Thus begins Volume 1:

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Band: jj
Song: Things Will Never Be The Same Again
Album: n° 2
Label: Sincerely Yours’
Note: They’re from Sweden!

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Band: Broken Bells
Song: The High Road
Album: Broken Bells
Label: Sony
Note: Consists of Danger Mouse and James Mercer of The Shins

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Band: Owen Pallett
Song: Lewis Takes Off His Shirt
Album: Heartland
Label: Domino Records
Note: Released all his prior albums as Final Fantasy (being a fan of the popular RPG series)

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Band: Aloe Blacc
Song: I Need A Dollar
Album: N/A
Label: Stones Throw Records
Note: This song is played over the opening credits of the HBO show How to Make it in America

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Band: Starfucker
Song: Pop Song
Album: Starfucker
Label: Badman Records
Note: Have since changed the band name to Pyramiddd

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The next morning Everett walked down a hillside from the mountains leading his horse by the reins.  He had run a zigzag path the night before until he exhausted his equine and then took a position against a sheered cliff-face that looked out into a small valley surrounded by a grove of tlacocote that tangled thick.  The small valley had only one entrance that he had guarded like some stern despot and he had only slept for thirty minutes, shivering under his thinned coat and caught beneath stray and howling gusts that wound in looping patterns.

He pressed on further from the hillside, stopping at a small creek that snaked down through the parched ground that was more mud than water and he let his horse drink while he inspected the map again.  His detour had ousted him too far north and on the west side of the Organs and now he’d have to cross back through.  Everett clicked his teeth for amusement as he computed his new trajectory south and east and he looked for any mention of a trail or road through the mountains.  He found none but felt optimistic that he was about a day’s ride from Mesilla and he folded the map again along the worn creases and placed it back in his shirt pocket.  He took out the miner’s stolen pistol and broke open the cylinder again and blew into the empty chambers and tucked it back into his belt.  He ran his fingers over his own large holster and stalled on the basket-weave pattern and then onto the walnut stock of the gun as if he was anticipating the arrival of a duel.

He yawned wildly and scratched the back of his head where it met the neck and bent down to the stream.  He lifted a handful of the gray water to his head and spooned it over and slicked his hair back.  Then he took another cupping of water and slurped it greedily and then sat along the bank and watched his horse which had taken to grazing on a sweep of hoary feather-grass.  He unwound the bandage from his leg and dipped it in the creek and rung it out.  Watery red sifted from the dressing and he scraped it along his forehead which revealed a deep and festering gash that had begun to scab over.  He reapplied the covering to his leg and it was cold against his torn skin and he sucked in air through his teeth as if it deterred the stinging sensation.

Everett pulled out the pocketknife and extended the blade and splashed water on before thumbing it clean.  He admired his reflection in it then saw the scraggly beard that had supplanted his jaw.  He wet his face again thoroughly and took to peeling off layers of the hair with the knife one stroke at a time.  He cut himself repeatedly and left a twizzled mustache and when he was done he splashed water on his face again and it burned like fire, his neck dotted with red like Dalmatian-spots.

He stood and looked out into the distance and he limped to his horse and caressed the haversack that held the silver.  He pocketed the knife and looked out onto the landscape as he swallowed down a great wave of pain.  He took off his coat and held it up and traced the mementos of battle, fingering where grapeshot had ripped through the cape and noting the splatters of blood that formed garish patterns where an elaborate sleeve-braid used to reside on the left cuff.  He laid it over the horse’s shoulders and orientated himself in his intended direction and he looked out on the brown rangeland and he felt tired.

◊     ◊     ◊     ◊

Everett had been riding for hours when sleep began to take him over in the saddle and he slapped his face to stay awake and calculated it was sometime in the afternoon.  He approached a young Emory oak whose branches cascaded out like a hundred tentacled arms and he tied his horse off and propped himself up against the darkbrown knotted bark.  He unholstered his heavy revolver and laid it on his belly and he fell asleep under the shade of the bell-shaped tree, settling almost immediately into a rhythmic snoring.

He awoke two hours later when his horse began to bray wildly and stomp the ground as if it were dancing to an unheard beat.  Its eyes were large and white and rolled back and its mane stood up on its own.  His senses still percolating, Everett wiped his eyes clean and felt a great pressure behind his nose.  The ache had had been festering for days and for a moment he felt his face and thought he was conscious of someone else’s body, remembering after a minute further that he had previously shaved.  It was then that he grew alert to his horse’s alarm and he heard the crackle of a rattler’s tail and he spun and saw the graybrown snake coiled at the side of the tree, the dorsal diamond-shaped blotches running the length of its spine mesmerizing.

“Shit!”

Everett jumped back as the snake lunged and its fangs nicked the heels of his boots as he landed.  The snake reloaded for another attack and Everett stomped down hard on its head, repeating this action until it thrashed in place and was no more.  He slumped back against the tree and breathed hard and loud, the adrenaline momentarily taking over the pain that spouted from the wounds he suffered.  He bent down and sawed the snake’s head off with the pocketknife and then unfurled it lengthwise and marveled at its span and girth.

He waited until dusk and he scouted the area on foot until he could no longer take the pulsing of his hurt leg and he returned to the oak and felt comfortable that he hadn’t been followed.  He set to making a fire and skinning the snake, slicing the meat into finger-length strips, and then cooked the flesh in a small and near-smokeless blaze.  He ate until he felt fat and bloated from the stringy meat and gathered a handful of acorns still clinging to the tree and cupped them between a set of limestone bricks that ringed the fire until the outsides of the nuts had seared.  The roasted perfume reminded him of his youth and he peeled the largest of the acorns and bit into it, finding it sour and tough.  He finished it for the nourishment and pocketed the rest.

