TThhee BBlloott tteerrJanuary 2010 MAGAZINE

YYeah,eah, we fussed.we fussed. Stor ies bStories b y Renato Escudery Renato Escuder o,o, James L.James L. SprSpr ouseouse ,,Nei l El l is OrNei l El l is Or ts and Randal l Cots and Randal l Cox;x; Adam Moorad’Adam Moorad’s poetrs poetr y;y;

WWendend y Detr icy Detr ic k k WWoror sham’sham’s ars ar t ;t ; a nea ne w Best In Show Best In Sho w;w; & & The Dream Journal .The Dream Journal .

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“Commencement”Why, you may ask, did we wait until now to speak with all of you newlygraduated pups? Well, partly it’s because a fair portion of you have onlyjust now returned to the real world after basking in the glow of finishingschool, spending your graduation presents, taking your decompressionvacations, and are only just now looking to the future, your new begin-nings, your five-year missions, your next generations (insert whatever Star-Trek buzz-line works for you). You’re not going off to be a doctor, a lawyeror an Indian chief. So you make a reasonably good audience for a thou-sand word diatribe on the nature of making the jump from student toworking-class-slob, and some of what that entails. You got to hear what areal professional speaker thinks at your cap-and-gown ceremony, and ifthey filled you with their hot air, then at least some of that has bled off andyou’re ready to listen again. And because back in May I wasn’t really surewhat I would say to young folks if I had a chance. Wouldn’t I want to haveanswers?

Perhaps all of your ducks are already in a row. You’ve done your intern-ships, all of your work-study resume enhancers. Balanced academics withextra-curricular activities. I really miss being a lifeguard. (I was neveractually a lifeguard, but I sure miss sitting on the side of the pool vaguelytrying to guard a certain young lady’s life.) You’ve utilized your instituteof higher learning’s job/skill resources, and found that first post-gradopportunity. Good for you. Now sit down, shut up and drink your icedmochachino.

As for the rest of you, you may feel like you can’t find your ass with bothhands and a flashlight (for what it’s worth, this is a business term withwhich you will need to familiarize yourself.) Trust me, it just doesn’t mat-ter. Everyone I’ve ever met is troubled to different degrees by the workingworld. Everyone has that niggling voice in the back of their head that says,“What was I thinking, finishing that last required class? Why did I turnin that library copy of Pilgrim’s Progress and pay the late fine? Why did Igraduate?” What you were doing was being fiscally responsible. After all,Mom and Dad aren’t wealthy, right? They are? Really? OK, well, they’renot filthy rich. They are? No kidding? That much, eh? What was yourname again?

But you have graduated indeed. And to paraphrase Jim Lovell: oh, crap,Houston, what was that noise and where is all of the oxygen? Well, all ofyour friends were moving on, too, and how much intramural flag-footballcan one play? And you’re the high scorer on Wii bowling at the frat, andthat’s a legacy you can hang your hat on. So what’s my point? Don’t panic.We’re all in the same boat. Let’s call this boat, for argument’s sake, Titanic.Well enough made, and using all of the most modern materials and ship-building skills of the time, crewed by the best sailors of the day. Still, we’vehit the berg and are foundering. What now, Leonardo? The global econ-omy, as you all know, means many things but if you’ll forgive the multi-ple-movie metaphor, mostly it infers that there is no way you can justJeremiah Johnson yourself out farther west than any of your fellow gradu-

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publish in the first half of eachmonth and enjoy a free circulationthroughout the Southeast and someother places, too. Submissions are

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sCAUTION

Rabbits, rabbits rabbits.Not that we’re supersti-tious or worried aboutbad luck. It’s just that

one shouldn’t take unnec-essary risks and if sayingthose words ensures a bit

of comfort or reducesmental distress, then who

are we to quibble?

ates and muddle through the current downturn trapping muskrat andchasing grizz.

No. You’re on a ship surrounded by cold water and it sure feels like there’sa list. What do you do?

