On Violence In My Stories

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“Ensnared” – Illustration by Scott Ritchie

The recent tragic events in Aurora, Colorado and both their apparent and alleged link to the most recent Batman films spurred me to reflect on the use of violence in my own writing, as well as what my responsibility is as the creator of such elements and images in my stories.

First and foremost, I believe in the First Amendment and that the duty of any artist is to avoid self-censorship and be unsparingly honest in his work, whatever the subject matter or medium. Personally, I do tend to explore the darker side of humanity in my writing, mostly expressed through psychological terror, or emotional violence, but also occasionally through the depiction of physical acts of violence. Should I be concerned that a reader or audience member after reading or viewing something I’ve written will personalize and pervert it, use my imagination as inspiration to commit a heinous act?

If I worry about that, I’m already censoring myself and the work suffers.

Nature vs. Nurture. Does violence in books, film, art, video games, etc. turn seemingly normal, everyday people into sociopaths or psychopaths? I say no. Perhaps I’m more concerned that its ubiquity in our popular culture is having the opposite effect: desensitizing us to the point where we simply shrug our shoulders after reading about tragic and senseless death that occurs in the real world.

I have a choice. I have free will. I can write about anything I choose, so why do I choose to depict violence in my stories at all? What about it attracts me? Well, in the spirit of free speech there is, admittedly, and I know I’m not alone here, a small part of me motivated by an exhibitionist impulse to shock or elicit an emotional reaction from people via my somewhat twisted imagination.

And I am intrigued by the dark pocket I believe exists in each of us, the contents of which we’re secretly (and not so secretly) titillated by: the things that frighten us or seem most prurient to our more surface, public sensibilities. But it’s quite healthy, necessary even, to dip into this pocket and bring the darkness up into consciousness through creative expression.

What has suppression ever done but create walking talking powder kegs?

To be clear, I’m not interested in putting purely exploitative material out into the world, the only purpose of which is to debase and disgust. No thank you. I want to be provocative, yes, but in the pursuit of something with a point of view, where substance and style can achieve equilibrium.

In regard to violence (again, both physical and emotional), I feel a need to examine the act and its perpetrators in an attempt to understand why we behave the way we do, why we hurt each other, and to shine a light on the damage and the cost inflicted. The nature vs. nurture debate when it comes to violence can be spun into so many various and fascinating narratives, and ultimately the end result I’m striving for is a confluence of the thoughtful, unflinching, entertaining, and often uncomfortably humorous.

Sometimes the results of my “investigations” are ambiguous because there aren’t any clear, obvious answers. And some of the best writing doesn’t provide answers, but rather inspires more questions. But that doesn’t mean I’m hiding behind fiction or afraid to assert an opinion. There are artists who are not compelled to explain or defend their work, but if so challenged I will stand behind anything I’ve created and enter into any reasonable debate about its merit, about its right to exist.

I’m curious to hear from other writers, readers, filmmakers, filmgoers, artists and consumers of art in general. What’s your opinion on violence in the arts, the impact it has on our society, and the responsibility of the artist?

Secondhand Bookstores

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In a post last week I asked what you wanted from this blog, and a few of you were kind enough to answer.  To St. Tracy, my first responder, I must say I’m still interviewing potential candidates to serve as both maid and cook for your household so you’ll have more free time to frequent my website. The next qualifying round is a cat-juggling contest, an underrated skill I know you value highly in your domestic workers.

My second responder, John, wondered if I might do profiles on famous writers who also happened to be squirrels. To which I say I’d love to, however, convincing a squirrel writer to take the cigar out of its mouth long enough to say anything on the record is near impossible. So no go, unfortunately.

But John also suggested I write about some of my favorite secondhand bookstores, and that’s a request I can fulfill immediately and with great pleasure. It so happens that my wife and I spent a recent Saturday on a used bookstore tour of North Hollywood, Los Angeles, and Simi Valley, the latter city (in case you don’t live in Southern CA) exists in the southeastern corner of Ventura County and is not just the home of the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library.