He limped around the camp to keep the blood flowing regular and he found a snapped bough nearby that split at the ends.  He inserted the sheath of the knife into the split and held the blade out into the fire until it glowed whiteyellow around the edges.  He hopped back to the saddle and took out a small tin flask and sloshed it around.  It was nearly empty and he took it back to the fire and opened the tear in his trousers wider with his hands, pouring the liquid over his wound and he growled at the twinge.  The knife had cooled some and clenching his teeth he began digging into the flesh of his thigh until he had carved his way around the expanse of the lodged cartridge and he began prying the thing up until it popped out like a cherry pit.

Night had settled fast on the rangeland and he began to feel the faint of darkness approach him like a train.  He picked up the crinkled shell and examined it and chucked it out into the brush.  He then rewrapped his leg and piled a mound of sand on the fire to squash it out and he dropped into a deep and senseless sleep.

◊     ◊     ◊     ◊

Thus, I’ve decided to serialize one of my favorite Western short stories, “Blood Quantum” (circa 2007). The story follows Everett Root as he makes his way through the barren countryside with a bleeding wound in his leg and a piece of silver ore the size of his head, all while out-maneuvering a mysterious assailant who seems to be on his heels the whole time. It’s simple in it’s premise (survive and cash in), and I went for a very Cormac McCarthy-esque route here, as far as the sparseness of the dialog and the setting itself goes.

At any rate, I quite enjoy this story, and, again, being a fan of old-timey serials, thought it might be fun to offer this story as one. I’m not sure how often I’ll post a new segment, perhaps every other day, perhaps once a week, but make sure you stick around til this one ends. I promise it’s good fun. (Ap0logies for any formatting issues – Wordpress doesn’t play nice sometimes.)

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Blood Quantum

◊     ◊     ◊     ◊

Bob Antrim felt a cold steeled barrel matt his thick hair down and wedge into the back of his skull.  He heard the hammer click back metallically and in that moment recalled his wife dying of consumption, spittles of blood curtained along the contours of her sunken face and chest, and then he mulled on his boy who had died in infancy.  His hands gripped the splintered haft of the pick and for a minute further he dreamt of spinning in place and lodging the wedged spade into his attacker but amid the hallucinated escapades a shot thundered out like drums.  The bullet churned down the barrel of the spunked and dusty revolver and it crushed through Bob’s skull and out his right eye socket as fluids sprayed like some geyser and his body fell to the ground sharp like stone.

Everett Root rolled the dented .44 caliber Dance revolver around his index finger and holstered it as if he were some dashing and wily roughrider that had been wrangled into a Wild West Show.  He coughed a bit and waved the smoke away from his face with his hands and then set his eyes on the heaped body, smiling crookedly and scratching his chin. The ache in his leg gathered up again like a fist and he snorted out a dollop of snot from his nostrils and lowered himself carefully to the floor of the gritty mine.  He set his feet up on the twin timber planks that bridged across mud and wet recessed puddles in the rock.  The air smelled like sulfur.

He unwound a piece of stained-red cloth from around the upper part of his left thigh and he dropped the saturated tourniquet into a soaked pile beside him.  Then he took two fingers and peeled an opening in his gray trousers that sat dark like cotton flesh and beneath the opening laid a bullet wound that fizzled deep, the opening lipped out as if it had been disturbed by some plated tremor deep below.  A glossy covering of black-red blood formed at the surface and he thumbed at it curiously as if he had previous familiarities with human anatomy, then recoiled from the shocks of pain that shot back.  He coughed deeply and squinted his eyes at the gaping hole, imagining he could see the top of the stunted round poking out and he wished he had dug the thing out in San Augustine.

He scooted himself along the ground to alleviate the pressure on his hurt leg and kept at it until he reached the miner’s boots and he stopped.  He sized them up mechanically and concluded they were too small and then he wormed his way along the body further, grimacing with hurt at every length he moved.  He stopped again at the miner’s waist and breathed hard and squinted his eyes again into the dark and smiled at the smoking wound lodged in his pale face.  Then Everett took a smudged hand and turned the man’s head from side to side, gripping it along the jaw with the charm of a grandfather admiring a boy.

“Sunnuvabitch!”

He guffawed and looked around for encouragement as if he had hallucinated an audience that likewise enjoyed his clowning and then let the head flop back with a heavy bump.

“From the right angle, boy, you look like my brother Jesse.”

He coughed again and rummaged through the large denim pockets of the man’s overalls and pulled out a small pocketknife with a pewter handle that it folded back into.  He unfurled the blade and it was dinged around most of the edge but the tip still pricked hard into the whorl of his thumb.  He collapsed the knife and slipped it into his shirt pocket and kept digging.  He pulled out a piece of folded paper that had browned along the edges.  He placed it into his teeth and bit down to keep it in place and the prospect of something other than his tongue taking up room in there caused him to slobber a bit around the corners and wet the edge of the note.  He then pulled out another folded and waxed piece of paper and he unfolded it.  He examined it and it appeared to be a map of the area with hashes penciled in and around the mountains he was currently in, possibly marking failed claims and there was a longer scratch that portended to what might be a homestead a few miles off.  He laid the map down and then dug through the remaining pockets, pulling out a length of twine and he pushed it aside.  He noticed the claw hammer slung along a leather belt askew along the miner’s hips and he fingered the splintered handle and the iron cheek felt cool against his skin.

