds

"The Murder of Winston Bounds"
by Graeme Olsen

AN EXCERPT:
"Nothing but horse thieves and blood-thirsty orphans in this town, I swear," mumbled Charlie.

"A little harsh," laughed Wyatt. "Just be thankful there's a collar around your neck and not a noose."

"Yeah, thanks for not letting me sleep vertically tonight."

Wyatt handed Charlie the reins and helped him onto the other horse. Charlie held his arm. It had stopped bleeding, but the veins still didn't feel like they connected. Not much of Charlie actually did. His whole body ached. He could feel his own feet falling off his legs, he thought. His boots felt like warm jail cells.

"Always my pleasure. Never seen much truth in lawful death anyhow. I'm may be in the business of shooting, but I'm not in the business of killing," shrugged Wyatt.

"Not many cowboys that don't think their gun talks too much."

"Well, you know me, I'm the silent, ungodly type," Wyatt said with a smirk. He rubbed his chin and squinted. Wyatt himself wasn't even sure if he was looking into the distance or the future. They both had a long journey ahead.

The two horses walked slowly through the plains as the two gunslingers carried very different postures: one proud, one slouched.

"These prairies will make mighty fine homesteads one day, just you wait," Wyatt said with a smile.

"I suppose a man has to sleep somewhere," shrugged Charlie. "But for now, we've got a bigger problem."

"Ah yes," Wyatt said with a sly grin, "the mysterious evening murder of the outlaw Winston Bounds. What a fine mess this shall be. I'd like our tombstones to be built here instead of homesteads should our hearts give out from a spectacular loss of blood."

"I'm the only one burying me," Charlie said in harsh breaths.

Wyatt took in what Charlie mumbled, laughed to himself, shrugged and said, "You know, Charlie, that gash may also be a head wound."

"Har har," Charlie said with a forced chuckle. "Now, let's go find the three men that killed Winston Bounds and kidnapped Mary."

"I'd say that hole in your arm is a good place to start digging," laughed Wyatt.

"No," Charlie said with a serious tone, "save your strength for graves. We'll need three."

Empire Boys

"Empire Boys"
a novel about those coasting on the East Coast
by Jake Kilroy

AN EXCERPT:
"Mahty, I ain't neva been so showe 'bout breakin' an enterin'. It just...well, I don't know."

"Listen, dey call you Jimmy Bones fuh a reason, right?"

"Yea, but dey...ok, they're gone. How are we really doing this?"

"We're going through the basement window. We'll go up the basement stairs. They won't see us coming. Here's a bat. You knock over anyone who moves."

"Wouldn't that be everyone?"

"Not the ones I already nailed with taser shots. They're shaking and shifting like the last kids in a bad dodgeball game."

"That's the best analogy you got?"

"Listen, Jim, I'll kill you dead. Right now. How's that?"

"Fine, fine, fine. Empire Boys, eh?"

"Never been another mutiny that could play the orchestra too."

"Should I grab a knife?"

"Why would you? You've got brass knuckles and a bat. You're stronger than a cheap blade. Besides, your wits are sharper than the Devil's horns."

"Ok, that one was good."

"Any last words before we pledge our allegiance to weapons?"

"Sure. You're like a brother to me, Martin."

"I wanna hear better last words."

"I'll be the last man standing even if I'm not the last one dead."

"Nah, something more spiritual."

"My knuckles may be broken, but my spirit will never be."

"That wasn't spiritual, Jim."

"Ok, ok, ok...I am the last revolution, the last graveyard, the last willing spit of God."

"Good. Another one."

"The angels will play their trumpets when we stop harping."

"Another one!"

"May God bury us in the last century of Earth!"

"Another one!"

"Their blood is the most unholy of rain and I am the most ungodly of heroes!"

"Another one!"

"Never another grave, never another reason for Heaven to doubt our intentions, never while the Devil isn'thot enough to touch or torch our souls!"

"Another one!"

"The pale horse of death is no match for the paler horse of man!"

"Another one!"

"This bat is my glory, let the Almighty carry my hands swiftly, challenging my enemies to challenge their own god."

"Keep going!"

"And through any valley, I am tall. Over any mountain, I am humble. I am aware of my own bones, breakable and able to break. I am in control. I am God. I am the Devil. I am sin. I am sainthood. I am ordained. I am the luscious taste of evil. I am the Mardi Gras in winter. I am New Year's Eve on fire. I am all encompassing. I am all destruction. I am here for eternity and hear lifetimes, all congruent, all more harrowing than the last. I will march forward, upward, never seeing any sky, praising my own damned livelihood underneath a broken windowpane, raining down on my spine, never feeling ultimate pain. I will never doubt you or myself, and I will surely never misjudge character. You are true, I am truth and there will be skulls rattling above and below, no doubt in Heaven or Hell, I will walk the fine line between, burying all who oppose us. I will fight, I should wreck, I can kill, I might bury. By morning, I will be an angel or a saint with blood on my robes. Yea?"

There was a long pause.

"Well, how was that?" Jimmy asked.