Well, you start by being polite. Stop being a jerk. Stop shouting in pub-lic and running around in circles because you’re afraid. Help the little oldladies up from steerage. Untie the tangled lifeboat. Pull anyone you seeout of the cold water, and make sure they’re OK. Stop crying about whosefault it is that the ship is sinking. Listen to other passengers – see whoneeds help and who has useful ideas. Then find yourself a life preserver.You won’t have to keep it on forever. If you find a bunch of life preservers,make sure you let people know. Help them put them on. If anyone showsyou a solution to the ship going down, and they instruct you to not tellanyone else about it, walk away from them. Someday, when you’re on aboat that isn’t sinking, and you feel like playing that way, well, then maybeyou go ahead. Being honest isn’t for everyone, I guess. In the mean time,be someone your Mom would be proud of. Be hopeful, and kind.

It is common knowledge that generals always fight the previous war. Thatis, they seem to be unable or unwilling to recognize that Vietnam isn’tKorea and whatever we’re doing now isn’t Desert Storm, and so on. Ourleaders are probably using outdated ideas to deal with this economic situ-ation; they’re trying something, at least. Doing nothing, and waiting forresults, well, you know you’d be just as frustrated, only with nothing to sayfor it, rather than tried this and failed. So, this aint your Granddaddy’srecession, and although I believe that you should follow the new truth-in-advertising advice about CV’s (stop using the old buzzwords!), almosteverything else being spouted by magazines, Internet news-venues and TVtalking-headaches, are ancient, stale chestnuts. I don’t think that there areany magic methods for finding jobs. And that’s not what this essay isabout, anyway. It’s about being civil in uncivilized times. Hang on to anyjob you can get. Show up on time. Do it well, whatever it is. Times aretough. Sit down and shut up. Make yourself a good cup of cheap coffee.

Garry - chief@blotterrag.com

January 2010

page 3

Papi used to smoke outon the balcony in his old wickerchair. Next to the rusty railinghe never let me lean on, he kept alittle wooden chest. That washis corner. It wasn’t for foldinglaundry, hiding lottery tickets ordominoes or decks of Spanishcards; it wasn’t for me to sit on orkeep my scripts inside, all theparts I would play someday. Itwas for papi’s things: his six tools,his pipe, his newspapers, hishandblown tumblers, which heonly dusted off when la tia Juliamade her special sangría. In theevenings while he read his paper,I’d recite monologues to Julia’spotted plants, practice mimefaces behind the line of dryingbed sheets.

Papi would look at my sil-houette through a sheet and sayin his rich accent, “Presencia,hijo. Your presence of the stageis faulty. Up, up on the milkcrate, and beam brighter than thefootlights. Give me some lineswithout jumping side-to-side,like a pendulum.”

There was never muchroom to move around, but beingon the tenth floor gave you the

feeling that you were performingbefore the entire world. At leastto the plaza down below with thebasilica and its bells and dots ofpigeons around the gazebo.

On Sundays, if the eleva-tor was working, Papi and Iwould go down and sing bolerosin the gazebo. Julia took pic-tures of us from the balcony,great panoramic black-and-whites that made us look small aspigeons. But the gazebo and thechurch and the sea of cobble-stones came out just fine. Whenthe elevator was broken, whichhappened often, I’d have to singto the birds alone. If I remem-bered to put a hard bolillo in mypocket to feed them, I’d have acaptive audience pecking at myfeet, but mostly they’d fly awaybefore I had a chance to open mymouth and stretch out my arms.Ay, pinches palomas and theirdroppings! Who needs themanyway? I could always twirl acurl and belt out a scale up to thebalcony, where papi was waiting.

“Did you hear me, Papi?Do I sound just like you?”

Papi sat me down in hischair, which carried the scent of

tobacco and sangría, and I’d leanback in the smoky comfort of hismotley worn serape, enrapturedwhile he showed me how to sing.Up on the milk crate he went,careful of his achy hip, and pro-jected a little Perales onto therooftops filled with roostingpigeons.

Y yo en mi ventana veré lamañana vestirse de gris…

***

Today I still sit out on thebalcony in the wicker chair, nowduct-taped at the legs. I don’tsing much, but I listen to thebirds cooing as I memorize mylines. I smoke his pipe, and meand Julia drink wine from the lastof Papi’s chipped tumblers. Y laspinches palomas leave their drop-pings on the railing for us.

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“Sing to the Pigeons”by Renato Escudero

.

”Grandpa, what does itfeel like to get old?”