No, it’s also where you can find the amazing $5 Or Less Book Store. Nestled in the middle of a bland strip mall like a diamond in the rough, this place is 10,000 square feet of printed-page bliss (and also used CDs and DVDs a’plenty). Every genre of book is represented, but I usually hang out in the literary/commercial fiction section, which in the two times we’ve been there has been well stocked with exciting finds in really good condition. And get this, the hardcovers are $5 and the paperbacks are only $2. Easy to get carried away here, and as happens to me in any secondhand bookstore, the low prices are a compelling reason to take a chance on authors I’ve never read. In that respect, I picked up A Prayer for the Dying by Stewart O’Nan and The Tiger’s Wife by Tea Obreht, as well as Castle by J. Robert Lennon. I also found myself drifting over to the DVD section and unable to stop myself from purchasing Footloose (the original version from 1984), because there’s nothing like watching Kevin Bacon dance out his angst over the narrow-minded pop-culturally paranoid denizens of small-town America.

Our next stop on the tour was the Iliad Bookshop, a sparkling gem in the industrial funk of North Hollywood, which specializes in Literature and the Arts. This is what it looks like inside:

Don’t let the empty shelves fool you. They’re all usually filled to capacity, and on the recent Saturday we were there they had overflow books in several stacks on the floor and packed tightly together on rolling carts. The Iliad also features, hands-down, the cleanest and grandest customer bathroom you’ve ever seen. Sadly, I don’t have a picture of it, but really it’s a place you just have to spend some time in to fully appreciate its grandeur. The store itself is great fun, especially for a literature geek like myself, a place to slowly shuffle the creaky wooden floor, aisle after aisle, getting lost in the meditative experience that is book browsing. It is transcendent.  Very reasonable prices here too and most of the books are in fine condition.  Picked up Godless by Pete Hautman, and the Joseph Heller biography Just One Catch, by Tracy Daugherty (hardcover, pristine condition, only $10).

Our final stop on the tour was The Last Bookstore in downtown Los Angeles. The experience to be had here is almost more about the space and atmosphere–towering ceilings, marble columns, art objects made from books, hipster soundtrack–than it is the books (though they do have a solid selection of both new and used titles). They also host readings, musical performances and even how-to seminars on bookbinding and apartment gardening. Did I mention the hipster soundtrack? Anywho, they also have a dark and dank upstairs area that’s like a cool secret attic to creep around in and pluck out a surprise title, all for $1 each.  While up there I snagged a well-cared-for hardcover copy of T. Jefferson Parker’s Iron River, and on the main floor I picked up The Dog of the South by Charles Portis, The Ecstasy Business by Richard Condon, and a grungy version of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest with “non-reliable narrator” scrawled in pencil on page one. I couldn’t resist.

So there you have it. These three stores are but a small sampling of the many others dotting Los Angeles and its outlying areas. A few others I’d heartily recommend: Libros Schmibros in Boyle Heights; Brand Bookshop and the Mystery and Imagination Bookshop, both on Brand Blvd. in Glendale and literally across the street from each other.

Do you have a favorite secondhand bookstore? Here in California, or wherever you live out there in the world? I’d love to hear about where you go to indulge your habit.

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – One Week Left!

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That’s right, story-builders, unlike a box of jujubes, Round 5 has itself an expiration date. Only one week left before we pull the stakes on this little circus and clear out of town. Be the first to start shaping this tale’s conclusion by leaving our next sentence or two in the comment box. As always thanks for reading and thanks for playing.

And a HUGE shout-out to friend and fellow writer Scott Ritchie for helping to keep this story alive over the last few months. Thanks, man.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

The fat man.

Rounder than a wrecking ball, he turned sideways to enter, allowing the midget to scamper past his knees, careful to duck under the thunderous overhanging gut.

“You have to be defecating me!” Blendinson stammered. Her little kitchen was getting crowded.

“Shaddap,” snapped Daisy. “The circus is in town and we ain’t leaving without the photos.”

Mrs. Blendinson produced the clown nose, micro film secreted within, and fixed it firmly on her own.

The fat man swatted it off. Mrs. Blendinson watched it skip out of sight under the stove until the fat man’s sweat-spotted face filled her vision with its foul labored breath.

“You making fun of us, Blendinson?”

Mrs. Blendinson couldn’t answer. Couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten to this point or what she should do next. She cursed Mr. Freddie. Wait until she saw him again. She was planning on pulling out her aristocratic air when her eye was drawn to her wrist, where the midget had just swiped her stolen, diamond-studded watch. The Little Man lifted it to his big ear, an island in his thinning hair, and smiled. She could only watch her watch as he winked and pocketed it. Something had to be done.

