PRF Short Fiction: November 2010

¶ Customer Service

Dear Slap Dash Soda,
I bought a “Party Pack” of your Mango Mojo Mania soda and there must have been one wacky mix up at the plant. It seems the labels may have been switched because I ended up with a Strawberry Kiwi concoction. Just wanted you to know as to stay informed on these matters.
Sincerely,
Daryl Boxer

Dear Mr. Boxer,
I am sorry to hear about your soda incident. I am not sure what might have occurred but The Slap Dash Soda Company does not make a Strawberry or a Kiwi soda. Thank you keeping us informed I have passed on the information. Thank you for purchasing Slap Dash Soda products.
Sincerely,
Matthew Cooley
Customer Service

Dear Mr. Cooley,
I must say I am in a very agitated state by the lack of your action you have taken to satisfy my dilemma. Please make amends before I will take a direct action against your company.

Daryl Boxer

Dear Mr. Boxer,
I am sorry for your dissatisfaction. I must say I am at a lost. Your original correspondence asked for no action to be taken. What is it that you would like me to do in order to make you a happy Slap Dash Soda customer? Please let me know as I will be more than happy to accommodate.

Sincerely,

Matthew Cooley
Customer Service

Mr. Cooley,
I know not why you must mock me so cruelly. As if being forced (NO; to answer the go to question you corporate lackeys would ask; there was not the proverbial gun to my head, but forced none the less) to consumer a vile kiwi strawberry (that is correct I know the difference between kiwi strawberry and mango mojo mania; I am no fool) was not enough punishment. Now after that ordeal which was nothing short of stomach rape you pay my kindness with nothing short of cold faced hatred. I assure you this will not stand, no not for one minute. You can expect swift and just retribution. Mark my words.

Daryl Boxer
Victim No More

Dear Mr. Cooley and other Tyrants,
I did not appreciate the certified letter I received from your lawyer. I can only assume you are watching me. Perhaps you always have as it seems inventible that I will learn that you are just another cog in the mechanical beast that is the Zionist Occupied Government. First you and yours fly planes into the towers and now this! I am not one to lie down and allow the Jew financed racial throw backs run amok over my white Christian homeland. This is the stand I take and it will be your undoing.
Daryl Boxer

Dear Mr. Cooley,
I just wanted to write to let you know I regret the exchange we had. After the police raid and subsequent time spent in the facility I have had time to think about my life. With the help of many great doctors and the right medication I see how far I had fallen from reality. I will not bore you with the details of my fall and redemption. Let me tell you I am so sorry for putting you in a situation that must have caused great fear and anxiety. I have learned the world must survive on love, because hate will destroy us all. I now see that. I also purchased some Mango Mojo Mania and it was delicious. Thank you and God bless.

Sincerely,
Your Friend
Daryl Boxer

Sunday, November 21, 2010 · (No comments)

¶ Final Affairs

By Richard Warner

September 22, 2010 6:37 AM
To: bassmanadam@hotmail.com
From: kayelogsden@gmail.com
Subject: SIGN THE FUCKING FORMS!

God damn it, Adam. Sign the forms. I’m so tired of this. You have no idea how over it I am. Do you know how easy it would be for me to get another restraining order? Sign the forms. Sign the FUCKING forms and do not call me at work again. You remember work, right? I swear to god if my boss tells me you called the receptionist a cunt again, I’m sending Jerry over. Sign the forms, asshole.

***

November 10, 2010

Mr. Adam Logsden
1822 W. Farthing St.
Goshen, KY 40026

Mr. Logsden

As stated in our most recent letter of October 15th, your last opportunity to retain ownership of the property known as Block 15, Lot 4 Bethlehem Hills Crossing in the township of Goshen, Kentucky has expired as of midnight on October 31st, 2010. A default judgment of foreclosure was entered into record at the Oldham County Courthouse on November 3rd, 2010, said judgment to be enforced by the Oldham County Sheriff within 30 days. Ownership of the property known as Block 15, Lot 4 Bethlehem Hills Crossing in the township of Goshen, Kentucky has reverted to City National Bank.

Your failure to appear in answer to the action of foreclosure, and your failure to respond to several certified letters in regard to this matter has left City National Bank no option other than to proceed with this foreclosure action; however, it was our sincere wish to have been able to reach an agreement beneficial to both yourself and the Bank, and it is with regret that we have taken this action.

Very Truly Yours,

John T. Brookman
Enforcement Officer - Mortgage Division
City National Bank
Lexington, Kentucky

***

November 18, 2010 09:50

To: Deputy Lawrence Milgrim

Re: Welfare Check - 1822 W. Farthing St., Goshen

Next-door neighbor is now complaining of an odor from the residence. He had previously called in on the 13th after noticing the newspapers. Deputy Hayes did not see anyone through the windows on that date; no answer to doorbell. Be advised that a Sheriff’s Dept. eviction is scheduled for November 22 - forced entry authorized for this welfare check.

