Ed Markowski: Virtue

In  the  mining  town  of  Virtue
where  the  Mercy  River  flowed
two  men  met  with  death
in  a  wicked  blinding  snow

The  Gypsy  left  his  home
a  thousand   miles  east
looking  to  partake  in
Virtue’s  golden  feast

Tall  John  was  the  barkeep
at  the  Ruby  Star  Hotel
a  gentle  man  from  Tennessee
and  a  card  sharp  just  as  well

He  killed  kings  with  the  German
Black  Willie  and  Old  Dutch
that  night  he  dealt  a  loser’s  hand
to  the  preacher  and  the  judge

The  Gypsy  took  room  number  ten
at  Miss  Jesse’s  boarding  hall
when  the  silver  moon  had  faded
and  the  snow  began  to  fall

As  the  sweet  scent  of  a  woman
drifted  clear  across  the  floor
the  gypsy  lit  a  hurricane  lamp
A  knock  rattled  his  door

A  woman  clad  in  sorrow’s  shawl
who’s  eyes  were  wet  and  blue
said  listen  to  me  mister  for  all
I  say  is  true

My  name  is  Emma  Simpson  Sir
the  woman  whispered  low
in  the  morning  mount  your  horse
don’t  look  back  just  go

In  our  town  of  Virtue
no  one  will  hold  a  grudge
unless  you  cross  our  marshal
preacher  mayor  and  our  judge

Why  thank  you  ma’am  the  gypsy said
I  can’t  pass  up  this  chance
in  the  glimmer  of  a  glowing  wick
they  danced  the  lovers  dance

He  is  a  man  of  God  and  truth
Emma  muttered  in  the  glow
and  of  this  tender  moment
he  must  never  know

The  gypsy  flashed  a  crescent  smile
room  ten  grew  cold  and  dark
the  silence  of  the  storm  screamed
a  blood  hound’s  bark

Now  up  the  empty  street  a  block
behind  them  Methodist  Doors
the  marshal  preacher  and  the  judge
called  out  I  need  three  more

Tall  John  cut  the  poker  deck
with  a  magician’s  blinding  speed
inviting  his  opponent  to  take
as  many  as  you  need

Across  the  Pinyon  Altar
he  stretched  his  mighty  arms
Tall  John  gazed  upon  the  cross
feeling  warm  and  calm

The  marshal  kissed  the  hand  he  held
he  was  blinded  to  the  ruse
before  his  eyes  three  of  a  kind
each  card  a  pallid  deuce

The  mayor  and  the  judge  exclaimed
I’ll  see  that  and  raise  ten  more
he  laughed  and  showed  his  triple  play
Tall  John  fanned  Aces  four

The  marshal  and  the  preacher
dropped  his  eyes  down  to  his  boots
Tall  John  laughed  and  said  to  him
as  he  rounded  up  the  loot

Don’t  feel  bad  my  righteous  friend
then  he  gave  the  mayor  a  nudge
I’m  just  a  vagrant  barkeep  your
the  marshal  preacher  and  a  judge

Tall  John  winked  then  closed  the  door
and  through  the  fog  of  snow  that  fell
he  ambled  out  to  pour  the  drinks
at  the  Ruby Star   Hotel

When  the gypsy  left  Miss  Jesse’s  hall
to  sip  a  well  earned  drink
Emma  thought  of  their  bare  skin
as  a  web  of  slate  and  pink

If  the  gypsy  would  invite  her
to  ride  the  mustang  winds
she’d  escape  her  judge  and  mayor
life  would  begin  again

The  gypsy  stood  before  the  bar
he  ordered  up  a  glass
Tall  John  tipped  the  bottle
two  dancing  girls  walked past

You  new  in  town  Tall  John  asked
I  guess  you  could  say  so
What  brings  you  here  the  card  sharp  asked
I  come  to  mine  some  gold

You  know  this  town’s  named  Virtue
said  the  barkeep  with  a  smile
though  Virtue’s  just  a  cruel  mirage
that  hide’s  the  boss  man’s  style

They  use  it  to  disguise  themselves
and  justify  their  sins
you  see  it  serves  them  very  well
another  drink  my  friend ?

