Category: Fiction

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Introducing Dale

Postaday for May 27th: Baggage Check. We all have complicated histories. When was the last time your past experiences informed a major decision you’ve made?

I got one of them headaches here you swear you’ll never drink again. Which is a lie because in my hand, a jelly-jar full of wild turkey. To take the edge off. Woke up at 2 am to gobble some exedrin and spent the next three hours moaning at the pillow where my wife’s head left a dent.

Ha, now you got to guess if she divorced me or died, and then guess if that’s why I drink.

The name’s Dale. Jason made me up— he says that sometimes when these writing prompts leave him flat, he’s going to hand it over to me, let me say a few things. Purely fictional, of course, but then, as he says, the point’s to write, not report. No one’s building a biography about poor old bukkhead.

So where was I. Sitting here in my overstuffed, looking out the window. Hurray for us, another hazy day my little corner of LA. You know how there’s New York City, and then there’s Queens, and there’s Long Island? That’s what this part of LA is like. Right in there and no where close. I don’t look out my window for the celebrities.

Truth is, my history ain’t so complicated. I don’t have to make too many major decisions. Wouldn’t be great if I got to tell you that I pulled the plug on my wife, on account of I had to make the same decision about my ma and I let her linger too long and we all suffered for it? But nah.

Look at me shrug, slosh a little wild turkey on my wrist, and say, sorry, to you, not my wrist.

That’s the second time I’ve brought up my wife. I think Jason’s trying to get somewhere with this. Now, I can’t have murdered her or anything, because he wants me to chime in now and again, and if all I am is a wife-o-cide, that’ll get real boring real fast. I need to be more complicated.

How about this. My wife didn’t leave me, and she ain’t dead. She’s visiting her sister. In, let’s say, Berkeley. Last time she went up there, I made a few bad calls. Sowed some oats. Nothing illegal, broke no vows, but had to take a couple hundred showers to get the glitter out of my chest hair, if you know what I mean.

So this time, major decision: two six packs and the Netflix. That kept me from driving any place. My oats went sowless.

Now what I have to decide is, was it worth it. What I gained in clean conscious, I lost in pounding migraine. And here I am, 10 in the morning, wild turkey in hand, staring out the window. Hazy day. My lawn needs mowing. Gloria, the neighbor, just backed out of her driveway and got slammed by some idiot kid doing 50. 50 in a residential zone. Broken glass everywhere. Kid’s half-hanging out his windhsield. I should call the cops. But damn, this headache is something fierce.

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Another Night at Tums

Postaday for May 25th: Fill In the Blank. Three people walk into a bar . . .

Three people walk into a bar. Mary, Maria, and little Marissa, just turned 21. Three generations, none of them related. They work together at Roma, Inc, an office around the corner. The bar is called Tums. Everyone inside is more or less losing their minds. There’s sports on the TV and one of the teams has done something that has driven this after-work bar crowd wild. Mary, Maria, and Marissa glide through the chaos like cherry blossoms floating through a pre-maelstrom breeze. They arrive at the bar.

Mary, Roma Inc. VP, finance, thin as bones and skin so tight she looks like she’d bounce off of swords. Says to the bar in general, “Rum and Coke” and it appears before her, instantly.

Maria is an operations director, and she will never ever be a VP. She’s married, which isn’t the problem, but she has no kids, which is the problem. She glares at the bartender until he appears. She glares at him until he picks up a glass and a bottle of Chardonnay. She glares while he pours, glares when he sets in front of her. Glares as he backs away, slowly. Maria has curly brown hair, wears a lot of lipstick. She sips the wine with lips pursed so tight that only water molecules pull through, leaving behind the alcohol.

Marissa just started at Roma. Marissa went to college a year early, got her bachelors in two years, and decided to take a year off to back pack around Europe. She wanted to really slut it up, sleep around, experiment, just go nuts. But everywhere she went, people treated her with respect and dignity. Men we courteous, almost chivalric. She got nowhere with them. She put pictures of herself online, as a test, and was reassured when anonymous assholes unambiguously noted the dirty things they’d like to do to her. So it wasn’t her. Fine. Whatever. Came back home, got her MBA in one year, got a job, turned 21, and somehow ended up walking out after work one evening at the same time as Maria who happened to be walking out at the same time as Mary.