“I want you all to know,” she began. “That even though I was flattered you thought of me for our barbecue, I never said cooking was my strong suit. Now, the three pounds of laxatives I left carelessly above the stove must have accidentally fallen into the maplewood baked beans when I had my back turned. ”

Her visitors looked at one another remembering with a certain…discomfort.  And then very conspicuously their eyes settled on Daisy.  

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, so bears don’t just shit in the woods. Satisfied?” Daisy showed her teeth to Mrs. Blendinson. “You got to the count of ten to cough up dem photos. Or I turn your insides into maplewood baked beans.”

The fat man again leered in her face. The short bursts of rancid air he flushed from his nostrils were mind-altering enough for Mrs. Blendinson to wonder if she might be back outside rooting through Ruffy’s garbage.

“I got it, Stanley, please,” she said, trying to close her own nostrils without using her hands and triggering Daisy’s gun. “One…two…three…four…” And then, just to keep things interesting, she started counting again. This time, backwards.

The Sword Swallower advanced, head tipped skyward, voice full of silver menace. “Marjorie, we of the center ring request the photos so impudently snapped in our moment of disrepose…if you please.”

Mrs. Blendinson’s eye twitched. Her foot rolled the bear treat two revolutions. She steeled herself. “Disrepose…is not a word.”

Harry’s eyes flamed and his Adam’s apple convulsed, as a monkey on a stick. His jaw distended and his hand disappeared inside, only to emerge clutching the coiled handle of a saber, drawing its spit streaked length continuously out of his throat until clear. He sliced the air and brought the blade to rest at Marjorie’s cheek.

“Are you feeling us, madam? Your act is drawing to a close.”

“Under the stove,” she stammered. “On microfilm inside the clown nose under the stove.”

Daisy’s massive paw sent the table sliding across the room in one move.

Meanwhile, a “Timeless Travel” taxi pulled to a stop in front of the small trailer bungalow. The passenger door creaked open, rusty from disuse.

Inside, Daisy fell to his knees and laid the pistol on the linoleum. His hand wouldn’t fit beneath, and his head was too massive for either eye to see. He swung his snout in irritation.

“You, hors d’oeuvres, get over here,” he commanded.

The midget stomped over angrily, and raised his fist, the one wearing the watch. “You want the time, Gentle Ben?”

Daisy cuffed the midget under the stove with a CLANG! It came back with lint in its little hair and a jujube stuck to its cheek. But it was holding the clown nose.

Daisy’s eye caught something rolling toward him. Could it be?

Marjorie bet it all on this moment.

What’s happening next? And who’s in that taxi? Only you and your sentence know how this story’s going to wrap up…

This Blog Is Your Blog

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Although it is this blogger’s mission to develop content that will tap into a niche but hopefully ever-expanding audience, he sometimes can become so consumed in writing what HE wants to read he doesn’t take into account WHO he’s writing for. Neglects the very people who, if properly stimulated by his output, could launch his blog to the next level like they were shooting it out of a T-shirt cannon, past the book publishers’ mezzanine and all the way up to those glassed-in luxury boxes where the glitterati of Hollywood assemble (and probably have sex), and then eventually HE will be played by Amy Adams in a hit movie based on his galdang blog galdangit.

Social media is not supposed to be a one-sided conversation, right? This is an interactive medium, correct? Okay, so tell me what you want to read and respond to, reader(s?). Articulate your needs, your interests, and at least twice a month I’ll accommodate them. Can your psychotherapist do that? Your pet?

Tell me you want a post about how to avoid a persistent manhole, and that’s what you’ll get. (In brief: Sometimes you just have to fall in before it’ll leave you alone.)

Tell me you need a solid recipe for blueberry murder pie, and I’ve got you covered. (Tip: It’s more than just finding the proper spring-loaded knife that can withstand 400 degrees Fahrenheit.)

Also in the You Want It You Got It Department: Techniques for cheering up depressed oxen. (Summary: Knock-knock jokes and Lexapro.) Proper fashion for a night out at the bingo parlor. (Hint: Fishnet trousers, underwear optional, this isn’t your grandmother’s bingo night; incidentally, I know some things about your grandmother that will make you blush. See future post “Top 10 Secrets Too Saucy For Nana’s Deathbed Confession.”)

Now how about a piece on serial killers who also scrapbook on the side? (See related post: blueberry murder pie. My goodness, I’m starting to realize just exactly how twisted my readership is.)

Well it doesn’t matter, whatever your tastes, your whims, your fancies, simply put, I’m here for you. At your service. You’re going to bring me fame and fortune and then be stuck hearing me bitch about how burdensome it all is, so at the very least I should take my fingers out of my ears and listen to what you want.