Everett sighed loudly and fisted the map and with the note still tucked between the bite of his misaligned teeth he squirmed his way backward along the ground until he was again propped against the rock next to his used dressing.  He extended the map, running his index finger along the creases until it laid flat and he set it at one side then took the note from his mouth and wiped it along the seam of his shirt to take the moisture.  He then reexamined his bullet wound and grunted at the shoot of pain and rested his head back again and he wished for a drink of water.  His eyes began to glaze over and he slapped himself awake again and then turned onto his side with the map spread before him.  He traced his finger along a ridge of the Organ Mountains then down through the scrublands until he hit Mesilla and he tapped it twice as if to make sure it was no phantasm of his mind.  The edges of the map flayed and he took his thumbnail and chipped off dry mud from the lower left corner which revealed the words Johnson’s California, Territories of New Mexico and Utah by Johnson and Browning 1860. He stroked his hand over the dulled reds and yellows and greens that covered it and imagined they had been brighter once.

He sat back up and another surge of pain shot up and he crossed his legs at the ankles.  He unfolded the note and turned it in his hands, fascinated by the theatrics of it and he held the paper close and squinted at the longhand words.  He lowered the note and looked around and spotted a thick and white candle wedged onto an iron rod that had been wedged into the working face beyond the body, the flame nearly wicked away.  Then he angled the paper in such a way that the remaining flicker of yellow-orange light illuminated the page.  He licked his lips and ran a hand through his greased hair and glanced to the entrance of the shaft a ways to his right and the sun had yet to recede.  Then he focused on the extravagant loops staring back at him and enunciated with all the precision he could afford.

My dearest Bob,

I knowd you aint seen me for a while now but I just wanted yuh to know I’s doing alright.  And I’s really proud of how good things are going for yuh now that yuhs working the land for the colors.

I don’t know if yuh forgot or not, but my berthday was last week.  And now that I’s fifteen years old Ma’s making me work down at William’s store when I can.  I’m meant to earn some extra money because of Pa’s arm being shot off by the Mexicans.  I hope yer still planning on saving up to come marry me and build me that house you told me of.  And I never did tell anyone what happened between us and I never would either.  I wouldn’t risk getting yeh in trubble because of me nohow.

I hope this letter finds yeh well and I hope yeh can take me far from here soon and we can live forever together.

Signed with great love,

Charlotte

Everett found himself smiling at the very notion of the correspondence and he carefully folded the note back up and set it aside and exhaled loudly.  He looked up to the jagged ceiling which sat serrated by erosion and the hands of man and then counted the lateral wooden girts that had been placed at intervals of the shaft, bracing between walls and doused in runoff that seeped from some unknown source above.  Everett then tried to calculate how long Bob had been working the coyote-hole and his leg resounded with another flirt of sharp hurt and he took the knife out and opened the blade.  He looked back to the candle and thought maybe he would try to dig the bullet out now and he saw how infection had spread up his thigh and neared his groin, the skin tender and yellowblack.  He grunted and rested a hand on the rock behind him and rose carefully without putting any pressure on his left leg.

Everett panted for a moment with the knife still poised and he turned toward the body and then heard a thunderous recoil echo back from somewhere outside, bouncing off the walls of the mine until the sound hit him fierce.  He stopped and arched his back and the hair on his neck stood and he pursed his mouth so as not to produce any sound and he waited and blood pumped to his leg and it ached.  The reverberation had deteriorated to a faint nothing and he couldn’t quite decide if it was thunder or a rifle shot.  He thought he had lost him days ago.

He felt his nerves give way and his heart raced and thumped erratically and he hobbled to the body ignoring any better judgment to rest.  He bent down and took the man’s sweat-stained shirt and ripped a thick strip off, cutting the end free with the pocketknife and he tied a new tourniquet tight around his thigh.  He winced as he double-knotted the bandage and then he noticed a tin ore bucket resting beneath the candle soaked by shadows.

A piece of loose rock stripped from the walls somewhere behind and he anxiously stared back to the entrance of the angled shaft that glowed white from sunlight and then back to the body.  He swallowed hard and his throat was dry and the new bandage provided a bit of release from the pain as he lurched forward.  Then he reached into the dark tin bucket and pulled out a large and blocky hunk of silver ore that fizzled in parts from the candleglow.  He took his thumb and scraped dust off the surface and deliberated on the worth of the ore then reached back in the bucket and pulled out a Colt 1851 Navy.  The grip had been worn away and the steel of the frame and barrel had been dulled and tarnished.  He broke open the cylinder and counted two full chambers and then jammed the gun into his belt.

Everett stood there over the body a moment longer and breathed hard. He detailed the scene as he lingered and noticed an iron chisel peeking out of a fissured line of rock and an old shovel lying near.  Finally satisfied he had scavenged anything of value from the place he hopped on his good leg along the planked runners.  They creaked and swayed in addled piles of mud as he moved awkwardly and he emerged along the entrance of the cave and pulled his Dancer out.  The flat and polished-silver frame sat in contention to the pieced walnut grips and the brass trigger guard glistened in the afternoon sun as he knelt and rested it along the ground next to him in preparation for some ambush he figured was imminent.  He squinted his eyes as they adjusted to the flood of light and surveyed the scrubland then slowly stepped onto the graveled slope that ran down to his horse that sat posted where he left it.  He stood tense until he was sure nothing had stirred in the distance, musing that maybe he had been on the run for too long, and he distracted himself from the specters he created by looking at the ore heavy in his hand still.  He rubbed his forearm against his cheek where sweat beaded and there was dried blood thick like jam along his brow.  He smiled crookedly at the ore and rubbed the surface clean and he began shoveling his way down the steep slope past a bouquet of mesquite.