Marissa asks the bartender for a boilermaker. He brings her a margarita. God damn it.

Mary looks over at the other two. “I’m Mary. VP.”

Maria says “Maria. OD, been with Roma 20 years.”

Marissa says “Marissa. Just started. I have no idea what I do.”

They each sip their drinks. The bar has calmed down quite a bit. In fact, many people have left. In fact, Mary, Maria, and Marissa are the only people left. Not even the bartender is there any more. There’s a loud booming sound as the door to the bar closes. The boom echoes, then all is silent.

“Marissa, you’re young,” Mary says, like one of those questions that comes out like a statement.

“Yes,” Marissa says.

“Does this story pass the Bechdel test?”

“Uh….”

“Not anymore,” Maria says, setting down her glass. She slides off her barstool, and walks towards the door. She leaves. A soon as she does, the door opens and people walk in. The bar’s a little brighter now, and the TV’s back on.

Marissa stares into her margarita. She hates margaritas. Has hated them every since Spain, where she found the only Mexican restaurant in Madrid, and drank about a dozen of them.

Mary finishes her Rum and Coke. She stands up too. The bartender’s back, and there’s a few more people at the bar now, a few in booths. A waitress walks by, carrying a tray of chicken wings. “See you tomorrow I guess,” she says, and leaves.

Through the increasing bar noise, as more and more people are getting into the game on the TV, Marissa says “No you won’t.” It’s not cynical. It’s just that VPs work on the 12th floor, and Marissa’s stuck on three.

The bartender comes by, and without asking, sets down another margarita, and a bill for all four drinks. She picks it up, walks over to a booth where a bunch of people are going to town on some jalapeno poppers. Sets the bill down amongst their soiled napkins. Asks one where the women’s restroom is. Walks in the opposite direction when it’s pointed out to her. Leaves.

The door closes behind her, shutting out the screams and hollers of a hundred sports fans losing their god damn minds.

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A Football Makes a Lousy Briefcase

Postaday for May 4th: Coming To a Bookshelf Near You. Write a summary of the book you’ve always wanted to write for the back cover of its dust jacket.

In a novel of slapstick mayhem and unrelenting self-contradiction, a robotic assassin makes chaos out of hubris and peanut butter out of chaos. The crunchy kind.

Chris Hutchins is just a lousy GS-11. He occupies that lonely every-man’s land on the edge of the spy world, close enough to look in, but bolted firmly on the wrong side of the bullet-proof plexiglass.

Lancaster is the ultimate assassin, spy, evil genius, oxford comma connoisseur, and cowboy aficionado, all wrapped up into one metal-alloy skeleton. His mission: he could tell you, but then he’d have to kill you. Come to think of it, he doesn’t have to tell you anything, since he’s going to kill you anyway.

When a series of increasingly ridiculous assassinations force the spy community to put their differences aside and take action, the metaphors start to fly like broken china in a shop run by bulls. Or something. Surfing the edge of the sea foam on the waves of Lancaster’s dastardly plan, Chris has only one hope—that the author will stay drunk enough, long enough, to focus on the plot and stop toying with the fourth wall so much.

Drawing from the very tropes that prop up almost 90% of all spy fiction, and unabashedly stealing from the originality of the other ten percent, this is, if not a hilarious novel, at least a hilarious attempt at one.

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I Can’t Even Think of what I’ve Been Doing Lately

Please note: this entry uses graphic language and disturbing imagery.