Oldham County Sheriff’s Department Dispatch

***

November 23, 2010

Mrs. Kaye Logsden
1014 3rd St., Apt. 12
Louisville, KY 40207

Per our telephone call of November 21, please find enclosed our General Price List, Cremation Authorization Form, and Statement of Goods and Services. If not witnessed by a funeral director, the cremation authorization and statement must be notarized. Please call if you have any questions at all while reviewing these documents.

Regarding your wishes to have your husband’s cremated remains placed at Danville National Cemetery, I regret that Mr. Logsden does not meet the required “other-than-dishonorable” status for interment at a national cemetery. I have also been advised that the policy with Colonial Penn Life Insurance Company has no death benefit as, due to the manner of death, their financial obligation is limited to a refund of premiums paid. And although he has no other family, since you were still legally married at the time of his death, the Kentucky Funeral and Cemetery Board has advised us that he does not qualify for the state’s Indigent Burial Fund, as the statute requires both a lack of assets as well as no immediate family in order for the providing funeral home to make a claim for compensation from the Fund.

As you had expressed your intent to refuse your husband’s cremated remains, I have indicated on the Cremation Authorization that he is to be scattered in the Mississippi River at our convenience, and with no attendant ceremony. Your initials next to that statement will suffice for authorization of scattering.

Again, allow me to express my sympathies to you on your loss. I understand that this is a very difficult and confusing time, and if there is anything further we can do for you, please do not hesitate to call.

Very Truly Yours,

Kevin Potter
Funeral Director
Potter and Sons Funeral Directors

· (No comments)

¶ Watch Out Fe Your Tongue

August 4th 2009

Dear Joshua,

Please excuse my unsolicited contact, but your details were passed on to me by Mary-Anne Sutcliffe, a former colleague of yours during your tenure at Sussex University. I made contact with her as I was investigating the possibility of doing a PHD around the development of various forms of African music to Mento in Jamaica in the early 20th century and she suggested you as someone with whom I should try to consult with. Please let me know if this is something that would take your interest/ that you would have time to undertake and I will, of course, supply you with more details.

Is there perhaps an easier/ more immediate way I can get in contact with you if this is something that does indeed take your interest? Perhaps a phone number or email address?

Best wishes,

Alan Schwarz

P.S. I couldn’t write and not tell you that I am also a massive fan and was delighted when Mary-Anne put your name forward. Your album as The Lonely Twosome is one of my favourite records and has been for the past thirty years. I had Island Boy played at my wedding. Do you have any new recordings on the horizon?

August 18th 2009

Dear Alan

Thank you for the letter! Wow, that sounds like an interesting subject- I can see why Mary-Anne suggested me- seems she knows me pretty well! How is she? I haven’t seen her for years. Do you live near Sussex? It’s been many years since I was in England (I lived there for 3 years), but I do find myself missing it from time-to-time, especially Cornwall when the weather was good!

Now, on to business! Yes, this does sound interesting indeed. Please send me more details. I’m not sure of the extent I’ll be able to help you for various reasons, but I’d love to help you out as much as I can. Unfortunately I don’t have access to the internet as where we live is pretty remote. I should say, it is *technically* here, but it is down more often that it is every working so we all tend to just not bother with it. Also, though I do have a phone, it’s pretty useless to me now as last year I had most of my tongue and part of my lower jaw removed and can no longer speak. As you can probably guess, this rules out the chance of any new recordings too, huh?

I’m afraid until the government here decided to step into the 21st century, we’ll have to stick to good, old fashioned writing power.

Anyway, please forward me on the details and I’ll have a read and then we’ll see where we can go from there.

Take it easy!

Josh

P.S. I think that might be my favourite one, too. Thank you for playing it at your wedding! Did you ever hear the Twosome out-takes? They were floating around on bootlegs for a while. Let me know and I’ll make you a copy.

P.P.S Gosh, that’s funny, isn’t it? Me pirating a bootleg of my own work. I wonder where the law stands on that one?
J

September 7th 2009

Dear Joshua,

Thank you so much for your timely response and enthusiasm for this project. It is a great honour to be not only in correspondence with you but also potentially working with you as well. I have enclosed my current proposal, which Mary-Anne suggested was too open and vague. Before being bogged down in the tedious language of academia (which my proposal is, unfortunately, rife with), essentially I wanted to chart the set of influences and historical circumstances- the slave trade, the influx of Indian and Chinese migrant workers, British and American cultural influences as well as the influence of other Caribbean islands (rhumba boxes from Cuba, etc), the LACK of Spanish influences... that led to the development of Mento and why the form as more or less disappeared aside from a few attempts at its revival, yet Calypso continues to thrive in one form or another. Bear in mind, this runs the risk of becoming a history of Jamaican music in the 20th century, which I am certainly trying to avoid. As much as I enjoyed ‘Bass Culture’, it is certainly pointless trying to write another version.

As a side note, I was very saddened to hear about your medical situation. I had absolutely no idea and I’m sorry for putting my foot in it. I hope you didn’t feel the need to explain. I honestly think you had one of the most beautiful voices to come out of the 60s/70s folk/ country rock scene and this is a sad loss to the world indeed.