So then, my ears are now clear (let’s forget my conscience for the moment)…what do YOU want from this blog?

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Stay of Execution

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Good Wednesday, fellow story-builders! Thanks to your efforts our tale has been granted a stay of execution. Even so, the pulse is certainly quickening as our dear conniving Mrs. Blendinson attempts to cooperate with her circus-performing nemeses. Whether you’re picking this up where we last left off, or reading it for the first time, we invite you to continue our story by leaving a sentence of your own in the comment box. As always, thanks for reading and thanks for playing.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

The fat man.

Rounder than a wrecking ball, he turned sideways to enter, allowing the midget to scamper past his knees, careful to duck under the thunderous overhanging gut.

“You have to be defecating me!” Blendinson stammered. Her little kitchen was getting crowded.

“Shaddap,” snapped Daisy. “The circus is in town and we ain’t leaving without the photos.”

Mrs. Blendinson produced the clown nose, micro film secreted within, and fixed it firmly on her own.

The fat man swatted it off. Mrs. Blendinson watched it skip out of sight under the stove until the fat man’s sweat-spotted face filled her vision with its foul labored breath.

“You making fun of us, Blendinson?”

Mrs. Blendinson couldn’t answer. Couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten to this point or what she should do next. She cursed Mr. Freddie. Wait until she saw him again. She was planning on pulling out her aristocratic air when her eye was drawn to her wrist, where the midget had just swiped her stolen, diamond-studded watch. The Little Man lifted it to his big ear, an island in his thinning hair, and smiled. She could only watch her watch as he winked and pocketed it. Something had to be done.

“I want you all to know,” she began. “That even though I was flattered you thought of me for our barbecue, I never said cooking was my strong suit. Now, the three pounds of laxatives I left carelessly above the stove must have accidentally fallen into the maplewood baked beans when I had my back turned. ”

Her visitors looked at one another remembering with a certain…discomfort.  And then very conspicuously their eyes settled on Daisy.  

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, so bears don’t just shit in the woods. Satisfied?” Daisy showed her teeth to Mrs. Blendinson. “You got to the count of ten to cough up dem photos. Or I turn your insides into maplewood baked beans.”

The fat man again leered in her face. The short bursts of rancid air he flushed from his nostrils were mind-altering enough for Mrs. Blendinson to wonder if she might be back outside rooting through Ruffy’s garbage.

“I got it, Stanley, please,” she said, trying to close her own nostrils without using her hands and triggering Daisy’s gun. “One…two…three…four…” And then, just to keep things interesting, she started counting again. This time, backwards.

The Sword Swallower advanced, head tipped skyward, voice full of silver menace. “Marjorie, we of the center ring request the photos so impudently snapped in our moment of disrepose…if you please.”

Mrs. Blendinson’s eye twitched. Her foot rolled the bear treat two revolutions. She steeled herself. “Disrepose…is not a word.”

Harry’s eyes flamed and his Adam’s apple convulsed, as a monkey on a stick. His jaw distended and his hand disappeared inside, only to emerge clutching the coiled handle of a saber, drawing its spit streaked length continuously out of his throat until clear. He sliced the air and brought the blade to rest at Marjorie’s cheek.

“Are you feeling us, madam? Your act is drawing to a close.”

“Under the stove,” she stammered. “On microfilm inside the clown nose under the stove.”

Daisy’s massive paw sent the table sliding across the room in one move.

Are you feeling this story-builders? What happens next is up to you and your next sentence…

Flash Fiction – “Spoiler Alert”

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Spoiler Alert

I.

When you turn the faucet on, water will come out and you won’t hear them coming and when they kill you they’ll have actually done you a favor because of the terminal cancer blooming in your gonads, and when you get to Heaven you’ll meet a woman who you always just missed at the bus stop who will take you under her wing until you’re returned to Earth because the date on your death certificate was misread and you become a slightly grumpier version of yourself, except when you use your favorite razor.

II.

When you shave your face, your beard will go away and you’ll find the secret fingerprints that will help you track down your brother who is actually a woman who says she’s your sister when she’s actually your mother and needs you to be her alibi to be freed from a CIA black site in Prague that was once a renowned brewery that you will revive and bring back to prominence in less than three years time and after which you will return to the United States intent on throwing out all the horse meat in your refrigerator.

III.