He reached his sorrel-hued Morgan horse and he placed the silver ore in a thick leather haversack that slapped against the animal’s loins and he gripped the horn and pulled himself up.  He took a double-breasted butternut frockcoat lying flat along the rear housing and placed it over his shoulders and it hung long and tattered at the cuffs.  He then reached forward to a black fur-felt Kossuth whose hat-cord was tied to the front rigging ring and he placed it on his head.  He scratched his chin and balled up a wad of phlegm he intended to spit and suddenly a rifle-shot rifled past him and struck the gravel slope to his left, catapulting pieces of stone and dirt up and out.

Everett heyawwed and clicked and dug his heels deep, slinking low in the saddle as he fled.  He rose up a winding path back into the mountains and looked back only once to see where he was but the glare of the fading sun was strong in his eyes and he couldn’t see his attacker as he raced further into the hills.

◊     ◊     ◊     ◊

Okay, all silliness aside, this chapter again focuses on one of the central characters, Richard, as he goes to meet with one of his professors, Bernard Nesbitt, to talk about his future (or lack thereof) in academia.  I quite like Bernard, and almost wish he showed up in the book more than once, but I think this chapter does a fine job in showcasing his rather strong personality, and I think if he were to show up again, it might be too much.

And, if you like what you read, check out my book of short stories available for purchase on Lulu right here.

Enjoy.

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RICHARD

Wednesday, about eleven-thirty in the morning, gray sky peppered with grayer clouds, drips of rain that came in hurried storms always at points when I had just dried off, the bus running five minutes late, and I’m wearing a white oxford shirt with a blue veeneck sweater over it and my black wool coat—even though it’s not that cold out—and some skinny jeans and these new loafer-type shoes I bought from a clothing store called Hartevelt’s, some Dutch superchain that caters to the casually chic—they cost me about £40, not too bad—and I’m sitting in Bernard Nesbitt’s office, watching his bulbous frame fumble a small electric water boiler on top of a small mosaic table decorated with long-leafed ivies that twirl down to the floor.  The room is lined with bookshelves, like actually lined, and where there is no longer room on the actual shelves he’s managed to place more books atop the old ones, lying them flat and stacking them tall, also placing the largest of his tomes on the very top of the oak-looking bookcases looking like they could teeter and fall off and kill a man at any moment, and I’m seated right below such a book and can just make out the scraped lettering on the scraped binding that reads Mind-Mapping for Creativity.  I realize at this moment, even though I’ve only been in this country for less than three months, that everything here is done over tea or coffee, usually tea, and it’s funny but sad, kinda.  The moment I walked in the office, even though it’s November and still not that cold, Bernard complained about the freeze as he called it, and like clockwork asked me if I’d like some tea because he was going to put some on.  I replied yes then wondered if Englishmen only drink tea when someone else is around, it doesn’t seem like a solitary drink because you’re always being told “I was just about to put some tea on” when you walk into a room but you never actually see cups of half-finished tea in their hands…weird.  He’s humming a tune now and the organized list of bullet points I had memorized and was going to race through with him is leaving me quickly all because of this…stupid tea.  He turns, finally, placing a small cup of steaming gray water in front of me at the edge of his overworked and paper-soaked desk, retreating back to his comfy chair across from me, the weight of his swollen body causing the thing to groan.  He takes a sip without even testing its hotness.  The porcelain cup is decorated with red lines that make a nonsense pattern and it’s hot in my hand as I try to sip.  The large window behind Bernard’s desk has no blinds and overlooks a courtyard between two of the buildings, I think the library and Fenn Hall, where I don’t have any classes.  He sips again.  He’s wearing a blazer the color of peanut butter, some gray slacks and a white oxford like me.  He’s notably bald.

“Alright?” he asks finally as if the previous ten minutes were a blur that didn’t happen, only now coming into a sort of mannered consciousness.

“Fine, thanks,” I say curtly.

“The tea?” he says and sips simultaneously.

“Great.  It’s very good.”

“So, you said you wanted to talk.  Having difficulty with the paper?”

“No, that’s not it…in fact, I’m finished with it already.”

“Ah, well, you’re a quick one, eh?”

“I don’t mean to be, I just write quickly, it’s just how…I’m wired, I guess.”

“Nothing wrong with that, just make sure you’re asking questions if you don’t understand anything, I know how studies here can be quite different than America.”

“Yeah, it is different,” I say, echoing him.

“So…what’s on your mind?”

“Well, I’m working on my dissertation and—”

“And remind me again, who is your advisor?”

“Liz Damon, she’s a fellow over Bowden College but does some work here at Ayers too.”

“Don’t think I know that one,” he says almost shocked that the world doesn’t revolve around him.

“She’s really great. She wrote a paper on American modernism, her doctorate thesis, I mean, so I can see why I was pointed in her direction.”

“And it’s going well?”

“Yes, very.”

“Have you told me before about your thesis?”

“I…don’t think so, but if you’d like—”

“Yes, would be nice.”

“Um, basically I’m examining the emergence of modernism in Europe and later America, not as two different movements, but rather as one large movement that spanned the Atlantic,” I say and after I utter the words I feel silly.  I hate describing my dissertation, and looking at him, his eyes glossed over, the tea cup glued to his fat lips, this man I respect, I feel even more silly, like I’ll be losing that respect any moment, like he’s on the verge of telling me something horrible even though I’d like to hear something great.

“Go on,” he says, thinking.  Mulling.

“Well, I really think that American novelists were influenced by their European counterparts more than they realized,” I say almost painfully, drinking some more of the tea, wishing I had said yes to a sugarcube.  “I’d like to explore that aspect.”

“Sounds very…ambitious,” he says slowly.

“I didn’t think so, at first, but then Liz told me the same thing, so…who knows.  Besides, I loathe the idea of writing another paper on Shakespeare or Chaucer or something,” I say a bit smugly then scan the bookshelves and notice there’s bookcase that seems devoted to nothing but the works of Shakespeare, different printings and editions, collections and single works of various conditions, and I feel embarrassed so add, “I mean those are great writers, obviously, but I just really want to try something…new.”
“Yes, I see.  Well, I wish you the best of luck,” he says, holding up his tea cup in a gesture I can’t quite figure out.  “What’s on your mind, then?”