The grandfather looked atthe boy for a protracted moment,as if considering how to distill thevagaries of life into words thechild would easily understand.

Finally: “It hurts, boy.The springy muscles that youhave in your youth begin to losetheir coil, and your skin begins todroop and sag, and when it rains,all of your life’s mistakes achedeep inside your tired bones.When that happens you can’t getcomfortable, you can only sitthere and hurt. And it hurts alot.” The grandfather drew in along, wet breath between his graywhiskers. “When people that areclose to you begin to realize thatyou are old, they try to makethings easier for you, becausethey care about you, but eventu-ally you become another house-hold chore for them to take careof, and they resent you for it, andthey resent you for being areminder of their own mortality,a reminder that one day they toowill get old and their skin willsag, and their bones will hurt,and the quick will leave them,years after their finest hour; and

you must ignore this, becausethey cannot help feeling this way,and you cannot let yourself beconsumed with guilt by the bur-den of your breath, by the weak-ness of your muscles, by thethings you can’t remember. It isonly the way of things. But youalready know all of this, don’tyou, boy? Because you arealready old.”

The young boy raised hiseyebrows in question.

“What do you mean? Areyou alright, Grandpa?”

“Yes, of course I am. Butyou are not, are you? Your cheekshave drooped to your jaw andthere are wrinkles around yourmouth.” The boy’s hands roseslowly to the sides of his face andhis eyes widened. “And what ofyour teeth? You lost them yearsago. Do you remember why?Was it poverty or neglect?” Theyoung boy probed the inside ofhis mouth with his tongue. “It isnot easy to chew food with yourgums, but you have managed,just as you have managed with allof the difficulties of the yearsbehind you. Your back hashelped to carry you for a lifetime,and now you are hunched over,

and walk with a cane, isn’t thatright?” The boy’s eyes turnedglassy. “A cross to bear, that’swhat I would say. It is hell get-ting old, boy, but you know that,because you are telling me.”

“Grandpa, stop.” Theboy was crying.

“And you think me crazy,but you can feel it, can’t you?You know, because you have livedyour life and it is as good as over,and it always has been. Youknow what you’ve done, even ifyou can’t remember it all. Youremember your school, and yourfriends, the change of your bodyand its physical whispers, of theobsessive prurience that con-sumed you intermittentlythroughout all of it, and thedesire for money and belongingsand power, and the resignation tofind security for your blood andname, and the years of anxietyand worry, and relief and restless-ness, that all fell as husks fromyour life, leaving you old and fee-ble before you were aware ofblinking twice. You have done itall, because you are telling menow, and your life and years arebehind you, as they always were.”

The boy tried to speak, toplead with his grandfather that itwasn’t so, but he was struggled asit was with calming himself.

“Your stake in life is not a

January 2010

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“A Matter Of Time”by Randall Cox

claim of territory between lifeand death, boy, between twomere points, because there is littledifference between what you willdo and what you have alreadydone. I haven’t known you long,not as long as you or I have beenalive, but time and age will sepa-rate us, before bringing ustogether once more. In themeantime, I will miss you terri-bly.”

Henry Spater liked booksabout dance. He hid them in abox in his closet, as if they werepornography.

Henry was blindsided byPaul, from the church, at a book-store in Durham. Henry waslooking at an issue of DanceMagazine. Being in Durham, hethought he was safe, but therecame Paul, loud as ever, skippedany kind of “hi, how are you” andsaid, “Dance? What are you look-ing at that for?”

Henry put the magazineback on the rack and stutteredsomething about it looking inter-esting.

“Interesting?” Paul said.“Look at that fag on the cover!You’re not turning fag in your oldage, are you?”

Henry forced a laugh, saidhow he’d just seen a poster for thefestival at Duke, was wonderingif the locals were getting nationalnotice, and what was Paul doingin Durham anyway?

When his wife, Cora,retired, one of the younger teach-

ers at her elementary school gaveher a pair of season tickets to theAmerican Dance Festival. Corataught two generations how toadd, subtract, multiply anddivide, and even when she had toteach units on art and social stud-ies, she did so with a compassand protractor. Cora and Henryhad never been to the festivalbefore, had never even talkedabout it, so she didn’t quite knowwhat to think about the gift. Still,dutiful to the gesture, she andHenry drove the 45 minutes toDurham to see what it was allabout.

