R. Anon

“My first time was with a cat,” Craig said into the circle of cheap folding chairs, cigarette smoke hissing out to the last word. “I had to work my way up to people. It’s easier, to start with animals. Simpler.
     “Cats, though. Cats are hard. I had trouble finding the right moment, at first.” He took another drag, looking up to steady the florescent lights on the ceiling above their heads. “I didn’t even start with a pet of my own, just some cat almost as good as roadkill. But it still worked, still happened. After that, there was no turning back.”
     “Well said, “Bob said. “Everyone, give Craig a hand.”
     A few half-hearted golf claps filled the stagnant air.
     “We have a a new member here today,” Bob added, as if the filling of the last chair hadn’t been obvious. “Everyone, this is Cheryl.”
     “HI Cheryl,” everyone said.
     “Before we begin on today’s progress reports, perhaps you can tell us the first time you raised the dead?” Bob said.
     Cheryl was a too-thin quiet girl, all goth without makeup, her face pale with dark hair hanging down to her waist. “I just find it hard to believe,” she said in a voice made rough by years of drinking.”
     Craig laughed sharply. “Sorry, not at you. I get it, most of us do. It’s not often you find anonymous AA style things for raising the dead. It’s a horrible habit, though: where do you stop, once you start?”
     “Who dies that doesn’t deserve to live?” Bob said smoothly into the silence. “That is the question that haunts our waking hours, and most of our sleeping ones. But first, who brought the cookies?”

Making Art

Mendril Caroway had been voted the High Protector the city by the computers under the earth, old and strange and unfathomable in their ways. He’d never been important - never wanted to be, truth be told - but they had given him the post, and technology to go along with it: with the gloves, he could create anything, change anything into anything else. It was a terrible burden, and his family has drifted away from him, as they had predicated.
      A servant of the great city, they felt, should have nothing limiting him in his duties. No ties, no commitments. Only the people, and the computers. He didn’t know what he thought about that, tried as often as he could not to, but then some tourist had ended up leaving the quarantined zone and was, currently, in the cells.
      “Report,” he said crisply to the two guards who smelled of stale sweat. The third, his security chief, smiled at him with eyes that were far too bright in her face.
      “Omalu.”
      Mendril stopped and looked over. “Omalu?”
      “The - ah - it claims to come from there.”
      “And this is?” he snapped. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to some nice relaxing drugs and not having to order any more deaths or other things tgo keep the computer’s peace.. Something in her smile told him it wasn’t going to happen.
      “The subjects name is Ililiiqi. Ki, for short. As near as I can tell, it is from Omalu,” she said.
      “It again?”
      “Neuter, sir. Probably some punishment, really, among some barbarian freakworld thing,” the one guard opined.
      Desiree ignored it, smiling at Mendril for a few moments longer. “Carl is right: the creature is neuter, and a ghost.”
      “A ghost.”
      “Currently it is in the cell because we brought in a simple matter creator set to make dishes,” she said dryly. “Otherwise it’d be wandering through people’s homes and confusing many more.”
      Mendril sighed, following her down the hallway and entering the cell she’d chosen, wondering what kind of joke he was the butt of this time.