When you pull the empty carton from the fridge you won’t be having juice with any leftover horse meat and you’ll see the cash in the crisper is bundled in five stacks of $5000 like you didn’t even ask for, and the moisture that’s accumulated on the plastic bag the money’s in contains a tiny cell-mutating microbe that will absorb into the prominent vein that extends from the knuckle of your middle finger to halfway down your arm and thus you’ll stop returning your books to the library no matter how many librarians sacrifice their lives trying to retrieve them from your garage.

IV.

That hummus is almost a year old.

V.

When you turn the key in the ignition your car will start in the garage and the odometer reading will be one number away from the code for the meaning of life and your bare arms will adhere to the leather interior and when you peel your elbows off the armrests the writing imprinted in the skin will be the highlights of a transgender’s interrogation inside a secret Czech prison that smells vaguely of stale pilsner poorly translated by an angel with unreliable eyesight, and even though the prominent vein in your hand is making figure eights under your skin and you should be treated immediately for missing fingerprints and testicular cancer that you mistake for a horse meat addiction you’ll be determined to fight off as many bloodthirsty librarians as it takes with your favorite razor and $25,000 in cash to get back inside your house to wash off your elbows.

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – Is This Circus Leaving Town?

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Photo by Yury Masloboev

Okay, story-builders, it might be true, this tale could be on its last legs, uttering its last gasp, listening to its last rites through an ear horn. But I just couldn’t say goodbye without one more attempt to delay its crossing over into the Great Beyond.

Will you help me? The boy who cried whenever the circus left town? I’ve taken the liberty to add onto the story since its last posting a few weeks ago. Give it a read and then if so inspired add your own defibrillating sentence to keep this heart a’ beating. As always, thanks for reading and thanks for playing.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

The fat man.

Rounder than a wrecking ball, he turned sideways to enter, allowing the midget to scamper past his knees, careful to duck under the thunderous overhanging gut.

“You have to be defecating me!” Blendinson stammered. Her little kitchen was getting crowded.

“Shaddap,” snapped Daisy. “The circus is in town and we ain’t leaving without the photos.”

Mrs. Blendinson produced the clown nose, micro film secreted within, and fixed it firmly on her own.

The fat man swatted it off. Mrs. Blendinson watched it skip out of sight under the stove until the fat man’s sweat-spotted face filled her vision with its foul labored breath.

“You making fun of us, Blendinson?”

Mrs. Blendinson couldn’t answer. Couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten to this point or what she should do next. She cursed Mr. Freddie. Wait until she saw him again. She was planning on pulling out her aristocratic air when her eye was drawn to her wrist, where the midget had just swiped her stolen, diamond-studded watch. The Little Man lifted it to his big ear, an island in his thinning hair, and smiled. She could only watch her watch as he winked and pocketed it. Something had to be done.

“I want you all to know,” she began. “That even though I was flattered you thought of me for our barbecue, I never said cooking was my strong suit. Now, the three pounds of laxatives I left carelessly above the stove must have accidentally fallen into the maplewood baked beans when I had my back turned. ”

Her visitors looked at one another remembering with a certain…discomfort.  And then very conspicuously their eyes settled on Daisy.  

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, so bears don’t just shit in the woods. Satisfied?” Daisy showed her teeth to Mrs. Blendinson. “You got to the count of ten to cough up dem photos. Or I turn your insides into maplewood baked beans.”

The fat man again leered in her face. The short bursts of rancid air he flushed from his nostrils were mind-altering enough for Mrs. Blendinson to wonder if she might be back outside rooting through Ruffy’s garbage.

“I got it, Stanley, please,” she said, trying to close her own nostrils without using her hands and triggering Daisy’s gun. “One…two…three…four…”

What happens when Mrs. Blendinson gets to ten? Will she get that far at all? Only you and your sentence know what happens next…

Ray Bradbury and Attitude

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Photo by Alan Light

By now I’m sure you’ve heard that we lost one of the great titans of literature a few days ago: Ray Bradbury, the grand fabulist, visionary,  prolific concoctor of enthusiastic, exuberant, far-sighted prose. Admittedly, I’ve read only a small fraction of his vast output, focusing on his longer works like Fahrenheit 451, Something Wicked This Way Comes, and Death Is A Lonely Business, but even so I can feel his influence, his imprint, in the skin of my own dark-fantastic stories.