I  wouldn’t  know  the  gypsy  said
I’m  here  to  stake  my  claim
sir  I  ain’t  really  interested  in  why
a town’s  named  what  its  named

Ok  said  the  barkeep
I  guess  that’s  up  to  you
in  this  town  you’ll  be  amazed
how  lies  become  the  truth

Old  Piano  Jack  struck  up  a  chord
the  camp  town  horses  ran
Miss  Emma  leaned  against  the  bar
her  face  shifted  like  sand

Well  my  friend  I’ll  consider  that
your  intention’s  crystal  clear
the  gypsy  then  took  off  his  cape
as  a  face  rose  in  the  mirror

A  cropped  goatee  of  gray  and  black
green  eyes  that  glowed  blood  red
A  pistol  shot  then  Emma  cried
My  God  Tall  John  is  dead

It  wasn’t  but  a  minute  passed
when  the  mayor  and  the  judge
showed  up  in  the  bar  room
with  the   marshal  and  his  badge

A  silver  star  shone on  his  coat
he   stroked  his  cropped  goatee
there’s  been  a  crime  the  preacher  said
the  guilty  man  I  see

The  mayor  locked  the  iron  cuffs
round  the  killer’s  hands
We’ll  drop  the  rope  at  daybreak
you  are  an  evil  man

In  the  hate  and  silence  raging
to  the  cadence  of  church  bells
the  marshal  judge  and  mayor  said
Boy  we’re  sending  you  to  hell

That  night  there  was  a  trial
before  the  preacher  in  a  gown
after  the  marshal  judge  and  mayor
alerted  the  whole  town

The  people  lit  their  torches
they  gathered  up  t heir  guns
when  the  killer’s  noose  was  set
they  knew  he  was  the  one

Who  had  ridden  into  Virtue
about  twelve  hours  gone
on  a  dead  man’s  devil  horse
the  judge  said  he  was  the  one

Who  then  walked  into
Tall  John’s  Ruby  Star  Hotel
where  he  drank  a   glass  of  whiskey
and  laughed  when  Tall  John  fell

Who  harbored  malice  in  his  mind
blacker  than  a  pit  of  tar
who  then  sent  Tall  John  six  feet  deep
with  a  bullet  through his  heart.

In  the  frozen  morning
the  gallows  stage  was  set
the  gypsy  wore  his  riding  cape
Miss  Emma’s  eyes  he  met

Her  tears  were  pent  up  deep  inside
of  a  vault  no  man  could  breach
her  love  had  vanished  in  the  storm
to  a  world  no  man  could  reach

The  preacher  judge  and  marshal
dressed  in  gambler’s  black
waved  to  Virtue’s  mayor
as  he  rubbed  Miss  Emma’s  back

When  her  fearsome  preacher
stroked  his  cropped  goatee
he  locked  his  lady  in  her  guilt
for  he  held  all  the  keys

The  marshal  shouted  HANG  HIM !
we’ll  let  the  whole   world  know
that  in  the  town  of  Virtue
a  man  reaps  what  he  sows

When  the  hanging  fest  was  over
the  mayor  then  proclaimed
bury  the  snake  without  a  cross
in  all  his  guilt  and  shame

The  judge  well  he  just  up  and  left
to  raise  a  well  earned  glass
and  in  the  Ruby  Star’s  long  mirror
there  was  no  reflection  cast

The  mining  town  of  Virtue
has  since  returned  to  dust
where  the  Mercy  River  flowed
there’s  just  a  barren  gulch

You  see  there  wasn’t  but   a  speck
of  gold  up  in  them  hills
just  the  vision  of  a  gypsy
who  some  say  wanders  still

When  I  was  a  young  man
fresh  within  my  youth
through  that  night  I  wondered
what  composed  the  truth

Did  truth  have  a  color ?
Was  truth  calm  and  kind ?
I  found  truth  was  a  shadow
just  an  element  of  mind

that   faded  with  each  sunset
then  twisted  into  black
Excuse  me  now  the  old  man  said
I’m  tired  of  looking  back

With  a  nod  he  hit  the  trail
riding  cape  and  dusty  boots
just  another  lonely  gypsy
just  a  miner  of  the  truth.

