short story – Letters of Measure

Truncated Expanse

Lost cannon trapezes, was the instigating phrase,

Truncated Expanse

By Tyler Lucas Mobley

Fleet finds the wood and moor in a long bay. They lower boats while keeping glass on shore. Rowing men joke how they can hear treasure calling from a thicket along the slope. Not far from the ship a dense fog converges on the boats from both sides. Shore disappears in an instant along with the faces in the companion boats, murmurs of worry remain eerily clear.

“Tie Up” a voice shouts.

Ropes land in laps, slack ripples the calm. They pull in as far as the oars let them, fasten down and wait.

The men’s eyes go back and forth from one boat to another then back to their own. A broad loss of time falls upon the men, induced by the surrounding stillness, the onset sudden yet gradual.

A man in a hat jumps to his feet, salutes, “aye captain,” then dives into the water and swims without direction.

A few men begin to unbutton their shirts, intent to follow their mate assuming they missed the orders in their daze, though stop upon realizing it is only they. The rapid departure of their mate fails to set off any alarm among the small fleet, sullied by confusion. Trying to recall any detail about the day or past personal experience the men flounder with only each other to locate themselves.

The Captain sits, quietly stroking the feather in his hat. The men who tied the knots, slowly untie and retie them to their exact previous position down to the thread. Conversations between the worn grooves in the wooden oars and the hands who made them unfold with meaningful reminnisions.

Out of a dead silence the treasure’s roar hits in a gale, stripping the men of all their defenses. Some turn with terror in their hearts, others don’t dare move sure a winged lion’s jaws would find them any moment.

The captain remains steady, taking it as a sign he begins to search the waters. Before the captain can check all his quarters, a gentle knock rings out from the starboard boat, followed by the call of, “land!”

A spit of jagged rocks barely breaking the surface presents a possible path to shore. The men sobered by fresh hope, a feature to follow through the disorienting fog. Though some remain weary, as if having visited a particular day spa, unsure of how much time passed.

The Captain stands talls makes a quick gauge of his senses, feeling his gut for feedback then shouts, “make for shore, keep ground to starboard.”

Gold coins dance over each oar pull, anticipation builds in the men with treasure restored in the mind. Hardly a bead of sweat to be found when the call of “land,” comes from one of the boats. The men break from their stations and turn to look through the clearing fog at shore baking in sunshine awaiting their sea legs.

Chins raise skyward eager for a fresh smack of warmth to shake the cobwebs from their minds. One by one the men drop their gaze to confront the towering wood of their quest. Running the length of the slope the wood carries a dense foreboding stature that feels out of place with only a small grass field separating it from shore. The triumph of reaching land deflates upon confronting the glaring immensity of their task.

“And we have no other directions other than this wood on this island?”

“Uh huh.”

“Blimey, we could have double the boats and it’d still take a year to search all that, what are we to eat?”

A mate brings an oar down over the dissenter’s head at the direction of the Captain. “Anyone else like to come all this way to give up their share of the loot,” asks the Captain, giving a hard scan of his men, “anyone else?” The men fall silent. “Didn’t think so, as to how we will find the treasure, I have a plan. Make camp, the search begins tomorrow.”

By nightfall the blaze of fire extinguishes the day’s delirium; stories crackle over flames, bottles pass to the last drop. Coals glow hot, the men slouch on the silent verge of slumber, when from the belly of the wood comes a menacing roar. The sound washes over the camp like a tsunami, knocking everything off its foundation. The men gaze wide eyed into darkness, certain the end had begun. The Captain sits quietly on a log calculating the origin of the sound to set their course by light.

“At ready,” shouts the Captain, with the morning light cresting the mountain behind him.

Boots are tugged on, belts tighten, faces slapped to life till every last soul is in line before their trusted wind.

“As some of you already suspect today’s search will involve brushing bows with some deterrents, you might say. Don’t be alarmed, these traps only have the power you give them,” the Captain says, puffing his pipe ablaze.

Trekking single file through the dense wood, light struggles to reach the ground they tread.

“What did Captain mean by deterrents? Like that cannon that went off at camp last night?” one of the men toward the rear asks.

“That was no cannon doghead, that was the bloody wood,” gruffs the crewmen in front.

“How could a wood make such a…”

His voice trails off, interrupted by something in the distance. He comes to a stop, the line of men behind slink in return.

“Move it, what’s the hold up,” one says with a nudge.

The man doesn’t budge, in fact remains perfectly still. The man behind feels something is off, “What you hiding in there mate, you bring your own plank to walk?”

Over hearing this comment the last of the progress making men turns back to see what the commotion is about, and immediately regrets doing so. The skin of the crewman begins to harden into segments, roots grow from his boots, his hat rides the trunk sprouting out of his skull up to the canopy. Within a minute a pile of rags lay at the base of another tree indistinguishable from the others.

Terror grips those who witness his transformation. The man who spoke of deterrents gains insight as to what went through camp last night, the soul cries from within the trapped hollows of countless trees, each a living coffin.