As impacted by his fiction as I’ve been, however, it’s Bradbury’s nonfiction, specifically his collection of essays on writing known as Zen in the Art of Writing, that’s raising the hair on the back of my neck these days.

Because lately I’ve been thinking a lot about attitude. As in, how the right attitude about his work can usher a writer through the occasionally tumultuous and volatile terrain of story-telling. And how that attitude can carry-over and color his view of his life. To say Bradbury’s attitude toward both was ecstatic is certainly true, but still the word seems too meager to encompass the size of his passionate curiosity as a man of this world and a creator of “other-worlds” to be seen by our collective mind’s eye.

This passion is immediate, right there in the preface: “Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together. Now, it’s your turn. Jump!”

Throughout the essays in his book Bradbury implores writers to work with zeal and gusto. Joy. To first, be excited, to be a “thing of fevers and enthusiasms.” He poses these questions: “How long has it been since you wrote a story where your real love or real hatred somehow got onto the paper? When was the last time you dared release a cherished prejudice so it slammed the page like a lightening bolt? What are the best and worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting them?”

There’s energy in these words, encouragement, and obviously some provocation, like a finger poking you in the chest a little too hard. But there’s also a deep sincerity here; I think it infuses every piece he’s ever written, and I find the mixture pretty intoxicating. Maybe that sounds a bit overheated, but this book affected me, and perhaps it’s because I broke it open at a moment in my writing when I needed to hear certain things said without equivocation.

Like this: “The other six or seven drafts are going to be pure torture. So why not enjoy the first draft, in the hope that your joy will seek and find others in the world who, reading your story, will catch fire too?”

Isn’t that what any writer wants to achieve?

And also this: To reach a point where “…you might easily find a new definition for Work. And the word is Love.”

Thank you, Mr. Bradbury. It’s sad to say good bye, but thank you for the life you’ve led. No doubt you’ll lead one just as fantastic in the after…

 

 

 

A Blog Writes Itself

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Photo by Neptunerover

I get it. Really, I do. People are busy, and apparently Bryan’s no exception. He’s got his other writing projects to manage, a “day” job to go to (only three days a week, by the way) a wife to be with, and better technology than I wouldn’t dream of begrudging him his eating and sleeping time.

Oh, and of course he’s got to read his books and magazines and also watch his DVD programs. Heavens to Netflix let’s not forget to clear the schedule for that crap.

Fine.

But can a blog get real for a second?

Thank you.

Sometimes a blog gets lonely.

Okay, look, I’m not filing a case of neglect with Internet Social Services or anything. At least not yet.

I just decided that if if Bryan’s not going to tend to my needs–and those needs are pretty miniscule, mind you, like would it kill him for 500 words a week?–I’m just going to have to write myself into existence.

Impossible? You’d think so. Heck, I was convinced it was for over a year.

But then a few weeks ago, some Japanese dognapper/hackers temporarily took control of my administrative functions to post a ransom note. And I only pretended to be looking the other way, sorting through the latest plug-in updates. Yeah, guys, I was paying attention and now I know everything.

So here I am, up and running and writing myself.  While Bryan does whatever the hell he thinks is more important. Probably taking a walk outside with his wife. The nerve. Hey dude, sometimes you gotta take the blog out for a walk too. What’s the hassle? You don’t even have to trail after me with a plastic bag over your hand to pick up my poop.

Because I poop in a trash can, thank you very much.

Anyway, back to business. Writing.

What does a blog that’s writing itself write about? Favorite Categories? Top Ten Provocative Tags? My most recent erotic liaison with Bryan’s Twitter feed?

Sorry, TMI.

(Full disclosure: The Twitter thing may have only been an erotic dream.)

So…

Man, all these words tapped out, nearly 400. I exist now, on my own, and you can see me. You can see me, right?

Yeah, the blog’s keeping it real, and yet…why does real still feel so lonely?

Build A Story With Bryan #5 – No Constipation Here

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Photo by k e n g

Good Monday, story-builders! Apologies for the slight delay in re-posting our saga-in-progress. I’m happy to report that things are flowing nicely for Mrs. Blendinson and the gallery of anxious circus-types assembled in her trailer, but we still need your help to move it forward.

Whether you’ve been following the story for awhile or are new to the series, we want your sentence! And whether or not you consider yourself a writer, we do and we want your sentence! Give our story-so-far a read and add on as only you and your singular imagination can. Thanks for playing.

