America by Celestiel East

Ruby just looked at me with blank, staring eyes--her face hanging in contrast to the midmorning rush of the street. Strands of stark, white hair spilled out from underneath her dirty stocking cap; a few coarse threads that erupted from a cluster on the tip of her chin held a more "youthful" gray, giving someone with a good imagination the chance to look back through time.

"It'd be terrible for someone's tire to go flat," she said, her long, bony hand stuck out in my direction, her palm opening up to produce three large, rusty nails. I took them from her and smiled, figuring that any minute she was probably going to ask me for a dollar or something.

"You know my husband died changing a tire," she said, as she stepped in closer to the window of my truck.

I raised a hand above my eyes to shield the sun. "Oh really, how's that?" I asked, trying to keep the condescension out of my voice, even though she stood there swaying in the heat, bundles from her neck to her knees in a tattered, wool coat.

"He had a heart attack . . ." she replied, her dark, vacant eyes picking up where her eyes fell off--pressing me even closer.

"So he had a heart attack while he was changing a tire?" I asked, pushing things along with what I thought was the obvious.

"No, no, no," she said quickly, like I had gotten ahead of the story. "He was there across the street at the pharmacy . . ." I followed her pointing finger across the pavement and through the swoosh of cars. I didn't say anything for a moment.

"So he died inside the drug store. Is that what you're telling me?"

"No. . . . He'd gone inside to get his pills, and when he came back out he had a flat tire."

"Ohhh," I kind of mumbled, starting to regret that I had said anything at all. She just stood there and watched me, like she was waiting for the next question. I didn't say a word.

She turned away and shuffled over to the curb, stooping down to examine a twig that must of looked like a nail.

"Thought I had another one," she said as she stood back up, her checkerboard polyester pants swallowing up her feet.

"You know there was a girl down here the other day that had one."

"WhatŐs that?" I asked.

"A flat tire. I walked by here and saw it was flat. . . . I thought I was going to die, I did."

"You thought you were going to die?"

"Oh yeah, my heart started beating real fast. I felt dizzy. . . . I just knew I was going to die."

I looked at her a minute and then noticed myself in the side mirror--my face looked drawn and empty too. I slowly slid back away from the glare outside the window, a bead of sweat running down my temple as I moved. I wondered how much longer it was going to take my friend in the store.

Ruby started to forage around again, and I watched her as she went, moving along where the curb met the sidewalk, her eyes glued to the ground, kicking at anything that even slightly resembled a nail. I also watched the people that passed by her on the sidewalk. . . . Not once did anyone even look in her direction; they seemed to focus on only what lay ahead, letting the heat funnel them through the last strip of shade that hung close to the buildings, their eyes afraid to breach the coolness, leaving her alone as she rummaged . . . like she was invisible, like she was some kind of street pigeon scratching through the trash.

I slid back over the window. "Tell me something," I called out before she wandered too far away.

"I just want to get this straight. Your husband died while he was changing that tire, right?"

She didn't say anything, as she turned around and picked her way back to the truck. She stopped in front of the window and rested a hand on my arm to steady herself.

"No sir, he died when he got home . . ." she said very quietly. "He came in the door and told me he was tired . . . but after he laid down, he never got up. . . ."

The passenger door suddenly opened, and my friend jumped in. He looked at me kind of funny, and then he slowly leaned forward so he could look around me and see what was going on. "Uh . . . you ready to go?" he asked.

When I turned back around, Ruby had disappeared and was heading for the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

I started the truck and backed up, trying to keep an eye on her the whole time. As I was about to pull away, I thought I saw her glance back for just a moment. "See ya later," I quickly called out, raising a hand in her direction, cringing the very second I said it at how stupid it must of sounded.

As I pulled out into the traffic, my friend just kind of looked at me like I was crazy or something. "Who the hell was that?" he said.

Cape Island Invocation

Will you see the basin blackjacks that line
The crest of autumn, black and speckled gray.
Will you see a quarter sun as it lies
Atop the ocean, calm, calm. Will you see a night

Bright of stars and moon eclipsed, pearl and copper.
Will you see a glade that shades blackwater pools
By night. Will you see a piperŐs notes formed to queues
For familiar, high, low. Will you see a marsh

That has left its banks, then eases its flow.
Will you see the menhaden that move by light,
Clever and slow, or will you see the pelican fly
Fast past the shrimp boats shifting as she soars.