The entire venture descends into chaos, a chain reaction, men running to get away vanish into full grown pines in an instant. Panic pulls the thought closer, the cautious strike an intent pace back to shore, trying not to focus on the trees.

The men gather prostrate along the tide line, hoping enough show to fill a boat. A shadow overcomes one of the men in sand, he looks up expecting to see a tree or the Captain. He peaks up toward the sea and is surprised to recognize the figure before him as the man who abandoned the boat and swam out to sea. How he stands here before him in a heavy coat of starfish and shells and a mermaid waiting on an idling seahorse just off shore was beyond him. Maybe he knew where he was going after all, or maybe he just got lucky.

The man in the sand prepares to speak, but stops as the shadowy figure raises a finger and gives the slightest shake of his head that says, no need. The other men in the sand detect a change and train their attention on their resurfaced mate. After a moment he retrieves an object from a pouch at his side then raises it to his lips while keeping it concealed in his hand. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his exhale creates a fountain of sparks from the hand at his lips, shooting high into the sky, accompanied by an exhilarating sound, putting the men in a cradle dangling over a cliff. After a good while a cloud of fizzy dust forms over the wood, when the sound stops the cloud falls over wood as though it were a pile of bricks.

A mist consumes the entire wood obscuring it from sight, within a few moments a convenient wind arrives at their backs clearing the mist to reveal thousands of sailors spanning centuries who find themselves as they were when truncated without a day gone by.

By the time the men in the sand think to thank their former mate they catch only a last glimpse of him riding away on his seahorse before becoming fully submerged.

The Captain, surprised by the sudden restoration of souls, sits patiently atop the treasure waiting for the second chaos.

The End

Of Mr. and Mrs.

A couple sips, then it all flowed out.

Of Mr. and Mrs.

By Tyler Lucas Mobley

A couple sips at a table in front tall street facing windows, a tension hotter than the steam swirls between them. The occasional reflection of passing cars is a game of pong across their faces. Both easy on razor cliffs, any disturbance could cause a sudden plummet. They wait, for what neither is sure. The photograph of a woman she put on the table hasn’t moved, yet they both know that’s why they’re here. How to set a boulder in motion you know you won’t be able to stop? His hand reaches for the photo with an intention of coming clean, but when he picks her up he can’t. ‘What’s stopping you,’ she fires. ‘You,’ he replies half serious. Her smile condescends, eyes dagger, he feels weak, but knows how to appear strong. ‘You know if I do this you’ll never put it away, you have to do it.’ This bastard is trying to stroke my gorilla, have to take your nuts now sunny Jim. ‘That’s what you think will resolve this, if I wet your beak? Say I do, where does that leave us? huh?’ she whisper snarls with a brow throw at the end that adds emphasis by orders of magnitude. His hand reaches up like someone just put a rope around his neck, but nothing is there. Any normal couple in the midst of such a free fall would let the parachute pass them by, but with skills of experience and a job on the table come close, and they won’t let it slip away.

The woman in the photograph walks past the window, eyes dart then crochet back together knowing what must come next. At the shell game table the middle is drawn, in his hand as she thought he might. This is her plan; go along, look to counter. The street is busy but they hear only what they need to, tracking the bounce of auburn hair a squirrel hop ahead. Just out for a walk meanwhile closing in, as internals speed up the world slows. Then he sees it, all at once laid out before him, the counter, he continues on and waits for the target to be in position. Entering the town square she disarms every resemblance to herself she can’t stop finding in the one they follow. I can’t blame his taste, lethal women. Focus, he’ll be up to something.

He stops, takes aim and fires two shots at the bell tower above the square, the ping echoing throughout. Everything is quiet, no one moves, interrupted by a thunderous crack followed by the biggest ring of the bell the town had ever heard. Everyone drops and covers their ears, the silverware on the cafe tables tremble with joy. With all blind from the sound only he saw what happened because he’d seen it before. The bell tumbles off its tower performs an Olympic dive and lands cookie cutter over his beloved target. He smirks with the gods then looks over to his partner, blood lining her jar, and mouths, ‘I’m ready.’ She already has it drawn, a shot sounds, this time no one hears. At the precise moment a piece of metal flung high in the sky during the critical failure of connectivity, falls inches before his face deflecting the bullet. They both look at each other with a ‘in that case’ face and mutually agree to get out while they’re ahead.

A hand emerges beneath the bell after digging an air passage through broken cobbles. Over the hours it took to extract her from beneath the bell, the clapper that nearly split her in two offers a strange companionship in the lonely space. She steps from hollow darkness into his arms never to leave. Everyone’s hearing returns within a few days, though some still suffer from occasional ringing. Waiting on her train to Brno a man in the station greets her with flowers and after a long kiss says, ‘you kept me waiting.’ Her eyes say it all.

The Morgue can be a Potent Place

Seeded 12/21 finished just in time for Spooky Season.

The Morgue can be a Potent Place

By Tyler Lucas Mobley

The Keeper looks up from his desk at a flicker of lights.