Postaday for May 2nd. Beyond the Pale. When was the last time you did something completely new and out of your element? How was it? Will you do it again?

fiction by Jason Edwards

I can’t even think of what I’ve been doing lately. Going to work, coming home, fixing the broken step out front, spending my weekends with the AM radio and the ball game , drinking beer, sleeping, eating Mexican food, reading novels, mowing the lawn, browsing the internet, stalking ex-girlfriends, stealing money from my wife’s purse, pouring gasoline in her flowerbeds, watching old TV on latenight cable, walking off my diabetes, listening to old recordss, setting a few plants on fire, lying about doing the weeding, lying about mowing the lawn, lying about not touching my wife’s purse, letting her blame some of the kids at church, encouraging her to tell the pastor by saying I didn’t think she should, since she never does what I suggest, singing hymn 193 with an Irish accent to see if anyone would notice, gently working my way up the pews week by week until we’re sitting in the row across the aisle from Hal and Lisa, timing my glance to the right so that I can look at Lisa’s legs when she stands, memorizing the large mark just above her knee that looks like Madagascar, looking up Madagascar on the internet, code-naming my porn folder Madagascar, waiting for my wife to go to sleep and then sneaking down to the liquor cabinet to take a few belts of a cheap vodka, masturbating furiously, walking outside in my robe, taking a leak on the side of my wife’s car, trying to figure out how to blame the neighbors if I managed to burn all of her gardenias, wondering if there’s any point in blaming the neighbors, mentally calculating how many anti-histamines I’d have to sneak into her nightly glass of wine to get her to sleep deeply enough that I could get into her car and drive it to the church and break a few windows and take a dump on the hood and fuck it the front seat too and then call the police and tell them it was the same kids who stole out of her purse and then walk home in the dark and stop in at a bar and get into a fight and really go to town on some faggot and maybe break a knuckle or two and get aids and get kicked off my insurance and waste away in the hospital and ask my wife to pull the plug and then when she agrees too quickly justify in my heart hiring some thug to murder her and then have a miraculous recovery  and bury my poor wife and wallow in the casseroles and sympathy pussy since it wasn’t really aids and give some of the bitches in this stupid fucking neighborhood the aids cause I lied and it was and hope they pass it on to their husbands and their kids and their dogs and their fucking goldfish.

Ordinary shit. Gosh, the last time I did something completely new… I bought a hat, a trilby. Makes me look like an asshole but I wear it anyway.

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A For Rent Sign Stuck In The Yard The Next Day

fiction by Jason Edwards

No TV before 5 PM is a stupid rule. Mom says that when she was my age she would play outside all day. That’s because they didn’t have Netflix in the dark ages. What am I supposed to do, read books? It’s the middle of July!

At least the sun’s out today. It was cold all day yesterday.  I was trying to figure out how to climb our tree when Duke came over. He said he saw on YouTube this kid with one arm who could play baseball, and could I do that. I just stared at him till he walked off.  Decided not to climb the stupid tree.

Later a guy in a black car drove into Mrs. Pauley’s driveway. He got out and stuck something on her door and drove away. I was going to go over there and look at it but then it was time for shots. Mom hollers if I make her wait.

And now he’s back. If I was allowed to watch TV, I wouldn’t be out here watching. So it’s mom’s fault. I don’t like the stupid shots, they hurt. They make me wanna barf. But I think I’d rather have shots than watch this. Mrs. Pauley’s crying, really hard. Mom says she’s got six kids. She went over there when Mr. Pauley died and saw their pictures. “Every branch of the service, so I guess the country’s safe,” mom said.

She was being sarcastic. I know what sarcastic is. Sarcastic is when I holler at mom that I hate the shots and she says fine, go outside and die then. But you’re not watching TV.

There’s a police car too, so I guess she’s going to jail. Maybe she killed Mr. Pauley? But that was months ago. Mom took over a casserole. I hate casserole. We used to go to McDonald’s when we did shots. And then we started doing them every day. And mom said we could still afford tuna fish. Barf.

The screen door creaks open but I don’t move. I can feel mom standing there. The guy comes out of the house, holding a clipboard. Hands it to Mrs. Pauley, who just shoves it away. The guy says something to the cop. The cop crosses his arms. Mom puts her hand on my head. Come inside, honey. The screen door again and I’m all alone.

I’m going to be thirteen in three months. If I make it that far. Mom said that, not to me, but on the phone. But she was just being sarcastic. I bet I make it that far. I just bet. A taxi cab pulls up, and Mrs. Pauley gets in. Her front door is still wide open.