Michael H. Brownstein: The Man with the Booming Voice

He begins:

            I am the ugly man
            Full of gross pimples and grand chaos.
            I take the air from beauty
            And swell its words until they burst.
            Come to me if you seek mistreatment.
            I’ll schedule you into my calendar.
            Sunsets? A time for desperate men.
            Dawn? The waking of the depressed.
            Let me pencil you in.
            I have not eaten happiness today.

She answers:

            All that I held I let go to you.
            I wanted marriage, children,
            To be an adult within this skin.
            I was blindsided, anger
            Not a part of me, nor hatred.
            I am who I am. This is enough.

He continues:

            And you think passion wise?
            Your worn slogans worth it?
            I am bad breath and bad teeth,
            Dandruff and crusted scalp.
            Who made you so special?
            Who made you think you were needed?

She replies:

            There is always a prism in the rain,
            A glint of gold in the palisades,
            Rainbows beneath clear current—

He interrupts:

            I am the man with the big voice.
            I am the one who shoulders responsibility.
            Broken glass also owns prisms.
            Spilled oil holds rainbows, too.
            Pyrite is the best fool’s gold—

She interrupts:

            And the man with the booming voice
            Is the biggest fool of all.

He answers:

            Maybe…Maybe not…
            I like the snow.

She says:

            And I like walking in it.

            Perhaps shredded skin hides things not obvious.
            Perhaps there is something to anger, to boasting.
            Maybe you are like me and perfume cannot cover it,
            Nor a voice like yours, incoherent and insecure.
            I have steady hands. They are both smooth and kind.
            Here. Let me have yours. Let me see how it is.

(He offers her his hand.)

            Yes, there are things gross and full of themselves.
            This is not one of them.
            Come. There is something to softness.
            Today feels like a day of perfect.
            I have heard you whisper my name.

He says:
     
            And I have listened to you whisper mine.
            Softness is peace
            and softness is all I have ever needed.

KJ Hannah Greenberg: Defense

Honorable Milktoe George Wallibun II, Regional Magistrate,

Last week, Ducky Earl, owner of Galactic Leveraging and Landscaping Service of The Milky Way, gave me an estimate for some work. Mr. Earl said it would cost Intergalactic Standard 245.00 to subdue four specimens, and an additional Intergalactic Standard 174.00 to move them, plus any other species (up to 1 rocket’s worth), to Bode’s Galaxy from my home in The Virgo Cluster. Mr. Earl also said it would cost Intergalactic Standard 262.00 to reintegrate those specified beasts. Last, he quoted me an additional cost of Intergalactic Standard 40.00, per man-hour, for subduing and transporting any additional large species and an additional 29.00, per man-hour for subsequent, but less skilled ,work. I agreed to those terms and paid him a deposit of Intergalactic Standard 500.00 on June 1.

On June 6, Galactic Leveraging subdued the four indicated specimen. The work took longer than the Mr. Earl had estimated. As a result, Galactic Leveraging only subdued three of the seven hydras I had wanted transported, citing that the company lacked time to subdue more. As a result, my large red pyrohydra, my colony of cryohydra, and others of my mature specimens, were left behind. In about half of an hour, Galactic Leveraging loaded, onto two of their rockets, all of the available reintegratable materials, both what Galactic Leveraging had subdued and what a neighbor’s teenager had subdued prior to Galactic Leverageing’s arrival.

Once in Bode’s Galaxy, Galactic Leveraging interned the four large items. Galactic Leveraging did terminate two chimeras in order to do so and did move one chthonic water beast away from its destined location. Meanwhile, since Galactic Leveraging had such a long haul, I had the star cluster’s best ethnic restaurant restock their galley and I shipped them classic Coke from my own personal larder.

Galactic Leveraging interned nothing else for me during that span since Mr. Earl said it was imperative for his team to go home. Thus, three of the precious hydras of mine, that had been transported, were left uninterned. All of the other members of my menagerie, which made transport, too, were left uninterned (and remain that way to this day-I have lost thousands of Intergalactic Standard units on dead and dying specimens). Meanwhile, I gave the Mr. Earl another 500.00 and suggested we figure out the balance when he returned to reintegrate the remaining hydras.