“Spirits grifting the flux, even death can’t take them off the grid. I can’t complain, when I kick it rest assured I’ll be back to give my old lady a scare or two. When she falls down the stairs, it’ll be I who pushed her.”

Just as his gaze returns to the desk there’s a pull at the door. Giving it a suspicious eye he lifts his head to see if the residents are playing a prank on him, but senses no shift in the air. Dismissing the disturbance he returns his attention to the computer. No sooner does the door rattle in the lock, followed by a faint knock barely audible over the evening’s storm. Rising from his desk to see what lies on the other side, he opens the viewing box in the warped weathered beast of a door to find no cause for the racket. The Keeper closes the square but stops before latching it, cocking his head to the side at a faint something. The door rumbles again, the Keeper steps back pausing with a quizzical look layered with frustration, then from absolute stillness lashes a whooshing dismissive hand while the other unlocks the door and yanks it open. Pleased to find the vacant air before him, the door is half closed before he notices the figure in the frame.

“What in the Devil’s ball bag are you doing here? It’s past visiting hours, come back tomorrow.” The Keeper begins to close the door when the slight figure extended a hand and said, “Wait, I’m here for the rites.” The door halts its motion hanging open a few inches from the frame, the Keeper pauses to replay what he just heard before poking his head out from behind the door, “what did you say?” A bit of life returns to the figure in the doorway, “I want to know about the rites.” A contemptuous look contorts the Keeper’s face before saying, “well come in and let’s see if you’re worthy.”

The Keeper applies the latch and turns to get his first full look at his visitor. The boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen, his glasses fogged his coat a burdensome sponge, the pack on his back a fishbowl. “Take that coat off, I’ll find you something warm.” The boy heeds the suggestion placing his coat on a hook on the near wall. Relieved with his arrival he let his eyes wander around the morgue lobby finding cobwebs in the rafters, a fireplace lit but presenting no warmth, a dark portrait hanging in a tired frame, of who or what is not clear, a flickering chandelier overhead. The Keeper returns with a blanket, the boy wraps himself with it and feels an instant itch.

“Well let’s get the introductions out of the way, I’m the Keeper of this morgue, fifth generation, this here business predates this country’s manifest destiny. Now tell me what’s your business here with mine.”

“I’m Wattle Robinson, a tenth grader at Poconos High School, I want to learn about the rites.”

“Poconos? That’s at least a seven hour drive, you came all that way?”

“Yes, sir, that’s why I’m here so late.”

“Very well, since you’ve put in the effort of getting here I’ll tell you what I know about the rites. Years ago before my time they used to hold a celebration for the deceased. Usually at night, in fact a stormy night like this yields the best results, so I’ve heard. They would gather here to honor the dead. That’s about all I know, you can stay here till the morning then you must be on your way this isn’t an inn.”

“What about the communication between the living and the dead? The ceremony? Don’t you know about that stuff? I read once that they used to…”

“I don’t care what’ve you read, there have been more lies told of this place than there are days in a year.”

“But it says here,” Wattle reaches into his pack and withdraws a book with a colorful array of sticky notes populating it’s pages, “that once the ceremony was performed the veil between the living and the dead vanishes.”

The Keeper crossed his arms and let his head fall into a hand knowing it was going to be a long night. “Let me see that book.” Wattle hesitated for a moment before handing over his most prized possession.

“Careful,” said Wattle, “the plastic cover flakes off, and the spine is close to becoming unbound.”

The Keeper accepts it with care and mumbles under his breath, “aren’t we all.”

“What was that?” asked Wattle, extra sensitive to the reaction of what had most concerned his life.

“Ohh just saying what a fine book you have here.” The Keeper knew what Wattle had before he handed it over, every person who came to ask about the rites had a copy of, “Rites, Rituals, & Ceremony: Dialing the Dead by Cornish Duesberry, I bet it took some time to track down this gem?”

“Infact,” began Wattle.

The Keeper lifted a hand, “spare me. Did you know that this book doesn’t even cover half of what rites are about? Old Duesberry took off with his stories before the main course, so to speak.”

A shiver ran up the small of Wattle’s back, what did he mean by main course? For the first time since he set off on his quest, suspicion nudged out curiosity for center stage as the driving force of his endeavor, enough for him to consider if what he was doing was dangerous. “So you’re saying there is more to the rites than even Duesberry wrote?”

“Precisely,” a devilish smile consumed the Keeper’s face. “Would you like me to show you?”

Wattle hesitates as nerves surge through his body, the culmination of years of study and obsession led him to the precipice of the mystery that so long eluded him. “Yes, I’m ready.”

“Very well, follow me, let’s see who is in-house tonight.”

Wattle follows the Keeper down a dim hallway that appeared to expand and contract with every step. Each time Wattle glanced passed the Keeper trying to gauge the length of the passage he saw no end in sight, as though their steps provided no progress. The Keeper stops at an undesignated door, and pulls from his pocket a ring of oversized keys. With the correct key in hand the Keeper guides it toward the door and pauses before turning to Wattle.