“Bare breasts!” Cora railedall the way home. “Bare breasts!”

Henry conceded he didn’tsee the need for all that nuditybut what he didn’t say was . . .anything. He didn’t say anything.It was as if he didn’t know how totalk.

After Cora died, he con-tinued to live in the house he andCora had bought, the housewhere they raised their Helen.Henry had retired two years ear-lier than Cora, from decades ofteaching business skills to highschool students, typing, account-ing, those sorts of things, so wasalready a little used to beingalone.. He changed nothing inthe house, moved about it inmuch the same way he alwayshad with one exception.

In his bedroom, herearranged things around a bit,just enough to make more roomin front of the full-length mirrorCora had on the closet door.With the help of some instruc-tional video he found online,

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“Scenes from the Retirement ofHenry Spater”by Neil Ellis Orts

4

Henry stood in front of Cora’smirror and attempted his firstplié.

Henry learned aboutdance belts online and decided toorder one from an internet retail-er. The first time he tried it on,he tugged and twisted with thestretchy material for half an hourbefore he found a way to arrangeeverything somewhat comfort-ably. He finally understood howthe male dancers looked so con-tained in their tights. When hestood in front of the mirror, hisskinny, white body, pale blueveins showing everywhere—-wellif he didn’t look like the modelsonline, he decided he didn’t lookbad. In fact, it gave him a littlethrill to see himself like that inCora’s mirror.

Helen came over for din-ner once a week, which Henryappreciated. She cooked for himthose evenings and she madethings almost exactly like Corahad. Nights she came withouther husband were his favoritenights of all. Stan, Helen’s hus-band, was a holy roller. AlthoughHenry and Cora were faithfulchurch-goers, Congregationalists,Henry couldn’t help feeling therewas something not quite rightwith holy rollers. Now his daugh-ter was one, too, but she was lessof one when she didn’t have herhusband with her. With Stan,they would go on and on aboutloose morals and degeneratebehavior.

The online dance supplierfrom which Henry bought hisdance belt also had a print cata-log, which they started sendingto his home. On Stan-lessevening, Helen saw one on thecoffee table. On the cover,teenaged girls in short skirts and

tights did the splits.“Dad?” Helen asked with

concern. She flipped through itcautiously. “What are you doingwith this?

He mumbled somethingabout not being sure how he goton that mailing list.

She acted like she waslooking through a Penthousemagazine. “Well, I just don’tthink you should be looking atthis,” she said and took it to thekitchen, where she dropped it inthe garbage.

Cora died suddenly thesame summer she retired, notlong after they went to Durham.Everyone said how sad it was,how she never got to enjoy herwell-deserved retirement. Helen’slast conversation with her moth-er was about the bare breasteddancers, so she always blamedthem for giving her mother theshock that killed her.

Henry was bereft andgrieved as any man who lost alifelong companion, but that lastweek of the American DanceFestival, he used one of the tick-ets from Cora’s retirement gift.He left the theater speechless.

He didn’t dare tell Helenhe’d been back to Durham, espe-cially so soon after Cora’s death.

Online shopping becameHenry’s pastime. Dance booksand videos from Amazon.comcame regularly and he closelytracked the package on the UPSsite, so he knew he’d be homewhen it came. He didn’t want theUPS driver to leave it on thefront step for a neighbor tofind—or worse, Helen, if shedropped by unexpectedly.Luckily, UPS usually came bymid-afternoon when she wasworking and he felt safe thatshe’d always be at work when thedelivery was made. He startedbeing scrupulous about filingaway his credit card bills soHelen wouldn’t see them by acci-dent.

He longed for a pair oftights, but after he called thedance supply place to have him-self removed from their mailinglist, he didn’t feel right orderingfrom them again. He also didn’tfeel safe going to a dance supplystore in Durham or anywhereelse for that matter. Not after hisrun-in with Paul at the book-store. He once found a pair ofCora’s old pantyhose and triedthem on, but he really dislikedhow they looked. Besides, theywere impossible to get off in ahurry. Henry reluctantly decidedtights were too risky all around.