His people did not return until June 20, after many pulse messages from me, to reintegrate the hydras (are a large variant of the species, about eight Galactic in circumference). Galactic Leveraging interned them where there was no room for any further hydras to grow. Mr. Earl acknowledged that he was aware that one of the hydras would suffer stunting given the location in which he had had his men locate it. So I asked them to rereintegrate all of the transported hydras, never dreaming they would charge me for correcting their error.

While the men were working on the hydras, the Mr. Earl and I sat down to discuss billing. We agreed on: the Intergalactic Standard 245.00, the Intergalactic Standard174.00 and the Intergalactic Standard 262.00 charges (see above) to a total of Intergalactic Standard 681.00. We did not agree on the Intergalactic Standard100.00 extra Mr. Earl asked me to pay for the second rocket.

As a negotiation strategy, I asked Mr. Earl to estimate the actual time it took his crew to subdue, to transport and to reintegrate the three leftover hydras, to terminate the two chimeras and to make hash out of the small, but lethal, gelatinous blue flying quip that Mr. Earl found when his men interned the three hydras.

Mr. Earl asked for eight and one half extra man hours, en total:
* one extra man hours for loading;
* one extra man hour for unloading
* one and one half extra man hours for terminating the chimeras and the gelatinous flying quip
* three extra man hours for working with the hydras
*two and one half extra man hours for miscellaneous fees, including the time involved in rushing a worker to a galactic hospital
For a total of 8 ½ extra man hours beyond Galactic Leveraging’s initial estimate at a cost of an additional Intergalactic Standard 681.00

In sum,
At Intergalactic Standard 29.00/hr, 8.5 extra hours =Intergalactic Standard 246.50.
At Intergalactic Standard 40.00/hr, 8.5 extra hours=Intergalactic Standard 340.00.  Intergalactic Standard 681.00 + Intergalactic Standard 246.50=Intergalactic Standard 927.50;
Intergalactic Standard 681.00 +Intergalactic Standard 340.00 =Intergalactic Standard1021.00.

I told Mr. Earl we could settle the tens of Intergalactic Standards later, when he finished reintegrateing my smaller specimens. He already had Intergalactic Standard1,000.00 of my money in the form of a deposit.

In answer, Mr. Earl fumed and fussed about the hours that his crew had used to subdue and to reintegrate the above listed specimens. He said that the work had taken two or three times what he had estimated.

I acknowledged that, in hindsight, he had underestimated, but offered to pay him no extra for that error. I would not have hired him had I thought it would cost twice what his written estimate had stated.

I had to leave my new Bode’s Galaxy home to conclude some business in The Virgo Cluster. When I returned, rather than finding others of my specimens reintegrated, I found Mr. Earl, his men, their rockets, and their tools gone.

On June 29th, I received a statement from Mr. Earl claiming that I owed him an additional Intergalactic Standard 1,046.00. He also mailed to me official paperwork, which he wanted mailed back to him, claiming that his work was a capital improvement and therefore not subject to tax (form enclosed).

On the statement, the Mr. Earl charged me for the labors that I had executed myself or that I had hired a neighbor’s kid to complete. What’s more, Mr. Earl charged me for many more man hours than he had orally specified in our conversation of June 20, i.e. for twenty-five man hours of unloading specimens, rather than for the half hour he had originally claimed. He charged, too, for “consultation with customer on reintegration placement.” That latter business was nonsense since I, myself, had made the drawings of where each species was to be placed in my biological gardens, including the destined locations for the specimens Mr. Earl had failed to subdue or to move for me. Finally, Mr. Earl also meant to charge me for relocating the last three hydras even though he, himself, had admitted that he had botched that job.

I was shocked at that letter. First, Mr. Earl hadn’t even tried to contact me via pulsing channels. Second, the nature of the letter amazed me. “Audacious” seems a polite term for Mr. Earl’s behavior.

On the advice of a friend, I waited to sort out my sentiments before responding. Thus, it happened that I received a second copy of Mr. Earl’s June 29’s letter on July 24 and he had heard nothing from me.

Again, I was counseled to wait. On August 19, I received a third copy of his letter with a warning attached that Mr. Earl would be seeking legal remedy.