“Let me reassure you that behind this door is a world that leaves lasting impressions on all who enter, be warned. Do you still wish to see?” Wattle stared into the shadows created by sunken features of the Keeper’s face, his expression at once serious and comical. Wattle cleared his throat and said, “I’m ready.” A sly smile rose onto the Keeper’s face, “as you wish,” he fit the key into the lock and leaned in.

The door opens, a rush of cool air escapes whispering welcome. Wattle follows the Keeper inside, darkness fills the room, still Wattle could sense a radiating presence. The Keeper reaches into his breast pocket for a small box of matches, strikes one and places the flame in a lantern hanging next to the door, and repeats the process three more times in the corners of the room. A ring of statues develop before Wattle, they encircle a series of bookshelves to comprise a ring within a ring. Wattle approaches the towering statues with cautious steps, gazing into a knight in full armor, a gargoyle perched on edge, a priestess with her palms facing out, a statesman with pocket watch in hand, a rabbi with a five pointed star around his neck, and a lion poised on it’s hind legs. Wattle traced a spiral inward to the bookcases which were off set to obscure what lay beyond. Keen for Rites, Rituals, & Ceremony: Dialing the Dead Wattle rounds the shelves examining dusty volumes, following the natural progression he takes a small step between the cases. The Keeper interrupts his progress with a firm call, “I wouldn’t do that.”

Wattle retracts his step and turns to the Keeper and asks, “why what’s at the center?”

The Keeper scoughs, “I’m afraid the answer to your question requires a certain transformation that neither you or I are ready to .”

“Is that where the dead come out of?”

“Perhaps, a more accurate description would be where the dead cease to be dead.”

Wattle felt an urge to disobey the Keeper and sneak a peek around the corner, but a growing fear kept him in his place, as though the statues would come to life and swat him away before he got too close.

“Like a portal between the world of the living and the dead?”

“Mhmm not quite,” said the Keeper, folding his arms. “The boundary between the two vanishes.”

Wattle had read about this phenomena, but being in it’s presence was magnitudes beyond his experience with Duesberry. “Is the center still, uhhh active? Like you can die if you go into it?”

A hint of a smile encroached on the Keeper’s face, “Die? certainly not, but transform most definitely, though there is only one way to find out.”

Wattle felt a growing tension in the room, the status appeared even larger than before. “What’s that?”

“To perform the rites of course,” the Keeper said with a flop of a payment seeking hand.

“I thought the rites were no longer practiced?”

“Only when their knowledge is extinguished will practice cease. We have everything we need, a suitable night, a willing subject, should you choose to proceed.”

The room quivered as though Wattle was in the bowels of a living creature. Met with a choice he’d never thought he’d have to make. Wattle, surveying the room found the lanterns appeared brighter, the statues loomed with a pronounced energy coaxing a performance out of him. The books on the shelves called out to Wattle as though all their knowledge was eager to speak through him. Wattle knew if he didn’t accept this opportunity it would haunt him for the rest of his life. He took a deep breath to steady his senses then said, “yes, I want to perform the rites.”

The Keeper unleashed a scrutinizing gaze that lingered for some time before saying, “very well, excuse me while I gather the preparations.”

Wattle felt immediate dred watching the Keeper disappear through the door that combined with his temptation to peek through the shelves. Leaning forward on his toes to make a move, then deciding against, not wanting to disturb the authenticity of the rites. Wattle moved toward the nearest case, craning his neck to read the spines of the collection when a heavy slam rings through the chamber. Spinning to the source of the noise expecting to find the Keeper at the entry, but saw no sign of him. One by one the lanterns blow out as hush gusts circulate the room building a nest of energy. Trying to maintain a fixed direction Wattle lifts his arms searching for the door, all he can hear is the pounding of his chest echoing through the darkness. Soon enough the wall found him, he begins inching along the perimeter toward his best guess of where the Keeper departed. A loud clash rings out followed by a sharp pain in his head, feeling toward the sound of the obstruction he finds a lantern swinging on its chain.

“I must be close.” Maneuvering around it he felt the door handle and pulled to no avail. “Keeper, are you there? I need to get out.” The silence swallows his words.

The Keeper rounds a dark passageway, the dank air of the subterranean passage muffles the light of his lantern in hand. This night the journey felt longer than it ever had, squinting his aging eyes at the stone steps navigating them with intent and purpose. The Keeper goes about his business, a procedure unchanged since before his time. The booth is hidden from the main chamber and allows a vantage of the shelves and statues as a mixing board does a recording studio. From behind the stand the Keeper positions a leather bound load of centuries old tradition; as far as he knew there was no more powerful thing in the world.

“So you want to learn about the rites young one, well, let us begin.” With a deep breath the Keeper opens the cover that emits a shock wave fluttering the hairs in his nose. The Keeper’s finger fall directly on the familiar page and turns it open, he begins reading the preliminaries in a hushed voice. Down the page his voice strengthened in volume and force, experience had taught him to match the tempo of each passage to ensure a clean connection is established. The fateful line hung on the page, anticipation immense, sensing arrival of life ingredients.