Anyway, I look forward to hearing from you soon

Best,

Alan

September 28th 2009

Hey Alan!

Thanks for sending me the proposal. Well, I gotta say it was a very interesting read, despite all the ‘academic language’. I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with Mary-Anne when she said it was too open, though I’m certainly no expert in PHDs so don’t pay my opinion too much mind. Here’s some thoughts/ suggestions- maybe concentrate more on the historical and social circumstances that led to the development of Mento, and (or) maybe how it acted as social commentary for the time. Perhaps look into the rise of local and imported soap operas and the like, as well as the dominance of ska, rocksteady and roots (as you say, you want to avoid echoing Bass Culture). Have a think about that, let me know what you think?

Enclosed is your proposal, which I’ve made notes on- more detail, more thoughts. Let me know if any of this is any use to you at all.

Also, thanks for your concern. Sorry, I brought it up, but I didn’t want you to think I was being a weird old recluse ‘rock star’ or something by not talking to you on the phone...

Yes, I think never being able to sing again might be the saddest part for me. But on the other hand, If I hadn’t of had it done, I wouldn’t be able to sing or do much else! Perspective is a funny thing, eh?

Anyway, enough of that stuff. I included a CD of some of the stuff I mentioned and some other stuff you might enjoy.

Take care, buddy

J

October 16th 2009

Dear Joshua,

Thank you so much for the thoughts and suggestions. They have been amazingly helpful and I’ve attempted to focus and streamline my proposal. I’ve included my revised version- please take a look and let me know what you think. Just to let you know, I go up in front of the board in three weeks time this Wednesday, so spare me thought or prayer around then. I’ll need it!

Thank you for the bootleg of the Twosome outtakes! I love the faster version of Greenstick, with the organ at the end. As much as I love the ‘original’, I have to ask- why didn’t record this version- its great!

Also- what was on the other CD? It sounded like you, but I didn’t recognise any of it. It was wonderful, though.
How have you been?
Best,

Alan

October 29th 2009

Hey Alan!

*G*O*O*D**L*U*C*K*!*!*!*!*!*

I read your proposal and it’s really fantastic! You really tightened the nuts up on that thing and gave it focus and drive! Don’t sweat it, they’d be mad not to take you! I can’t wait for us to really get into this thing together. Exciting, huh?

I’m well thanks. The weather is starting to cool off here (thank god!). Seems a silly thing to complain about, but the heat can be so oppressive and tiring sometimes. It takes so much out of me that I don’t know where the days go. Appetite too, even with all the beautiful food in this country! My wife Jeannie works as a co-ordinator for various non-profit programmes, needle exchanges, free sexual health check-ups, that kind of thing. She’s having to take some time off from that, poor girl, but it’s been really nice having her around more. My daughter Tulip is coming to visit next week, which is wonderful as we only see her maybe twice a year.

Ah, the other CD. Well, you have a bit of a ‘scoop’ on your hands there, I guess. It’s some stuff I’ve recorded since ‘retiring’. Some stuff at home, some with a band I tried putting together a few years ago (didn’t work out, didn’t even get as far as naming ourselves!). Glad you liked it. I thought you might get a kick out of it.

Greensticks- oh boy, that’s a long story. Let’s just say that sometimes you gotta make compromises to keep everybody happy.

Let me know how you get on!

J

P.S. sorry about the goofy thing up there, I always used to write a note like that for my daughter before she had any kind of test. Didn’t fail once, though!

November 15th 2009

Dear Joshua.

I’m sad to say that the board wouldn’t back me. They blamed education cuts and austere times, but I know it was because they didn’t want to back an old fart studying music.

Oh well. Thank you so much for all your help, inspiration and enthusiasm.
Speak soon,

Alan

November 20th 2009

Dear Joshua,

I’ve just had a thought that followed on from a conversation I had with Mary-Anne, post meeting. I don’t know if you know this, but there have been a few different artists and groups mentioning you as an influence of late. A guitarist, John Stammers and a singer, Sally Belle both referenced you in interviews within the last month. How would you feel about the possibility of some kind of tribute/ retrospective gig? Maybe you could even come over and perform with some singers? Sorry if this is overstepping or anything, but I was quite excited about the idea as soon as I thought of it!

Let me know!

Alan

November 30th 2009

Dear Alan

Well! Firstly I was really bummed to hear that they didn’t go for it. What assholes! I’m glad to see you’re taking it in your stride, though. Well done, that’s a tough old thing to do.

Secondly- bashful as I am about the whole thing- I like it! That’s a really nice idea. What are you thinking? Something in England I’m guessing? Since that’s where the press is coming from, makes sense, eh? As you know, I’d love to come back and this might be the perfect excuse! It might have to be the summertime though, as I’m not sure my old bones could take the cold. I’m feeling the cold over here, would you believe?

I’m gonna have to talk to Jeannie when I meet her later at the hospital, but what say you start making inroads with Mary-Anne (?), put the idea about and let me know what you come up with.

Take it easy!