Tell me, who, who it is you will see
When your clasped hands no longer see me.

--Delmar Brewington

Trish Next to Waterfall by Angela Watkins

Have You Ever Played the Color Coded Candy Game?

I am mesmerized like a deer
bright light
my chest warm from
your heat
my whole being like glove less hands in Chicago's crisp
winter breeze
clumsy forced movement as I dance
with you
holding my breath, my heart
thundering

I wait to hear you say
what my dry lips can't
a blue m&m
commando
in my suddenly
heavy
thoughts
my cold bare feet
autumn leaves
on concrete

You are what moves me
your words kiss my ear
I am drunk
no, I am love
anticipating the
country colored,
moon sparkling
eyes that look
through mine
I am all you

are you scared?
does it hurt?
I should know
I've been there before
I cried when he cried but he only saw my smile
Dr. Suess wind chimes clink and clang
It will only sting a bit,
then a pinch
slight pressure
and it's over

There is a first and last for everything
you only live
once
unbridled
emotion has
more sentimental value than a
scrap
book
photo
but only when you let it linger

I never have, but I hear that
winner takes all.

--Kriston Corgan

Untittled by Kristina Snowden

Drawing of Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny by C.C. Merrell

Working the overnight shift at the radio station has its good points. I enjoy a small bit of celebrity when I attend functions we sponsor or happen to mention my occupation to an impressionable young girl in a bar. Fringe benefits, like those and the free concert tickets and CDs, are about all the job adds up to. Mostly, though, the nights are tedious and long, enlivened only by occasional callers.

On the weekend, the callers are mainly partiers and drunks, either loudly complaining about the music or demanding/pleading that their request be played NOW. Occasionally, another graveyard shift worker from some convenience store or factory will phone in a request--these have priority over the drunks.

Our studio occupies the top floor of the Rammal building downtown. On one particular Saturday night--excuse me, Sunday morning--I reclined on the counter by the window enjoying a forbidden cigarette, my feet hanging out over fifteen stories of empty air. It was a clear, windy night and I was more interested in the smoke patterns being sucked out of the window than the paper I was reading. I had just played "Do You Feel Like I Do" by Peter Frampton, so I had a good thirteen minutes to relax.

The phone started to ring--well, not literally, since there was no ringer, just a flashing light. Very bright and very annoying. I tried several times to remove the cover and unscrew the bulb, but I couldn't. I tried to ignore the light, turning toward the window and hanging my legs fully out. The rhythmic flashing of the light on the rock n' roll posters in my peripheral vision became sort of mesmerizing. I lit another cigarette and continued to ignore, admiring the sparkle of traffic on the surface of the sluggish river below.

Only when the song faded did I return to the console. I put on my headphones, turned on the mike and potted it up.

"WKNG, 98.5FM, where rock n' roll is always king. Do you feel like I do? I sure hope not. That's Peter Frampton, from Frampton Comes Alive. We're right in the middle of another ten in a row, so let's get rockin'. Here's Pink Floyd on WKNG!"

The light was still flashing. This guy really wants a request, I thought. I hit the button for the request line. The reel-to-reel machine started rolling, recording for possible on-air use.

"WKNG, who is this?" I said.

"It's about time. Why aren't you answering the phone?" The voice was low and breathy coming over the console monitor.

"I just did, bud. What can I do for you?" I said in my best "your-best-buddy" DJ voice.

"Well, I was just calling to see how it's going up there. Are you busy?"

"No, not really, you know how these nights are--do you have a request?"

"Yeah," the voice replied, ignoring my last question, "I never get to sleep at night these days either."

"Oh?" I tried to cover my impatience and boredom. "Where do you work?"

"I'm not working until morning. I . . . uh . . . do volunteer work at night." There was a suggestion of chuckle behind that last line.

"Really?" I said, boredom clearly showing. "Doing what?"

"I'm sure you've seen my work in the paper. You do read the paper, don't you?" There was a knowing tone, almost a verbal wink and nod, in that question. I didn't like it. A few apartment buildings and a hotel faced our studio. None of them were as high as our building, but I'd had a few callers who claimed they could see into the studio. I glanced at Saturday's paper, which I'd just been perusing.

"I didn't read the whole thing. Where're you at?"

"Front page, buddy."