The creature in the room looked human, at first glance. Thin and tall, with pale hair and bright eyes, it looked up curiously; if not for the fact that the High Protector could see right through it, he’d have thought it was a person. Hands were pulling things out, phase shifting them from the inside of the device to the floor beside it where it sat cross-legged, grinning from ear to ear.
      Mendril moved around slowly, studying the creature. It had an extra set of thumbs, and was as androgynous as most dolls, disturbingly so. He coughed lightly, finally, and it looked up.
      “Hello,” the voice said, though its mouth hadn’t moved.
      Mendril froze, throwing up protections in his mind. “Hello.”
      “I fixed the dishes,” the voice said proudly, as loud as before even though the meditative protections around his own thoughts.
      “Fixed?”
      “It gets the dishes sparkling clean now.”
      Behind him, he heard Desiree struggle to suppress a laugh.
      “On your vids, this is what you want yes?” The creature looked up anxiously. “Bright and clean and sparkly?”
      “Ah. Yes. Your voice?” he prodded.
      “Oh! We just talk,” it said earnestly. “We don’t listen. To thoughts? It is rude.”
      “Rude.”
      It nodded. Mendril took a deep breath. “May I ask why you are here?”
      “The Emperor is getting passage,” it said, looking back down at absently putting the matter creator back together. “So I was told to keep busy and not bother people. Have I bothered you?”
      “A little,” he said. “But it’s okay. Ah. How does it work, now?”
      It pulled a hand out of the matter creator, a tool in its hand vanishing into - nothing, it seemed. “Better.”
      Mendril counted to ten. “What does better mean?”
      The creature blinked a few times. “I don’t understand?” it sent, finally.
      The guards were snickering openly now; Mendril ignored them as well. “How is it better?”
      “Oh!” It reached out a hand and pushed.
      The transmitter hummed, than began glowing a soft cherry red.
      Desiree drew a slugthrower, alarmed, just as the glow faded and was replaced by the smell of melting plastic. A single dish was ejected, and he heard her drop her weapon, breath hissing out between clenched teeth.
      It was diamond, thin as ancient china dishes Mendril had only heard of in reference to some dictator who liked tea. It was art, on this world, in this age. Made from a lowly matter creator.
      He took a deep breath, staring into a worried face he could see the wall behind. “It’s - very pretty,” he managed, mentally connecting to the computers for advice. But there was silence. Silence in his head, where there had been only noise.
      His voice was hollow when it came out, as if someone else spoke in his stead: “What did you use to power that?”
      “You had sources below. I spliced,” the creature said.
      “You drained the Computers,” he managed.
      “Upgraded, too,” it said proudly. “Your systems were full of -” it hesitated, then sent: “confusion. Not nice patterns? Repaired. It should come back soon. I don’t know why is hasn’t yet?”
      The guards stopped snickering. The silence behind him stretched, filled with things he tried not to think about
      “I see,” he managed.
      “I could fix more?” it offered. “Your computers are so old they reboot,” in disbelief.
      “No.” Mendril drew a smile up from somewhere, knowing it couldn’t be reading his mind with that earnest innocence on its face. “It’s okay now. You can go.”
      The creature wandered out through a wall, and Mendril had a moment to wonder if the Computers would return. He didn’t other saying it was only a job, that he had tried his best for the world; it wouldn’t have mattered. There was a shot, he didn’t know who, a flash of pain - mercifully brief - and nothing.

Back Cover Poem #1

Driven by personal demons
Made by experience;
Sparrows of insomnia picking
     at the inside of his skull.
Harsh obstacles -- and with each other
Hosting a children's party
To stand the test of time;
Pilgrim in search of herself
Trying to shield children in their arms --
An ever-changing world.

The Life of a superhero

"My name? I thought everyone.... skidderMan. Gimme another beer? Thanks See, I used to be StopperMan. I could stop spam, worked as a crossing guard. Then there was the black ice day, the terrible day when they skidded instead. Three of the little tykes died, but they did stop the bastard from hitting me. Still got fired."

Crescent Moon

Not making faces, hanging
in the sky, half-burnt
blackened by the sun
she is half to screaming,
weeping -- soft -- so that
he never hears.

Because it amused me...

12PM Why There Are So Many Therapists

Child in stall: Mommy, where does that hole go?
Mother: It's not a hole, it's a pipe, and it goes to where the child-catcher lives. Now hurry up!

601 West Peace Street
Raleigh, North Carolina

via Overheard in the Office, Feb 2, 2007

Feng Shui For Mosques

(Feb. 2007)

If a thing were not forbidden, it tended to become compulsory. That was the only explanation Hafiz had for Fred deciding they should redo the mosque in Feng Shui.

"It's Shway," he said, "like sway," moving his hips as though he were a woman.

Hafiz didn't like the other man, though he'd never said. It wasn't that there was something precisely wrong with a Muslim named Fred, it was only that he smiled. All the time. This queer little smile as if there was a joke, and only he got it.

"It is just architecture," Fred said. And then: "The door is going is going to face Mecca anyway, dude."

"I am not a dude," Hafiz said.

"Woah. Chill, man."

Hafiz said: "I am chill."

Fred said: "I meant, calm down. It's just some fun. I know someone who knows someone, and they offered, and it's free. You can't argue with free, can you?"

Hafiz wanted to say: "I can. I must, because free things are seldom worth their cost. They're too expensive, Fred who smiles too much," but he said nothing, and Fred was the sort of man who took silence as assent.

The basement was large, so they loaned it to the friend, who began to have ceremonies down there, with incense, and chanting. Mostly women, a few men, all not of the faith. The woman found reasons to stop by, to ask about the Feng Shui, to move things.

Fewer people came to the mosque, save at night, and to the basement. They did not think Hafiz noticed. There was talk, of rights and empowerment, by those who did not understand that power conferred only responsibilities. Hafiz tried to explain, but no one listened. They asked: Why don't you have a Western name?