"Good Lord, Jim, the death sentence of the Countess Markiewicz wasn't even that harsh. I don't know what some of what you said meant, but goddamn, Jimmy! Good show! Now let's wreck and ruin!"

Then they charged the stairs.

Smokes

"Smokes"
a novel
by Jessica Getty

AN EXCERPT:
The city was shades of gray, streaming yellow lights above and cliche, a plane in the distance made noise of the bridge. Marie took a long drag of her clove and watch the smoke drift up her face and fade into the city skyline. A boat sounded.

"All adrift, we have to shift, never taking what we're making, a dry smile for the miracle mile," she said with a sigh, reciting a line from a poem she had written for Daniel some years ago, back when she actually wrote poetry instead of reading and hating it. Poetry is for the hopeless, she would tell herself, keeping her senses clean.

Her shoulders slumped, a pale comparison to the staunch buildings, uptight and magnificent, a glory for those who stand, not reserved for those who sit or sleep.

Patrick appeared behind her, stumbling out the window.

"Why'd you leave the party?" asked Patrick, as he took a seat next to Marie.

"Had some dreaming to kill," said Marie.

"That's hardly inspiring."

"Wow. Nothing gets by you, eh?"

"Ah, there's that charm of yours," Patrick said with a small laugh. Marie smiled too.

"Patrick, what should become of us? What are we supposed to be doing? What are we supposed to be accomplishing? Aren't we supposed to be martyrs by now or something?"

"God, no, I don't want to be a martyr until I've long given up."

"Then that's not a martyr."

"Just because the history books never wrote that a martyr begged for his life doesn't mean that he didn't," Patrick said with a gloating smile. "I'll see you back inside."

Patrick slipped inside the window and returned to their friends. Marie took a long drag of her clove and slumped over her knees a little more, her legs dangling off the roof, some eight stories up on a hill. What if she were to fall? What if she were to fly? Is there any different in the beginning stages? No, not really. All it takes is one jump and one leap of confidence.

She'd probably be able to write good poetry after the hospital stay. She wondered if the nurses and doctors would let her smoke if she were dying.

God help Heaven if it doesn't have a smoking room, she thought.

Marie smiled. That was a good line. Maybe she'd write a poem tonight, as soon as her guests were gone. Or maybe she'd jump. Either way, whether in Heaven or Hell, at least it's not limbo.

She felt sick to her stomach. She took a final draw of smoke, filling her lungs with the waves of gray, watching the fog roll into the city from the bay. She stood up and headed back into her apartment, but not without one final look at the city. She wished that someone had been playing a saxophone for the moon. It was too pretty. Maybe a tuba it for the bay. Maybe a french horn for the car alarms. Maybe a clarinet for the birds. Maybe a trumpet for the lovers with their shades pulled, waiting for the morning to come and their day to change. In a city, there are no musicians that want you to hear free music. They just slip up from time to time, playing what they want, forgetting there are others around.

And maybe that's all it took for her to write poetry.

The Painter

"The Painter"
a novella
by Raymie Iadevaia

"The greatest form of art is simply getting people to understand or appreciate art," the painter said. Now that he had hijacked the stage, he had the full attention of everyone at the benefit. The tuxedos and gowns stared at him.

And he wasn't nervous. Not at all. This was what they had been waiting for, this is what he had been preparing for.

"If one was to ask the average American citizen who some of the best painters were, most would list Picasso as one. Ask them why and they’d ask for multiple choice. It’s a terrible crime to let people slide between knowing and understanding. Appreciation is a dead art form, I suppose."

A man coughed. The painter pointed at him and the man was immediately silent. The painter shrugged and continued.

"Art critics, of any medium, and actual artists are radically different. It’s not as if one could compare college professors and college students. Sure, they're able to share the same institution, but never are they allowed to be condemned to exposure in the same light. It would be downright silly to compare them, and yet, art critics feel as if they are in step with artists."

A woman stood up as if to defend herself as an art critic.

"You're not," the painter said, staring the woman down. "I can't believe I have to tell you this, but I assure you, you're not," the painter repeated. He spoke to the crowd once again.

"Art is about personal impression, and if we actually consider this, art critics should be out of jobs. They are paid to tell the mass population, which I include myself in, what is good, what is bad, what is contemporary or hip, what is magnificent, what is radical, what is truth. And I mean, my god, how spitefully unoriginal."

No one was drinking the punch. A cigarette was floating between the ice cubes. Nobody noticed. Everyone was watching the painter.

"Art critics are the mailmen of love letters. They can certainly deliver them, but they surely didn't write them. This, I suppose, is the great injustice of art."

Marilyn slipped in the back door. She stood by the bathroom, next to the waiters. She noticed tears streaming down one the cheeks of a tall waiter with a thin mustache.

"So, if I may repeat myself, the audience will always listen, but the promising question is if they will understand. Art critics can openly hate everything and they will still be paid. To publicly conjure up some meandering insight is easy for them, but applying it as interpretation is the harder part of the job, and I’m sure they would rather put it off as fact."