I can hear the TV come on so I stand up. I don’t even feel dizzy. The theme song for Gossip Girl. Sometimes mom lets me watch TV if there’s extra shots. She’s always breaking her own rules.

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The Great White Nope

fiction by Jason Edwards

43 year old Bran Downson sits in a home office, stabbing furiously at a keyboard. His biggest fear: that a great white shark will come bursting through this office window, and devour him whole. Its steely teeth like knives stabbing into him as he’s rendered into so much pulp. An irrational fear, to be sure, and yet what fears are not rational in the face of the truths of existentialism? That we are, all of us, disconnected entities afloat in a meaningless, hostile universe, a bittersweet knowledge that only serves to make a democracy of the great human fearscape, and the only terror that compels you are the ones you’ve voted to a place of leadership? Bran Downson is also scared of spiders.

***

Corrupt Law Enforcement Officer Clancy Thompson grips with steely fingers the steering wheel of a Mark IV Ryan-Class Aquato-Ride tanker-transport utility vehicle. Traffic is superb on I-5 today, flowing like the tresses of an ethnically ambiguous woman dangerously but only morally and not legally close to the age of consent. His biggest fear: that the great white shark swimming in the hold of his tanker-transport will not do the job when Clancy has it flung through the upper-floor home office window of his next target. An irrational fear, to be sure, considering the 15 years of training under his belt, the ten thousand hours of practice in performing this particular operation, and the solid-gold crucifix he wears under his vibra-tech bullet and taser and naughty-glances proof vest, proof that God Himself is on his side. Still, operations like these, unnecessarily complicated for the sake of an outlandish and therefore entertaining plot, are too oft wrought with unforeseeables. To take his mind off of it, Clancy Thompson thinks about his favorite Eagles song.

***

He seems to cling to the steely girders like a june bug on tree bark in the syrupy warmth of a Kansas July. His back hovers above the racing asphalt, a black unspeckled by sunlight here in the shadows of the truck above. Rogue Librarian Cutter Cliverson checks the security of the carabineer holding him to this speeding vehicle. All is good, despite the speed at which he travels, just a few inches from a messy death. His biggest fear: that great white sharks will continue to be abused by men for otherwise righteous causes. His mission: to thwart an attempt to fling poor Carol into the upper floor home office of an evil poetaster. Not because the poetaster doesn’t deserve justice. He does, and Cutter has in his various pockets blades that will carry out the job. But not at the shark’s expense. Cutter Cliverson checks his GPS-enabled watch one last time, sniffs the air for that tell-tale scent of Callery trees, and readies himself for action.

***

Bran hears a screeching of tires, ignores it. He is literally miles from the nearest body of water, a fresh-water lake, and many more miles from the Puget Sound, too orca-choked for great-whites to survive, and thousands of miles from San Diego. He continues to smack the keyboard around.

Clancy tugs the wheel and turns off the highway. He needs to maintain momentum. Running a red light, he ignores the honking horns. An alarm on his dashboard flashes; he’s losing water out of the tanker hold. No matter. He’s within a quarter mile of his destination.

Cutter pulls a small explosive from a pocket on his combat cargo pants, wedges it in his mouth and unhooks the carabineer. He begins to climb up the backside of the truck, clinging tightly is it rounds a corner at top speed. A cacophony of honking horns applauds his efforts. He ignores the pain as his shoulders are nearly wrenched from their sockets.

Bran hits a few more keys, grabs the sticky mouse, clicks send. He is furious. His superiors need to know that the mission is a bust. The writer is nowhere to be found.

Outside, Clancy tugs the wheel again, nearly tipping the truck. Ahead, the driveway of his destination. He calls into his mind memorized maps and schematics. The driveway is a good 500 feet in length, long enough for him to get up momentum. He flips a switch on the dashboard, opening the hatch that holds the shark.

Cutter sees the hatch opening, knows he has only seconds left. He spits the explosive into his hand, and sticks it to the servo that will lift Carol into launch position. He hesitates before arming it. Carol will be harmed in the explosion. Cutter grits his teeth. It’s for the greater good. Carol will die, but people will learn that using sharks to attack people is not a viable option. With tears in his eyes he drops back. His pant leg are caught in the mechanical launch arm. Damn it.