“Of rather close gather, rickety wonder past years, be near of round now.”

A blue green electric vapor rises from the page twisting in a coil, The Keeper continues reading till the small room fills with an emerald hue. Finishing the passage the vapor escapes through the wall into the main chamber and buries itself in the obscured center.

The portal snaps to life with an icy crackle, spreading through the chamber center dissolving the ground. A gyre consumes the chamber threatening to snatch Wattle up in it’s vortex. Inching his way to cover on the downwind side of a statue, Wattle listens to the howl rushing through the ring of steadfast figures. Wattle begins to slip away, as an addict reaches for a fix, figuring he would never escape the energetic spiral he must succumb to its way. He let go becoming a daisy in a hurricane; he twirled and spun till his faculties were undone, unbuttoned to the core of his being.

Fluttering around the chamber Wattle notices increased activity from the center of the bookcases. The floor grew cloudy and metallic like a pond reflecting an approaching storm. Slowly, the calm surface churned into a boiling brew, each bubble containing a few frames that looped until bursting into the chamber. Hurling about the chamber Wattle fixed his eyes on this spontaneous well, searching the thousands of ascending reels for a clue, an answer to unlock the charade before they’d evaporate into nothing. There were scenes from all of history, women returning from the woods, castle sieges of armored men, lovers wrapped in moonlight along a riverbank, a knife driven into the back of a brother, amphitheaters of laughter, children buried, arrows shot from horseback, land burned and rebuilt, wisdom passed along in a town square, a family burdened with unanswered questions, a first kiss in a flowery meadow, the last breath of a loving mother, the steal gaze of determination, a wanderer in a remote passage, a hand reaching out for another. Wattle saw them all in an instant, suspended in the vacuum he twist to maintain a gaze on the brew of the human condition before him. Just then a voice came into his head, it was soft and booming at the same time and repeated, “take your place, fall into space.”

The Keeper observed with restrained interest, an arm folded under one stroking his chin, he knew how much time the boy had left, and just an ounce of him was sad to see him go. “The voice found him, it won’t be long now,” the Keeper muttered to himself, “ he was a fine boy, a passionate pest.”

Lulled by the voice Wattle didn’t realize he was losing altitude, being drawn toward the frothing center of the bookcases. The energy, either out of carelessness or a streak of humor dashed Wattle against the Knight statue sending him tumbling into the awakened portal. There was no splash, no brush of beads like when entering the back room of a head shop, no change in pressure, no resistance at all, Wattle just kept falling. He fell down and down and down some more till it didn’t feel like he was falling at all.

The Keeper let out a sigh of relief then closed his eyes and said to the empty room “be gentle with him.” He ran a hand over the sacred phrase then returned the book to it’s resting place, then made his way back to the chamber.

The whirlwind had dissipated though a static charge still hung in the air; a residual energy of performing the rites the Keeper knew all too well that would take an hour or two to discharge. The Keeper paced the room with lantern in hand, amused at himself for having done it again. “How do the secret rites remain a secret,” he chuckled to himself, “well let me show you.” The Keeper stopped in his tracks, cocking his head toward the center of the chamber at a low murmur resonating between the cases. The Keeper approached with a curious eyebrow raised, it became clearer, growing in strength till it rumbled like an earthquake. “What in hell’s honey hole is happening here?”

Wattle was busy dancing in suspended space, he tango’d past time, disco’d through dimensions, grooved over galaxies, floating as nothing he recognized everything. He fell up, he fell down, he fell sideways, he fell round, Wattle fell through to the end then sprang forth from where he began.

The Keeper rubbed his eyes in hope of wiping clear the picture they informed, but it stayed with him beyond his belief. “How could it be? He’d gone away, no one had ever returned from the rites. Once clenched in the mouth of suspended space there was no way out.”

Wattle stood with the statues, seeing them eye to eye, walking the circle examining each one with his newly acquired qualities. Everything spoke, molecular vibration, sunshine smiles in all directions. The statues wink and curtsey, the lantern in the Keeper’s hand has an expressive face mocking every moment with a different gesture. Wattle breaks out laughing, a supportive arm pressed against the Rabbi as he felt every fiber of his being laugh with him.

Wattle didn’t notice, but the Keeper saw the bubbly history flash incarnate as Wattle shape shifted into every image he ingested before plunging into space. The laughter exorcizing them out of him, changing frame to frame, one second a soldier, a mother, a widow, a lover, a friend, over and over to the end. The Keeper locked up, startled by the blaze of existence before him.