"There's nothing on the front page except . . ."

TWO BODIES FOUND ON RIVERFRONT

Police recovered the bodies of a young man and woman this morning on the river shore near State Street. The bodies were identified as those of Clifford and Emma Black, newlyweds assumed to be on their honeymoon. No clues as to the identity of the killer or other details in the case have been issued by the police. These are only the latest in a string of apparently unrelated murders over the last . . .

"So? You're a murderer?" Just call me Frank Disbelief.

"I am not! I'm an artist! I never . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Listen, man, the 'murderer as an artist' thing was worn out in fifty movies before Jack Nicholson played the Joker. So, if you don't mind, I'm getting back to work." My fingers stretched for the "disconnect" button.

"Well, OK. I have to get to 'work' too. We'll talk later." I could hear the quotes around the word "work."

I punched the button and grabbed my smokes. Pink Floyd was almost over, so I sat smoking at the console, cueing in the next song.

Christ, I thought I had it bad with the psychos calling me for free phone sex, I thought.

I couldn't take the guy too seriously, though. Crank calls were par for the course in radio. Sometimes, they're even funny enough to put on the air. Anyway, I wasn't going to call the cops or anything--I'm not an amateur, and I don't want to sound like an idiot.

I only had two hours left on my shift--no commercials this late at night. Chris Burnett came in at six a.m. for the morning show. I didn't know Chris very well. Usually, I felt like shit when six o'clock rolled around, and I just wanted to go home. Chris didn't do much for the sake of friendly relations, either. He always came bustling in at the last second, in wrinkled clothes and with bags under his eyes, maybe grunting a "hey" as he took over the board. I couldn't really blame him, though. I'm a night person, and the thought of getting up that early in the morning makes my eyes feel baggy right now.

I was scheduled to do a live break after the song then playing, but I just hit a "sweeper" announcing the call letters of the station to the accompaniment of stirring music, and let it bleed into the next tune. I grabbed the paper again and finished reading the front page article. Sixteen murders in six weeks had doubled the city's murder rate from the last two years. There was no discernible pattern among the victims, or the locations, or anything. The police claimed there was no pattern. The victims were not robbed, and no evidence was ever found of the assailant.

I tossed the paper in the garbage and began busying myself with all of the fun things that glamorous radio personalities do in their spare time--setting the clocks to the Naval Observatory's Atomic Clock, taking the power output readings from the transmitter, and pulling the next two hours' music. I skipped my next live break again, put on a ten-minute Jethro Tull song, and went out onto the roof to smoke another cigarette.

I like strolling around the roof at work. The lights of the city wink at me over the blanket of streets and through the quilt of fog before sunrise. The river stinks, but that's not its own fault--the sound of water churning its banks is comforting, even fifteen stories up and two blocks away. I flicked my butt to the street below, smiling cruelly at the thought of it making an explosive appointment with some hooker's hair spray.

When I returned to the booth, the phone was flashing. Somehow cheered by my roof reverie, I answered it.

"WKNG, who is this?"

"You haven't been on the air. Bill isn't going to like that."

Bill Banks was my boss, the program director of the station. Just days before, he had issued me a written warning about skipping live breaks. This was definitely the same caller--my murderer--how did he know that?

"Probably not," I replied nonchalantly. "How will he know? Are you a good friend of his?"

"Oh yeah, I've spoken to Bill many times. In fact, I've spoken to Bill many times. In fact, I've spoken to you, although you don't realize it."

"Listen, man, I get so many calls that I can't recognize my friends on the phone anymore, much less you," I snapped.

"I don't mean on the phone, friend--I mean I've spoken to you in person. In that very room."

I stopped cold. What? Was this somebody from the office? The station employed a score of people, some of whom I'd never met, or only spoken with briefly. Or maybe a prize-winner, or a client, in the office on one of the few occasions when I was there in the daytime.

"Yeah, sure," I said, not missing a beat.

"Don't believe me? You're sitting at the console, speaking to me through the mike. The Emergency Broadcast transmitter is to your left, the phone and the CD file to your right. The windows are behind you. The carpet is brown. Posted on the studio window is a joke photo of Bill's head on Brad Pitt's body . . ."

"OK, OK . . ." I interrupted, trying to think of what to do. He was dead right on every detail. And the Xerox of Bill/Brad Pitt had been posted yesterday by Jill, our secretary. I began to think a call to the police was in order.