“Well, I wanted to get your…advice, actually.”

“On?”

“Next year, after I’m done here, I want to get my doctorate, so I have to start applying like now, actually.”

“Have you begun your applications?”

“Not yet, but that’s partially why I was here, wanted to ask you a few things.”

“Oh, right,” he says drinking again, slurping loudly this time, and I notice a copy of his book Creatively Thinking About Being Creative on the desk next to a keyboard next to a computer monitor that I have a feeling he doesn’t use, and I wonder how someone has the audacity to require the reading of a book they wrote, but then think once I become a famous writer I’ll probably teach my own stuff too.

“First I was hoping you could write me a letter of recommendation, then I was also wondering if you could just…give me advice, I guess, on how to talk to the admissions people in my statement of purpose…uh, that’s it,” I say, forgetting nearly everything else I was going to ask him, figuring I’ll just email the rest later when it comes to me.

“Well, can I start by asking you how much thought you’ve given this?”

“Quite a bit, I guess.  Been thinking of things I can do with my degree, when I get done, of what I want to do, I mean, and this…teaching, I mean, seems to be something I really think I’d be good at.  Teaching college,” I say elegantly, with poise, smiling, looking him directly in the eyes without looking away, noticing he looks away from me twice.

“Oh,” he says and hangs on to the syllable.

“Uh, did I say something…wrong?” I say, confused, suddenly gripping the teacup more firmly and closer to my chest.

“Well, I’m thinking about this decision of yours, and I just don’t see you pursuing this academic…track, Mister Presley,” he says, setting his teacup down then picking it up and using his tongue to smack the remainder of the tea into his mouth.  “I think you’re incredibly capable, talented in a great many ways, but I just don’t think you have the proper…analytical…mindset to move on further in this direction.”

I set the teacup down at the edge of the desk, my eyes wide and focusing on my new shoes and seeing a dark spot on the left shoe, a stain that turned the brown leather black which infuriates me and I want to tackle him, punch him and cut him, slice his nose and dissect the skin on his hands while he watches, after peeling his eyelids off, punching him again until he pukes…but I’m polite, sitting there, quietly, then cough.  He takes my cough as a sign and reaches into a stack of folders on his desk and pulls out a stapled bunch of papers, shifting through like playing cards.  He holds one up and slides it across to me.

“This one’s yours, the last assignment, will be handing them back tomorrow,” he says.

“Okay,” I say self-consciously.

“You did an excellent job with the creative part.  I really enjoyed how you wrote Crusoe in the style of Faulkner.  You really do have a gift in that regard.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s just, you can tell…I can tell, reading through your work, that you’d rather be doing this creative aspect, that the more academic side of the assignment bores you.  It feels very rushed.”

“It’s not that I rushed it, per se, it’s just…you’re right, I love the creative aspect, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like this analytical side too.”

“Well, liking it and loving it are two different things, my boy.  If you proceed to the doctorate, you will be working upwards of six years in some cases getting your thesis prepared.  It’s a great deal of work, of hard work, for something you just like.  See what I mean?”

“So…you won’t write me a letter of recommendation?” I say, confused, flabbergasted, confused.

“I will, if you want.  I’m just saying, you asked for my input.  This is what I feel.  Have you thought about a creative writing program?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.  I mean, I just want the doctorate, first, then I figure I can…you know, teach both.”

“You might want to give it more thought, the creative writing aspect,” he says, letting a small burp out.  “Don’t think I’m here to belittle you, Richard.  I’m not at all.  I just…would hate to see you go down a road not…meant for you.  Understand?”

“I guess, yeah.”

“Good, excellent.  I’m glad we cleared everything up.  You really did manage to craft a readable southern dialect in your piece, almost completely accurate.  Perhaps even put me to shame, my boy,” he says smiling then yawning and stretching like a large fat cat, the sun hitting his fat oval face and creating geometric shadows angled from his features, his skin glistening and his fat lips chapped, his fists balled then resting back on the desk, then, “Another spot of tea?”

Later, after I leave his office, I feel vulnerable and have a sudden urge to call Jen and it rings three times then goes to voicemail and I sigh into the phone and hang up without leaving a message.

Anyway, artist Alex Merto has created a font called Effing Typeface that…well…is an ode to all things sex. My favorite from the series has to be the letter P:

Definitely worth a looksy.  Check out the whole string of sex-infused letters here.

Was just pointed to a parody video of Reading Rainbow over on Funny or Die that has a child giving her recommendation for the book American Pyscho…which happens to be one of my favorite books of all time.

Greatest book review ever:

It’s that time of the month again for the next installment of the Ex Occultus: Wakefield’s Journal series of stories. Basically, if you haven’t checked these out yet, these are off-shoots of the Ex Occultus series I write for Saint James Comics, which follows the exploits of famed 19th-century occultists and treasure hunters Wakefield and Hollander.  These monthly (FREE) mini-adventures are drawn by various artists and attempt to fill in the gap between the full issues, shining more light on the characters and the world they live in.

Anyway, the newest story, entitled “A Drink with Friends,” is now available to read.  The plot:

1875. During some downtime between adventures, Wakefield stops into a local pub and swaps tall tales with four friends, recounting their glory days in the world of the occult.

Written by myself and Jesse Young, and drawn by Chris Martinez, this is a fun little story that’s a bit of a departure from the more action-heavy entries so far.  Check out the story here, and if you haven’t done so, here’s a list of the other Wakefield’s Journal stories, all available to read for FREE.  FREE FREE FREE!