So, during the winter,

January 2010

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WWeennddyy DDeettrriicckkWWeennddyy DDeettrriicckkWWoorrsshhaamm -- WWoorrsshhaamm -- uuppssttaattee NNYYuuppssttaattee NNYY

wwwwww..wwddww--aarrtt..ccoommwwwwww..wwddww--aarrtt..ccoomm

Left: Two Sheep Flying

Lower Left: Mourning Dove

Right: Big Dove

Below: Cowbird in Technicolor

Below Right: Two SheepMeeting

Editorial Page: Peace Dove

Henry practiced his pliés andtendus wearing sweat pants, butduring the summer, he wore onlyhis dance belt. He made sure allthe doors were locked when hedid that. Helen had a key buthe’d hear her in time to put onsome shorts before she made it tothe bedroom. There was no wayhe’d ever be able to explain thedance belt. It would be no differ-ent than if she caught him wear-ing Cora’s pantyhose.

The summer after Coradied, and every summer since,Henry would sneak into Durhamto see at least half of the annualdance festival. Sometimes, Helenwould drop by the house whenhe was gone and this worried herto no end.

“You should keep yourcell phone on when you’re outdriving alone at night,” shefussed.

Henry started going tomovies during the day, whileHelen was at work, so he couldsay he was at the movies and talkabout them when she asked thesequestions.

“Do you have a girlfriendsomewhere?” Helen asked.“You’re acting like a teenager!”

Henry was born in Mayof 1939 and he decided to treat

himself for his seventieth birth-day. He went to the AmericanDance Festival website and witha shaky hand clicked on “orderseason tickets.” He made a men-tal note to be especially carefulwith that credit card statement.

The first performance forhis seventieth birthday seasonwas by a Chinese company, or atleast it had a Chinese name.And bare breasted dancers.Henry had long since becomeused to the nudity, though. Hewas mesmerized by dancers whoshuffled through blue and whiteconfetti. He couldn’t do that inhis bedroom, but he thought hemight be able to get by with try-ing it in his backyard with leaveswhen autumn came. When hegot home from the theater, he saton the floor, wearing only hisdance belt, and tried to copy thepose of the dancers who sat onstage with their heads bent backso far they looked headless. Hisbody couldn’t get it exactly right,but he felt like he got prettyclose.

The next performancewas by two Israeli men whodressed in plain work pants anddark t-shirts. They crouched instillness for a long time and thenmade very alien looking move-

ments. They shuffled all over thestage on their knees. Once he gothome, Henry put on a t-shirt andkhaki pants and posed in front ofthe mirror, seeing how long hecould maintain that half crouch.He probably couldn’t hold it aslong as the men on stage, but hefelt proud of the time he didmanage. All those pliés paid off.Surely he had the strongest thighsof any seventy year-old he knew.He tried the knee walk, but hadto give it up quickly.

Next was a ballet compa-ny, but dancing some decidedlycontemporary moves. The chore-ographer - another Israeli - wasawarded a choreographic prizeand before the show began, hemade an acceptance speech. Headvised all the dancers in theroom to stop dancing in front ofmirrors. He spoke of the pleasurein dancing, like you didn’t needanother reason to move.

Back home again, Henryundressed. He wore his dancebelt to the theater. It made himfeel a part of it, somehow. Helooked into Cora’s mirror andadjusted the little black garmentbefore he walked out of the bed-room.

He went to Helen’s oldroom, now a guest room. Therewere no floor length mirrors inthere. He plied and then stoodup straight. He lifted his armsand tried not to pay any atten-tion to what position they werein. He tried moving his shoul-ders, and then he peeled his leftfoot off the floor. He bent to oneside, then to the other. He felt awonderful stretch, even if thebends were not very far. He triedto move his hips and he foundthat painful spot that sometimeskept him from going as deeplyinto his pliés as he wanted, but hefelt the pain in a new way. It was

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a sign of life. He pulled awayfrom the pain and tried twistinghis torso.

Every movement wasslow, deliberate. They were noth-ing like the explosive gestureshe’d just seen on stage, but theywere expressive. That was theword. His limited, careful turns,they felt like he was finallyresponding to Cora that nightthey drove back from Durham.An old man in a dance belt, hefelt sweat on his forehead and hefelt pleasure.