Wattle understood, he felt everything in it’s place, found peace in all places, for they were their own. Then he turned toward the Keeper, all laughter had fallen from his face, still a towering giant with a few purposeful steps he was standing over the Keeper. Looking deep into the Keeper, Wattle saw his propulsion, his eyes hungry for power, his heart a restless thief, pawning himself at the feet of interdimensional demons. Wattle gave a small nod as though some fairy had just whispered in his ear, then said, “You will not devour me.” Wattle raised a foot and smooshed the Keeper; indifferent to the gruesome crunch, for he had it coming his whole life, Wattle was just the one to ring the gong.

Wattle crawled through the hallway and burst through the door kool-aid style. He drove into splashed dawn in his parents car, sticking out the roof like one of those toy cars they let kids drive. He remembered his backpack but no longer needed it. Looking at the morning sky Wattle addressed the world, “the morgue can be a potent place.”

The End.

The Uncompromised Few of New Rochelle

I met a guy from Brockton Mass. he showed me a trailer for a show called Wayne that is set in the same town. This is what it inspired in me.

The Uncompromised Few of New Rochelle

By Tyler Lucas Mobley

“He was supposed to be here an hour ago,” Nezbit said, turning to his friends.

“What makes you think he’s coming back?” replied Bennet.

“Because he said he would, alright,” Nezbit returned with more force than his small body could conjure.

The gang of teenagers at the base of the dock looked at Nez staring into the water, lost in his own reflection.

“Poor kid, thinks he’s still better than us,” Rags muttered into a close ear. “Hey don’t sweat it Nezbit, I remember the last time my Pops said he would pick me up, now he’s doing 7 to 10 for aggravated assault.”

The hard truth was some of his friends had envious thoughts about Rags for knowing what had happened to his father, while they were left with questions that left burning holes in them only to be forgotten with violence and drugs, but no one spoke up. Rags recognized a worry in Nezbit that he’d once had, it frightened him, he didn’t like to see it in his friend, even if it was the needy little brat Nezbit, he too deserved a father.

Off in the distance came the rattle of a can being kicked in stride down a street. “Ahh Christ, here come those 31st punks,” Rutherford said, alerting his crew. It was true the other neighborhoodlums had gone out looking for old troubles in familiar places.

“Look what we have here, if it ain’t a buncha stinkin 12thers’ any of youz sisters’ get pregnant yet, I’ll be jumping all over those tax credits just you wait,” Livermore smacked.

“Piss off Livermore, we don’t want any of your shit today,” Rutherford repiled.

“Pardon me, did I interrupt the next thumb going up your butt?” Livermore returned.

Truth is if these kids didn’t have trouble they wouldn’t have anything at all.

“I rectum you think you’re pretty cool huh, Livermore?” Rutherford asked.

“Sure, not like any youz gunna tell me I’m not,” Livermore said, opening his jacket with his hands in the pockets the way a cat ruffs it’s furr.

“Hey who all thinks Livermore has the dull side of an ill mind?” announced Raymond.

All the hands on the dock went up in snickers. “Vote is in Liv, looks like a punch in your mug amounts to community service,” Raymond remarked.

“I dare you to say that again,” Livermore said, toughening up.

“Okay, what I said was Livermore has the dull side of an ill…” A brick careened off Raymond’s face before he could finish.

Fists and elbows careen off bone, the skirmish escalated into a cartoonish dust cloud of blood and bruises; it didn’t matter who started the fight, no one had anything better to do. They fought and fought until anger turned into exhaustion providing a moment of clarity as tensions settled.

“Where did you learn that combo?” asked Rutherford, “I’ve only seen my big bro use that one on me. What was that, cross circle hook?”

Livermore stopped smacking the face of an unconscious companion to wake him, “when you’re on the receiving end it makes you want to serve it up too,” he said then loaded up for another smack which did not come, noticing a drop of blood freshly fallen on the friend’s face that hadn’t been there before, then whipped his chin with the back of his sleeve.

“That must be why you flinched a little before you threw it,” said Rutherford. “Some reverse muscle memory.”

“Whatever, just remember how it felt when it landed, would you like a refresher?” Livermore called over his shoulder.

The unconscious boy awoke in a strained groan of alarm, “I told you I wanted lucky charms in my waffles.”

“Ahh Christ, he’s back in junior high again, brush him with daisy and you’ll scramble his wits,” Livermore remarked. “Pinky, why you such a worthless filthy lump?” still patting his face.

Nezbit watched from behind a stack of pallets, not wanting to sacrifice himself for the honor of peers he didn’t even like. He held no affinity for their doings, they were just the one’s around and everyone knew it was dangerous to be a loner.

“Where’s that lil Bit?” asked Livermoore, “this day won’t be done till that lil snot has a bloody nose.”

“Yea I heard some chirps during the royal, he’s still around,” Rutherford said, “Hey Nezzy come on out, we know you’re out there.”

Nezbit felt his breath grow short, he wanted to disappear, teleport away to a far away place, a different scene with different problems, but nothing happened. He rattled the stack of pallets in hope the noise would be attributed to some scavenging creature that would be more entertaining to torment than he.

“What’s the deal Nez, if you watched the fight come and get your ticket punched?” Rutherford quipped.