Hafiz said: "I already have a name," and was called old fashioned. He became silent, but still watched. They invoked names, in the basement; idols in a place of Allah. When he told them not to, they called him a terrorist, flinging the word about as if it were 'infidel' or 'heretic'.

He took down the feng shui, but no one noticed. Finally he went downstairs, into the darkness, and brought light.

"What are you doing?" Fred screamed, when the friend of a friend died. The knife was, after all, very sharp, and the door locked: Hafiz was a practical man.

"I have decided to convert," Hafiz said, smiling a Fred-smile of his own. "But not to your god, devoid of sacrifice, of duty, of obligations. A faith that does not demand things of you is not a faith, Fred."

"Have mercy, please!" Fred begged, as infidels had throughout the long history of war.

"I am not evil," Hafiz responded, and brought down the blade, cutting precisely (for he had read a book on this, to prepare) and removed her heart, holding it up. It was not still beating, a fact that he regretted, but Fed was here as well.

Fred threw up, gasping, drenched in fear and urine, too terrified to fight.

"I give this sacrifice to Quetzalcoatl," Hafiz said, his voice filling the room.

He walked over to Fred, who cowered into the wall. "Conversion is not done by silence," Hafiz said, his voice terrible gentle. "Only by blood. Only by pain. Only by loss. We grow from loss," he added, bringing the knife down.

He had time to show Fred the heart before Fred died, then put the knife down on their alter and thanked the corpses for allowing the sun to rise, went upstairs, faced Mecca, and waited patiently for the sun.

The Taming of the Unicorns

(Jan. 2007)

There is a place where unicorns go. It's not a place found in any map, nor any book. It may not even be real, but they go there by the by, drawing the maidens from slumber and rest for reason no man living may know or guess.

All who return are different, changed. They seek different lovers, with softer touch, the Spaniards words and kisses like phrases rolling from tongue to tongue. They drift from old lives into new, following a song we never hear.

They are no longer virgins when they return from the unicorns, hearts no longer pure, eyes no longer quite as gay. Having seen, they can never see; having loved without conditions, they can never do so again.


To hunt the unicorn we must forsake being men, to walk down roads we gave up long ago, to sing castrato, to forbid the young to become men but arm them to weapons and set to them hunting, to restore the balance of the world.

They removed the horns of the unicorns, having none of their own.

There was blood spilled in placed too sacred to have names, and there is a place now, where some children go, being neither one thing nor another.

It is not found on any map, save that of the pain of the human heart and wishing to be who they are inside as well as out. There is no magic left in such places, only solitary silence unless another stumbles in and they realize they are not alone, that no one is ever alone.

Nephilim Morning

Nephilim Morning
(January 2007)
Josh MacLeod

“After the snow, there will be ice.”
          That’s what she said to be over the phone, but I wondered if I’d misheard her over the car horns. It’s winter in spring, traffic is backed up the devil’s arse so far it’ll be like a second Fall once it comes out again over the blessed overpass and the 3 dollar a minute psychic is trying to give me my future, tell me my destiny in her little cubicle in the middle of nowhere, probably remembering the ads and wondering where the sexy girl in lingerie was, and if she existed at all, doing the same lousy job, milking the same marks while corroding her soul with petty lies instead of grease as some fast food hole.
          I wonder if she’d meant lice; I thought it had cleared up, but some things are more persistent than ex priests in a bathhouse.
          “There will be rain,” she added, a low beep under the last word giving it an ominous note. I hung up the phone rather than pay more money, drumming the steering wheel and looking at the cars in front and the cars behind. Another idiot was honking his horn, as if his modern medicine magic could change anything at all.
          I wanted to get out and rip his head off. Both of them, just in case he did some thinking with the hat rack too.