He made quick shufflingsteps out into the hallway, pictur-ing confetti flying at his feet. Hemade a tiny leap, not even theclearing the width of the bath-room door, but then he madeanother one and cared not at all ifit was tiny. He held up his armsand shouted down the hall,“Yes!” He took a bow and said,“Thank you!” He raised his armsonce more and again, more qui-etly, said, “Yes!”

He sat down on the floorof that empty house, next to thebathroom door. His back feltslick against the doorjamb. Hesat there a long time and criedand cried and cried.

January 2010

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The Dream Journalreal dreams, real weird

Please send excerpts from your own dream jour-nals.. If nothing else, we’d love to read them.

We won’t publish your whole name.

mermaid@blotterrag.com

Frozen slices of time and space – the long, con-nected back yards of my youth. Pussy lines, rutsscraped in the earth with a heel that must becrossed at all costs or forever wear the fearfulbadge. (Was he a coach or a bully?)Grass grows in clumps that connect the clay butleave some spots oddly bare. Live-oaks mark thefifty yard line, their roots exposed like knuckles torap against bare shins and knees and hips, thegravel of acorns a small and slippery traverse.Bruises worn as honorifics showed that you’dscrimmaged here, some other day, some sunnierafternoon when everyone came to play. This was always a gauntlet, but not, I thought,one preventing me from getting home. My housewas a right turn in the end-zone; just keep hold-ing the ball – tuck it in under your arm, protect itwith your free hand – and let your cleats dig intothe macadam and brightly spark against thestones. Go faster, faster. They’re chasing you!The trees reach over left and right to cover thestreet, block out the sunset. Yellow, man-madelight on porches, on ornamental lamp-posts, lightthe way as necessary. It flickers behind wavingleaves, falling leaves, blown from their perches bythe first cold winds of autumn. The cold reachesfingers inside the collar of my shirt, up my sleeves.Run faster!Darker spots - storm drains - have no secrets. Noone stops by them at night. No one checks for alost baseball or a nickel that slipped from a sum-mertime pocket. You keep going, ball tucked safe-ly, cleats grabbing secure. Where is my house?There, at the end of the street, the top end, wherethe hill flattens out and the light is on in thekitchen. I don’t know who is there, but I knowthat they will unlock the back door when theyhear my feet running on the driveway.

Steve - NY

g

You stop in the storewhere she works on the corner of3rd and Magnolia to buy theWall Street Journal on your wayto work at the tannery. You wantto get out of the killing business,the foul, acid fumes that burnyour eyes and leave an ugly rem-nant on your tongue that you tryto drown with whisky on yourway home at night if you’ve gotany money. You’ve been doing alittle trading on the stock marketbecause your old friend, BobbySuave, at the high school reuniontold you it’s the way to get rich,and he’d earned a couple hundredthou last year. You thought you’dtry it. You’re not getting anyyounger. You want to pick up abag of Red Man chew becausethey won’t let you smoke on thekilling floor, but you don’t wanther to think you’re a hick so youbuy a pack of Juicy Fruit. Shesmiles at you, a nice friendlysmile, but she knows, you think.She knows you want somethingbesides chewing gum, and youfeel yourself turning red. You setyour paper on the counter, mak-ing sure she sees it’s TheJournal—even blue-collar menhave dreams, and maybe you’re

actually a multimillionaire in dis-guise—and she does. You can tellby the way her eyes widen a tinybit when she takes your money, aten-dollar bill, and you tell her tokeep the change. No coffee breaktoday for you, Mister Big Shot.

You leave with your paperand your gum and walk aroundthe corner and down the blockbecause you don’t want her toknow you ride the bus instead ofdriving your car . . . your imagi-nary car that is, a Corvette, butyou dropped your house keys onthe floor when you left, and sheruns out to catch you. But it’s toolate. You’re already on the bus,walking towards the back, whereyou’ll sit and read about yourstocks—Reynolds Tobacco, ShellOil, a couple of the big ones—but she spies you through thewindow and waves your keys overher head, and you decide, whatthe hell, you may as well stop andget them, so you pull the stringfor the next corner, which is rightabout where you are now, infront of the store. Now you’regoing to lose your bus fare inaddition to the big tip you gaveher, but her chasing after the buschanges everything. She knew it