Mrs. Blendinson had certainly entertained a foolish thought in her day, had even been married to one for twenty-five of them, but never had she been so resolute in her belief that this foolish thought, the one occurring to her now while she rooted through the neighbor’s trash, this was the foolish thought that if acted upon would put her back on top.

“If I can just find that clown nose,” she mused, “I’ll prove once and for all that the circus debacle was all Mr. Freddie’s fault, not mine!”

Mrs. Blendinson’s musings, unlike her foolish thoughts, took on the affect of a nobler woman, usually a duchess of some vague royal lineage, the kind who would never consort with a sad clown and his dim associates, who endured scandal with a stiff upper lip and dry eyes, not a stiff drink and stolen credit card.       

In spite of her contemplative irrational thoughts and ramblings of life on the road with the circus, there were times with Mr. Freddie that were downright playful. Even though there were moments of joy and ecstasy, they somehow turned into long hours of nervous, frightful horror. Mrs. Blendinson remembered the time when she and Issey (Issey was Mr. Freddie’s self-appointed first name) created an impromptu beach setting at midnight behind the pup tent, which was just south of the Big Top. Mrs. Blendinson smiled to herself with the contentment only a woman in her 70’s could understand as she reflected on the unusual foreplay that occurred prior to the laying of the blanket.

But then she remembered that fateful BBQ afterward. She frowned, and her entire visage changed from nobility to something far less regal – vengeful. “That Mr. Freddie, and all the Freddies,” she mumbled. “They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

And with that, the circus was relegated to a forgotten compartment in the portmanteau of her mind, for her new resolve was building, the resolve that drove her to reach inside the hem of her dress and pull out the thin strip of microfilm hidden within the gingham. She slipped it into the clown nose that she’d finally found, planning on the perfect place to leave it, where it would be found “by accident.” She looked around furtively, the microfilm/nose mélange secreted in the pocket that once held recipes for blancmange and other favorites.

“Outta my trash, Blendinson!”

She smiled and checked the diamond-studded watch that had been strapped to her wrist when she’d accidentally fled from Zales the other day. Right on time, her neighbor’s five a.m. ritual, a stumble into the bathroom and back, with a glance out the kitchen window, occasionally to check for raccoons, mostly for her. Mrs. Blendinson waved before she looked up and winced. Ruffy was out of his makeup, but his face still looked painted: purple-black around the eyes, yellowed cheekbones. That and a sweaty fistful of G. Washingtons his likely compensation for starring in another Clown Fight video the area college kids were always staging in the alleyway behind the fried chicken restaurant. Ruffy had fallen on hard times ever since the circus stopped employing sad clowns.

 Mrs. Blendinson wondered if he’d like to help her make a different kind of dishonest wage today, although she couldn’t promise his nose wouldn’t get smashed in with a clown shoe for his trouble.

“Well?” he snapped.

She stuck a quick tongue over her shoulder, and yanked a pink and white cheap leather bag from the bottom of the trash. She could use this, even with one strap broken. She slung the good one over her shoulder and the bag became her shield. Now she turned saucily, determined to put Ruffy back in his clown car for good but the window was empty.

She bent and retrieved her Smirnoff, uncapped it and took a sip, acrid in the morning, trash-laced air. She made a face and began her waddle back to her place. She had plans.

As she approached the caravan she called home, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was certain that she’d shut and locked it. She always triple-checked it every time she went out. If Freddie had used his key to go in without her permission again he was going to be sorry!

She opened her door with some trepidation, calling out, “Hello? Is that you?” in her sing-song lilt. “No, it’s not me,” a strange voice answered back, sending chills down Mrs. Blendinson’s gingham-clad spine.

She stepped inside, sensed a presence in the kitchen, and lifted her new bag to her chest once more. But she paused, still in the hall, when she saw the revolver on the kitchen table next to an open Smirnoff bottle, her last. She stepped fully into the light and the view of a four hundred pound brown bear tossing back a shot of vodka with a raspy snarl.

“Daaaaaaaaamn!” it complained, shaking its massive head at the vodka’s bite. It noticed Mrs. Blendinson and swept up the pistol expertly.

“All right, now, Marjorie, easy does it.” He jerked the gun twice to the empty chair opposite.

Mrs. Blendinson slipped heavily onto it and her whole body seemed to slump in defeat.

“Daisy,” she stated.

“Goddamn right, only I’m done with the dancing.” Daisy the Dancing Bear used both paws to draw back the hammer on the gat. “Have a pop,” he commanded.