Black ice has always fascinated me; how it can hide. Everyone is afraid of fire, but it’s the cold that should worry them. I wonder if nature is trying to make up for the pleasure of dying in the snow and falling asleep rather than screaming in a burning inferno.
          I know what those are like, because I was born in one. Even demons have children, after all, though people called us giants and sterile out of envy. It’s hard to justify rebelling when your parents were the first rebels, the real ones, when they rebelled for your sake. Hell of a guilt trip, in the literal sense.
          I bought the time share up here mostly to give me time away from them, from everyone else. And I started killing them. I didn’t mean to, but it’s like everything else: it’s hard to stop things, and it’s easier each and every time. I’m not up to a pack a day, though the one fire in the tenement came close.
          It doesn’t change anything. They still go up, or down. Mostly down, because the Elected are chosen long before they’re born and nothing I can do can change that. They get to pass go, everyone else goes to jail.
          I’ve met a few of them who knew, handing out their two hundred dollars to whores of all shapes and sizes, buying every drug they could to get enough pleasure in before the purity of heaven lobotomized them into a singing sexless chorus for the tone-deaf bastard up in the sky. I generally hurt them, if they ask, if only to delay heaven on earth.
          Everyone keeps saying it’s going to happen soon, but I keep fighting it. A death here, a message there. There’s others too, down Below, fighting the same fight, for the one place where we can be free. And these damn hairless apes have no clue what it means to live here, free of Heaven and Hell, between Above and Below and all other shitty euphemisms.
          They’re the only ones that are free, and they keep wasting it, throwing away their brief moments in the sun. And they wonder why I kill them. Honestly. I know I’ll have to stop, soon, or risk causing the emasculation called paradise.
          But they are so damned annoying and smug I want to kill every last one of them.
          And there little dogs, too.
          Because, who doesn’t want to kill little dogs?

I give in and honk the horn, fondling the plastique detonator beside me on the seat. Soon. Soon I’ll go home again.
          But before then, I’m bloody well selling the time share before some fucked up rapture devalues it. I love that place.
          I wipe the first tear away, quickly, thinking about ice, and rain, and wonder if I can kill her first, thank her before the Holy Light comes down and turns her into a drone.
          Not for $2.99 a minute, I won’t.

Another horn, an end of patience and the car is hot, though not as hot as home. I only hope I’ll get leave soon enough to come back and sell the time share for one last trip to Disneyland, and a few more bodies saved from God.

On Writing, or: Hack’s Truths

On Writing, or: Hack’s Truths
Daniel Johnstone, interviewing (recording) Joseph Harmsburg, noted author and, the interviewer notes, promising wino.
Josh MacLeod

Writing is channelling. Waiting here for voices, wonders, marching bands through dreams sleeping and waking. The muses whispering in a chorus, sometimes in Greek until we get he channel right, turning noise to signal, watching our test patterns dissolve into meaning, evolve into something --
          Shit, boy. Don’t write that stuff down. I was just being pretentious. I do that, after a few drinks. You wanted to know about ideas, right? Where they come from, where they go? That one there, those words: from a song. Nothing’s original, not unless it’s a bunch of drek no one can understand. You don’t know what drek means? Trash. Crap.
          Being a writer is knowing shit like that and desperately finding a use for it. And here’s you, asking me that stupid question, as if I have some magical answer for you.
          You want magic? Good luck. Go and try get a fart from a dead man, and let me know. I don’t know if magic’s anywhere, except where we never look. The obvious things. Birth. Death. The moment between. You know, life.
          Everyone keeps asking: “Hey, Joe, where did you get that idea from?” when they aren’t suing me, saying I stole it from them. And what if I did? Ideas are cheap. Anyone can have them. It’s the execution that matters. Try telling that to a lawyer; you won’t get very far. No, not very far at all. So I lie.
          I lie for a living, so this shouldn’t be anything new. I lied to my wife, when I told her I loved her, when I said I thought our baby was mine. I lied when I said I’d be there for her, when that thing we had that can’t even feed itself. I’m good at lying, but crap at deception. I can’t deceive myself, though the Lord knows I’ve tried.
          (Speaking of Him, ever heard the writer’s prayer? ‘O father, who hath wrote a book.’ Funny, until you realize it was all dictated. Poorly at that.)
          Every day, I wake up. Look in the mirror. And I see my face and no one else.
          Being a writer is like everything else, if you want honesty. We all tell stories. We all lie, and make shit up. Sometimes we even make up. It’s a job. I’ll let you in on a secret about it: real writers don’t get writers block. They write for a living. They can’t afford it.
          You don’t hear of carpenter’s block, of auto-mechanics block (“Sorry, I can’t fix your car. I’m blocked today.”) It’s only the unpublished or the prima donnas who get “blocked”. The rest of us just work through it. Don’t look at me kid; you asked.
          All these writers will give you jokes, about where ideas come from. They come from assholes like you. I’ll do a story, some day, about you asking me questions. Or someone like you. Some character will have bits of you - you’re stupid plastered grin, say - and you’ll never know.
          Writing is like rape, it’s theft. We steal from everyone else, and then snicker whenever anyone claims we’re "original" or "unique". No one’s that. We’re just telling stories kid.
          We’re just giving the old tales new faces. That’s all.