FREE.

Follow the wonderfully talented Miss Ervin on Twitter here, and check out her artwork (via Deviant Art) here.  And, if you haven’t already done so and fancy a quick, good read, you can purchase my book here.

This chapter is narrated by Liz Damon, thesis adviser to American graduate student Richard (one of our protagonists), an Irish lass (well, woman, technically) who’s been living in England for most of her life, and seems rather apathetic toward the niche she’s carved out for herself.  Inspiring, I know!

This is Liz’s only narrative section in the novel, although she does pop up in some other characters’ sections at various points, and, personally, I think it’s one of the strongest in the book.  I really wanted to give her a voice that spoke volumes in a short amount of time, and I think I accomplished that.  The overall idea/theme of the book, if I had to answer that rather simplified question, would have to be, “What if?” — the idea that at many points in our lives, we tend to ask ourselves this very question about who we are and where we’re at, wondering what would’ve happened if we had made one of numerous other choices at various points of our lives.  I think it’s important to ask these sorts of questions, and I think the idea that some people don’t until it’s too late isn’t so much a depressing thought as it is inspiring (at least for those of us who do stop to check on our trajectories). Liz represents the type of person who maybe sees herself doing something else, being somewhere else, but can’t quite allow herself to follow through.

Anyway, happy reading!

—

LIZ

I catch a glimpse of myself in the small mirror on the adjacent wall and find myself becoming shy at my own reflection, which is ludicrous in theory, shying away from oneself, but as I lock onto the few freckles I have spread neatly on both cheeks I can’t help but redden a bit.  I wasn’t even aware until first stepping foot in Wellington some nine years ago that I was even what some would call a walking stereotype, however with far fairer hair and more olive-hued skin than the Irishmen depicted in literature and children’s books, but I was, as was pointed out to me rather egregiously after a night of drinking, a stereotype nonetheless and if nothing else exclusively because of those dark specks on my face.  And it bothers me that even though it’s no longer a negative connotation to be Irish, and hasn’t been in my lifetime, I still find it absurd that as loud and brash as I can be in most social situations, exaggerated of course by the type and quantity of spirits present, that I, myself, am the greatest cause of my own timorous conduct.

I’m sitting now, next do Daniel, his pink hand on my thigh and rumpled amongst the flowered fabric of the long skirt I’m wearing.  We’re at that new pub-slash-martini bar called Black Swan in the City Centre and near the bus depot, a block away from the renovated Wellington Theatre House, with two mutual colleagues, Jacob and Lucy Aaronson, both tenured, middleaged professors who work for Wellington University as well.  Jacob, a renowned (and often dramatic) Sociologist has taken Daniel under his wing in the past year, which has been a tremendous boost for his ego in a field otherwise ready to shit him out and pass him over.  Lucy resides in the Philosophy department, a rather raucous voice in existentialism, someone I find rather intoxicating when sharing a dialog with (when sober, of course).  Then there’s me, the little English Fellow, the girl who loves Modernism that they pander to between great sweeping breaths by asking me, “How’re the studies coming, Lizzie?” and “Are you still attending those conferences in the States, m’dear?” with only a touch of irreverence which could be, I rationalize sitting here, picking at a blemish on Daniel’s hand while the three of them discuss the tenets and implications of Dramaturgy on the self, nothing but my imagination.  However, they do, I’ve come to realize, find it quite difficult to sway the conversation away from all things academia and, as much as I do love a rousing conte about Kierkegaard’s supposed secret sexual identity or another dissection of Buber’s Ich und Du (which Lucy professes on quite often when drunk on brandy), sometimes I long for a pointless and needless conversation about who’s fucking whom.  About what drinks get you the most lashed.  About the mundane daily rituals of students in the dormitories.  About music and fashion trends.  And I can’t help that my mind wanders, looking outside the large windows in the front of the place, watching drunk students meander down the sidewalk, pretty girls and pretty boys dressed to impress with their only cares hovering on who’s going home with whom tonight.

And I don’t blame myself for falling for Daniel, or that we’ve been together since Fresher’s Week all those years ago, or that sometimes I feel as if there is a life out there that I can almost grab on to, then seems just always out of reach as if I was never meant to take it at all.  He’s a good man, and will make a good husband, some day, even though neither of us are in a hurry whatsoever when it comes to this matter, and I do love him, that’s not in contestation, but sometimes…sometimes this life isn’t enough for me.  Sometimes it is as if the person I truly am is more so a dream than reality, masked by who I always thought I wanted to be, the good little girl, however boisterous she is at times, more often than not hopelessly unflappable for fear of some phantom retribution doled by a spectre who watches my every reserved movement.

I smile from time to time, briefly studying Jacob’s pocked nose and sunken cheeks, the endless bags under his eyes and the eyes themselves, those little warm vestiges peering into a genuinely warm soul.  His whiskers, the black and gray and white mashed together on his chin, sculpted into something trendy, for lack of a better word, and all I seem to crave now more than anything is isolation, the last half of Anderson’s Dark Laughter and a joint the size of my index finger, none of which I’ll find tonight, I’m sure, but the prospect of such an evening on the horizon is enough to sate for now.  Daniel squeezes my fingers, a cue to raise my eyes and smile wide, to become social again.  To become alive again, before it’s too late. Just too late.

“Did you hear that, Lizzie?” he says knowing I don’t particularly like being called Lizzie, but I tolerate it nonetheless.  “He says he might be able to get you a sit down with

Craig Chapman when you’re in New York.  Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Oh, that would be…fantastic, Jacob.  Thank you.”

“Of course, Elizabeth.  Anything I can do to help you with your fellowship,” Jacob says smiling broadly, his thin lips something you might find on a creature of reptilian descent, but far more endearing.