all along, that you rode the bus.But you know she cares enoughabout you to run out the doorwith your keys and try to flagdown the bus to return them toyou, and you think, maybe you’llask her out, take her to LittleJoe’s, have a few beers, plug thejukebox with quarters and playsongs you think she likes, shootsome pool, but you won’t takeher back to your place until yourinvestments pay off, and you canmove out of the depressing oneroom, share-a-bathroom rent youhave now and into a better one.The bus stops in front of thestore, and you run to the door,grab onto the chrome silver pole,and try to swing yourself outwithout touching the steps, aman so light on his feet thatdancing must be second natureto you.

Too bad your heavy bootdrops a little faster than youthought, too bad you catch yourheel on the bottom step, too badgravity is against you, and youtrip and tumble to the sidewalkright at her feet like a drunkenbum—which all of a sudden youare. A drunken bum. A tobacco-chewing hick with a dirty, low-paying job that stinks you upwith the smell of death and rot-ting flesh, a fool with the WallStreet Journal under your arm likea clown or some character on a

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The B l o t t e r

“Best In Show” by Phil Juliano

“Juicy Fruit”by James L. Sprouse

sitcom about the world’s stupid-est idiot, a faker who hasn’tamounted to anything and neverwill. Dream on you stupiddreamer. She smiles at you, thatbig friendly smile she gave you inthe store, and tries to help youup, but in that moment yourentire useless life flashes in frontof you, just like you’re dyingfrom a heart attack, and you swather hand away like it’s a wasp try-ing to sting you, and you can tellit hurts her because you hit hard,but suddenly it doesn’t matter.You feel a pain like there’s an ele-phant sitting on your chest, andyou break out in a cold sweat asthe pain starts up the left side ofyour neck and you think you’vegot the worst toothache you’veever had in your life, so bad thatyou get sick and vomit all overher shoes. The last thing you seeis your Wall Street Journal blow-ing down the street and her feet,jumping backwards to get as faraway from you as she can.

January 2010

page 13

Call for Entries! “T“Thhe Lae Laiinnee CCuunnnniinngghhaam Nm Noovveel Al Awwaarrd”d”

TThhe Be Bllootttteer’sr’s Long Form Fiction Contest for Novella and Novel length works

1. The purpose of our contest is to provide a venue for writers to have their work readand commented on by our editors and judges. Additionally, the winner of this con-test will have his/her work published here on these pages. And last but not least, thewinner will receive the monetary prize of $500.00. (Award monies are provided by theprize sponsor and the entry fee for the contest helps boost this lil’ rag’s ability to keepon truckin’.)

2. Our pre-reader judges are intelligent and highly proud of their educations. Ourfinal judge is smart, well-read and mean as a snake. But we told her that she could bethe final judge and what can you do?

3. Transparency is very important to us, and we make every effort to eliminate anyconflict of interest situation from going down in our contest. In that light, Blotter vol-unteers and their family members and/or employees are prohibited from entering ourcontest.

To enter the contest, please submit your work with a $25 entry fee by check or moneyorder to: The Blotter Magazine, 1010 Hale Street, Durham, NC 27705.

Your entry must contain the following: no less than 10 pages, no more than 20 pagesof the opening of your novel or novella, typed & double-spaced, without your name.On a separate cover page type your name, the title of your novel or novella and a onepage synopsis of your novel or novella. Remember, you have to have the entire bookwritten, so that if and when you win, you can show us the rest!

BONUS: Enter the writing contest AND get a year’s subscription to The Blotter foronly $30! (Regular annual subscription donationss are $25 total and you don’t evenget to enter a writing contest with that price!)

Once again, first prize is $500, plus a “library” of books selected by The Blotter (manysigned by the authors). Second prize is $125, again with a “library” of recent releas-es. Third prize will be just the “library.” All placements, including honorable men-tions, will receive an award certificate, proof positive of your success as an author, suit-able for mocking your sophomore English teacher, who always wondered how yougraduated at all.

Our contest will be run in line with the rules of ethics and mechanics recommendedby the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses, as outlined in their 2006 mono-graph on the subject. You can’t view for free, but you may purchase the monographentitled “Publishing Contests: Ethics and Mechanics” through the CLMP athttp://www.clmp.org/about/monographs.html. This is the document we have used incoming up with the rules and conditions of this contest.