J

December 21st 2009

Dear Joshua,

Well, I’ve spent the last few weeks putting the word about. John Stammers and Sally Belle (the ones I mentioned before) are very interested, as are Tawny, Alex, a guy who calls himself Friday Disasters... all are pretty big names in certain scenes over here and there’s a fair bit of buzz around it! I’ve included press clippings and a CD of various songs of theirs. Also, there’s a beautiful church hall in the centre of town which puts on gigs. I’ve been to a few there and the acoustics are stunning. I was talking to a promoter about putting something on there and he’s really into it!

So far he’s offered us a few dates:
16th of June
23rd of June
19th of July
31st of July
But he says there’s wiggle room, as I explained the situation. Also, there’s plenty of time to get some good press on this. Let me know what you and Jeannie are thinking and let’s make this thing happen!

Take it easy!

Alex

P.S. in case I don’t speak to you before- Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I hope you and your family have a wonderful time!!!

January 16th 2010

Hey Joshua,

Happy New Year!

How are you? I haven’t heard back from you, I hope my last letter wasn’t lost in the post! So the dates are getting closer, I’m just wondering what your thoughts are about this gig? I’d like to start pushing ahead with it and make it the best we possibly can. Don’t worry about the workload, just say which date is best for you and I’ll do the rest!

Included is a belated Christmas present- a biography of Lord Flea. Hope you’re well!

Best to you and your family,

Alan

January 31st 2010

Dear Alan,

It is with deep regret that I am writing to inform you that after a long battle with various infections, as a result of a weakened immune system, Joshua passed away last week. He spent the last two months in and out of hospital, but his condition worsened and on the evening of the 24th he went peacefully in his sleep.
Please know that he was talking about the concert in London the last time I spoke to him and it gave him great hope, even towards the end.

Please take care, and may you find comfort in this dark time in the loving arms of Jesus Christ, as I have done.

Edie Simson (Joshua’s sister in-law)

· (No comments)

¶ Sinopia

Dearest Tinsel,

I am writing this outside your room. No knock’s needed. One more leap and I’ll be in with you, and then I shall read this letter out loud. You can take this as a declaration, Glass-shine.

Forgive me as I ask you to sit on your questions, I know you must have many. But my mind is scrambled by my journey. I will tell you about it and that will wrap up the why’s. How many journeys I have had to reach into you! How many bloods I’ve lived through over these voyages! These make an offering from you to me, these experiences across species. But even for us creatures comes a time for settling, so I write this letter to you to read, you deserve the formality, one from your own kind, we never write letters, take honour in a first. Though this is more a flick through postcards, snapshots from a trip on our own Orient Express with arteries for tunnels. You could call it an obstacle course as well, like the one your God feller sets up.

How I got to you, some highlights pinned on the map:

1. Soldier: on the move, the adrenaline tang is a satisfying giddy. As he pushed and crept low through brush I played with the parasites dwelling within that would take him by year-end.

2. Wounded mammal on tundra: cold near the end, blood slow like buses.

3. Headless snake: I was almost thrown out onto the grass, his must have been recent. Apparently it’s a kick to fly out through a slit artery into the air, but I’ll save that adventure for later, there’s so much we’ve still to do together.

4. Indian man eating: thin blood alert like a cat tracking prey.

5. Muscovite driving: thick blood congested with lumps that crumble into asteroids to play dodgem with, I can take you there, oh how I wish to take you there! I drank nicotine whilst he swore across nine lanes of maniacs.

6. Sailor: full of iron and booze, shame I was alone, I was there for a while, watching the beasts that always change and move and crash and swallow, but then again he was quite restful.

7. Airline stewardess: I wanted her to push her face through one of the round holes to feel what it feels like to be so high, but she was too busy with the mysterious tedium that your genius fills the incredible with.

In amongst the clotting, the flowing, the spilt, the fed and the burning, I have also learned how to count. (Though clotting is for weirdoes.)

The stuff people say as I pass through them, like one I fell into on a train, what a terrible bat, “there was something with the fire brigade, she couldn’t use the microwave properly she can’t be trusted to use the microwave, she can’t be trusted to put her eyedrops in so she goes blind, she can’t be trusted to take her pills, really what I saying is well something is going to happen, this will have to end soon.” What I wanted to tell her about Ends! Looking out of her, feeling queasy, I went back to you and saw you as a trail of cinders streaking past the train window. Rest assured my roaring heart, I know better how to take care of those close.

Different vessels are like different bars. You get different views, different tastes, but a lot of the familiar too. Or maybe museums. Us creatures, we like a drink or two, or something with that effect. Dogs are a favourite spot for us to meet, us of the Kingdom. For a party and ritual – they’re one and the same to us – wild dogs are the best. We throw silhouettes out of them, wild dog blood makes our shadowy legs dance, a clownish dance like a Labrador trying to walk like a spider. You’ll hoot, precious.

I’ve pinched things for you along the way. They fall away with each jump, but you get the sentiment. I’ve stolen airplane socks to put your treasures inside; a mussel shell to rub under your chin; mint chocolates to consume on our marriage; a silver-framed mirror to absorb the envious; a special potato in a jar, stale, just for the hell of it; graveyard flowers to feed the children; and a brooch to hold between our teeth.