Marilyn was pushed out of the way. A busboy stormed his way into the bathroom. He had dropped acid during appetizers and was terrified of the talking beard on stage. The busboy hid under the sink for the rest of the night.

"Art critics will present their opinions as matter-of-facts, which is what they are paid to do. And it's those who realize the harsh and unbridled nature of art that will do it justice absolute. But it will never be a critic. It'll be someone with a tool in their hand made for creating, not destroying. Burn this world before you build it again, you think. And art critics think they know better than the artist," the painer said with a scoff and roll of his head.

"If John F. Kennedy was shot in this very room, at least one art critic would criticize Lee Harvey Oswald for his form," the painter said with a laugh. "And that is it for me this evening. My canvas is dry and my mouth is worse. May some angel stab you through the heart, so that you may know mercy. Good night and thank you for your time."

The art critics were stunned. They stood dumbfounded. But the rest of the hall erupted into cheers; loud, delerious, unruly, glorious cheers. And, for once, it was deafening and the art critics had nothing to say.

Snowflake Gardens

"Snowflake Gardens"
a paperback about the finer things: wine, pool and a warm gun
by Mallory Keeler

AN EXCERPT:
Riley and Sam stood in the cemetery. They were alone, excluding the hundreds of dead around them.

"You got your gun?" asked Riley.

"I've got two," said Sam. "Markowitz will have two bloody stumps for legs before he even realizes he's still got two arms to shoot with."

"Jesus," mumbled Riley.

"Well, how often are you supposed to watch a friend get murdered, huh? Isn't that kind of a once in a lifetime thing? Once you see it, odds are against seeing it again. Am I right? Well, consider our week. Consider what we've seen," said Sam. "Jackson got shot off the goddamn bridge! You would've thought he was flying if you didn't know Markowitz pumped him full with a shotgun!"

"Yea," said Riley quietly, "I know."

"And we don't even know where the femme fetale is, do we?"

"Probably at the pool hall."

"Where the pool tables are coffins," said Sam, shutting his eyes, remembering Gary's death.

"Look, we don't even know if she's really working for Markowitz, for us or for herself. She's got interests all over the place. She stands to make a profit from everyone it seems like," said Riley with a shrug.

There was a long eerie silence. The wind was picking up. Riley tilted his fedora and reached into his trenchcoat for a cigarette.

"Gary slept with her, you know," said Sam with a grunt.

"Really?" said Riley, pulling his cigarette away. "Why didn't you tell me? This changes suspects, this changes motives, this changes everything!"

"No, it doesn't. What's done is done, what's dead is dead, and now I pray for my soul versus theirs," said Sam, cocking both of his guns.

It started snowing.

Riley looked around. Everything was in black and white. He brushed some snow off a tombstone and kicked some dirt away from the letters.

"Like demons crawling the earth, spreading disease, he'll shoot his men down hot before they freeze," said Riley, looking around at the buried. "And like angels covering their tracks, in the dead of night, he'll bury his wounded at Snowflake Gardens all right."

Riley let out a sigh and cocked his gun.

Sam grinned slightly, "Let's go."

A Little Out Of Place

"A Little Out Of Place"
a novel
by Jason Kornfeld

AN EXCERPT:
"He's awful, you know," Mike whispered.

Oh, I hadn't noticed that he's rude to everyone, that he's inconsiderate of the few friends he has left, that he's so unaware that he's the friend that we would let be burned at the stake," said Max.

"Why do we remain friends with him?"

Max shrugged, "Convenience?"

"True, but torturous. It's almost always easier to ignore a friend than to part ways."

Max let out a long sigh, glancing down the aisle to his left. He looked to his right at Michael and then to the stage, watching the dancers swirl and twirl in pink and white. Max sighed again, "Glory be the last soldier dead."

"No, glory be the high officers that pay off the family," Michael said with a grin.

Though Max and Michael were showing terrifying amounts of teeth, the rows around them kept empty. The ballet was only a local production and they were only there to see Juliette. She was not the best dancer on stage, but she did have the most ghostly presence.

"Really though? What of his smile? It's false, isn't it?"

"Sometimes, I think his cheeks were pierced years ago, as if he knew his own friends would sell him up the river just to build a cheap dam later in life,"said Michael, as if a bitter taste remained in his gums, from the cocktail or from the chicken. "He pierced his cheeks so he couldn't cry, so he could seem like he deals with everything in good grace, so he could consider every morning a new day instead of a new war."

"Good Lord, why did you create our friend?"said Max.

"Good Devil, why did you create our enemy?" said Michael.

"And why are they the same person?" said Liam as he sat down. "Sorry I'm late. How's she doing?"

"Pretty good, a few slips, but I'll tell her that she did wonderful," said Michael.

Max and Michael both welcomed Liam with sincere handshakes and grins. Liam wasn't the friend that Max and Michael spoke of with noose lips. In fact, Liam had been done with their friend since the last holiday season.

"God, I hate that guy," said Liam.

"We should form some kind of militia," said Max.

"Hey, glory be the infantry," said Michael.

"Glory be the high officers that pays off the families," said Max with a smile.

"I don't understand ballet," said Liam.