"So you've been here," I began, trying to think of a way to keep him on the phone while calling the cops. "Where were you after you called? Out 'working?'"

"Yes, indeed," the voice chirped cheerfully. "And this one is a true masterpiece. Particularly nasty, I should think, although I haven't finished yet."

"You haven't finished? You mean you took time out of killing someone to call me?"

"Well, not exactly. Let's just say I've got the ball rolling. You see, I've decided to include you in tonight's killing." The voice sank to a menacing low.

I had nothing to say for a moment.

"What do you mean?" I'll admit my voice was a little shaky.

"Exactly what I said. This should be a pretty kill to add to my list of completed works. I thought the old man found dead in his bathroom being gnawed upon by his cats was good, but this one . . ."

"You did that? Tell me more." My free hand was dialing 911 on the other line.

"No, no. You'll know all the grisly details soon enough. By the time the morning paper is printed, I guess."

Thank you for calling 911 . . . the automated answerer droned in my ear, as I faded between songs on the control board with my other hand.

"What details? How are you . . . ?"

"No, really, I must be going. Don't worry, though. I'll see you soon."

CLICK.

The request line went dead as cheerful law enforcement music piped into my ear from the handset. I lit another cigarette and waited.

Songs came and went as I smoked and waited on "hold."

Finally, an operator answered, "Thank you for calling 911. How can I assist you?"

"I think I have a lead on the murders of the last month. This guy called me here at the station and he said . . ."

"Just calm down, sir. Let me get your name, address, and phone number, and I'll transfer you to Sergeant Stedenko, who's in charge of the case."

Minutes later, after another song change, I was greeted by a gruff "Sergeant Stedenko speaking, who's this?"

I went through the whole routine again, and managed to relate the story of my conversations with the murderer. I was given a brief moment of alarm when the elevator doors rang open and Chris emerged, all rumpled clothes and baggy eyes. I looked up at the clock--he was five minutes early, for a change.

"So you say you have this all on tape, eh?" Sergeant Stedenko was saying as Chris walked into the studio.

"You haven't been on the air in two hours. Bill isn't going to like that," Chris said. There was a knowing, mocking smile on his lips. Suddenly, I was aware of a lingering smell of cigarettes, liquor, and the stink of the river that clung to everything on the riverfront. Bill isn't going to like that, he said, hauntingly familiar.

"Hello? Are you still there?" Sergeant Stedenko called.

It all fit. Chris--he knew everything about the station. About Bill and that stupid picture. I'll see you soon, the voice's last message echoed. Chris' smile became a scowl as he stepped toward me. I kicked him in the solar plexus as hard as I could.

"Sergeant!" I shouted into the receiver, "He's here! The murderer! I work with him! His name is Chris . . ."

Right about then, Chris grabbed the receiver and punched me in the throat.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" he screamed.

He dropped the phone and continued to rain blows on my head and neck until I managed to slide under the console to the other side. Grabbing one of the CD decks, I launched it, connecting with his skull with a loud crack. He dropped to one knee as I fled the studio. I had just reached the fire stairs when Chris tackled me from behind. We both went down, and I kicked viciously at his face until I was free. I ran to the back door and out onto the roof. The sun was creeping above the horizon over the river. I saw a broken piece of concrete beside the door and grabbed it. When Chris came through the door, I was ready. The broken concrete block clipped him in the temple, and his run became a stagger. With all my strength, I hurled the block at his face. Still moving, he took the full force of the throw on his cheekbone, and his shins struck the ledge of the roof as he fell over. He toppled awkwardly, almost comically as his eyes searched me out for one last look of sheer surprise before he fell into fifteen stories of air. Moments later, I heard the sickening muted crunch of his body on the pavement.

I stumbled back to the studio, lights flashing before my eyes, dizzy and wincing with pain. The phone was flashing. I punched the button.

"Sergeant Stedenko? Sergeant, I just . . ."

"You've been off the air all this time. Bill isn't going to like that," the voice mocked me.

Oh my God, I thought. Then I . . .

"Yes," the voice continued casually. "This will be a pretty kill to add to my list! True artistry, and I wasn't even there!" Laughing.

The laughter continued unabated until it became intermingled with approaching police sirens.

Shit.

Lara by C.C. Merrell

http://the end of the world.com (my favorite chat line)