I’m very tired, but on the other hand, if I had hands they would be shaking apart!

But I should tell you how we move, as you might have forgotten. You might not know at all. It’s no doddle.

We learn to move limbs and glass objects first. Then to draw a silhouette, preferably during the day, standing on a balcony. (The silhouette that is, not me. I stand nowhere. Do you have a balcony?) Soon after, a creature learns to move, to swim through blood. We can swim with or against the flow, though one must be careful when one swims against, as it's surprisingly easy to go too far and blow up the vehicle's heart. (Some sorts like to do that, of course, mean creature trick to play on a fleshy.) We learn how to make other shapes, to throw ourselves into material. Finally, we learn how to leap from blood through air to other blood, and this is how I've come to you, following your scent and murmur.

Silhouettes aren’t quite corporeal, but they can twine around you, shimmering ash, I’ll make a cute romantic folly for you to lie in. That’s how I manifest outside of you. And this letter will get material in that sort of fashion.

We met in the Alps, do you remember? Of course you do... That majestic bicycle ride that we shared... Or maybe it was the South Coast, or the road to La Paz, scrambled as I said, still the sun was definitely brightening and it had emptied a box of angles onto the earth, a shower of your cheekbones over which we were pulled along by gravel that spoke to us through rubber and metal spokes and sweat and wind chilling your face even as the sunrise promised a burning, pale blue, this freezing heat that rose out of Arctic undersea in silence, your nuclear submarines rising through ice and all those mighty things you build that you sense a rumble inside even when no noise is to be heard, you were on a bicycle, the world was shaking, there was definitely a sun rising and we were probably going with gravity rather than against, how I whispered to you as I am now.

Do you remember what you said to me? I wish I did.

(I know I keep getting things wrong, but I shall make them right. We grab these words from your brains, but they can muddle. We see things different, no not wrong.)

My darling, your blood smells of moss on old stone walls. Your blood is a carnival in the woods. Your face I forget – my travels have made my existence, and they are a Lethic drop – but your inside, its scent, warmth and feel no I could never forget that.

I hope you recognize me. You must recognize my arterial thump, but I’ll cut out a silhouette once I finish reading this so that you can see my projection as you first saw me wherever it was. I'm curious as to how you will see me as I read this. Could you tell me, please, when I finish? Do I still wear a moustache? Do I still cut a dash?

We creatures fit your world together by picking up bits where we can and stringing them into a chain and tangle, all those bits you people have, all that cluttering matter, how I admire you for it. And you – the species – have a genius for this stringing together. You can stick a piece of wood in the ground, tie some colourful fabric to it that really should serve no purpose, wave it around like you’re calling the wind, and use that as an excuse to raise a glass, recite a speech, write a poem, zip metal screws into another’s head, all the while stitching stories around the contraption to give it sense, what a gift, I tip my hat to how you fit it all together into these magnificent mechanisms that fold and twirl and unfold in the sky, I want to make the same for you. I shall put you together how you your world.

You turn ships into claws to reach into the earth. And that shall be your voice, wrapping me up. The iron you pull out of the ground you burn into ribs and more arms to wrench and tear and clamber up in metal and glass in rectangles and ellipsoids and hyperboloids with wheezes made out of steam for platforms to watch whatever you watch up there – more platforms, I suspect – and that can be the pulsing in your thigh. Descend in one of those cable cars – we’ll take the classiest modes – to your grand singing houses modelled after monster carcasses (you should make those things walk) where your lot sit down to be led by voices transmitted by men shaped like cones painted black and that ringing kerfuffle can be your lungs. Put your feet up and I’ll give your brain a gentle blood massage hemisphere by hemisphere as we watch the television and you can finally tell me how you know all those people who talk to you through it even as they get up to screaming mayhem and that I suppose is your electric cerebral wonderland, a cracking place to stop before we’re taken to your intestines which is to say your winding halls of leaders of you fleshies which is another box of racket with rumbles that send your youngsters into dust and mud to zip those metal screws into each other and shrivel up in spontaneous pops of fire and scream, that song and dance can be your, well, let’s move on from there, I’ll come back later, always a pleasure. I hear from my fellow creatures that you’ve magnified those pops of fire, this is your science and they tell me that your brainiest have dreamt a biggest brightest pop and flame of the Ever, one that made the whole pile, dinosaurs tortoises pencils everything, no matter to me if you take the idea seriously or not, but flood me red if that’s not a feat of speculation, yes we’ll make that your eyes, and we leap from this concept to that, of Universal Healthcare and suffrage and etiquette on tables, that’s all your extremities to keep warm.

I arrived in your postman, made a jump into the old lady in the room along the corridor full of mess. Now I’m inside your neighbour’s cat, rubbing its face against your wall. (We should have a word about her.)

I shall read this through your blood onto the wall

in flaming scorpion tails

or glistening moth wings

or chattering dog song

or flock wallpaper

it doesn't matter, you'll know by the time I read this, or rather I read it to you, through you, through your blood.