E

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“congenital”a disease of exposuregives me a lift

things are already in a hopeless state of deterioration

villages in south america have no sanitary inspectors

i am are more interested in oscar night

“spitting cobra spit”find the maximum dosagethat can be administered without vomiting

stick with that dose

find it a much more satisfactory place to live

or the only other way off the sofa

“trains riding sideways”i am not familiar i don’t know what emotions were when

so many people automatically made ill

by any sort of routine work

by the mold of monopoly and possession

Four by Adam Moorad

January 2010

page 15

CONTRIBUTORS

Renato Escudero of Alameda , CA . holds MFA andMA degrees from San Francisco State University,where he has also taught creative writing. He is thewinner of the 2008 John Steinbeck Award for theShort Story, and my fiction has appeared, or will beappearing, in 580 SPLIT: ONLINE EXCLUSIVES,REED MAGAZINE, SARANAC REVIEW, SLAB andother publications.Randall Cox is a writer living in Raleigh, NC. Helikes animals and striped shirts.Wendy Detrick Worsham writes, “My paintings areacrylic on canvas. They often include found objects,either those from nature like leaves and flowers orantique items such as old photos and architecturalelements. I'm drawn to nature so my subjects areanimals, flowers, trees, and landscapes with a pref-erence towards farm animals. They just make mesmile.” See her work at Sugarloaf Craft Festival,Chantilly, VA December 11-13, 2009Neil Ellis Orts reveals, “The story was written whileI was in Durham as an NEA Fellow with the Institutefor Dance Criticism at the American Dance Festival.(I was there from June 20 - July 10.) After writingcriticism for a couple of weeks, we fellows weregiven an assignment to respond to the festival inany way we wished. Since I am a fiction writer aswell as a dance writer, I wrote the short story.Besides writing on arts and religion for OutSmart, alocal GLBT magazine here in Houston, I have hadfiction published in small and obscure places likeMO: Writings from the River, Windhover,NanoFiction, and an anthology called CharmedLives.” See Neil’s work at: http://www.neonuma.com http://neonumaarts.blogspot.com/http://groups.yahoo.com/group/neonews/James L. Sprouse writes, “My work has appearedin Abraxis, Cincinnati Poetry Review, New DeltaReview, Puckerbrush Review, and WisconsinReview. I am the author of the chapbook Methane(1972, Stonemarrow Press), and I have worked as alogger in British Columbia; cannery worker inAlaska; tree planter in Oregon; as well as a heavyequipment operator, semi truck driver, commercialfisherman, fruit picker, and bartender. I have riddenfreight trains in the Pacific Northwest and Canada,hitchhiked to nearly every state in the U.S., toMexico, and across Canada. In the mid-'80s I trav-eled to Delhi and Rajasthan, India, ("to seek enlight-enment") but almost died of malaria. I have spentthe past 25 years as a practitioner of Zen Buddhism,a calling that took me to England, Poland, France,and the Netherlands. I am employed by theVeterans Administration Hospital in Togus, Maine.Adam Moorad’s writing has recently appeared or isforthcoming in 3 A.M. Magazine, H_ngm_n, JohnnyAmerica, PANK, Underground Voices, among otherplaces. He lives in Brooklyn and works in publishing.Visit him here:http://adamadamadamadamadam.blogspot.comPhil Juliano is battening down the hatches, rufflinga few feathers and standing up for what’s right.That’s also what we like about him.

Final Tid-Bits: Coming up on the final weeks for you to submit your work to our long-form fiction contest. Weather’sgetting cooler and oddly rainy - more fun to sit in front of a hissing and crackling fireplace than sweating in a beach chair behind

sunglasses and beneath a campaign-hat, although I do miss going to the pool and occasionally looking up to see if the shadows havemoved over me. Visit your local independent bookstore, they have plenty of things to read - I don’t want to hear any of you saying,

“I’m bored.” Got it? Good!

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“polaroid”in the back room of a drugstore only one result is possible:a situation of absolute need

the same is true of anyone

in a state of absolute hungeror fear

what looks like chaos at first glanceyou have already created