Bran stands up, catches sight of the truck hurtling towards the window.

Clancy floors the accelerator, and with a triumphant scream, pounds the large red launch button on the dashboard.

Cutter feels the sharp tug of the mechanical arm on his cargo combat pant leg, as he and Carol the Great White Shark are flung into the air. The small explosive goes off, three milliseconds too late.

Bran dives out of the room as the shark and librarian come crashing through the window. The truck slams into the closed garage door below. Clancy pulls a knife out of his pocket and cuts away the airbags. He jumps out of the truck and dives through the hole made in the garage door. Into the house and up the stairs. He turns right, towards the home office. Sees Bran, staring into the office through the door. The smell of Callery trees and rapidly bleeding great white shark. Clancy sees Bran peer into the room, and hears him say “What the hell are you doing here?” Clancy is about to answer, when Cutter emerges from the room, brushing Bran aside. Clancy’s eyes go wide in shock. “What the hell?” he says. Finally Bran notices him, and his eyes, already wide in shock, doubled in size. Cutter sees Clancy too, looks again at Bran as if recognizing him for the first time. His eyes are also wide.

“What the hell!?”

“What are you doing!?”

“Where’s the target!?”

“Who’s the target!?”

“What the hell!?”

Carol, in her last throes, thrashes a bit, and dies.

The three men descend the stairs, and walk into the kitchen. Bran opens the fridge, pulls out three beers, opens them and passes them around. “This is messed up,” he opines.

“Where’s the target?” Clancy manages, after taking a long pull on his beer.

“I don’t know.” Bran says. “I came here for what looks like the same reason. He wasn’t here. I just found some old guy, tied up in a closet.”

“Who’s the target?” Cutter says. He knows, but he asks anyway.

“The writer,” Bran replies.

“What?”

“The writer, the guy who wrote this crap, who’s writing it right now.” Clancy says. “I was sent to take him out. I don’t know why. He’s trying too hard, I guess. Not towing the line, pumping out nonsense like, well…”

“Like this.” Bran says. He frowns, hard, drains his beer.

Clancy nods. “And you were sent to stop me, Cutter? I thought we were on the same side.”

Cutter shrugs. “We are. I want him gone too. But not at shark-kind’s expense. I didn’t know it was you driving the truck. Besides, I failed. You were able to fling the shark through the window.”

“Yeah,” says Bran. “And thankfully, I got out of the room in time.”

Clancy stares at his beer bottle label for a few beats. “This old guy you say you found. What’s up with that?”

Bran pauses too. Then smiles an evil grin. “Let’s go find out.”

***

Two minutes later, three men crowd around an old man sitting in chair, his hands tied behind his back.

Cutter pulls the gag out of the man’s mouth. “Who are you,” he says.

“I’m Thomas Berger!” the old man shouts. He looks to be about seventy, round bald head, thick lips, eyes that suggest he’s actually probably a pretty good author himself.

“Any idea where the writer is?” Clancy asks, holding a knife in his hand, idly running his thumb along the blade, drawing blood.

“Yes! He went to the 7-11! It’s just a few blocks from here! To get a Dr. Pepper and a bean burrito! I think he forgot about me!”

The three other men look at each other. Bran nods. Cutter nods too, and pulls out his own knife. “let’s do this,” Bran says.

They start to leave. Behind them, the old man shouts “Wait! I have a knife too! Take me with you!”

The three turn and looked at him. Cutter shrugs. “Sure, why not?” He cuts the old man loose.

***

They see the writer walking towards them as they leave the house. He doesn’t even seem to notice the large truck crashed into his garage door, the gallons of shark blood pouring out of his home office windows.  “Oh, hey guys,” he says, carrying his stupid Dr. Pepper and his stupid bean burrito.

They did not hesitate. They attack him, sharp metal flashing in the rare Seattle sunlight. The guy falls, bleeding. He has time to say “You too, Thomas Berger?” And then covers his face in shame.