“Yes,” I say, pondering on a long string of anecdotes in which to engage the table, but not letting myself utter another syllable beyond the first.

“She’s a bit reticent this evening.  She’s had a long week,” Daniel says now squeezing my thigh.

“Oh, my poor dear,” Lucy chimes in with the glass affixed firmly to her hand.  “Everything alright, I hope?”

“Yes, quite,” I say quickly, smiling broadly, chastising Daniel in my head for being overly flip this evening and myself for letting him drink as many pints as he has.

“Well, whatever is the matter?” Jacob says between sips of a dark lager whose name leaves me at this moment.  “I hope the academic system isn’t dragging you down.  It’s a bugger, at times, but don’t you worry your pretty little face.  It gets easier over time, like all good things.  I could ring Monsieur Kerr, if you’d like.  We’re old friends, if I haven’t mentioned it before.”

“Yes, perhaps you should.  Give ole Ollie a call, lighten my darling’s burden, for heaven’s sake!” Daniel says pretending to wring my neck, laughing his shrill laugh, Jacob and Lucy joining in and I’m sitting here, unsure of what is so funny.  Of what is so goddamn funny.

“No, no.  Just one of those weeks.  I’ll be fine, but cheers.”

“Quite alright,” Jacob says closing his eyes, smiling, lost in some inebriated daze then, shooting out of it, he begins discussing quite immediately micro-level sociological theories to which everyone at the table, excluding myself, of course, has an opinion of.  I look at my drink, which is half-full, a watered down version of its former self.  The tinge is almost reminiscent of watercolors, my reflection splayed in the glass and caricaturized by the crystal.  I look to the ceiling, pipes and paneling exposed to look like it’s not quite yet finished in some modern artistic sense of style I don’t fully understand.  The finished look of being unfinished.  I yawn and my eyes water, then someone at the table laughs and I’m not quite sure who, but it’s followed, obviously, by the others guffawing as well.  Daniel removes his hand from my thigh, using it and the other to gesture as he says something to the extent of, “Harold Garfunkel can, quite literally, go fuck himself,” to which even more laughter emerges.  I don’t find the humor in this either, in nothing they are saying, and now I regret telling Daniel I wanted to go out tonight at all, the pit in my stomach as the words left my lips expanding and enveloping all my insides.  I should learn to listen to my voice, to not squash it down as I tend to do.  Too late, I suppose.  I yawn again, they always come in pairs for me, and receive an overwhelming sense that I’m in some cage whose bars I cannot fully see, a feeling which percolates throughout my body.

“I’m going to get a drink,” I say suddenly, touching Daniel’s shoulder lightly, noticing the way the light hits the wrinkles formed at the creases of his eyes, his mouth.  He turns, scans my drink then my face, and says “Yup” as I leave, going back to his damning and cursing, his verbal fornication.

At the bar I slip in between two couples.  On my right a younger couple, what would appear to be a first date with all the flirting and compliments being tossed about, which makes me smile.  I catch myself and turn to my left where I see a more normal couple, settled into each other’s lives after, presumably, years of service to one another.  They barely speak, turned at sharp angles.  He says he was happy they came out tonight, to which she says “Mmm,” a sentiment I can absolutely concur with.  The bartender appears as if from nowhere and I order a vodka tonic and immediately turn to study the rest of the place, of the patrons sandwiched within the walls, of the gelatin-like music wafting about gone unnoticed until this very instant.  The crowd is eclectic, a mix of young and old, the décor of the place schizophrenic so, I presume, it would only make sense it would attract a likeminded cohort of patrons.

I glance back to Daniel and company and now see Lucy at the beginning stages of what would appear to be a soliloquy of some sort, on a topic of any sort, with wild pantomimes and grandiose, crescendoing dialogue to accompany, of which everyone’s attention is affixed.  From here their faces look like opulent theatre masks, with deep curves and long shadows, exaggerated features, and I can’t help but stare at them, blindly wondering what it is that keeps them going.  I then hear an uproarious laughter come from the opposite end of the room, and I find myself squinting through the dismal lighting (better for drinking and cavorting, one would assume) to see a group of students, ages uncertain, holding up glasses and saluting one another in nonsensical prose.  The panorama makes me smile, makes me reminisce entirely too much back to a time that only exists in the recesses of my imagination now, and as I lean against the bar, getting more comfortable as floods of memories return and a warm fuzziness appears where my stomach and intestines should be, I see Richard, tall, broad, American Richard amongst the throng of beguiled students making a home in the most cavernous parts of the room.  At first I see an outline, nothing more, and then the outline turns and becomes a complete profile and transitory fears that I’ve subscribed Richard’s qualities to some stranger with similar features are instantly vaporized, his wide, gated smile and an infectious charm spitting out even at such a great distance.  I watch him for a moment, the way he touches his chest as he talks, not realizing it, an involuntary habit it seems, lecturing to a throng of eager girls wearing skirts and far too much makeup, which makes me wonder if it was ever me, the sad little girl talking to a man out of reach, painted like a clown.  Richard looks at them, over them, around them, and finally, through them.  He laughs when he’s supposed to, when he’s cued to.  He’s on at all the right times, having mastered the art  of conversation faultlessly.  A boy comes to him, a boy with a very young face, they talk then separate, and Richard goes back to the young thing in front of him, a glass in his hands, a glass in her hands, everything in front of them.  Nothing but time.  Nothing but time and energy, a limitless supply of anything and everything, and I catch myself scowling, but not at them, but at who they are.  At what they represent and how they rub it in my face.