Today, Sept. 22, I received a certified letter (having received a fourth, uncertified, copy in today’s mail). Those letters summon me to small claims court. Mr. Earl thinks I should pay Galactic Leveraging and Landscaping Service of The Milky Way the additional Intergalactic Standard 1,046.00 that he has “documented” in his series of mailings, plus that I should pay his Intergalactic Standard 16.00 court filing fee.

I think I should pay Galactic Leveraging Intergalactic Standard100.00 for the extra rocket, only. If there are other fees to be adjudicated, it’s the case that Mr. Earl owes me. Many of my specimen collection was neither subdued nor shipped. In addition, my zoo called for the reintegration of all seven of my hydras, not merely for the three that he chose to subdue on his second trip to Bode’s Galaxy. Even those three fared poorly, having grown impossibly wild during the weeks between their arrival and their internment.  I believe that Mr. Earl needs, as well, to reimburse me for the specimens that rotted in his crates when left at the star port.

Please advise, at your first convenience, a suitable remedy. My garden is destroyed. I do not want that bandit to have the pleasure of ruining my pocket money, too.

Sincerely,
Clarence P. Snickleberry

M.N. O'Brien: Mr. Bennett's Holes

Robert Bennett arrived in Jefferson some years ago, wearing a navy blue suit and round red spectacles. He had purchased a sizable plot of land of twelve square acres in the remote part of town, south of the railroad. Since his arrival, Mr. Bennett had caused quite a stir of gossip in the small New England community. It was not his high-end attire that caused the commotion, though it likely accumulated some ill will towards the man at first; the town was quite poor economically, and such a well-dressed man is bound to be observed with tempered speculation. The main concern of the town involved Mr. Bennett’s use of the land he acquired.

The plot of land was fertile and ideal for farming an impressive array of crops. As various planting seasons came and went without produce being grown from Mr. Bennett’s land, the townspeople came to wonder why a lucrative investment opportunity was going to waste. Then one day, Mr. Bennett walked out upon his land in denim overalls and red flannel shirt and started to dig.

The townspeople quieted down for a respectable amount of time, rationalizing that Mr. Bennett was finally going to put his land to good use. After several weeks had passed from any ideal growing season, Mr. Bennett continued to dig holes all over his property. Rumors spread across town as to the reasoning behind Mr. Bennett’s holes.

Theories grew across town from both sides of the tracks. Mrs. Williston hypothesized Mr. Bennett was digging holes for graves for a future apocalyptic war or famine. Harold Bridges son, Jack, thought Mr. Bennett was trying to dig for oil. Dr. Jamieson, the dentist, believed that Mr. Bennett was constructing a minefield. Some people thought Mr. Bennett was digging for fossils, others thought he was some sort of geologist, and conducting a study of the area, for some scientific reason. The townspeople became divided into schools of thought in regards to the purpose of Mr. Bennett’s holes.

Several more bold speculators inquired Mr. Bennett as to what he was doing. Jeff Higgins would stop by every few days, lean on the rickety old post-and-rail wooden fence that bordered Mr. Bennett’s land from the road and shouted inquiries and offers to aid him in his task. Higgins would jokingly ask Mr. Bennett if he was trying to get to China. All the inquiries went unanswered by Mr. Bennett. Though the townspeople were frustrated with the man, it was only when Mrs. Everett came home from the supermarket one day when anyone from the town felt threatened by Mr. Bennett’s peculiar actions.

Mrs. Everett had finished putting her groceries away and was about to call her son Bill to get ready for dinner when she spotted him in the backyard. Bill was digging a hole. When asked by his mother what purpose he had digging a hole in the backyard, Bill replied, “Why not?”

Soon, several of the children of began digging holes in their parents’ lawn. The trend caused such a significant outcry from members of both the church and the PTA, that the town had a meeting at City Hall to discuss a possible solution, and cast blame on the responsible party. Mr. Bennett was not in attendance.

Mrs. Howard, head of the PTA, told members of the council in a firm voice that Mr. Bennett was having a negative impact on Jefferson's youth, as well as Jefferson’s image by ruining the town’s aesthetic quality with a bunch of holes. Several uproarious citizens shouted in agreement. One person shouted the suggestion that the whole community go over to Mr. Bennett’s house and fill all his holes. This created laughter among the children who were in attendance, but the adults found the laughter more reason to dislike Mr. Bennett. Another concerned parent asked what right Mr. Bennett had, keeping his head underground all day.