They don’t stop. Not for a long time. They stab him with their steely knives. But they just can’t kill the beast.

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You Don’t Have to be a Fanatic to be a Fan

The name’s Stan. I don’t know what it says on my birth certificate, or even how long I’ve been on God’s Green. But people call me Stan and treat me like a guy pushing 60, so I guess that’s who I am.

I work in the Lost and Found at Safeco Field, home of the Mariners. Been working forever, it feels like. I got a calendar on the wall (lost but never found) that says it’s been 40 years. Which is odd since Safeco was only built 16 years ago, in 1999 and the Mariners themselves have only been around since 1977.

But nevermind that. Down here in Lost and Found, logic isn’t really all that important. I mean, people lose things, and they come here to find them again, and sometimes they do even if it don’t make sense to.

Like the time this fella shows up, looking for his dad. Says his old man passed-away a week before, and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do now. So I look through one of the boxes and there’s this old beat up hat. Hand it to the guy and he starts tellin’ me about how when he was a kid his old man would take him to ball games. They’d sit there up in some sky-scratchin’ upper-deck, all the players on the field small as ants. Eat boiled hot dogs and if it was rare sunny day his old man would even let him have a sip of his watered-down beer. I ask him, you got any kids, and he says yeah. And I tell him, supposed to be sunny next Wednesday, and Anaheim’s in town. Then he smiles and walks off.

We got all kinds of stuff down here. Hats, like I said. Lots of sweat shirts and jackets cause maybe it’s a little bit cold when you get here and then King Felix gets fired up and pitches a one-hitter through seven innings and you’re on your feet hollerin’ the whole time. Then Seager or Ackley busts things open and the bull pen cleans things up and you’re so high you don’t remember your wind breaker.

Gloves, necklaces, bracelets. Sunglasses. Did you know Seattle sells more sunglasses than pretty much any other city in America? Cause we don’t got enough days of sun in a row to remember where you put your last pair I guess!

There’s a few stuffed animals down here, too. An old chewed-up Mariner’s moose. That one makes me a little bit sad, I can admit. I mean, some kid probably got that when he was here, dragged it back a few times maybe. It became a good luck charm, and then one day the Ms do their usual one-run showing and the kid sets the moose down and doesn’t bother to pick it up. Someone brings it to me. Sits here until, what, 2001 happens again? Probably not.

It’s not a bad job, though. I get to come to most of the home games, get to watch sometimes if I want. Other times I’m down under the concrete, sorting and arranging, taking calls, sending notes up to the box seats. Players lose things too, and I’m in charge of that.  Derek Holland lost his stuff in that game a few years ago, and the Ms got 8 runs off of him. I wrapped it up and put it in the mail for him, and he got it back, eventually.

But one thing they got me doin’, lately, is to hunt around for the Ms mojo. It’s been lost for a while now. They have me searchin’ high and low for it, all over the place. Last season they kept finding it in other ball parks, which is great, but I don’t workin those, I work here. And I just can’t find it. Mariner’s lost again last night, this time to the Twins, which isn’t shameful or anything, but still. Givin’ up 12 runs in two games? No wonder they got me lookin’ for it.

Anyway, that’s what I got on my plate, most of today. The Ms are on the road for a while, Rangers, Astros, Angels. I’m hopin’ I can find something by the time they get back for the As in the middle of May.

Cause you see, I’m not what you’d call jaded. I’m not a cynic. I’ve been around for a long time, and expect to be for a long time still. People talk about “fair weather” fans, and in a place like Seattle where it rains a lot, that metaphor’s got some weight to it. But I don’t judge. Baseball’s for everybody, season ticket holders and once-a-season folks alike. Everybody deserves to find what they’re lookin’ for: a nice day at the ballpark. A win, now and again.

So I’ll keep huntin’, I guess.

Hey, you know what? LoSTANdfound. That’s why they call me Stan! I just thought of that!

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The Other Sisyphus

The following conversation did not occur at a Starbucks near my house:

Hey.

Hey.

Been here long.

Forever. A couple of minutes maybe.

I just got here.

I know. I saw you walk through the door.