“Yea what’s your Mother gunna say when you come home without any bruises? She’ll think you’ve been playing with the girls again,” Livermore teased.

His mother had given him a talk about associating with the opposite sex, “they’ll be looking for alimony before there’s any fruit to bear.” Nezbit stepped out from behind the stack and was met with a brick in the face. A direct hit as soon as his mug was visible made clear his position was no secret; they were toying with him.

“That’s for being a scaredy cat,” called Rutherford, “now give Liverbutt a taste of his own medicine.”

Picking himself off the ground, Nezbit felt as though he were walking into the middle of the Coliseum, eyes anticipating his demise.

“Step two Nezzy, I ain’t got all day,” Livermore remarked, then turning to Rutherford, “Don’t think Imma let that slide, as soon as I’m through with lil Bit here, you got more coming,” he said shaking a fist. Rutherford waited till Livermore turned away then stuck his tongue out at him which let in a taste of blood to his mouth.

Nezbit and Livermore squared up and prepared for battle. Nezbit could hardly breathe, nerves constricted his throat, choking what little confidence he had to come away from this alive. Livermore threw a faint teasing his out matched opponent followed by more till one punch got close enough forcing a reaction from Nezbit who returned an instinctual kick landing on Livermore’s shin.

“Ahhhhh, what kinda shit was that,” Livermore cried, holding his leg in both hands.

Nezbit realized this was his one shot and landed a fist right between the eyes of Livermore, drawing his hands back up to his face, Nezbit swung again to the gut, doubling him over to the ground. Nezbit turned to Rutherford with a look of relief, who shook his head in return, “you’re gunna wish you hadn’t done that.” Before the excitement could fall from Nezbit’s face his legs were swept out from under him and fell on his back, knocking the wind from him. Livermore jumped up and began dragging a weezing Nezbit by a foot toward the waterline, feeling the asphalt turn to cold mud beneath him. Livermore, embarrassed, cursed through a clenched jaw, “think you can pull that shit with me huh?” he said looking back at the Nezbit then continued with inarticulate gripes.

“Send ‘em down the river like the little Moses!” called a lowly goon from the crowd.

Livermore drew up, and both he and Nezbit looked back in the direction of the call with confused concern. “Can it Denunzio no one asked you,” Livermore shouted back. Nezbit added a “yeah,” to second to the motion, then received a firm kick to his ribs, “shut it, you’re in no place to be making requests lil Bit,” Livermore said leaning over Nezbit. Livermore reached down and picked up Nezbit his belt and jacket collar and tossed him in the shallow muck. Nezbit landed with a viscous splash, Livermore kneeled over him and repeatedly thrust Nezbit’s face into the sludge.

“Yeah, give it to him Liv,” came one bloodthirsty cry.

“Get ’em with that big stick,” said another.

Livermore looked up from the stream of bubbles coming from Nezzy’s half submerged head to consider the possibilities a stick would provide, perhaps making a flag pole which he could mount Nezbit on with his feet dangling over the water, liking the idea he surveyed for the potential weapon. However, what caught his eye was no stick, Livermore rose slowly and approached the dark mass caught in some reeds a couple meters away. Nezbit pushed himself up through the mess cold and coughing, Livermore still in reach kicked him back down once more without taking his eyes off the mysterious object. “Hey fellas, that’s no stick, it’s a corpse!” Livermore cried with surprise.

Nezbit cleared his faculties once more, sensing the attention lift from him; he looked to Livermore standing motionless in the mud a few feet away.

“No way, my first dead body, let me see,” said Denunzio running toward the dock.

Rutherford grabbed Denunzio by the collar and pulled him back, “you go touchin it and they’ll pin the loss on you Dunzo.”

Denunzio looked back with salivating dog eyes, collecting himself before calling out to Livermore, “check it’s pockets.”

Livermore did spot a lump near the tush and carefully bent to retrieve it with practiced efficacy. He opened it and after a quick look, “no cash,” Livermore lied, “for one Mr. Franklin Barthalmule Nunenbaum, hey Nezzy isn’t that your name?”

“Ahh Christ did he just say Nunenbaum?” Rutherford said, taking off toward the dock.

“Nezbit Nunenbaum that’s you ain’t it?” Livermore asked without remorse.

Nezbit understood the question, but his mind wouldn’t allow the conclusion to surface, the silt in the water settled around his feet. Rutherford wrapped an arm around Nezbit, turning him away, “go home, you were never here.” Nezbit left with squishy steps, he didn’t dare look back.

“Well he did say his dad would be here to pick him up,” Raymound said.

A well measured complement directed at any of them had the potential to induce adequate reflection, squelching the hunger of sorrow. Their hearts lumps of coal forever whittled down, feeding the propulsive fire on the locomotive-sized pain of their lives. Insurmountable momentum down circle tracks they’d do anything to derail.