After several more outbursts, the committee issued a cease and desist order to Mr. Bennett. The order forbid Mr. Bennett to dig holes that were not going to be used for crops. In addition, Mr. Bennett was to fill the existing holes on his property. The order was delivered to Mr. Bennett’s house through mail, as none of the local authorities wished to confront Mr. Bennett, as curious as they were to witness the man’s reaction.

Within two weeks of receiving the order, Mr. Bennett filled the holes on his property and sold it back at a fraction of the price. It was presumed that Mr. Bennett had returned to where he came, though it is unknown if he knew the reason why he was ordered to fill up his holes. The citizens couldn’t care less. The town of Jefferson returned to its life without any holes.

David Weisberg: Salt

What had he done? Something bad. What had she done in the dark room? Something bad with her eyes closed. Something bad with her mouth open and he hurting her and she letting him. The next morning my elbow didn’t hurt and the bed was wet and Mama was frying bacon and he was gone.

He walked back in with a cigarette paper stuck by sweat to his palm. Thumb and forefinger pinched the tobacco, rubbing together like a cricket’s legs. Brown and black, dry, he rolled it in the paper with one hand and lit it with the other. Mama was on the couch but she got up and grabbed him. It was hot. The fan wasn’t working. The windows stuck shut and they shut the door behind them.

I watched through the crack. Mama’s pale skin thick with veins, her legs curled around him. Outline of his body pressed against hers, she moved backward when he moved forward; that when her back arched his body bent too; that if her head fell back his mouth fell to her neck, or if it bent forward his chin rested on her shoulder.  They never asked each other if they could. I didn’t ask if I could watch either, because some nights they waited for me to go to sleep, or because some nights Mama sent me outside to get wood when he got there, or because some nights when he got there he touched her in the living room and I saw and she looked at me and bent her eyebrows like she was angry and then sent me to bed like it was me who done something wrong.

But sometimes she’d sit us down and fixed up some chicken legs, or some steak, or a bowl of pasta, or some fish. I didn’t like fish— she gutting it first, then scaling it, then washing the body but leaving the head because he liked to eat the eyes. Some salt on it wet quick and disappearing. Then she’d dash some pepper, I could count them all but didn’t know if I could, all the black and gray specks. Fish on the pan jaw stuck open waiting to die again, and I thought he was trying to scream, or maybe just trying to sing a long note, or maybe got some salt in its mouth and trying to clear his throat.

She was on the couch most nights sweating, legs together, hands on her lap, eyes moving from the TV to the door. Her hairs stuck to the side of her face and crossed over each other like the vines on the tree behind the house. I used to watch her pick at them, pull them off, press them back against her head. I’d ask her what she was waiting for and her lips would purse and her chin would tremble and she’d tell me to go back to my markers, to bring over the laundry, to get some more meat from the freezer in the shed and set it in water to defrost for the morning. Sometimes she’d forget to tell me to come inside from playing and I’d come in from the dark and her eyes would be wet and she wouldn’t even notice. But lots of times Mama’d be in bed already and I’d be watching TV with the lights off and he’d come through the door in his gray jacket and hang it on the hook on the door and all the light through the window from the porch lantern as he bent to remove his boots. 

He came as the night coming, passing over the trees and the lawn and the car and the windowsills and into her room—his teeth like a slice of moon, beading stars down his shoulder,  the whites of his eyes when they were open and watching her like the lights of a car behind us when we’d drive home late from town. Or like animal eyes in the dark that I watched through my window. Or like the time I poured pepper all over the fish when she wasn’t watching so you could barely see the flesh anymore but kept the eyes clear because I knew Mama’d get mad. I thought she’d like that but she just threw it out and microwaved some chicken nuggets and sent me to bed.

And when I watched I always thought that’s not Mama, that’s just the night making noises. That’s just the wail of the cicada and the growl of the coyote. That’s just the hoot of the owl, the purr of the mountain lion. That’s just the sound of the chicken clucking in the barn, or the snake that bit me in the field, hissing in the dark. That’s just the fish if it jumped right out of the lake, oiled and peppered in the pan, waiting for the oven, singing.