Yeah. I would have been here sooner, but I was running late.

Amazing.

Is that a scone?

No, it’s a plate.

Is that a scone on top of the plate?

Well, that depends. I’ve eaten some of it. Is it still what it was, or is it something else now?

That sounds like philosophy.

It is. It’s why we’re meeting here. To study philosophy.

Is it?

No. Unless you think that the only reason to exist at all is to study philosophy.

Is it?

Yes.

Oh.

I mean it’s not.

Oh.

I mean it’s not a scone. It’s a croissant.

It… it doesn’t look like a croissant.

It doesn’t look like a scone, either.

Well, I don’t know what I scone looks like.

Then why did you ask if it was a scone?

Because if it was a scone, then I would know what a scone would look like.

Well, I’m sorry about that. It’s not a scone. It’s a croissant.

I know what a croissant looks like.

Good for you.

And that does not look like a croissant.

Does it look like half a croissant?

No.

Are you sure? There are literally an infinite number of ways to cut a croissant in half. Are you sure you can hold in your mind an infinite number of images like that?

I don’t have to.

Why not.

Heuristics.

Ah… good one. I’d give you an A, if I was your teacher.

Well, you’re not.

I know. Except, I am, sort of.

No. You’re not.

Yes I am. I helped you there, helped you understand a subtle philosophical point.

Well…. I guess.

So I’m sort of your teacher.

Like that’s sort of a croissant.

Yes. I mean no. I mean, didn’t you just say you know what a croissant looks like?

Yes.

And this does not look like one?

Yes.

So why are you now saying it’s sort of a croissant?

Meta speech.

Come again.

I was talking about what we were talking about. That’s meta speech. It refers to but does not have to be consistent with what we were saying before.

And is that, what you just said, also meta speech?

Don’t be cute.

I’m not being cute.

You are. You’re trying to be. Look, just answer the question.

What question?

Is that a scone?

I’m going to stand up now. I’m going to ask you sit here. I’m going to go outside. I’m going to come back in. We’re going to start over.

Okay.

And that will give you your answer.

Okay.

Good.

Bye.

Hey.

Hey.

Been here long?

Forever. A couple of minutes maybe.

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Knit One, Purl Two

Fiction by Jason Edwards

She’s a spy and he doesn’t even know it. They sleep together and he tells her secrets, but her favorite part are these walks in this little park, tucked between his office building and hers and a few others. A secret park, something for top-floor executives to look at while they execute orders for, well, let’s face it, execution. The spy game is a dirty game, it’s all about money, and sex, and occasionally killing people.

She’s not afraid of any of that, and if her bosses told her to kill him she would, because it’s her job and she’s good at her job. But there’s nothing wrong with taking a few moments to walk through a park on a nice day with a nice guy and talk about nice things like a new pair of shoes she’s going to buy, about a sale they’re having, about the dress they’ll go with and the lipstick she’ll put on, just for him. He’s married, so they can’t go out, of course, he can’t take her someplace fancy, but then she doesn’t need fancy, she just needs those secrets. So she can do her job and get paid and buy shoes.

It’s way more complicated than that, of course, and she’s not some stereotypical floozy who gets hot and bothered over a pair of marked-down pumps. Except she is. Obviously, she’s not, she’s a spy, a good one, on the fast track to promotion and maybe even a shop command or, if the wind blows just right, a spot in the leadership, a policy maker. But speaking of wind, there’s a delicious breeze coming over that small green hill, there’s a shady spot underneath the tree as the path turns, making her shiver, there’s that old woman on a park bench, knitting something for her great-grand kids. Steel blue knitting needles, winking in the sunlight.

This small park nestled between tall buildings, this is the only time of day it gets any sunlight.

***

He’s a spy and she doesn’t even know it. Seducing her was easy, mostly because she was probably told to let him, and now he feeds her bad intel so his bosses can play games with her bosses. But this part he doesn’t like, listening to her drone on and on about shoes or lipstick or something, these stupid walks in this shitty little park where no one goes. He likes the sex even though she isn’t very good at it, but then neither is he. It’s just that, after sex, he sleeps better, and normally, he doesn’t sleep very well.