THE END

Oyster Jollies

By Tyler Mobley

At it again an ole used to be somebody’s sailor goes walkin between a pair of century old dampers carryin martini olive eyes, soot curls, and a dirty mouth she’d put to use if it weren’t holdin such a cute little grin. A lump of wood at bars’ end lifts a shout, “ain’t you got some business somewhere Ms.?”

The jingle of her boots fades and silence arm wrestles the room and wins. Her head snaps to a call quicker than a wave of a whip, almost drawing all the air from the room with the unanimous gasp it demands from the crowd. Silence ensued either as an effect of no soul dare speak or because a vacuum prevented sound to be carried throughout the room, nobody knew nobody cared.

Each step squashing peeps before they happen, she arrives face to face with Lumber leaned up against the bar, rising for a moment from his seat as if a flame were lit underneath his teepee.

Madam looks up, catching him with even more of a crack in her lips than before, “now what business would that be Mr. Forest?” leaning in she could smell fear turn to shit.

Log cabin falls into convulsive stutters emanating from his lower chip spreading down his race circuit. Mumbles of, “ma ma ma ma ma” again and again interrupted by sudden jerks stifling each proceeding attempt winding up like a little car about to be launched across a kitchen floor.

“Ahh hell!” she slaps him not too hard across the face breaking the broken record-ness arresting his body landing him back in his seat and before he knows much of anything he spits out, “ma acorns!”

A sigh of relief escapes from his chopstick mouth as though having needed to lose an erection before a passing train could knock it off, that sent vapor spittles into her face in a bourbon breeze.

Throwing back her head in a great “HA!”that forces anything not nailed down into the walls. Tables and chairs slide into leather breeches, glass explodes and falls in subtle applause about the room like an ensemble of fairies hitting pots and pans. Olive eyes narrow on Tinder Box with regained composure she reaches into her vest. Eyes shift around the room curious to the fact that her hand had passed up the shooter astride a rather well rounded hip.

From the vest she pulls a small bronze cylinder and removes the cap in a slow twist. Holding it before Match Stick, in a way he could note the color, which was unusual. Containing an element of glitter magnified by the truest amethyst, emitting a spectrum such that anemones if they knew they’d fight for it’s hue, lilies tell petal-tales of it’s shade, it drives monkeys bananas, and sends unicorns out shopping where they discover in passing a mirror their horns’ held the color all along.

“What they servin you here, seventh sin?” Arms a measure animated. “How bout I freshen you up?”

A gleaming nub grows under her touch, then guides the rocket stick towards Saw Dust’s face.

“Hold still now, you haven’t want me to get this wrong.” Reaching behind Splinter’s head to keep fast his shuttering chin.

We have touchdown. From a deliberate hand eights roll onto his wood chips, a trace resembling a trail of a psychedelic snail after several crossing of his balustrade, inducing a most peculiar spell. Building with each completed pass Plank’s corks pucker ever more.

In a sudden pressure release eyelids flutter his harmonica hums and steam blows out his ears. Withdrawing the wand and placing it back in her vest, she takes a step back to admire her workin play horse. Block’s head a ringing coo coo clock, his body a black and white image against the vortex drawn on his castle.

Placing a boot in his dividers then before going any further she turns to address the room, “now if any of you ladies want a ride you’re gunna have to wait your turn.” Pressing on his stirrup her legs swing over his shelve shoulders and saddle up against his music box.

For an imperceptible amount of time her business carries on in such a comfortable manner you’d think she were alone. Wedging into a joist her charged body expands a field of static potential gathered from forces present and beyond.

Breaking from her rhythm for a look at the faces frozen into the wall, some still pinned by furniture.

“Do y’all really wanna see what this pony can do?”

They weren’t sure, nobody answered. Madam twists his ear shooting a puff of steam down the bar, Jenga teetering on edge. On the well lathered face glimpsed between flickering hips patrons saw eyelids batting at thousands of rpms, a pair of bee stings blowing hard brass, a tongue zapping that could turn a toad envy green, the corrupting color covering his complexion resembled a tumbleweed turn tropical fish.

The lights in his jukebox went out right as her’s finished, both rattling in opposite ways. Leaving, months later, suspicions in those who witnessed the event as to whether his spirit had been sucked out by her receiver like some phone booth in The Matrix. Only this here is the nineteenth century so make of it what you will.

The ride met its end, she dismounts brushing against his chopping block, the force of her impact jostling a dead Stump loose from his seat who falls to kindling on the floor.

Giving herself a once over she smiles down at the Pollock piece between her thighs and runs a finger up her seam front. In passing she drags the dabbed finger across the cheek of a still giant, neither spoke.

Within moments a jackhammer awakens inside the giant inducing in him a tapping twister with rumba manners, the bright cheek streak metastasizing his body through Tasmanian whirl.

The audience fixed on another transformation hadn’t noticed her slip out, and let out a still murmur when a cow hatted and curled head popped her peach back through century old wooden doors, “Y’all be careful with this one, damn near lost my pearls,” with a yodeling chortle, “so long.”

With that patrons peeled off walls, and found themselves dumbfounded around the rutabaga vibrator they knew as Earl.