I hear the bartender appear behind me and I turn and slip him quid for the drink and as I turn again back toward the room with all intention of slipping unnoticed back to Daniel’s side, my rightful place, it would seem, I notice he’s taken sight of me, waving, lifting up his glass on a mock salute which causes me to do the same.  I take a sip of my drink.  It’s strong.  Powerful.  Look up and he’s gliding toward me, the audience between us parting for him, it seems, until he is at my side and his smell becomes overpowering.

“Why, hello there, Liz,” he says stumbling a bit.

“Hi, Richard,” I say, far less nervously than I thought I might be.

“Crazy seeing you here.  I mean, I woulda thought I’d run into you eventually, you know?  Wellington’s not that big.”

“That’s a…very good point,” I say.  “How do you like this bar?”

“Um, it’s alright.  I prefer the older pubs, the ones with character, but beer’s beer, I guess.”

“Yes, very true,” I say and drink three large gulps in a row, finding it difficult to breathe after the cold has numbed my throat.

“What’re you drinking?” he says.

“Vodka.  You?”

“Beer,” he says smiling. “Remember?”

“Well, right, but what kind?”

“Actually cider.  Warwick’s.  I was in a cider mood tonight.”

“Good a night as any.”

“So, I’ve got a lot of work done on my dissertation.  I mean, I like seriously worked my ass off this week,” he says taking turns looking at me, then away, watching my body in a way that makes him believe he’s being sly about it.

“Excellent,” I say, clearing my throat.  “That’s really…great.”

“Are you here with your boyfriend?” he says and the instant he does my mind treks down a cacophony of different avenues, alternating stories I could tell this young man about who I’m here with, about who I spend my time with, but, in the end, I give up and blurt out what I could be considered the most far-fetched of these yarns: the truth. “Yes, he’s over in the corner there, in the blue shirt.  Daniel.”

“Oh, nice,” he says glancing in the direction I’ve indicated, the look on his face designated as more apathy-like than anything else.

“What about you? Seem to have quite the little gathering back there,” I say drinking again.

“Oh, yeah, my flatmate, Toby, his friend, Clara…it’s her birthday.  I needed to get out of the house so…here I am.”

“Well, it sounds quite lively, over there.”

“It is, it is.  Are you having a nice time?  Do you come here…often?” He says and laughs, drinks, then, “God that sounds like a pick-up line.”

“No, I know what you meant.  First time, actually.”

“Yeah, it’s okay.  I’m a bit drunk, anyway, so everything’s good,” he says and I smile at the way in which he just belches out whatever’s on his mind.  “How’re you?”

“I’m…fine.  Tired.  It’s been a long week.”

“Have you been here long?”

“A few hours.”

“You know, I can hear your accent like…a lot more, tonight, for some reason.  Maybe because you’re drinking.”

“You can?”

“I can.  It’s very nice.  I wish I had an accent.”

“Well, you do.”

“Yeah, but I mean an exciting one.  Irish is very sexy.”

“Don’t know about that.”

“Well, I think so, anyway.”

“If I could give it to you, I would,” I say unsure of what that even means, but regardless, he’s smiling, looking at the floor then directly into my eyes.

“Wanna do a shot?” he says, I fear, with far more devious plans buried beneath it.

“Oh, well, I’m not sure…”

“Aw, come on, in honor of…Clara, or whatever.  It’s early.  We could get your boyfriend one too.  Is there anything he doesn’t drink?” he says testing me and I can’t help but smile at the corners of my mouth just a bit, and although I think I’m being sly myself now, I think he’s picked up on it.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Ah, now that is the question, isn’t it,” he says, smiling, finishing off his cider in a large gulp, standing there, tall, young, squared, radiating, towering, his smell overpowering, the lights in the bar brighter now, for a moment, then flickering back to dim once again and the world comes crashing around me, two world’s colliding, two worlds not meant to live amongst each other sucking each other into vortexes they’ve created and nurtured, and time, time goes on.  Time goes on no matter where I stand in this place, in this city, in this life, and time goes on as he flirts with me and we take shots and then, almost as if it never happened, as if I dreamt the whole thing, I’m walking back toward Daniel and Jacob and Lucy, walking toward them with no drink in my hand.  With nothing.  Looking behind me once and seeing Richard’s outline amongst the other young ones, what would appear to be his dark silhouette pressed against the dark wall, the words spoken between us now folded up into time and forgotten. And then I sit down, my head spinning, dwelling on flesh and the idiocy of youth, on the fleeting transit of it all, and as I get comfortable again, in my chair, and almost as if he were nothing but automaton, acting out a predetermined chore and nothing more, Daniel’s hand returns to my thigh, his fingers grasping it, fingering the fabric of my dress as if they never left, his mind posturing on the prospects of sex now, quite obviously thanks to the lagers, my own thoughts dwindling on a life abandoned years ago, a life once lived then forgotten.  A life missed and desired but just out of reach.  Needs, wants, and well-wishes suppressed for reasons never fully understood.  Wasted.  A girl who seemingly exists at one moment and, even though in flesh she sits here today, she’s very much been dead many a long while.  Drunk, I think to myself, watching their eyes, their beady eyes and their thin mouths as they continue to converse the same droll topics of always and forever, and I smile but it fades quickly enough.  Then, perhaps due to the liquor, I envision a giant brass pocket watch floating above me like my grandfather’s, the one taken from me when I was a girl, the minute hand ticking down in loud, echoing clicks as if to remind me with every broad stroke what it is I’ve missed out on in my waning years.  Of what it is I can never have back.  And for some reason, sitting here with no drink, with nothing in my own hands, my own empty, red hands, the blush returning to my cheeks, this harbored clock alerting me to the things I find hard to admit aloud, or never could, I suppose, I can’t but think I’m far too late.

Just too late.