And were you not to accept me in you, I would still wish to be around you. I’d throw myself into something dead, throw myself in to a statue. That’s the closest we get to suicide, but near you I would still live.

But it won’t be like that for sure. You’ll take me in. And I shall invigorate your heart! Inflate your lungs! Bring the flush back to your cheeks!

That first time, the way you looked at me and fell back on your bed, as if in a faint, then I knew you were the one, moved as much by me as I by you. We were in your flat, I had arrived there after some crazy night out, some night of parties and our raucous murmuring, I was bleary and just wanting a place to stay. Something in you spoke to me, called me out to throw a silhouette, throw a shape to sit on your bed, cutting a hole in your flat. You looked at me and fell back, and we spoke, at least I did, definitely. With no small difficulty I pushed your clay ashtray to you, along your bedside table. And when I left you I wanted to go back immediately, but our movements are not naturally mapped like yours. I’ve had to learn, sometimes just missing you.

We will build something together, inside of you, something to live through. We’ll be together in a what’s-the-word, a sinopia, cosy.

I shall move things for you, make things for you. In your warmth I am your servant.

Yours,

Canavan

· (No comments)

¶ Letter from a Crank

Dear Tropicana, Inc., a Division of PepsiCo:

This morning, eager for a jolt of vitamin C from a tasty citrus beverage, I bought a 16.9 oz. carton of Tropicana Homestyle w/ "Lots of Pulp" orange juice. I just plain love pulp. I figured it would be a delicious and nutritious complement to my Cajun Andouille Sausage Breakfast Wrap. Sadly, the breakfast wrap was cold and a little runny, but that's hardly your fault and not really the point of this missive.

When I attempted to open the carton, I was dismayed to find that the opening was not well perforated, and apparently, the PepsiCo corporation or its packaging subsidiary would prefer that I use a straw to drink my orange juice, based on the message instructing me to “please use a straw on the side” I discovered. The fourth grader in me thought, "Ooh, what fun! Maybe I'll drink it with my Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers Galactic Battlestation Bendy Straw." Sadly, though, I'm about to celebrate my 33rd birthday, and am likely far too old to be seen drinking out of a Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers Galactic Battlestation Bendy Straw. Opening the carton from the other end yielded the same sad, shredded cardboard result, rendering my beverage undrinkable from its original enclosure.

I might understand your arbitrary requirement for using a straw if a straw were attached to the carton, but that wasn’t the case. It seems the default drinking method of the 16.9 oz. carton of Tropicana Homestyle orange juice mandates the use of third-party hardware. I won’t bore you with the details of how I was forced to take my shredded carton into my kitchen, find a 16-oz. cup, carefully pour my orange juice into said cup (taking extreme caution not to spill, which is harder to do considering the state of the carton at this point), pausing the pouring procedure to partake of an ounce or so of orange juice, then pouring the rest in (since, as Sir Isaac Newton once said, “You can’t pour 16.9 ounces of juice into a 16 ounce container, dummy!”). Suffice it to say, I was less than pleased with the amount of trouble that went into it. I’ll concede that it was still easier than planting an orange tree, fertilizing it, pruning it, harvesting the oranges, squeezing said oranges, picking out the seeds, etc., but come on, this is the twenty-first century, and opening a box of OJ shouldn’t require so much planning.

Now, I realize that a straw is a simple utensil, and with the proper training, one can easily learn how the laws of atmospheric pressure will force liquids up through the plastic tube and into one’s mouth. However, I still vastly prefer the traditional method of tilting a carton and letting gravity take over. In citrus beverage containers, as in life, I hold to the maxim that simplicity is the ideal default. Further, when drinking orange juice with “Lots of Pulp” (and I will admit, you are truthful in your description regarding the amount of pulp in your product), the pulp-to-juice ratio enjoyed when using a straw leaves much to be desired when compared to the “classic” method of beverage ingestion.

I understand that some people might enjoy using a straw. Some people put ketchup on their fries; some put it on the side (I, myself, prefer fries without ketchup, but again, that is an inconsequential digression). I humbly beg you to consider offering your patrons a choice when it comes to the way in which they can enjoy a serving or two of Florida’s finest in the morning. I’d hate to have to switch back to vodka.

Sincerely,
Steve

Friday, November 19, 2010 · (No comments)

¶ 20th Century Dispatch

By Oliver Hunt

Dear People of the Future-

-Or, if aliens from space take over, Dear Aliens-

-Or, if all that’s left are cockroaches, and they can read English, then Dear Cockroaches-

This is my own personal time capsule. In it, you should find one Zero bar, one Twix bar, half a pack of watermelon Hubba Bubba, a Marshmallow Peep, an issue of Swank, an issue of Fangoria with Freddie Kreuger on the cover, a pocket knife, a plastic skull, a Chinese star, a blue and turquoise rabbit’s foot, a cassette copy of the Beat Street soundtrack (Vol. 2), a cassette copy of Whodini’s Escape album, a beta copy of Enter the Ninja, a Clash t-shirt, a pair of checkered Vans, a shotgun shell, a valentine and a speckled blue pebble. We had to do time capsules as a project at school, but this one is my own.