Mostly because he’s killed so many people. It really gets to him. Other guys, and gals, in his shop, they seem to deal with it so well. Get a job, get close, make the hit, move on. Sometimes they even sleep with the future-deceased, just to get their guard down. How can they do that. Do they imagine walking in the park with them, day after day, so mind-numbingly bored that it’s either kill or commit suicide?

This is why they took him off hits, put him on counter-counter, not exactly a chump’s game, but not nearly as exciting as executions. But oh well. It has its perks. She thinks he’s married, thinks she tricking him with the pillow talk, lets him do things to her that a lot of women wouldn’t. So he’s conflicted. Which is why, when they turn the corner, and there’s the old woman, but this time her knitting needles are blue, a small tear falls from his eye.

Blue is the signal for assassination. He’s just not sure if its sadness or relief that makes him cry.

***

She’s an old woman, but everyone thinks she’s a spy. Ha. She’s just an old woman, nestled in that sweet spot where she’s got enough income to stretch out her final years, but not enough to worry about politics. Men in suits and cold office buildings dictate world policy, a million peasants in some back water die, the minimum wage goes up and down, and she just wakes up and goes to the park and does some knitting, waiting for the mid-day sun. Feels good, deep in her bones.

She’s had a life. She’s gone from innocent to informed to impassioned to jaded to indifferent to philosophical to, well, there’s no word for the final stage. Zen, if you believe in that Buddhist crap. But she’s not going to slap on a pair of tight pants, squat down on a shiny purple mat and make her joints go pop for the entertainment of the universe. She’ll just wake up, have her tea, open her mail, and walk down to the park.

They think she’s a spy because she’s here almost every day. A bunch of office buildings filled to bursting with agents, special agents, double agents, assassins, operatives, provocateurs, and analysts. And so my bureau men. So many executives, so many suits. She’s seen more dead drops than Carter’s got pills. It was entertaining once, now it’s just background noise. She sits and knits. Her grandson, sweet kid, he sends her picture of her great-grand daughter, requests for more booties. He even sends her knitting needles.

But she can’t find the ones he sent her last week, so today, she’ll use an old blue pair. Use to be her favorites.

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5th of May, and Me No Burrito

fiction by Jason Edwards

Just a walk in the park. Not a metaphor. High cholesterol. I’m 53. Too young to die; too old to start something new. Still. Wife likes the time to herself. At least it’s a nice day. Stupid sodium.

Trash on the path. Piece of cardboard. And this is supposed to be the nice part of town. My doctor says “When I walk, I pick up trash. Stretches the back. Sitting is the new smoking.” Fine. My good deed. Earn an extra helping of couscous. What the hell is couscous.

“Anything helps.” That’s what the cardboard says. One of those homeless signs. They stand by the highway. A good reason to turn up the radio. But the nearest off ramp’s two miles from here. Like I said, the nice part of town.

And what’s that smell. That’s marker smell. This sign is fresh. But why is it here. Somebody wrote this only an hour ago. I’m like CSI right now with my deductions skills.

Maybe he sleeps in the park. And he makes a sign. And he walks to the highway. And then what. Does he buy a frozen burrito from the 7-11? One of those sodium bombs? Does he have high cholesterol?

Is he 53 like me? Is he too old to die, too young for hospice? My kid, he’s 23, he says, when you’re old enough to know you’re going to be dead someday, the rest of life is chasing distraction. Existential discomfort. Everything else is hospice.

I could go to 7-11. I could buy a burrito. I could find this guy. I could give it to him. Cinco de Mayo, I could say. That’s a good walk, four miles. Earn me more than couscous. Seriously, what the hell is it.

But he doesn’t have his sign. So how can he be at the highway. I’ll never find him.

There’s a trash can. Next to a park bench. I could leave the sign for him. But what if some other old geezer who doesn’t watch CSI finds it.

I guess the park is a little cleaner now. Still the nice part of town. I’ll sit on the new bench. If sitting is the new smoking, it’s time for a smoke break. More hospice. My kid’s kind of an asshole.