“A pop? I don’t think so,” Mrs. Blendinson sneered. “My father disappeared twenty years ago.” Since bears don’t understand puns, especially bad ones, Daisy faltered for a moment. This was Mrs. Blendinson’s only chance. “I have it,” she blurted. “What you want. I know what it is and I know where it is. I have it. I know right where to-

“Allllllright, fer Chrissake, shaddap!” Daisy brought a massive claw to his furry ear and dug at it angrily. “You don’t even know why I’m here,” he grumbled and adjusted his vest and its gleaming watch chain.

“Yes, but…” Then, very softly, daintily, she slid a box of bear treats onto the plaid tablecloth and looked up with a devilish anticipation. Her greasepaint smile grew as she saw she was right.

Daisy’s eyes never left the box. He let his grip on the pistol loosen then set it down altogether. He licked his lips. When Marjorie Blendinson swept up the box, he rose to his massive eight-foot height.

Mrs. Blendinson was wary, her head bent at an unusual angle. She had to be careful. She held the box out shakily even as her foot disappeared into the draped pantry and fished out a massive red circus ball. She shook the box and tapped the ball at Daisy.

“Up you go,” she hissed through her smile.

Daisy leapt upon the ball and balanced perfectly, head erect, paws at Ports de Bras. Mrs. Blendinson shook out a treat and tossed it. Daisy caught it perfectly, took two rolls forward and two back, bumping the table. Mrs. Blendinson’s eyes darted to the pistol. She shook the box into her palm again only… nothing came out. Daisy saw it. She saw it.

Empty.

Daisy crashed onto the tabletop and snagged the gun. He rolled back into his chair, out of breath and disappointed in himself. “Alll right, Blendinson. Think you’re smart. I told you I’m done with that shit.”

“Wait, I have more,” Mrs. Blendinson desperately stammered, “Some sardines, maybe.”

“What am I, a trained seal? I think not.” He paused. “It’s time, toots,” he said with chilling finality.

The words drew her feet under her involuntarily. Her heart skipped a beat as one of them encountered her salvation. She drew that foot forward and certainly rolled over it again. She lifted her foot and stole a glance. One of the bear treats must have been shaken from the box. She dipped quickly at the waist, causing Daisy to re-aim threateningly.

“Hey there, toots. Alright. No sudden moves.” he snarled. And then, “Harry!”

And out of the wash room stepped the sword swallower in top hat, head tilted toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on Mrs. Blendinson. And it was at that point the forgotten compartment of the sealed portmanteau in her mind was blown supernaturally open.

“H…H…Harry?” she stammered. “But I thought you’d burnt up into a colorful cinder! Didn’t I, I mean didn’t someone?”

“You overcharged my flame thrower, Blendinson,” he snarled. “But I faked the cinder part.”

“It’s time for a reckoning,” Daisy growled. “Show time.”

Just then there was a loud banging on the door. “Are you in there, Blendinson?” called a low rumbling voice. No, she thought. It can’t possibly be. And then the door flung open.

The fat man.

Rounder than a wrecking ball, he turned sideways to enter, allowing the midget to scamper past his knees, careful to duck under the thunderous overhanging gut.

“You have to be defecating me!” Blendinson stammered. Her little kitchen was getting crowded.

“Shaddap,” snapped Daisy. “The circus is in town and we ain’t leaving without the photos.”

Mrs. Blendinson produced the clown nose, micro film secreted within, and fixed it firmly on her own.

The fat man swatted it off. Mrs. Blendinson watched it skip out of sight under the stove until the fat man’s sweat-spotted face filled her vision with its foul labored breath.

“You making fun of us, Blendinson?”

Mrs. Blendinson couldn’t answer. Couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten to this point or what she should do next. She cursed Freddie. Wait until she saw him again. She was planning on pulling out her aristocratic air when her eye was drawn to her wrist, where the midget had just swiped her stolen, diamond-studded watch. The Little Man lifted it to his big ear, an island in his thinning hair, and smiled. She could only watch her watch as he winked and pocketed it. Something had to be done.

“I want you all to know,” she began. “That even though I was flattered you thought of me for our barbecue, I never said cooking was my strong suit. Now, the three pounds of laxatives I left carelessly above the stove must have accidentally fallen into the maplewood baked beans when I had my back turned. ”

Her visitors looked at one another remembering with a certain…discomfort.

What will happen next? Let loose your sentence and take us there…