To be honest, I think shit like this is pretty gay-

By the way, you guys don’t mind if I curse, do you? Tough shit if you do. What are you going to do? Spank me? Suspend me? Call my mom? Wash my mouth out with soap?

Anyway, like I was saying, I think shit like this is pretty gay. Like, with the time capsule project at school, my teacher, Mrs. Lunahan, wouldn’t let me put any of my stuff in it. Then she told me she was giving me an F on the project because I didn’t participate. I told her I tried to, but any time I tried to give her something for the capsule she’d tell me it was inappropriate. She said it was my job, as a student, to find something appropriate, and it wasn’t her fault if I couldn’t grasp what is and isn’t right for the capsule. Mrs. Lunahan’s a bitch.

You should see some of the shit they put in the class capsule instead: Issues of Time and Newsweek, Star Wars and GI Joe toys, barrettes, baby shoes, baby pictures, school pictures, Transformers, Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein books, a videotape of the Challenger blowing up…I mean, Andrea Murphy got to put a valentine in the time capsule, but when I tried to Mrs. Lunahan said, “We already have Andrea’s valentine, we don’t need another one.”

So Mrs. Lunahan can suck it, and so can Andrea Murphy, and so can that school.

Oh yeah, I guess I should tell you. My name is Louis Trumball, and where you found this used to be some woods in Evanston, Illinois. It might still be, I won’t know. Today is May 7, 1986. It’s sunny now but it rained earlier and everything’s still wet. The ground is muddy and there’s wet leaves, water dripping from trees and wet grass. It’s still kind of cold too.

I’m fourteen and in the seventh grade at Chute Jr. High. This is my second time going through the seventh grade, because I got held back. That’s not really normal, but it’s kind of normal. Anyway, it’s not like I invented it.

The kids here think I’m dumb. I don’t care, fuck them. I never liked them and they never liked me. Even in preschool and kindergarten I had to fight with them all the time, just to get a turn on the swing set or the merry-go-round. In kindergarten, my only friend was a girl named Lisa. I don’t remember her last name, I don’t care. One day, on the playground, she told me she couldn’t be my friend anymore because none of the other kids liked me. Except on my birthday, when my mom gave me cupcakes to pass around to the other kids, she said I can be Louie’s friend today because he has cupcakes. Yeah, maybe I’m supposed to be dumb, and bad, but I figured out all the other kids that day.

I wouldn’t want to be like the smart kids, or the kids who are supposed to be smart, anyway. You should see the tests they have to take. They’ve got, like, a million of those bubbles that they have to scribble in with number-two pencils. And their parents don’t let them do anything. I used to try to play with Jeffery Morrow, but whenever I went over to his house he’d say I can’t play. I have about a million pieces of homework that I have to do, or I’m grounded.

I guess it’s cool for them that they get to go off to another school, where they work on art projects and stuff. Still, they’re always being taken to these places, where they’re always getting tested for something. Maybe they’re being trained to be spies or agents or something. I mean, I’d be just as good as that as they are, but damn if I wouldn’t want to go through all that. I mean, they get grounded if they get a B in a class.

So, yeah, if people think you’re dumb they give you simple classes and kind of let you do your own thing. Oh sure, they kind of hover over you, to make sure you’re not gonna set their garbage cans on fire (again), but they don’t expect anything from you. They just want to pass you down and be done with you. I’m cool with that. Even if I bomb everything in seventh grade again they’ll pass me on to eighth. I’ll probably turn sixteen in the eighth grade, then I’ll drop out. That’s if I even keep going.

Okay, the stuff in the box. Yeah, I stole the Twix, Zero and Hubba Bubba. I also stole the Fangoria, but I found the Swank in the woods as I was coming out here to bury everything else. Yes, I looked through it first. So the fuck what?

The pocket knife was mine when my dad wanted me to be in the Boy Scouts. On my first campout, though, I pulled it on this kid named John Graham because he knocked me down and took my canteen. I slashed across and cut his jacket open. He got cut a little too, but not too bad. Anyway, I got kicked out of the scouts and my dad took my knife. I snuck into his room while he was asleep in the living room and took it back. I knew I wasn’t going to keep it. I also stole twenty dollars out of my mom’s purse, and I sent away for a cherry switch-blade, so I don’t really need this knife.

The shotgun shell is my dad’s. He used to want me to hunt with him, but I hated hunting. I mean, getting up all extra-ass early, on a Saturday? To walk around in the mud, and sit in a dark and depressing duck blind, and squawk into a dumb duck call? Fuck that.

Yeah, my dad’s pretty lame, and he’s a dick to boot.

I’m supposed to be grounded for, like, forever. It’s really ridiculous. It’s due to my grades, mostly. My dad says he knows I’m not dumb and that I need to get on the stick.

I said sure thing dad, I’m gonna get right on that stick. He backhanded me and told me not to get smart with him. He yells at me for being dumb, tells me I’m not dumb, then tells me not to get smart. I’m pretty sure he just likes being mad at me, so that he can keep punishing me forever. He still spanks me with his fraternity paddle sometimes, then later I hear him laughing to his friends about it. He says yeah, my boy here thought he’d get a little lippy with me, so I took out my old fraternity paddle and pounded his ass pink.

So, whatever. Really, I just pretend to be grounded, but my parents are either working, or off doing something, or fighting- and when they’re fighting, they never talk about Tommy, they talk about me and what to do with me. My dad tells my mom I’m stupid and spoiled, and my mom tells my dad he rides me too hard, flies off the handle at everything, and is drunk all the time. While they’re either working, or going on fishing trips, or out playing bridge or cards, or fighting about me, I go off and do whatever I want.

At night I sneak out. I do it alone, now. I used to sneak out with my friend Carl, but he decided not to be my friend anymore. That asshole. We used to hang out at school every day, and we used to talk on the phone for hours every day after school but, I don’t know. The teachers or the other kids or his parents or my parents told him not to hang around me anymore. He told me his mom and dad said I need to be put away somewhere, and that I need help nobody there can give me, and that the other kids just don’t like me.

I knew something was up when he was supposed to meet me, at the 7-11 on Davis, at two. He never showed. I asked him at school what was up, and he said his dad busted him when he was crawling out of his window. He said he was grounded as shit.

That’d be one thing. Except, now, when I sneak out, I see him coming out of the bowling alley, or the movies, with little fucks like Kenny Roland and Jim Cole. Kenny stands behind me in gym class and calls me white trash, with a white trash drunk dad and a trashy whore mom. Jim Cole told me his dad could buy and sell my tweaking unemployable dad a thousand times over, but that he and my mom weren’t worth anything. Carl doesn’t even look like he’s sneaking out, I see his mom’s car coming to pick him and whoever else up when I see him out.

I asked Carl what he was doing with those dicks, and he told me not to try to choose his friends for him. Then he told me he didn’t want to hang around me anymore. I told him he was a dick, too, like everybody else and he said fine, nobody cares what I think anyway.

That’s cool, you know. Fuck him, too. I don’t get cupcakes to pass around anymore, so that’s pretty much it for people like Carl.

See, I don’t need these people. I don’t need Carl, or my mom, or my dad, or the teachers at school.

Anyway, back to what’s in the capsule. The Clash t-shirt and the Vans belonged to my brother Tommy. The Clash were his favorite band, he used to listen to them all the time. I didn’t like them. A couple of years ago, I wanted to be a breakdancer, and The Clash were a dumb, white, English rock band.

Now I miss hearing them coming out of Tommy’s room. I miss those big dumb chords and that dumb English singing, so I kept his Clash tape. Sometimes, I listen to it on my walkman. That’s a secret, though, okay? Not like it’ll matter by the time you find all this anyway.

Anyway, Tommy hung himself. He was seventeen. I didn’t see his body or anything until the wake. I came home from school and there were all these cops and ambulances parked outside the house. Mom and Dad were sitting on the couch not saying anything, and they looked kind of like people I didn’t know.

Sometimes, I go into Tommy’s room. It’s empty now. I imagine what he looked like hanging in the closet.

This is another little secret we have, okay future people? I read books about ghosts and stuff. When I’m in Tommy’s room, sometimes I hope to see him as a ghost. I don’t know if he’d be able to talk or anything. I mean, I know this sounds totally gay, but I want to see him as a ghost, because I’m afraid I’ll forget what he looks like.

My mom went crazy and locked all of his old pictures and stuff away in a trunk, and my dad said fine, I don’t give a shit what you do.

Sometimes, in his room, I get that weird, hairs standing up on the back of my neck feeling and sometimes, like, I see these little squiggles and stuff out of the corner of my eye. I once thought I’d see what would happen if I went into his room and listened to The Clash. So, I took my walkman with The Clash tape into his room and sat in front of his closet.

I looked over, though, and I saw my mom standing there. She said, “Louie, what are you doing?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

Now I have to go with Mom and Dad to see a psychologist once a week. She’s this weird woman who kind of looks like a lizard named Dorothy Kind. She asks me a bunch of questions about how I feel about Tommy and my Mom and Dad and school. I really don’t like talking to her. I don’t like talking to her, and she tells my Mom and Dad that I’m avoiding her questions and then they yell at me, then they yell at each other. Then I go to school and all the other kids know I have to see a psychologist and they ask, “Have you killed anybody, yet?” and Carl laughs at me like all the other kids do.

So, I’ve got a switch-blade coming in the mail, and when it gets here I’m leaving. I’ll have that switch-blade in case anybody tries anything, but I’m getting out of this shithole.

So, if you people or beings or roaches or whatever of the future find this, just know that my dad’s an asshole, my mom is okay, except she’s sad and crazy, Carl is a dick, Dorothy Kind is a creepy idiot, Tommy’s dead and Evanston sucks.

Also, those candy bars and stuff might not be very good by the time you find them, so I wouldn’t eat them. They’re just to have as, like, antiques or something, okay?

Have a nice day- Louis Trumball, Age 14, Evanston, Illinois, Earth.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010 · (No comments)